Any “Outlander” fans out there?

Sooo…I admit it, my love of story, my insatiable curiosity about people…ever always “under Solomon’s sun” and also ever always surprising…and thus I watch a lot of TV.  Now, I DVR things so I can fast forward thru the commercials (hated since I was just over 3 years old), and I delete quickly as well…but most things I will at least check out (except for the “dead body shows”…the ones that seem to delight in shoving dead and dissected corpses in my face as they figure out over and over again the same culprit to the same crime (only the names have been changed to charm the innocent and dull the naive).

I checked out Outlander.

See, an acquaintance is wild about all things Gabaldon, and passion by people that I respect draws my interest to the object (or subject) of their passion.

So…as tv series go, it is well done.  Far more salacious than I expected, not that I am offended.  Rather, I think the same things could have been said stronger and more powerfully sans the curtains pulled back and the mystery demystified in the light of Solomon’s sun.  That aside, the story is wonderful…far better and treated more seriously than the movie Outlander a long time ago.

My friend would have a far more informed perspective regarding the fidelity of series and book…I just found myself drawn into the drama…

…and particularly taken with the plight of the heroine…waking up conscious in a time not her own with no way back home.

If you enjoy this so far, please chime in on the comments, I would love to hear more.

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Please…make my dry bones live

Good morning Constance…

I awoke this morning after a short sleep.  It was deeper than it has been recently, thank goodness, and full of dreams.  In these dreams, I was congruent, I was bodied the way I am “soul-ed”.  My own perception of myself is that I am somewhat smaller than average in build and frame.  I am guessing that I am around 5’6″, and 115 lbs inside my own sense of self.

This is very awkward for me now!  LOL!  As I become more and more comfortable within my skin I also have periods that are longer and longer where I forget what I really am physically…how I am physically…and I will move in such a way that the clash becomes immediately apparent!

So…having dreamed all night that I was properly bodied and graceful at last, it was especially defeating to wake up and find that I was still in this skin, this 6 ft 2 inch 190 lb skin.  I lay there, feeling conscious wash up on me in waves as I came awake, and felt connection…integration…dissolve, blur, and then collapse like the walls of a sand castle in the breaking waves lapping and licking at the shore.

I got up, quietly, so my baby could drift off back to sleep for more rest, and took care of my morning vitamins and HRT and then came to the computer, to begin my work day supervising truck drivers that collect recycling and garbage in our county.  Our first guy starts at 3:15 AM…I think I should be up then, too, on the watch with him.

Once the initial checks, calculations and messages are attended to, I have time to check email and jot down any ideas for poems that Lady Grace has dropped into my spirit.  But this morning, I was not thinking of poems.  I was hoping to read something encouraging, hoping for emails of life…spam, ads, sales, more ads (how do they get our email addys???), but no personal messages (sob).

The black bold lines of the inbox diminished…until I was on the last one, “A Slice of Infinity“, the devotional I have quoted here before…and as often is the case, it was actually become a personal email from Lady Grace, to me, thru Her servant Jill (bless you Jill…I eagerly await meeting you that Day).

I repost it here in its entirety, and you will see why…it asks the same question that lamented and clawed inside me this morning:  “Lord!!  Can These Bones Live?”  May it bless you as well this morning, meeting you all in your own Valley of Decision, your own boneyard, and may you live…

…truly live,

Charissa

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Speaking to Bones

My experience with the oboe had magnificent beginnings. In fact, it was far more magnificent than I realized. I was in high school and had played in our orchestra for years, but I had never heard of the double-reeded instrument, much less the haunting sounds it made. Yet here in front of me was a woman with an oboe, a friend of a relative, offering to play for us.

The sound was rich and beautiful. It was exactly the sound I imagined Mr. Tumnus playing on his flute for Lucy, the Narnian tune that made her “want to cry and laugh and dance and go to sleep all at the same time.” I came home and immediately asked our director if he had any interest in adding an oboe to the mix.

I (and my family) soon learned the oboe was capable of sounds in great distinction from the ones I had heard that day. I spent no more than a month struggling with the nasally, often out-of-tune notes on my borrowed oboe before I turned it back in, completely defeated.

I have no idea why I thought it would come so easily. Perhaps it was the ease with which the instrument was initially played before me, its seeming similarly with the instrument I already knew, or my imagination of magical flutes in stories I loved. I had heard the tune of a master and convinced myself that I could mimic it. But the music was a gift that required years of labored mastering. The oboist I had met that afternoon was a member of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, yet this never seemed to enter my equation.

When Ezekiel was brought before a valley filled with dry and broken bones, he was immediately consumed by the vastness of it all. “The hand of the LORD came upon me and brought me out in the Spirit of the LORD, and set me down in the midst of the valley; and it was full of bones. Then He caused me to pass by them all around, and behold, there were very many in the open valley; and indeed they were very dry” (Ezekiel 37:1-2). One imagines Ezekiel walking among bones, weary of the vision, and despairing of his helplessness to change it.

There are some scenes in life we approach with utter dismay and fear at our ability to make a difference or accomplish the charge before us. Others, like my attempt at the oboe, begin with a skewed impression of the thing itself and our aptitude to hold it. I have approached the gift of Christ both with the dismay of one looking into a valley of impossible tasks and the foolishness of one not interested in practicing any of his words. But neither has forged me nearer to the gift himself.
Still, such approaches to Christ come naturally to many of us. Who can not tremble at some of the things he says? “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). The charge to live as one made in God’s image seems at times futile, like bones in an open valley dreaming of wholeness.

And yet, I was startled once—as if it were a foreign thought—at a friend’s inquiry about my practice of life by the Spirit, and the love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control that come from walking by the Spirit. We are at once both the child terrified at failing and the child who refuses to even try. Yet neither identity is set forth in Scripture.

In the valley that tired and overwhelmed him, Ezekiel was questioned by the one who put him there. “And He said to me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ So I answered, ‘O Lord GOD, You know’” (Ezekiel 37:3). His answer is both evidence to his wisdom and perhaps also a glimpse of his skepticism. Ezekiel doesn’t respond that God is asking the unthinkable; he doesn’t comment on the great number or dryness of the bones. Yet, he doesn’t approach the question pretending to know less than he does about bones and biology either. Instead, he offers a reflection on the one who asked: “O Lord God, You know.” Ezekiel gives the task back to God and then proceeds to follow God’s instructions to speak the bones to life.

I believe my fleeting moments with the oboe had much to do with my fleeting motivation to practice. But I think similarly, I failed because of my underestimation of the accomplished musician before me. Seeing her for who she was could not have made me an oboist, but it might have shown me the way. How much more so this is true for the one who invites us to follow him and offers us the gift of his hand.

In his life, death, and resurrection, Christ transfigures the impossible for us, giving us in his vicarious humanity a way of holding it.

Christ takes us, dry and lifeless, and gives us both the words and the way to make our dry bones live.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.