I have been very inspired by this incredibly faithful man of God recently. He's not some 'celebrity platform preacher' or 'star missionary', just an ordinary family man with a name that makes me want to giggle - Horatio Spafford. Go on, have a giggle with me, I don't think he'll mind.
Mr Spafford had a beautiful wife, 5 children, a business and a welcoming home. They were faithful christians and active in their Presbytarian church. In 1870, however, the Horatio's faith was tested by the devastating death of youngest child and only son. Just one year later, the Great Chicago Fire burnt up Spafford's business. They decided to take the family to Europe for a break and in 1873 Spafford's wife, Anna, and 4 daughters boarded a boat bound for new shores and new adventures. Spafford was to join them in a few days. The boat they boarded was hit by another ship and sunk in just 12 minutes. Only Anna survived. Once she was on dry land she sent this telegram to her husband: "Saved alone. What shall I do." I cannot imagine the utter devastation this man must have felt in losing all of his children.
On hearing the news, Horatio Spafford boarded the first boat he could find and made his way over the very same waters to find his wife and bring her home. As they passed over the now still water where his four daughters drowned, Horatio hid in his room and penned these words:
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trumpet of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trumpet shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
This man who had lost everything was able to lift up his eyes to the One who makes his soul well. This isn't positive thinking. This is not 'living in victory' but denying the realities. He wasn't reading a self help book to get him through a rough patch. Did this man deny his feelings? I am sure he would have wept with inconsolable grief as he passed the site where his four daughters drowned Yet he praised his God. He said his soul was well. How can his soul be well when his life has been devastated by death and fire? The wellness of his soul did not depend on circumstances, it depended on the One who gives him peace like a river, even when his sorrows roll like the waves. The wellness of his soul depended on the One who never changes.
So simple. So uncomplicated. So real. So true. May the wellness of our souls depend on the One who is steadfast and generous in goodness, love, faithfulness, wisdom, grace, mercy and hope.
Showing posts with label feelings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feelings. Show all posts
Monday, 14 May 2012
Thursday, 29 September 2011
Dead birds and Feelings
"Mum! There is a pheasant eating a bloody bird in our garden!", the excited voice greeted me as I ventured downstairs this morning. During the night a cat (possibly ours) had butchered an innocent bird and left the feathers and entrails in our garden. By the time I looked out the window, the mystery 'pheasant' had vanished. The boys were so excited, it took all of my strength and will to prevent them from going outside at 7:30am to inspect the contents of the dead bird.
The troubling incident led me to the differences between girls (or maybe just me) and my boys yet again. Why on earth is it exciting to see the bloody intestines of a bird spread about around our garden? How can they possibly want to inspect it straight after breakfast? Of course, I could transform it into an educational moment, but at that time of the morning I was not quite awake enough to fulfill my teaching role.
If you have read any of my previous blogs you will know that I am passionate about seeing our boys be free to be the boys they were made to be, accepting all their adventures, risk taking, superhero delusions and noise making capabilities. However, I was struck again this morning by the fact that there has to be a limit even to this. If we give them total freedom, they will not learn to be disciplined. We will create selfish children who only think of themselves, and not how their actions affect other people. We will also, dare I say it, not allow them to develop any of the more feminine traits.
Don't click on another tab yet. I am not advocating lip stick and glittery high school musical school bags. Nor am I suggesting that girls cannot have adventures and take risks (although I am not sure I know of many little girls with superhero delusions). However, I do see my role as the sole female in the house, and as the mother of 3 incredibly testosterone fuelled boys, as one of enabling them to learn about their emotions and to experience enjoyment of reading or art. Before anyone tells me that these are stereotypes, I know they are. I know that many grown men are sensitive and enjoy the quieter activities. I am not writing a blog about stereotypes, I am writing a blog about a mother's role to develop her sons.
From when my boys were very young, I have taught them about their emotions. We used to sit in front of the mirror making happy faces and sad faces. I have encouraged them to talk about how they feel. I have welcomed their outbursts of emotion, even the angry ones (although this is sometimes harder), because they give us an opportunity to learn. I work hard at passing on to them my love of reading and the written word. I point out beauty in nature and use words that boys might not necessarily use. I discuss with them how other people might feel in different situations. My job as their mother is to develop their emotions and help them to understand them. It is to foster in them a sensitivity towards others. This is more difficult with some boys than others. Toby, for example, is highly sensitive to other's feelings. Max, at the other extreme, probably wouldn't even notice if someone was in the same room as him nevermind thinking about what they might be feeling! I can only do my best with the boys I have been given.
Of course, when the boys come home from school they will go straight outside and inspect the, by then sun-cooked and rotted, dead bird. As much as I would like to, I cannot contain their excitement about it. By that time I might be able to rack my brains and transform it into a teaching moment, then at least I will feel it had some use. Their training in emotional development will continue until they are not in my care anymore. You never know, one day they might see a dead bird and manage to refrain from jumping up and down, finally able to contain the thrill within them.
The troubling incident led me to the differences between girls (or maybe just me) and my boys yet again. Why on earth is it exciting to see the bloody intestines of a bird spread about around our garden? How can they possibly want to inspect it straight after breakfast? Of course, I could transform it into an educational moment, but at that time of the morning I was not quite awake enough to fulfill my teaching role.
If you have read any of my previous blogs you will know that I am passionate about seeing our boys be free to be the boys they were made to be, accepting all their adventures, risk taking, superhero delusions and noise making capabilities. However, I was struck again this morning by the fact that there has to be a limit even to this. If we give them total freedom, they will not learn to be disciplined. We will create selfish children who only think of themselves, and not how their actions affect other people. We will also, dare I say it, not allow them to develop any of the more feminine traits.
Don't click on another tab yet. I am not advocating lip stick and glittery high school musical school bags. Nor am I suggesting that girls cannot have adventures and take risks (although I am not sure I know of many little girls with superhero delusions). However, I do see my role as the sole female in the house, and as the mother of 3 incredibly testosterone fuelled boys, as one of enabling them to learn about their emotions and to experience enjoyment of reading or art. Before anyone tells me that these are stereotypes, I know they are. I know that many grown men are sensitive and enjoy the quieter activities. I am not writing a blog about stereotypes, I am writing a blog about a mother's role to develop her sons.
From when my boys were very young, I have taught them about their emotions. We used to sit in front of the mirror making happy faces and sad faces. I have encouraged them to talk about how they feel. I have welcomed their outbursts of emotion, even the angry ones (although this is sometimes harder), because they give us an opportunity to learn. I work hard at passing on to them my love of reading and the written word. I point out beauty in nature and use words that boys might not necessarily use. I discuss with them how other people might feel in different situations. My job as their mother is to develop their emotions and help them to understand them. It is to foster in them a sensitivity towards others. This is more difficult with some boys than others. Toby, for example, is highly sensitive to other's feelings. Max, at the other extreme, probably wouldn't even notice if someone was in the same room as him nevermind thinking about what they might be feeling! I can only do my best with the boys I have been given.
Of course, when the boys come home from school they will go straight outside and inspect the, by then sun-cooked and rotted, dead bird. As much as I would like to, I cannot contain their excitement about it. By that time I might be able to rack my brains and transform it into a teaching moment, then at least I will feel it had some use. Their training in emotional development will continue until they are not in my care anymore. You never know, one day they might see a dead bird and manage to refrain from jumping up and down, finally able to contain the thrill within them.
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