If I have to suffer, I would prefer to suffer well.
I don't like listening to other people whine about their problems.
or to myself whining.

So unattractive.

If my children were whining like me, I'd snap.
How can God stand it?

But to do anything well wants practice
and . . . 10,000 hours of suffering?
do I have an alternative here?

Suffering comes to us all.  
Everyone
loses a job
fails an assignment
has people die on them

we're all going to do it
and maybe some more than others

(but it's not like we have some sort of units to assign suffering
which we could then measure
against our capacity
for some sort of *perceived* suffering score, to know whether
something *feels* harder)

and we can learn to do it well
or not

but maybe if we learn to do it well . . .
well, it's not like we'll actually suffer *less*
because we'll notice more to grieve

but maybe if we learn to grieve
and to grieve those things that grieve God
we'll be more capable of standing up under it?

But if we never learn to lean into it
will every little hurt
ache and ache and cry

God suffers
He says--keep your eye on the cross
See
how I suffer
and what I suffer for
and what pains me
and what is endurable

and it is there that he invites us
to sit down and
have a cup of coffee

God wants to share his pain and
are we willing to listen?

Five minute Fridays: Because: An introduction to a new space.

Because

Because I need a new reason to start writing again.

Because I need to do it without anyone looking over my shoulder.

But because I need to know that someone *knows* . . . just, I’m not ready for it to be anyone that I know, knowing.  You know?

Because the watching yourself watching myself and watching the watching in endless iterative loops that is that natural realm of the NT is crippling to just *doing*. 

Because I cannot turn off the internal critic, but I am tired, tired, tired of that critics monotonous (sp?) drone that I have nothing new to say.  Nothing new to add to the world’s conversation.  That it is a waste of my time, and the time of my children, who I ought to be tending to, and my house, which I ought to be cleaning, and . . . and . . . and.

But this critic is, if not Satan himself, maybe some lesser demon-ling.  A liar.  And a boring uncreative liar at that.

Because adding words is there.  Because it takes less time, those five minutes, than one more game of Candy Crush. 

Because I believe that words are power.  Because . . . what if I just want to?  Because why the hell not anyway?