Rest

There have been too many late nights, . . .

And too many early mornings,

Too many long days

And not enough hours in them.

I am tired.

Exhausted, really.

I need rest.

Fortunately, I know where to find it.

Matthew 11:28

New International Version (NIV)

   ²⁸ “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

 

Searching for Change

It happens to everything,

Everyone, really.

We get weathered and worn,

Sun-bleached and faded.

We are chipped and broken,

We are far from perfect.

We need SomeOne else to come along,

Take us down from the place we've been hanging,

Strip the old away,

Repaint us bold and glorious.

We need the change.

Too often, I find myself staying in the same place,

Allowing myself to become worn,

Allowing the brilliant colors to fade.

I find myself going through the motions.

The thing is, I don't want to go through the motions.

I want to find change.

No matter how much it hurts,

No matter what it takes,

I need the change.

I can't go through the motions any longer.

I cry out for the change, knowing that I am heard,

That He will find me worn, drifting away,

And He will come,

In His own perfect timing, He will come,

And He will restore.

 
For the thousandth time,  I'm sick of doing the same things over and over again, expecting to find the passion that was there at the beginning and hasn't been there since . . .

For I've done these same things so much that doing them again and again and again is just going through the motions.

I need the change,

No matter what it takes.

Change me.

"The Motions" is an amazing song performed by Matthew West.  I often listen to it and remember how much I need to break away from my patterns and find the passion again.  Thinking about worn shutters being repainted reminded me once more not to go through the motions, which made me think of this incredible song.  Many thanks to Matthew West for his inspiring music.




  

Love-Gifts

Ever since I have started counting,

Ever since I read the book,

I have been learning about the gifts.

I have been seeing things in a different light,

How He paints the clear blue skies,

The cotton clouds,

The rainbow sunsets.

He sculpts the slender stems,

The fragile petals,

The tiny blades of grass.

He brings the rains,

He brings the sun,

He makes everything grow.

Beautiful reflections,

Shadows and light,

All are His design.

Tiny gifts of love.

Almost unnoticed, yet intricately beautiful.

He is writing me a love letter.

All I have to do is look and read and breathe in His love.

The gifts don't stop there.

I have heard them in the rustling leaves,

In the flowing waters,

In the sweet summer bird-songs.

He is singing me a love song,

And I am learning to listen.



 

Finding Peace in Failure

I've messed up a lot lately.

Actually, I mess up a lot every day, but the past few days seem to have involved more mistakes than usual.

I stubbornly read my book instead of doing what I was asked, promising to do it later.

I didn't notice when something fell out of my pocket - or think to check for it.

I've focused on reading and writing more than my family.

I've stayed up too late and gotten up too early.

Just this morning, I tried to catch up on my sleep and ended up missing an appointment I'd completely forgotten about.

I've messed up.

Thank You, God.

Thank You for loving me even when I mess up for the thousandth - millionth - time.

Thank You for understanding my imperfections and forgiving me over and over and over again.

Thank You for blessing me, even when it seems I can't do anything right.

Thank You for teaching me to find peace because I know that I can count on You,

That You will always love

And always forgive;

That You have never failed me in the past,

And will never fail me in the future.

Thank You for using my million mistakes, the big ones and the small ones, to change me and help me grow . . .

To turn me into the person You want me to be.

Thank You.

I'm learning to find peace in my failures . . .

Because I know that, somehow, He will use even this.

You will use even this, . . .

So I thank You for failure,

And I thank You for peace.




 

He Does Not Make Junk

I was sitting, typing.

He was on the couch, reading.

He spoke.

I forget his exact words,

But I know he was talking, in that "I'm-small-and-there's-no-way-I'd-ever-accidentally-hurt-myself" way, about doing something that could potentially be hazardous to his health.

He may have been joking.

Still, I wanted to impress upon him what my years of experience had taught me:

That, if he did that, he might accidentally kill himself.

I told him I didn't want him to do that

Because I didn't want him to die.

When the next words came out of his mouth, it didn't sound at all like he was joking.

He said that it would be better if he was dead.

I asked him why.

He started saying those words I hate to hear him say,

"I'm stupid",

"No one loves me".

No matter what I told him to attempt to convince him otherwise, he would not listen.

He simply repeated those words over and over:

"I'm stupid."

"No one loves me."

I wonder if he picked up these words from her,

If she picked up these words for another;

I wonder where they got these ideas from,

Why these littlest two are so smart yet insist that they're stupid,

Why they are surrounded by love yet insist that they're unloved.

Who told you you were junk? 

Of course, if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that I have felt these things, too,

That I have said words like these,

That I have felt worthless,

That I have felt like I'd never be enough.

I have believed that I am junk.

In some ways, I still believe this.

Why do we think we're junk?

Who tells us these lies?

I've heard they're not true.

I've seen they're not true.

I know they're not true, 

Yet something in me still buys into these lies.

I was still thinking about what he said when I was getting ready to go to sleep last night.

Why do we think we're junk?

What can I do to convince him he's not junk?

What can I say to make her believe she's worth something?

I thought of one of my favorite videos (by the Skit Guys),

How he said, acting as a representation of the Creator,

"You think you're junk, don't you?  You really, really, really think you're junk.  Listen to me:  I don't make junk.  What does that say about me?"

He doesn't make junk.

I wondered how to tell him - them - that He does not make junk.

I thought of the words I would say,

Began writing them down,

Ended up staying up late again.

He Does Not Make Junk

You think you're like a paper
Crumpled on the ground.
You think you're like a shaker
That can't make any sound.

Where did these thoughts come from?
Who put them in your head?
Will you listen to me tell you
You're so much more than this?

You were formed by the hands of God,
A beautiful creation, you're the one He dearly loves.
Don't believe anyone who says you're not enough,
For I know God doesn't make junk.

You think you're like a train
Without any wheels.
You think you're like a cure
That doesn't really heal.

You think you're like a building
Meant to be so tall,
But unable to stand strong
Due to one fatal flaw.

You were formed by the hands of God,
A beautiful creation, you're the one He dearly loves.
Don't believe anyone who says you're not enough,
For I know God doesn't make junk.

He doesn't make junk.

Where did these thoughts come from?
Who put them in your head?
Will you listen to me tell you
You're so much more than this?

You were formed by the hands of God,
A beautiful creation, you're the one He dearly loves.
Don't believe anyone who says you're not enough,
For I know God doesn't make junk.

You were formed by the hands of God,
A beautiful creation, you're the one He dearly loves.
Don't believe anyone who says you're not enough,
For I know God doesn't make junk.

Please believe me when I say
You were made to be
So much more than you think you are,
For you are a masterpiece,
A masterpiece,
A masterpiece,
A masterpiece.

You are God's masterpiece. 
 
You think you're like a rag,
Full of dirt and muck,
But God Himself is telling you
That He does not make junk.

We are God's masterpiece.

He told us so Himself.

"For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago." - Ephesians 2:10 (NLT) (emphasis added)

So why do we think we're junk?

I fell asleep last night still thinking of this,

Still thanking God that He does not make junk,

For I needed to hear those words, too.

When I got out my guitar this morning, I did not play the songs I usually play.

I wrote,

Wrote chords to go under words and melodies,

Decided to erase and rewrite entire sentences,

Then played it again,

And again,

And again.

I "finished" the song,

(Of course, I'll never consider it completely finished because there will always be phrases I'm not entirely happy with, but it's about as close as it's going to get.)

The song that speaks to them - and to me - that we are not junk.

We are God's masterpiece.

I penciled the names of the chords I'd chosen above the words.

I pressed my fingertips down on the strings, feeling the hard wood underneath.

I strummed

And sang,

"You were formed by the hands of God,
A beautiful creation, you're the one He dearly loves.
Don't believe anyone who says you're not enough,
For I know God doesn't make junk."

They are not junk.

I am not junk.

No one on this entire planet is junk,

For we were all created by the Creator

To be His masterpieces.

Masterpieces,

For He does not make junk.


The Skit Guys deserve all the credit for planting the idea in my head that God does not make junk.  Many thanks to these people for their incredible, inspiring skits.

Ephesians 2:10 says that we are God's workmanship, His handiwork.  In Greek, the word translated as workmanship or handiwork is poiema, which is defined as that which has been made, a work.  It is used in the New Testament to refer to God's great works - the creation of art that is incomprehensibly intricate and incredibly beautiful. It is used to refer to God's masterpieces.  The New Living Translation of the Bible translates the word "poiema" in this way, calling God's works - us - "masterpiece".

The italicized, bolded words are the lyrics to my latest song "He Does Not Make Junk".  Please keep in mind that this song is copyrighted - ©2011 Mary Schieferstein.