When I first read the entire book, I was stunned, and as the revelations of what Max was saying hit home.
I will say first off, I am not perfect, nor do I think myself better than others. The world does not 'owe me'. I am not out for revenge on those who have 'screwed me over'. I'm not bitter or angry, although some times, I do have to resist the desire to do so.
I went thru a very bitter divorce 5 years ago. My ex-wife turned her entire Family as well as my kids against me. She took everything we owned, and I was lucky to get off with a few of my clothes, no money, and a few of my personal tools, and some videotapes. She cleaned out our bank account in just a few minutes, after promising we'd share what was in it - all $23,000 worth of it, and nearly all of it was Disability Severance Pay the Army had given me after putting me out of the service. I never saw a dime of the money.. Everything else, she kept, and lied to the Court about it. They took her side and ruled against me.
I came back from Operation Desert Storm a wreck. Not outside, but inside. I was kicked out of the Army because I was 'unfit for duty' after nearly 9 years. My health continues to deteriorate every day. My plans had originally been to stay in the Military and retire after 20 years or more.
So much for that. I struggle every day with various disabilities resulting from the Iraqi chemical attacks my unit went through as well as the memory of front-line combat. Some things you never forget.
So, yes, I could easily slide into the Dungeon Of The Bitter. I could go around with the attitude that 'they owe me, just look at my health and look what my ex did to me.' But I don't; I choose instead to trust the Lord to meet my needs, live for today, and hope for a better tomorrow.
THE REST OF THE STORY:
"He Still Moves Stones" - Max Lucado --- A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. (Matthew 12:20)
Imagine it's a Saturday afternoon in October. What you needed to get done today, you've already done. Your afternoon lies before you with no obligations. Free afternoons don't come as often as they once did, so you consider your options for the day. You pick up a paper to get some ideas. A movie? Nothing good is showing. Television? You can do that any time. Wait. What's this? An ad catches your eye:
---Special Art Exhibit
"Bruised Reeds & Smoldering Wicks"
2:00 to 4:00 Saturday Afternoon
Lincoln Library---
Hmmmm. It's been awhile since you've seen some good art. Bruised Reeds and Smoldering Wicks? Probably some nature stuff. Besides, the walk would be nice. You'll do it. You lay down the paper, put on a coat, and grab some gloves.
You're greeted by the musty odor of books as you walk through the library doors...
Behind the counter sits a librarian with her hair in a bun and a pencil behind her ear. A student with a backpack at his feet stares into a drawer of cataloged cards. A table featuring old Life magazines strikes you as interesting. You start to pick up the one with Truman on the cover when you see a sign that reminds you why you came. "Bruised Reeds & Smoldering Wicks" it reads and points you toward a door. You walk across a hallway and open one of two heavy, wooden doors and step in.
It's an intimate room--no larger than a nice den. Bookshelves cover the walls and books line the shelves. A fire crackles in a fireplace and a couple of high wingback chairs invite you to spend the afternoon with a good book. "Maybe later", you think. But first, the art.
Placed around the room are the paintings. All framed. All in vivid colour. All set on easels, in pairs, and always back to back. You put your gloves in your coat pocket, hang your coat on a hook, and move toward the first painting..
It's a portrait of a leper, the center figure on the canvas. He stoops like a hunchback. His fingerless hand, draped in rags, extends toward you, pleading. A tattered wrap hides all of his face except two pain-filled eyes. The crowd around the leper is chaotic. A father is grabbing a curious child. A woman trips over her own feet as she scrambles to get away. A man glares over his shoulder as he runs. The painting is entitled with the leper's plea, "If you will, you can..."
The next painting portrays the same leper, but the scene has changed dramatically. The title has only two words, "I will." In this sketch the leper is standing erect and tall. He is looking at his own outstretched hand--it has fingers! The veil is gone from his face and he is smiling. There is no crowd, only one other person is standing beside the leper. You can't see his face, but you can see his hand on the shoulder of the healed man.
"This is no nature exhibit," you whisper to yourself as you turn to the next painting...
In this one, the artist's brush has captured a woman in mid-air, jumping from one side of a canyon to another. Her clothes are ragged. Her body is frail, and her skin is pale. She looks anemic. Her eyes are desperate as she reaches for the canyon wall with both hands. On the ledge is a man. All you see are his legs, sandals, and the hem of a robe. Beneath the painting are the woman's words, "If only..."
You step quickly to see the next scene. She is standing now. The ground beneath her bare feet is solid. Her face flushes with life. Her cautious eyes look up at the half-moon of people that surround her. Standing beside her is the one she sought to touch. The caption? His words, "Take heart..."
The next portrait is surrealistic. A man's contorted face dominates the canvas. Orange hair twists against a purple background. The face stretches downward and swells at the bottom like a pear. The eyes are perpendicular slits in which a thousand tiny pupils bounce. The mouth is frozen open in a scream. You notice something odd--it's inhabited! Hundreds of spiderish creatures claw over each other. Their desperate voices are captured by the caption, "Swear to God you won't torture us!"
Fascinated, you step to the next painting. It is the same man, but now his features are composed. His eyes, no longer wild, are round and soft. The mouth is closed, and the caption explains the sudden peace: "Released." The man is leaning forward as if listening intently. His hand strokes his chin. And dangling from his wrist is a shackle and a chain--a broken chain.
In another portrait a scantily-clothed female cowers before an angry mob of men who threaten her with stones. In the next painting the stones lie harmlessly on the ground, littering the courtyard occupied by a surprised woman and a smiling man who stands over some pictures drawn in the dirt.
In one painting a paralytic on a pallet urges his friends not to give up as they stare at a house overflowing with people. In the next the pallet is on the boy's shoulders as he skips out the door of the house.
In one picture a blind man screams to a rabbi. In the next he bows before the one to whom he screamed... Throughout the gallery the sequence repeats itself. Always two paintings, one of a person in trauma and one of a person in peace. "Before" and "After" testimonials to a life-changing encounter. Scene after scene of serenity eclipsing sorrow. Purpose defeating pain. Hope outshining hurt.
But alone in the center of the hall is a single painting... It is different from the others. There are no faces. No people. The artist has dipped his brush into ancient prophecy and sketched two simple objects--a reed and a wick.
'A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out. Matthew 12:20'
Is there anything more frail than a bruised reed? Look at the bruised reed at the water's edge. A once slender and tall stalk of sturdy river grass, it is now bowed and bent.
Are you a bruised reed? Was it so long ago that you stood so tall, so proud? You were upright and sturdy, nourished by the waters and rooted in the riverbed of confidence.
Then something happened. You were bruised...
by harsh words
by a friend's anger
by a spouse's betrayal
by your own failure
by religion's rididity.
And you were wounded, bent ever so slightly. You hollow reed, once erect, now stooped, and hidden by the bullrush.
And the smoldering wick on the candle. Is there anything closer to death than a smoldering wick? Once aflame, now flickering and failing. Still warm from yesterday's passion, but no fire. Not yet cold but far from hot. Was it that long ago you blazed with faith? Remember how you illuminated the path?
Then came the wind... The cold wind, the harsh wind. They said your ideas were foolish. They told you your dreams were too lofty. They scolded you for challenging the time-tested. The constant wind wore down upon you. Oh, you stood strong for a moment (or maybe a lifetime), but the endless blast whipped your flickering flame, leaving you one pinch away from darkness.
The bruised reed and smoldering wick. Society knows what to do with you. The world has a place for the beaten. The world will break you off; the world will snuff you out.
But the artists of Scripture proclaim that God won't. Painted on canvas after canvas is the tender touch of a Creator who has a special place for the bruised and weary of the world. A God who is the friend of the wounded heart. A God who is the Keeper of your dreams! That's the theme of the New Testament.
And that's the theme of the gallery. Let's stroll through the gallery together. Let's ponder the moments when Christ met people at their points of pain. We'll see the prophecy proven true. We'll see bruised reeds straightened and smoldering wicks ignited.
It's quite a collection of paintings. By the way, your portrait is in the gallery too. Go ahead. Look at it. It's there, off to the side. Just like the others, there are two easels. But unlike the others, these canvases are white! Your name is at the bottom. Beside the easel is a table with paint and brush...
"The Bruised Reed" -
It stood with assurance.
Head held high on strong stalk.
But that was before the careless bump, the harsh rain.
Now it's bruised, bent. Weakened.
It seeks gentle fingers to straighten and not break.
It needs a firm touch to heal and not to hurt.
Tender power.
Soft strength.
Is there such a hand?
"The Dungeon Of The Bitter" ---
On the inside... sour and hollow. Overcome by jealousy. Consumed by anger. Blinded by bitterness. 'It's just not fair!' Blinded and put inside a prison of your own making; bitterness is its own prison...
Black and cold, bitterness denies easy escape. The sides are slippery with resentment. A floor of muddy anger stills the feet. The stench of betrayal fills the air and stings the eyes. A cloud of self-pity blocks the view of the tiny exit above.
Step in and look at the prisoners. Victims are chained to the walls.. Victims of betrayal. Victims of abuse. Victims of the government, the system, the military, the world. They lift their chains as they lift their voices and wail. Loud and long they wail. They grumble. They're angry at others who got what they didn't. They sulk. Others 'owe me.' The world is against them.
They accuse. The pictures of their enemies are darted to the wall. They boast, "I followed the rules. I played fairly; in fact better than anybody else." They whine. "Nobody listens to me. Nobody remembers me. Nobody cares about me." Angry. Sullen. Accusatory. Arrogant. Whiny. Put them all together in one word and spell it b-i-t-t-e-r. If you put them all in one person, that person is in the pit--the dungeon of bitterness.
The dungeon, deep and dark is beckoning you to enter. You can, you know. You've experienced enough hurt. You've been betrayed enough times. You have a history of rejections, don't you? Haven't you been left out, left behind, or left out in the cold? Kicked to the curb? You are a candidate for the dungeon. You can choose, like many have, to chain yourself to your hurt.
Or you can choose, like some, to put away your hurts before they become hates. You can choose to go to the party. You have a place there. Your name is beside a plate. If you are a Child of God, then no one can take away your kinship with the Father. The Father. God. He says, "Son, (or daughter) you are always with me and all that I have is yours." (Luke 15:21)
How does God deal with your bitter heart? He reminds you that what you have is more important than what you don't have. You still have your relationship with God. No one can take that. No one can touch it! Your health may be taken, and your money or possessions stolen--but your place at God's Table is permanent. It takes courage - real courage, to set aside jealousy and rejoice with the achievements of a rival. It takes hard courage - from the gut - to forgive someone who has wronged you.
Wise are we if we forgive, if we rise above our hurts. For if we do, we'll be present at the Father's final celebration - with a heart of freedom. A party to end all parties. A party where no pouters are permitted.
Why don't you come and join the fun?

lurk <img border="0" title="" alt="[Big Grin]" src="images/icons/grin.gif" />

Nobody tells it better than Max! My favorite word picture from "A Gentle Thunder"

God is like a pilot, he is flying us through the storms of life...it can be rocky at times, turbulant...but His goal is not to make us comfortable...it is just to get us home.

Lucado: (singing) I say Loo-cay-do, You say La-cod-oo..I say Poo-tade-do, you say Pa-todd-oo, let's call the whole thing off!
<img border="0" title="" alt="[Wink]" src="images/icons/wink.gif" />

That is an interesting peice of literature. And the visual it creates is almost overwhelming.

I think that your children will come back to you in time. I did for my father. I had a lot of questions. He was very bitter. But he did not have the faithful help from within. I got to know my father after the divorce of my parents while I was in my late twenties. And he became part of my family when I had my children.

My children loved him very much. My mother always felt sorry about how things seemed to end up. But that is just the way it played out. Their "relationship" was killing them. Life is not always kind, is it. I hate that I had to go through that with all of the hurtful feelings. And I feel cheated that it just did not seem fair. It was and is sad. But we do create our own prisons. I choose to break down the wall and live life too. With faith.

Having faith in your family life is a kind of glue that keeps me and mine sane and above the chaff. I like to think that we will have much more faith, in each other. It is so needed.

Thank-you for that story ... <img border="0" title="" alt="[Cool]" src="images/icons/cool.gif" />

Hey Mr. BP,

I have responded to you before that I love Max and am on his e-mail list.

Let me tell you how I stumbled upon Max....

On 8/29/90 I gave birth to my first child, a girl. 8 lbs 10 oz and 19 1/2" -- the picture of HEALTH!

Super Bowl Sunday of '91 I took her to the ER because I just knew something was wrong w/her and NOBODY believed me -- they all thought I was a distraught "new mom." She had been breathing fast I thought and projectile vomiting. Anyone who has kids knows that when you call, they always ask "is she running a fever?" Well, no. Oh, then she probably just has a virus, put her on clear liquids, etc. Well, I counted her breaths -- they were 90! Surely, I thought, I must be wrong. I'm not a nurse, I must be doing it wrong. Then when she projectiled across the living room (I was sitting on the sofa with her on my lap facing outward and I was burping her. She puked way up in the air, over the coffee table -- literally halfway across the living room), I told my then H that we HAD to take her to the ER. They did routine x-rays and came back saying something was wrong w/her lungs but they had no idea what -- she isn't running a fever... UGH! So off to the Children's Hospital we went (we were at a regular hospital).

OHhhh I need to make this long story short somehow so I will try to condense.

A LOT of tests and finally a lung biopsy, they found out she had PCP (pneumocystis pneumonia -- usually only immunocompromised people get). Her lung collapsed after surgery and they thought she would never come off of the ventilator. They sent her blood off because she didn't have AIDS. She had SCIDS (severe combined immunodeficiency a/k/a "the bubble boy disease").

It was LONG battle -- one that I had to be there right at her side at ALL times because we could not expose her to others. If she was in the hospital, I was in the hospital. If I could perform whatever treatment needed to be performed, then they trained me to do it. I drew blood, bagged her, changed dressings, you name it. I saw her almost die THREE times!! Each time I was there alone w/her...

She had her first bone marrow transplant in '91 and suffered chronic graft vs host disease and almost lost her liver and died from that. It took us six months to get her stable. We had to go for another bone marrow transplant (the first one did not take) 4/93.

Now I'm getting to the point...

Before leaving out of state to have this transplant done, my aunt bought a children's book written by Max Lucado, Just in Case You Ever Wonder. I flipped through it and decided I could NOT read this to my daughter -- it made me sad. (I was also very much into denial during this whole time. I never thought her not making it was an issue.) Anyway, the book got packed. I don't even remember how.

My daughter and I were sitting in the hospital room -- just the two of us as usual -- and she asked me to read the book. I tried to get out of it. Said, hey, let's read this other book but Noooo, she wanted that one so I obliged. Now, my daughter is 2 years and 8 mos at this time... I finish the book and she says to read it again. I read it again holding back tears the whole time. She says, "That's my special book!" I must have read that book a hundred times for the next couple of months.

My daughter lost her battle. As they were unhooking her from life support, I whispered to her how she was so special, just like the book said... I said more but I am already tearing as I type this.

Sooo Max Lucado believer I became and started reading all his books and have since. I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and reading these inspirational stories helped me so.

I'm not saying my battle was the same as yours but it was INTENSE and lasted for 2 years and 10 mos straight w/no break in the action/fight so when it abruptly ended, it left me shattered and feeling soul-less.

So you don't have to sell me on how Max draws you in with his visuals and makes you see things the way they need to be....

OMG .... wonderful!

WFlower, thank you for your kind encouraging remarks! They sure were appreciated, and no, I haven't lost the faith yet - hope is a good thing and I hang on to it. Thank you again.
SoDisappointed, I am so sorry for your loss of your dear daughter. Really, I am. Thank you for sharing your story here.
I have not lost a child to death, but I sure can identify with having 'sick babies' really! That projectile vomiting - yep, I know all about that stuff. Taking 2 deathly sick babies to the ER to have the doctor scratch their head??? Geez, I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Thornburg. I've never seen anything like this before... Perhaps some more tests.. The last time, our oldest was running a fever of 106 - no that is NOT a typo - and he was beginning a seizure. I threw ice on him and rushed him to the ER. Doctor ran some tests on him, and then -- o Lord this kills me! - he says, "I'm sorry, Mr. & Mrs. Thornburg. There's nothing I can do. You son will die sometime tonight. I suggest you take him back home and pray."
!!!!???? So we went home, called everyone in our church and we prayed like Armageddon was coming tomorrow. It worked - God saw fit to keep our child alive. We give HIM the credit, not the doctor...
Our youngest was born stone deaf, had a collapsed lung and then one of his ear tubes exploded the following month.
The oldest son spent most of the first 2 years of his life in an Oxygen Tent. "Viral infection" the docs called it. I found out later on that is what they term something they have no earthly idea what it is. The youngest was born with petit mal seizures. He was allergic to breast milk. When he was 2 years old, he spent 3 solid weeks throwing up everything (projectile and otherwise) he ate. Finally took him to the hospital again and doc gave him some AB shots. That fixed it --- whatever it was, we never did find out.
Dig this: this crap went on and on and on until...
We moved! We left Lynchburg Virginia and moved to the Coastal Plain of North Carolina. Guess what? They were never sick again!
Go figure...
So, I sure empathize with you on those sick kids. And I sincerely hope yours are well now.
May God keep you and your Family safe and well.
Harold

<small>[ July 16, 2003, 08:59 PM: Message edited by: Mr. Harold The BiPolar Dude ]</small>