ransomed from futile ways

Today I became more angry than I can remember being in a long time. Birdie and I were in our adjoined rooms working separately and in silence when someone else came home from school. She stomped into her own room and began blasting music through the wall we share. Birdie is on the last day of our six-month Bible reading plan, diligently trucking through Revelations against all odds. I've fallen desperately behind and decided to finish at my own pace. And someone else is still blasting music. And singing along in a high-pitched voice. And opening and closing her closet doors continuously.

I can tell that Birdie isn't really reading anymore, even if her eyes are on the page and I get up from my place on my bedspread and attempt to remedy the situation. My request is rejected, there are several more words, ending with her question:
"When was the last time you did something nice for me?"


I stand in her room, gripping the doorframe and chewing my lip. I feel like if I unclench my teeth I'll scream out at the top of my lungs: 
"Every moment of every day I do something nice for you! If you knew the thousands of things I have wanted to do and haven't, the millions of times I've left your behavior unreported and given you one more chance, you'd understand just how often I do something nice for you!"


But some invisible angel keeps this lion's mouth closed and I walk back into my room breathing out of pattern. Willin and Jubilee trounce in to show me the mosaic crosses they have made and aren't they pretty? I can barely bring my eyes to the cross, barely speak. All I can do is nod and mutter something about them being "very nice." 


Now will you please go out?


They stepped cautiously out of my den, careful not to make a sound but I followed close behind, rubber boots in hand. I scarcely make it out the front door, much less to my destination when tears begin to flow and that scream I had been recording inside me grows up my throat and nearly comes out. I am livid.

All my mind's voice can say as I sit down on my tree swing and rubbed my hands up and down the two ropes is, 
"how dare she?!"
 and
"Father, help me not to hate."


Crying, praying, thinking, breathing, I make it back to earth. I stand at the pond a few minutes and watch the turtles dunk and dive, the pond ever-so-slightly higher than it's been and then trek back home.

Up in my bedroom, I open my Bible, thankful that I'm no longer in James, because I don't think I could handle "the tongue is a fire,  a world of unrighteousness" today. The more-than-six-month plan lands me in 1 Peter (I told you I'm behind) and I begin to read. 

As obedient children, do not be conformed to the passions of your former ignorance, but as he who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, since it is written, "You shall be holy, for I am holy." (1:14-16)

Oh, to gain instant sanctification! Yet, that is not the way The Father works. Let me not conform to the old ways. 


In the meadow, on my swing, who had I been calling out to? My Father.

"And if you call on him as Father who judges impartially according to each one’s deeds, conduct yourselves with fear throughout the time of your exile, knowing that you were ransomed from the futile ways..." (vs. 17-18a)

I have been ransomed from my futile ways! Do you hear the grace in those words? And not ransomed with gold or silver, but by the precious blood of Christ. 


I hear her come back into her room, the same song playing over and over again, the talking aloud to herself, the chorus of the closet doors and as I read on, my eyes land on something I'm not sure I can accept...


(continued in part two)


everly