Not Good Enough!

Not good enough for what? To attain superiority, or just an acceptable standard? And is it meant for discipline to encourage persistence, or simply to write me off? Then again, who’s making the judgment? A friend, or an enemy, or perhaps even myself?

Our reaction to this comment will largely depend on our upbringing. If we had parents who demanded perfection, we will probably never feel good enough. But parents providing positive response to our childish efforts would instil confidence in ourselves.

Personally, I have always been a self doubter, consistently unsure my efforts are good enough, always feeling I could have done better and rarely satisfied with what I’ve accomplished. And a couple of reviews revealing why my book is “a good book, but not a great book,” fits the bill.

My problem now is whether the comments were valid, or just another dump on my sensitive ego. They concern my ability to express emotion adequately about recent life threatening health issues. My problem: I really didn’t feel much at all—mostly concerned with options.

This is something I have decided I will need to rectify—perhaps do a little deeper digging into my conscious self. After all, for citizens of this postmodern culture, feelings trump truth and a personal sense of well-being is paramount.

Of course, the final and only meaningful judge of whether we are good enough is God Himself, and measuring ourselves against His blazing holiness we will never come close to any level of sufficient goodness. We will never be good enough.

But again, much will depend on who we listen to: Him or ourselves. If we listen to our own assessment of ourselves, we may conclude we don’t need God’s. But if we’re honest, we don’t meet our own standards, let alone His.

But if we recognize we are not good enough, “Jesus paints a different picture. He said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” (Matthew 5:3). Whatever we try to accomplish in this life, His death makes up the lack between our effort and His acceptance and use of it.

We must seek excellence in life and work, but we will always fall short. But because of His love for us, He makes it worthwhile. He paid the price on the cross for our inadequacy and failure. So now, all we do has purpose and completion in Him.

Why Live on the Prairies?

Spending a weekend in Vancouver, smelling the soft moist air and reveling in the blossoms already in full flower, makes me wonder why we ever left here for the prairies. Of course, there were good reasons, but that doesn’t eliminate the nostalgia for a kinder climate.

To be honest, there are times in Alberta, especially in the spring, when I wonder if I’ll ever feel warm again. The winter refuses to let go, even through most of the spring, until summer bursts out with heat enough to melt the soul.

Someone asked me this weekend, why, after living in Vancouver for twenty years, we decided to move back to the prairies. Certainly a good and perfectly natural question for a born and raised Vancouverite. Where else in Canada matches the beauty and climate of the west coast?

Of course, we humans are hard to satisfy. Once back in Vancouver, I’d soon tire of the interminable traffic, long commutes and socialist governments. Trouble is, everyone flocks to the best places on earth, and then tries to turn them into a paradise of their own making.

Lethbridge has its benefits; it’s not always windy! I can drive anywhere in fifteen minutes, and all those big box stores have settled in—everything within easy reach. Too, we have some family nearby, and vistas of the Rockies a hundred miles north and south never cease to awe me.

We have moved over a score of times during our fifty eight years of marriage, and have learned that home is where you make it. It is not a place, it is peace. Conflict can destroy a home in the most magnificent abode and the finest surroundings.

I’m sure we could live in Vancouver again, or anywhere else we felt called to. But right now we are happy where we are; we always have been wherever we were. Vancouver is a wonderful place to visit and admire, but I prefer not to live there again.

The Sabbath?

Why don’t Christians keep the Sabbath? This question comes up intermittently and some pointers to an answer were provided by Rev. James Robinson yesterday. Remember that the first Christians were Jews who met early on the first day of the week to worship. Why?

First, they would attend the synagogue or meet in the temple courts to worship on the Sabbath (Saturday). This meant to complete their faith as Christian Jews they would meet the following day to celebrate—the day our Saviour rose from the dead.

Remember too, that Jesus was crucified on Friday, and it was fitting he should rest through the Sabbath in a sleep of death, before rising to life early on the first day of the week. After all, the first day of the week commenced the original creation process.

So, Christ rose in re-creation on the first day of the week, which heralded not only new life for us, but also the promise of His return; some Christians suggest it is an eighth day. It was natural for the early Christians to celebrate their faith on the first day, Sunday.

Thus, the Sabbath was left intact for those first Jewish Christians. But it leaves a question: though we Christians continue to worship on the Sunday, how do we respect the Sabbath? While this is no longer a legal requirement, can we honour God’s original charge?

Perhaps it is no coincidence that for most in the western world, the work week leaves Saturday a holiday. Most Christians may not attend a Shabbat service, but we can make it the day of rest as it was originally proclaimed.

Or have we over time simply transferred the Sabbath to Sunday, so that becomes our “day of rest”? If we rest on Saturday, we may worship on Sunday, but not necessarily make it a day of rest. In fact, for many Christians—especially pastors—it’s the busiest day of the week!

Any other thoughts?

GROWING UP IN WW2 ENGLAND by Ann Norford

The years that Germany attempted to subjugate Britain by air bombardment was not the ideal time to expend our childhood. But as children, both my husband Bryan and I survived those years with all our arms, legs, and other appurtenances intact.

The German air force needed air superiority before invading Britain, but the thin ranks of British fighter pilots eventually denied the Germans that advantage. As a result, the German invasion was abandoned, but intimidation of the nation by aerial bombing continued for the next four years.

Both born in the late 1930s, we spent our elementary school years watching the skies as naturally as we watched for traffic before crossing the street. Indiscriminate bombing of residential as well as industrial areas meant we were all targets.

Bryan grew up in a stable home, so the war had a greater impact on him than on me. Although I had to contend with the threatened dangers of war, my impaired home was a more immediate threat to me and my brothers.

I was more concerned with maintaining life in a hazardous home environment, and shepherding three younger brothers during the most critical times. We spent many periods in children’s homes during the worst of our mother’s sick rampages both in and after the war.

Bryan, on the other hand, found his pleasures in the incidental things of the war: “toys” dropped by the overhead combatants, or exploring air-raid shelters and bombed buildings. Fascination with war machines and the often strange but absorbing maintenance of public transportation kept his attention.

Now in our older years, we are intrigued to find so many children and adults who were born after the war interested in the stories of that turbulent time. Thus we decided to write up some of our war time experiences and the aftermath.

The resulting book, War Kids: Growing Up in World War Two England, is one of several books comprising a legacy we plan for our expanding family. The stories in this book are all based on actual events of the years from about 1940 until Bryan and I met in our early teens in 1950.

Maintaining faith and resolve during the war, gratitude for the sacrifices made for our freedom, and our renewed appreciation of it, contributed to the people we became, the marriage we made, and the children we raised.

Books are available from www.pebblepress.ca, or directly from us for $15.00 plus shipping at 403-328-3745.

"I Hate You"

 With these words, a six year old boy joined the “I hate  you” brigade. But his words are not unusual, most kids try it at some point. Of course, it is a form of childish blackmail at being denied something he wants. Important not to let him know it works by capitulation!

There are a number of things to remember with this attack, distressing though it may be. First, it’s the only opposite he knows to both “I love you” and “I like you.” That can be explained to him by the reply: “I don’t like you sometimes either, but I will always love you!”

Second, with some exceptions, you have to work very hard to destroy a boy’s love for his parents. Even in the rebellious teen years, that bond is only buried, not lost, behind his bellicose behaviour. It may take a teen a while to rediscover it.

Third, that six year old’s mood generally passes. Life at that age is too varied and absorbing to remain in that mood for long. And a “sorry Mom,” if it is verbalized, is an added bonus. But even without that, the boy’s affection will reassert itself.

My father held that children were the proof of original sin. Evil comes naturally to them; they have to be taught to be good! Parents have to wrestle and train against the fallen state, and should expect flashes of the old nature.

Today is Mother’s Day. Knowing that youngster, I’m sure the relationship will be reaffirmed today!