dogs, lions, and ballerinas

I am pretty sure everyone starts asking you the question, "What are you going to do with your life?" before you get into college. They start asking when you start talking, by saying "What do you want to be when you grow up?" And oh the beautiful choices. The choices are offered even earlier with baby-sized baseball caps, fire trucks, toy kitchens, miniature easels, and so on. I certainly was interested in what I would "do" as a grown-up. Here is the evolution of my future plans:

4 yrs: Ballerina, in love with pink.
6 yrs: Vet, then after dog-dander allergy discovery, became future marine biologist.
8 yrs: World Cup soccer player.
10 yrs: Author/artist
12 yrs: Author/artist/concert pianist

And finally, as a teenager I wanted to be something that combined writing/drawing/piano with a passion for ministry... I decided I would be missionary teacher.

I was terrified. I was going to screw this up. What if I don't become what God wants me to be? What if He wants me to be something I don't want to be? Back when I wanted to be a world class soccer player I had a vision. I was sitting in the van while my mom ran into the store. A vision of the African continent was floating in my mind's eye, and I started to cry. I believed God was calling me to missions and I was too afraid to go. I didn't want to leave my family and live in a hut in lion country... and I didn't want locals to offer me grubs on a leaf a la carte.

My mom came back to the van to find her nine year old in the grips of an emotional crisis. She told me that I didn't have to worry, if God said go to Africa, He would prepare me and He would be with me. I felt better but I wasn't convinced.

My chameleon dreams haunted me in college... I transferred schools, considered transfer, changed my major, and considered major changes... the usual suspects. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to serve God, and write.

I entered college with a laundry list of things to do: play soccer, study abroad, go on missions trips, be a wilderness camp counselor... on and on and on. And now, with my senior year approaching, I can look back and see that I accomplished many things, but I didn't do everything on my list.

I thought if I didn't do everything, and prepare myself for anything, God couldn't use me. I wanted to be the smartest, most skilled, cleanest vessel God had ever used for ministry.

Wait a second, how much of this is about God anyway? How much of this is about the sacrifice Jesus made for me on the cross? I have had a pretty me-centered view, one that reeks with self-fulfillment and actualization.

God has a tendency... He uses the unlikely, the under-prepared. He doesn't mind taking the scum of the earth and making them His sons and daughters. Shepherds were the first to see baby Jesus. Fishermen were His disciples. In Jesus' genealogy there are second sons, foreigners, murderers, and prostitutes.

I am not afraid; I don't need to prove myself to the world. What is required of me? I need to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God (Micah 6:8). That's right, walk in humility. It's not about me, God can make me whatever He wants. And, as the Creator and Savior of my soul and personhood... Giver of any gift that I possess... His plan will be the most fulfilling. Show me where to walk Lord, I will follow.

wanting to be john

I used to not like John. I mean the apostle John. I was so frustrated every time I read his gospel and he would refer to himself as the "one Jesus loved."

I thought it was so prideful to single himself out as the one that Jesus loved out of all the other disciples. What made him so special? I was jealous. I wanted to be the "one that Jesus loved." I wanted to be sitting at the table with my head on His breast, listening to Him speak about His kingdom.

I wasn't only jealous of John, I was jealous of anyone who had a special encounter with God in the Bible. I wanted God to step into my life like He had stepped into theirs. I wanted Him to tell me that I was born again, come and ask for water at my faucet, heal my cousin, have dinner at my house. I wanted to hug Jesus, touch His face. I used to dream about what it would be like to hug Jesus... all I could imagine was light, blinding light and a feeling of safety.

I think we all want to experience specific, special, one and only love. I wanted this love from God, what I didn't realize is that He had given it to me; I just wasn't able to understand it. It was hard because I wanted to physically experience His presence. It is difficult to understand how an infinite, eternal being loves a finite one. I know that I am capable of love, but not of loving the whole human race the way God does. I can only love a few people deeply, and wish for the good of many. But to really love others, know them intimately, and step into their suffering and weakness, that is divine. I project upon God the capabilities of my love, assuming that because I cannot be intimate with everyone, He cannot either.

It is wonderful to realize that the God who loved John, loves me. The Jesus who died for John, died for me, and died for everyone. I do see His love, I see His love through His Word, His creation, and through the people He has placed in my life.

Someday I will be in heaven with John and the ones I love. And I will see Jesus, He will touch my face, and I will be His.

image

I have always worried about my appearance.  Since I was very little, I have memories of my childish concerns over clothing and hair.  I remember wanting to be like Lacy Carlton with her mismatched pastel socks; when I tried to un-match my own, my mother prevented my idolization of Lacy and my socks stayed paired.  I also wanted to look like little black girls with their corn-rows and colorful barrettes; again, to my mother's chagrin, I attached many clips to strands of straight blond hair and created something new and exciting, at least in my opinion.  They were promptly removed.

As a young girl I possessed a thin, athletic body and was known for being fast.  I loved running around, being skinny.  I was grateful that I wasn't pudgy like some poor girls.

Then it happened; in high school I started worrying about my weight.  On a long car ride to Illinois from our home in California I began analyzing my legs.  When I relaxed the muscles, the legs spread.  I was fat.  It didn't matter that I wore a small t-shirt and size two pants,  I needed to lose something else because I had already lost my self-esteem.  It quickly became an obsession and I began to worry about what I ate and how much I weighed.  The problem was, rather than eating less because I was worried about the scale, I ate more in despair.  I would stuff myself until I felt sick and then wish I was brave enough to throw it up, something I knew I could never do.

I didn't understand it, because of my allergies I was already on a limited diet that cut out all sweets... no ice cream, cookies, cake, or soda.  How could a girl like me have such bad luck? Unfortunately, in high school, there was nothing to worry about.  My weight was fine, I just wasn't a stick.  Weightlifting for soccer and track had added some bulk to my body, and I hated it.  I wanted to look anorexic; I wanted to be outrageously thin.

I constantly compared myself to other women, and wanted desperately to be as thin or skinnier than others.  I wanted to drop a pants size, fit into an old skirt.  I wanted to change.

I wish I could say I don't struggle with this problem anymore, but I still do.  Every time I look in the mirror, every time I step on the scale, every time I eat.  I hate how guilty I feel when I eat.  Sometimes it is hard for me to think that God loves me even if I am overweight or not fast anymore.  Sometimes it is hard for me to think that anyone will love me if I don't weigh in below average.  And its true, people often look at the outward appearance.  Even Samuel, one of the holiest men in the Old Testament did when he went to anoint the next king of Israel.  He was looking for someone like Saul, who had been handsome and head and shoulders above the people.  He went to the sons of Jesse and looked at all of them, assuming that the tall eldest sons were God's number one draft pick.  God sets Samuel straight, however, in 1 Samuel 16:7,

"Do not look at his appearance or his physical stature, because I have refused him.  For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

Could it be possible that I have wasted the last 7-8 years of my life obsessing over something that the Lord does not even care about?  Yes, I believe I have.  I can only overcome this battle by the Lord's strength.  It is an insidious disease that colors the way I see my Father's world and my place in it.  Lord, please save me from myself.

eternal longing

For most of my life I have owned a paralyzing fear, a pair of twin elephants that I carried around on my back.  I was afraid of eternity and death.

It all began at four.  I was lying in my bed in our family's apartment in South Carolina one night.  I imagined that I was in a grave alone in a pitch black coffin.  I was separated from my mom, my dad, and my brother.  I was completely and utterly alone, and I cried in despair.  Soon after this I trusted in Jesus as my Savior, seeing that He was the only way I could escape being separated from everything I held dear.

This did not erase my fear of eternity or even of death, however.  Now I knew that I would not be alone, but eternity was such a very long time, and my idea of heaven at that point was a sterile, cloudy place where my mom and I would wear orange sleeping bags with head and arm holes and my brother and father would wear blue ones.  Worshipping the Father in heaven forever seemed rather boring and ridiculous to me, and I couldn't imagine being in a church service for more than 45 minutes, much less thousands of years.  I didn't think my voice would last that long.  I loved Jesus with all my heart, but I couldn't understand what it would mean to be with Him and His Father forever.

When I started kindergarten we moved to Illinois and attended a Lutheran church.  In Sunday School my teacher had us draw a picture of what we thought heaven would look like.  I drew exactly what I wanted heaven to be: a very large swimming pool with a slide and diving board.  I thought that if that was what heaven was,  I would be satisfied staying there for more than a lifetime.  I soon discovered that while heaven will be wonderful, it is not guaranteed that there will be a swimming pool (if you find that verse in Revelation let me know asap).  

I have come to terms with that now, especially after reading C.S. Lewis' descriptions of heaven, more particularly in his book The Last Battle.  In the book, at the end the children have died and they find themselves in a place that is wonderfully familiar, in fact, they are in a perfected Narnia.  They can also travel to other lands, one of which looks a little like Great Britain.  Aslan tells them to keep going "Further up and further in."  It becomes more and more wonderful, until Lewis can no longer describe it because we have not yet been called home.  This helped me understand that the God who created this world that I love and created  everything in it that is good, is also the Lord of heaven.  Heaven will be home, and if He knows how to make me happy here, how much more so will I be satisfied in heaven?

As far as worshipping the Lord in heaven, I have come to see that worship is not just singing in a service; but every act of being, if done for His glory, will be worship.  Our fellowship, our service, our speech (and might I add artistic endeavors?) will all be done for His glory without the hindrance of our sinful bodies.  What freedom is this?  What joy unknown?

Even though I am sometimes overwhelmed by thoughts of years and years of unknown happenings in eternity, I have come to place where I long for them with all my heart.  C.S. Lewis (yes, Lewis again) wrote two quotes that summarize my life to this point:

"It was when I was happiest that I longed most... the sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing... to find the place where all the beauty came from."

"I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

I have found that the longing for Jesus, the longing for peace, the longing for another world... these satisfy me.  It was when I was holding on desperately to those things that I could not keep that I was conquered by fear.

I long for the day when Jesus will call me His beloved and hold me in His arms, and there will be no more darkness, no more goodbyes, and no more fear.

rat poison

I have been thinking about character lately... especially because of something my sister said the other day.

"Abby gets mad really easily."

I immediately became angry, replying that I only get mad when I am purposefully provoked. I was defensive because I am rather easy going, and more often feel as though I am being a pushover rather than a hothead. But what sort of virtue is this anyway, the virtue of irregular grace and occasional good temper?

In Mere Christianity C.S. Lewis writes:
"Surely what a man does when he is taken off his guard is the best evidence for what sort of man he is? Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth? If there are rats in the cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly. But the suddenness does not create the rats: it only prevents them from hiding."

I find that I am often on my best behavior when I am in public, amongst those I want to make a good impression on, the ones who do not love me unconditionally. It is easier to be your unlovable, fleshy self when home, amongst those who must love you with all your warts and blemishes.

I want to kill the rats. I want to be a woman of peace, a woman whose words are patient and true... even when surprised... even when provoked.

paper or plastic?

On Friday, June 13th, I did it again.  I frustrated a bank teller by not having a debit card.  It takes twice as long to help me, and they usually need to see my driver's license.  I have tried to avoid keeping the plastic (credit or debit) in my wallet for the past few years for numerous reasons:

1. I want to keep track of my money.
2. My checkbook works just fine.
3. A little person, one of my tech savvy sisters for example, just might have a shopping spree on American Girl's website at my expense.  You never can tell.
4. Did I mention I don't trust myself?

I have discovered, however, that this is counter-cultural.  Checks have become rather arcane, in the left corner I might as well have my name and "521 N. Cave" as an address.

Have you seen the Mastercard commercials?  You see shoppers in a store, all happily swiping credit and debit cards.  Everything is running smoothly, a well-oiled machine... until someone pulls out cash, or heaven forbid, a check.  The loser who writes the check looks extremely sheepish, like they just discovered that not only have they written a check, they are also in their underwear.  They quickly exit with their purchases and the machine continues to run and the birds start to sing again.

A young clerk at Whole Foods near my school insulted me once when I wrote a check.  He asked me if I was really that stingy that I needed to write one.  I can't remember if stingy was the word but whatever it was it was synonymous with tightwad, miserly, penny-pincher, or scrooge.  I explained that I just wanted to keep track of the little money that I had.  I don't think he understood.  I forgave him.

That's okay, soon I will use my thumb to pay for things... or maybe my iPod or cell phone.

I worry about things like plastic money cards because as I have said before, I want to be a good steward of my money, and worry that my tithing habits will be destroyed.  I do know though, that most people who tithe have survived plastic.  I just don't want to be the servant that fails the Master with my talents.

Unfortunately, on Friday I caved and got a debit card so that I do not ruin my witness to the bank tellers anymore.

I am giving control of my finances to my Heavenly Father, and asking Him to make me wise. 

 And trust me, if plastic is a problem, I have no qualms about shredding it.

destructive blessings

Driving in a car....why do I love it so much?

-I love driving with no place to go...not early, not late, just being.

-I love driving to the place where loved ones are, knowing that each mile brings me that much closer to their familiar voices and gentle arms.

-I love driving in the rain, watching raindrops become streams of water that spread their fingers out over my windshield, hugging the dry capsule I stare out from. I watch the road and wait for flashes of lightning, I grip the steering wheel...my knuckles turn white.

I sing songs of thankfulness whenever I encounter crummy weather. I often feel guilty that my joy comes at the expense of another man's misfortune. I have been enjoying the recent unusual June showers that bring...July fireworks? But in Iowa, they are suffering terrible flooding, loss, and even death. I have pondered the loss of the mothers and fathers whose boy scouts were killed in the tornado this week, and wondered at the storms that can be beautiful, yet sinister.

It reminds me of George MacDonald's story At The Back of the North Wind. In the book the boy Diamond must come to terms with the fact that God tells the North Wind to sing her song, and sometimes that means that people will die. The song is chilling but beautiful, the most beautiful thing Diamond has ever heard.

I often feel like Diamond...why must Creation groan and suffer, why must the wind bring rain for the crops and death for the creatures? The Fall has tainted us in more ways than I can ever understand, and certainly will not understand this side of heaven. Perhaps that is why it is the shadowlands, the valley of the shadow of death. When the Son rises, we will see the world for what it is, and the glory and perfection of the Kingdom will be...home. We will know that this is what we have spent our whole lives longing for, this is what we mourned for when the North Wind sang her song. And He, the Father, will wipe away our tears.

milk and speckled eggs

"Abby?"

"Yes Molly."

"Mom bought you quail eggs."

That was not a typo.  Quail eggs.

--I live in an alternate reality, a small world with a limited diet.  I say a small world because I drink milk from a goat and eat eggs from a quail, both creatures being smaller than their mainstream counterparts.  I have allergies, and my family has always tried to find alternatives for me no matter how bizarre or unappealing they may appear (or even taste).

 

I am often asked what goat milk tastes like.  I reply:

-The fresher it is the better.

-What does it taste like when it isn't fresh?

-Goaty.

-What do you mean?

-I mean it tastes like I am drinking the goat's bath water.

Okay, that was hyperbole.

Benefit:  I feel more connected with the global community because of my allergies.  I occasionally consume imported desserts that lack corn syrup, my mortal foe and darling of the American food industry.  I drink goat's milk and suddenly identify with Heidi of the Swiss Alps.  And my pickled quail eggs come in cans found in the Asian section of my local supermarket.

I can't say how grateful I am that there are things for me to eat.  I think about children in countries who consume a steady diet of rice, rice, and more rice.  My diet all of the sudden is blessed with unimaginable variety.  What would it be like to wake up everyday and not have to guess what you were going to eat, only wonder if there will be any rice left?

I am thankful for goats, quails, and alternative sweetners.  Goat milk anyone?

fuzzy sheep give freely

I wrote this a couple months ago...I had some lessons to learn, as usual.

Am I conditioned to be this way? What event in my past has caused me to be suspicious of my fellow man? I am on the mend, that is, my perception of the world and its ways is rapidly changing. Changing so fast it is hard for me to track my progression, until yesterday.

Let's start from the beginning. I have always wanted to help people, people that need me, poeple that really need Jesus. But maybe they don't know it. I hate to see people hurting. But I have been afraid. I am supposed to be suspicious; it's all a scam they say. It's a ploy, they want drugs or alcohol, and you have an innocent face. I am one fuzzy sheep, folks say sheep are stupid and naive.  I have been told I'm naive, no surprises there, probably a little stupid too.

Okay, I'm being unclear in my musings, so I'll lay it out nice and easy.  What do you say when a homeless man accosts you on the street?  He needs some food, a place to stay, or money for the bus.  That's what he says.  You have money, but feel reluctant.  What is he really going to do with your hard-earned cash?  You don't want to think about it, it's cold, and you want to keep walking.  "I can't, I'm sorry," you reply and head to your car.  When you are out of hearing he curses you under his breath and gathers up his wounded pride to beg from another.  You feel guilty, but satisfy your conscience by reminding yourself that you have not aided him with his addiction.

This is how I thought, and acted in the past.  But I have been thinking again, re-thinking.  What if I am not called to judge the motives and intents of my fellow man?  What if I am simply called to give of what God has given me regardless of who asks?  My Lord said I should walk two miles rather than one, and asked me to give my tunic as well as my cloak.  What if, rather than simply recalling these verses I put them into action?  What if I stopped protecting myself from hurting people?  I have been asking for a change, asking for God to light a fire in me and give me passion, and God has been answering my prayers in ways I had not expected.

Confession:  I have been convicted regarding finances.  I used to tithe regularly, and have since fallen off the wagon in college.  Being away from my home church and parental accountability has caused me to stumble.  Giving, why am I so selfish and lazy?  I have asked the Lord for help in this area, but help has come in an unusual fashion.

So I went to the bank Thursday, a handful of checks to cash, and some to deposit.  As I exited my roommate's little red car,  I was approached by a young girl.  She and her deaf mother were from Rockford, visiting a sick grandmother, and had an almost empty tank of gas.  The mother had forgotten her wallet at home and they needed help.  They had asked 20 people for help.  I was lucky 21.  I said I would help, cashed my checks, and handed the girl 20 bucks for gas.  I said "God bless you," because I couldn't think of less generic spiritual thing to say.  I wanted to say that it was all because of Jesus.  They may have fooled a sheep, but Jesus knows.

lovable little idols

I used to think that idols were only worshipped by Hebrews. As a child my father read the Old Testament with us and I thought, "Silly Israelites, why do they worship stones and poles? Baal and Ashtoreth are so lame." I was mortified and grossed out to find that their worship of foreign gods included child sacrifice and sexual orgies...and come on, couldn't Aaron have thought of another attractive, powerful animal to cast rather than a cow?

I bought into the lie; we are so much more cultured and refined in our day. We might as well have the 9 commandments because no one struggles with idols anymore.

Unfortunately, like Rachel, I was sitting on my own idols...hiding them from my Heavenly Father. How many shrines did I erect for horses, dolls, and teddy bears? How many times did I pore over toy magazines like holy scriptures, seeking the hidden truths of wealth, power, and possession?

I remember one internal battle that I fought and lost. I reflected on a difficult question: Would I give away my doll to a poor girl, would I give away my doll for the sake of Christ? I would have said yes out loud to save face, but I knew I couldn't, and I hoped I wouldn't have to. Even as a girl I knew that I was the rich man, I couldn't sell all.

One day, when my mom was going through our toys to get rid of the excess, I began to sing the praises of my teddy bear Snowball, who had been a good friend and companion to me during creepy nights on my bunk bed. My mom, with classic bluntness replied, "You realize that at the end of the world, after Jesus comes back, Snowball is going to burn." I was horrified. I had visions of an earth on fire, and the red flames were licking the face of my beloved bear. I was traumatized at first, but that day began my letting go process, and I began to deal with my grief. Grieving the death of my god.

We worship little gods everyday. The gods of convenience, gods of pleasure, gods of power, gods of style. Why do we do this? Why do we worship frail things made of dust, made by the Creator, or at worst, made by ourselves? Can anyone imagine God creating Adam and rather than saying His work was good, falling upon His holy face in awe at His creation? I don't think so. Then why do I worship clothes and toys made in China?

We go to tanning beds, when the true sun is outside. We watch relationships on tv, and sit next to the real people we love. We worship at the altars of me, and reject the One who made us. We seek the immediate satisfaction of an idol who is there, and the reject the God who is everywhere...calling our names, and waiting for us to come home.

cracking the ring of fellowship

When I was a girl, I loved to talk. I read the word loquacious once in the vocab section of a magazine and proudly told my mom that it described me to a t. I liked talking to anyone of any age, younger or older; it didn’t matter to me as long as they would lend me their ear for a few minutes.

I loved social events, birthday parties, sleepovers, field trips…I lived for them. I drew flowers, cakes, and puppies around the happy days on the calendar, and eagerly waited for their arrival.

Then it happened. When I was ten, my family moved from Illinois to California, and my comfortable social world crumbled around me.

I quickly learned that I was not as cool as I thought I was, and that other people didn’t need me. I got burned a few...okay, more than a few times saying something dumb in front of my peers. I started talking less, and listening more. The listening was good and healthy. But the fear wasn’t.

I have been alone. I have started over in social settings many times, and felt the disagreeable feeling that burns in your stomach. The feeling that tells you no one else knows you, and if they know you exist, they won’t let on.

I soon sought out others who were on the fringe to talk to, because I knew that even though I was alone, no written rules said I couldn’t reach out to other loners.

Sometimes, after living somewhere for a few years, I became comfortable again. I had go-to friends and didn’t “need” to seek out anyone. I always felt guilty when I watched someone sit by themselves. Sometimes I rejected comfort and sat with them. More often I ignored as others had done unto me.

This lesson is still being learned, the lesson of fellowship. I still find myself in transitional periods attending nights of fellowship and food where I don’t belong. Sometimes I think the problem is I don’t eat the food. I have allergies, and it is a safer bet for me to eat before attending. Maybe my lack of participation in the breaking of bread with the faithful has harmed my social quotient. Maybe not.

What is the ring and how can I crack it? Often the problem is we all think about ourselves, and the most important person in the room is ME. I am not concerned about the comfort of others…as long as someone condescends to ease my social disturbance I couldn’t care less how others feel. When will I learn?

why i stopped hating the president...for less than political reasons

It would be more in vogue for me to say that the president I ceased to hate was George W., but I laid down the hatchet at the age of 5 when Bill Clinton was entering the oval office.  My parents were conservative and I would often hear them venting their frustrations about his positions and policies.  We were on a road trip to the East Coast.  I was sitting in the back of the van in a booster seat and I loudly proclaimed to my mother that I hated Bill Clinton.  I assumed my mom would confirm and sympathize with my sentiments.  Unfortunately for my young ego my mom told me it wasn't right for me to hate anyone, and that even though she and my dad disagreed with the the new president, they didn't hate him.

From that time on I tried to keep hate  as far away from my heart as possible.  My mom once said that hating someone was wishing they were dead.  That is something I would never want to wish on anyone, especially someone who has not yet made their peace with God.

Jesus said that I need to love my enemies, a thing that I have found is difficult to do in reality or abstraction.

--How do I love the neighbor kid who tormented me when I was seven?

--How do I love the soccer player who punched me in the back and called me names I had never heard before?

--How do I love someone who commits injustice, a thing that I hate?

I think one of the only ways I can love my enemies is by realizing how bad I am, and know that God loves me in spite of my sin.  The better I think of myself, the harder it is for me to love others who are less than perfect.

The closer I get to Jesus, the harder it is for me to harbor ill will towards the ones He loves.  Jesus, give me Your love.

entitled

In my short life I have thought a lot about myself, and about the things that I believe I deserve.

I become distressed and disagreeable when things don't go according to my plan, whether that is something small like doing the dishes instead of reading a novel, or something big like moving away from home to another state or going to a college I didn't expect to attend.

My first response is usually a woe-is-me attitude.  Why do these things happen to me?  All I want is a little free time, a home by the beach, education at the school of my choice, and an all expense paid trip to Europe.  Is that too much to ask?

Not if our world revolves around me.

So often my joy is stolen because I think I am entitled to some vague happiness that can only be satisfied by earthly love or material gain.  I want to have adventures, and since I am young and able-bodied...why not?

The problem is, I don't deserve anything.  What amazing talent sets me apart from the rest of the human race and demands that I should be pampered?  Nothing.  It is because of the grace of God that I have been given what I have, and there are no guarantees that that will not be taken away from me.

Do I believe that God still loves me if I am not utterly satisfied with everything and every circumstance?

What about the poor?  Does God love them less because they have less?  Throughout scripture God shows concern for the poor..."You, O God, provided from Your goodness for the poor." (Psalm 68:10)  So if God cares for the poor,  I think it is safe to assume that He has taken care of me as well in my comfortable middle class home, with a bed, clothing, and food to eat everyday.

What about those afflicted with the mental retardation?  Does God care any less for my sisters with autism, whose deficiencies may prevent them from ever going to college or getting married? I don't think so.  They are the children of the kingdom, and Jesus welcomes them to Himself.

What does it mean for me to become poor in spirit, so that I too might be blessed?  How can I become pure in heart, so that I too might see God?

Well, I don't think I will ever see God if I am always looking at me.  Father in heaven, let me seek Your face.