God’s love – Sheila Dougal

What two children taught me about my scribbled- up heart

Teaching kids about Jesus presents many opportunities to remember the love that changes us.

Yesterday I was the teacher to a group of kinder through 5th graders. The kids sat at their places around the tables, red construction paper hearts and crayons in front of them and one of the older kids read aloud our Bible verse for the day.

“ Indeed, if you fulfill the royal law prescribed in the Scripture, Love your neighbor as yourself, you are doing well.”
James 2:8 CSB

When the child returned to his seat he found that the child next to him had scribbled black crayon all over his red paper heart. The child Bible reader, now red-faced with anger, picked up a crayon and scribbled all over the red paper heart laying in front of the child offender who had ruined his paper heart. The two boys, now red faced, eyes spilling over with tears, were ready to lay down their darkened paper hearts and take up fists with each other.

The boys were separated, the class called to attention again, and with the demonstration of messing up each others’ hearts before us, we dove into the question from our Bible reading: How in the world do you love your neighbor as yourself?

I can go to church, read my bible quietly with a cup of coffee in the morning, put my ear buds in and listen to my favorite writers spell out hope in Christ from their stories and songs, and feel like I’m doing pretty good. Then people walk in my room, pick up my one fragile heart and start scratching it black with their selfish words, or cold manner, or inconsiderate acts. And then, I don’t feel so much good.

I’ll never be able to think of being a Christian as something I’m proud of or good at as long as being a Christian means loving my heart-wrenching neighbor as I love myself.

By the end of our class yesterday all the kids came to the conclusion that we don’t love very well. Not like Jesus did. We decided we need Jesus to help us. And we need to ask for forgiveness a lot.

And this is how I know Christ has hold of me. I see how he loves. I see how he turns my heart towards others with a desire to give what I have no power in myself to give. I see the brokenness in those around me, and I feel the self-protective snatching of my heart away from potential scribblers, and I say, “Lord, it’s too much! Send them away!” And I hear Jesus say, “No. Give yourself to them.” And I watch as he takes my meager offerings of a listening ear, a choice to be quiet, or speak up, or get low or stand up and makes them enough to communicate love.

At the end of our class the older boy went to the younger boy of his own accord, looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry.” The boys hugged each other and played.

Jesus can make you want to make it right with the person whose heart you marred in revenge and hug the person who turned your tidy heart into a scribbled-up mess.

Ash Wednesday is a perfect Valentine.

I’ve grown thick-skinned after 26 hard years. At seventeen this small-town girl met a big-city boy and fell into infatuation. After two years of dating, and three break-ups, I married that rebellious, out-of-town boy who walked into my life wearing torn and bleached blue jeans, long blonde hair and a pink corduroy hat. After 24 years of tumultuous marriage, nearly divorcing as many times as we broke up while dating, I find this pretty potted orchid by my morning coffee today.

Over the years I’ve dreaded, ignored and been disillusioned by my silly hopes for Valentines day. But in recent years I’ve despised the day. Every pink, red or purple balloon/heart/flower was salt poured in my 26 year-hard-relationship wound. But this year Valentine’s Day is on Ash Wednesday, and I’m actually thrilled! Not because I woke up to an orchid and my husband’s heartfelt note. But because I’ve learned, still learning, that I’m dust and so is my husband. And I do good to remember that it is real love which compelled Christ to bear a cross for my dust so that I could bloom in his love forever.

Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent. It’s the beginning of a fast to remember who we are, turning from clinging to our dust, living for ourselves, and to long for and look to the One who died in our place so that we might be free from the curse of sin and live for Him. If I forget that I’m dust I might start thinking I’m a god and should be worshipped with offerings of shiny pink boxes or long-stemmed roses. If I forget that my husband is dust I might start thinking he should act like a god and sweep me off my feet and rescue me. But if I remember I’m dust, married to dust, both of us in desperate need of the One who died to give us life, I’ll be embarking on the cross-carrying road real love is all about.

According to legend St. Valentine died for marriage. This priest was put to death in ancient times for secretly marrying Christians. I’ve learned, still learning, to die for my marriage. Any married person has to die a little, no a lot, to give marriage a chance to live. Jesus did not say, “You only live once so get as much good for yourself as you can now!” He said, “If you want to really live, you’re gonna have to die.” (My paraphrase Luke 17:33). Marriage is worth dying for. It’s beautiful, all-be-it hard, painful and messy. It’s meant to be a picture of the faithful love of Christ for the people who love him (the church). Christ died for those who love him to be like a bride to him. He died so that human beings, who are but dust, could be made like Christ, living forever with the wellspring of life that comes from him filling us. He died so that we could know what real love, real life, real hope, real peace, real happiness is. Christ is not a god who receives offerings of roses and chocolates. He is the God who lays down his life so that we, the people he loves, might live. Valentine’s Day is about dying to yourself so that marriage can live.

Twenty four years ago I walked down the isle hand-in-hand with my husband, dust holding dust. We were pronounced man and wife and I began my journey into dying to myself so that this big-city boy I fell for could see the faithfulness Christ has shown me. It’s fitting, if not a bit prophetic looking back, that we walked down that isle into the world with the song Faithfully by Journey announcing the banner over our dusty union. I hear the lyrics often in my head.

They say that the road
Ain’t no place to start a family
Right down the line
It’s been you and me
And lovin’ a music man
Ain’t always what it’s supposed to be
Oh, girl, you stand by me
I’m forever yours
Faithfully

My skin is thicker after 26 years. I’m thankful for my husband’s thoughtful orchid and note this morning- a little good in the land of the living. A little tenderness amidst a hard, dying-to-self, remembering-I’m-dust marriage. Today I’m turning again from trying to be a god who is satisfied by chocolates and roses and romantic gestures, and from trying to make my husband into a god who rescues me. I’m turning to the God who laid down his life for my ashes. There is real love. Dust I am, but by the power of his love I am more, I am a little Christ. His faithfulness reminds me he is giving me beauty for ashes. His death reminds me that real love dies for the one he loves.

Roses may be red

Violets may be blue

But real love dies

For another’s life

And dust married to dust

Doesn’t expect much

But remembers

Her Redemers last words

“It is finished” he cried

For my dust he died

To give me life he bled

Now dying to self

I have beauty instead

He’s chasing me

I’m married to a police office, even still, when I see an officer behind me, I get all nervous. Suddenly I’m trying to recall everything I learned in driving school. How many feet from an intersection do I need to turn on my blinker? Who has the right of way? Grab the wheel at 12 and 2, or is it 9 and 3? And even though I don’t have a lead foot, I do occasional drift above the speed limit, so when I see that patrol car behind me, my eyes immediately check my speed. I’ve had several of such moments on the road today as we made our way from Litchfield Park to King City, CA where we’ve stopped for the night.

As I was driving I remembered reading Ann’s blog regarding this line from Psalm 23:

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life… (vs. 6 ESV)

She talked about the word for follow: radaph. It means to pursue or chase or run after.

I smiled as I drove. God is chasing me with his goodness and mercy. He is following me, not to punish me for my sins (Christ took all my punishment), but to show me his goodness and give me his mercy. I’m being pursued by God’s mercy and goodness! Just think about that.

I thoroughly enjoy a road trip. For me, it’s not about getting there fast. It’s about the memories and the experiencing new places and changes of scenery.

This is our 4th year going west for the summer. This year might be the last two week trip to Nor Cal and Oregon we get for a couple years. Since I’ll be starting a part time position at a hospital 2 days a week, I won’t have two months of summer free. So I’m especially treasuring this year’s trip with the boys.

They did really well considering they were stuck in a small car for about 11 hours today. Connor especially has very long legs and not much room to stretch back there.

While we were driving we listened to 15 chapters of the Last Battle by C. S. Lewis. I had not read that book in the Narnia series. So many great analogies in Narnia… the dwarfs hardened their hearts to the notion of there being an Aslan at all. They’d been told lies by the ape and had been tricked into slavery by the Calormen. When face to face with the truth about Aslan they chose to not choose. They would be independent, they thought.

Tomorrow we head to the Monterey Aquarium. I’m sure it will be a great time. We went to cannery row last year, but didn’t have time to go to the aquarium. We’ll spend the first half the day there and then head north. At least that’s the plan. Whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for His goodness and mercy and slow down long enough to give thanks for it! And I’ll be missing the sweetness of the gathering of believers at Pathway.

Quieted,

Sheila