Spring is peeping through the sleep of winter like waking eyes after a seriously long nap. We had soccer practice this evening a day after a Monday full of rain. Small puddles hid beneath the grass and the girls had freckles of mud on their backsides from running around. We have been at war with an sun that refuses to stay for more than a day or two. It's been a long winter, a long several months. I feel like I have arrived at some rest stop only to realize I barely have enough gas to reach the next exit. I'm riding on fumes.
The word of the month has been "tolerated". I know my wife is barely putting up with me. There's no way possible I'm anywhere near the person I can be without her persistent force on my life. She's the embodiment of the strength God gives you that doesn't come from prayer requests or revivals. My kids have been tolerable of their father. My poor son has been cooped up, which means there are more ways he ends up being disciplined for some reason that gets his iPod taken away. When we finally got a chance for some batting practice today I didn't care how many baseballs flew into the mud or how dirty my knees were from fielding pitches. I know my students have barely tolerated me this last month as well. I can barely see their arms raised above the Babylon tower of upgraded papers and administration requests. I shoo kids from my room in the morning and my room is vacant and quiet during lunch whereas typically you can hear unruly laughter. Even the boys from other rooms who we play basketball with are stopping me in the halls to say hi. When we played basketball today it was like they realized hearing the sound of the ice cream truck from around the block, doing anything to dig around for a few bucks to get a taste of something blue on a stick. Each room of the house has a unique debris of our lives on display. There's bookbags on the kitchen table. A paper towel lays in tatters under the table, probably from my dog trying to garner any remnants of hand wipes that were once on them. Dog toys in the living room, water bottles next to the computer that were leftover from the weekend's birthday party (my son turned ten). There are books to be read and a half liter of Diet Coke on my nightstand.
A week removed from blogging about the experience I had being among a group of sign wavers and protesters, I felt as if I wasn't doing anything on my end to be a disciple. It's been said to me that if you cannot come up with a list of four people who need to know about Christ, then there needs to be some adjustments. I had no problem coming up with the list but I felt myself telling God, "Do I have to talk to him again?" or "Must I really find a reason to talk to them again?". I didn't want to make the sacrifice of a "no". I didn't want anyone to see that I didn't have enough patience to hear their answer. If they looked into my eyes they would see I wasn't going to be there for the long haul.
Then Sunday arrived.
Church is my hospital. I can relax and not have to put on some performance. The topic of the day's table talk was the Holy Spirit. We came to the conclusions that when we pray, we pray to Jesus or God, and that when we speak of the Holy Spirit we typically refer to it as something akin to the refilling of our spiritual energy. The Holy Spirit gave the apostles in Acts the ability to speak in tongues and gave them powers of healing. I can attest that I knew the Spirit was strong in me the first night I knew my old self had died. But I never referred to it as a person (for a description of what the Spirit would "look" like try and grab a copy of "The Shack").
Galatians 5:22:23 reveals to us what the Holy Spirit is responsible for in the lives of a Christian.
22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.
Here it is again in The Message:
22-23 But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people.
My brain immediately kicks towards the qualities that the Spirit has strengthened, renewed and discovered. That goofiness I've always had that only became present when I wasn't moody was the unequivocal injection of pure joy. At the end of each day I find myself in the hallway as some second grader shuffles past. The little ones don't skip a beat. While I don't have their fleet-footed energy I sense the joy they have just being kids. Yeah, there's worries and bills and clutter but damn if I typically can't smile.
And then there's patience and self-control. Time to turn the blog off now. Nothing to read here.
Why is it that food and lust can buckle a man's knees? I am as much as a gambler as one going to a casino, except my heart and body are on the roulette wheel. How quickly my eyes can sway from my good intensions. Patience can betray my thoughts in an instant. As a teacher you'd think I'd have the greatest patience alive. Teachers given the same instructions every day. I deal with the same egos, the same tantrums (I was actually called a "fucking faggot" this last week by a fifth grader), the same needy kids.
There's mini battles taking place each day in the heart of a man. One month porn free, about fifteen pounds down since December, a small, committed member of a men's group that keeps me going each Wednesday. I can stick with it much better then I ever thought. When I heard our school was getting a new principal, my fifth in eleven years, I barely blinked. Just another change. It's true that when Jesus gets the keys to our home, he's going to rearrange the furniture, throw old things out, hold different kinds of parties.
We joked at our junior high table that the Holy Spirit must be some aura, some celestial Trixie that floats around us and sprinkles us with magic dust. But I think the Spirit is more than some holy gas station that serves us when we need a refill of grace. It's a living being that walks among us like Jesus and God. The Spirit resides in our voices as we sing, the smiles we give others and the goosebumps we get when we meet a new friend. And they take residence in your house too. Now, if only I can get him to help me with all this clutter.
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