Kookie Cut-Outs by Rachel Britz

Hola! Como’ Estas?
When I was in high school we were required to take two years of a foreign language. Spanish was my choice. I enjoyed it so much that I actually took three years. Nowadays I don’t find much use for it since I live in a primarily English speaking community and surround myself with like-spoken people. However in the past couple years I’ve been to both Mexico and Puerto Rico and enjoyed rejuvenating the language of Espanol.

During our trip to Puerto Rico, my husband and I met a woman named Laticia. She worked at the resort we were staying at and over the coarse of our stay she quickly turned from an acquaintance to friend. So much so, that on the last full day of our trip she offered to take us around the island. The day included shopping, beaches, and authentic cuisine. She even took us to her home and showed us her lemon, orange, banana, and avocado trees. Oh, delicioso! My favorite part of the day though, was when she took me into a small music shop and bought me a CD of her favorite Puerto Rican musician. With love, she handed it to me and with her hand over her heart she said “You may not understand the language but you will feel it!”

If you know me very well you know that I’m captivated by dreams. Not the goal setting type(although those are great too) but rather the ones that come to you during your state of sleeping. I’m often inspired, perplexed, and have even been tested by them. It hasn’t always been this way but the Lord works in mysterious ways. For me, this is one of them!

In my previous entry I shared a very raw piece of my past but what I didn’t share with you is that several months prior to my final surrender to alcohol I received three very vivid dreams. Each of these dreams came exactly one week apart from each other. Sunday after consecutive Sunday they came. Although they played out differently the message was the same. Death.

Do you believe God can use dream language to speak to us? I certainly do! My forefathers, the pilgrims of my Christian faith have declared it throughout the pages of the Bible. I will be quick to note that this is not some pie in the sky subject matter. The language is real and like any other requires careful study. Initially you may not understand it but, with open hearts and minds, focused on the Lords guidance and protection you will feel it!

I will venture to say that you can expect more from me concerning the mysteries of God’s divine dream language and the impact it has in my life… so…until then…

Rule breakers catch my attention. Not to be confused with law breakers which would most certainly constitute an internal frown. I’m attracted to the stick your neck out there, fighters for causes, sort. Although I may not agree with the “cause” I can appreciate an honest person going to bat for what they believe in.

My past is filled with rebellious rule breaking. Now days I like to coin the term feisty when describing a characteristic of myself. I think it sounds nicer than rebellious and, to be honest, I’m getting too old and tired to be so rebellious anymore. Or am I?

At church we have been tackling a sermon series concerning Adam and Eve’s choice to rebel against God and how to find hope in the genetic downfall that they have since passed onto you and me. The timeliness of these messages curiously strikes me since I too have recently questioned my very personal genetic downfall.

When I was 14 years old my dad confessed to being a closet alcoholic. For years he hid behind the clutch of alcohol. In adolescent awe I witnessed my father lay down alcohol in his life and morph into a solid, God fearing man. It was surely a wonder.

Somewhere along the way I remember overhearing conversations about my grandma who was quoted as saying that she too could have easily slipped into the bottle. Then there was my great-grandfather who was found face down in a Minneapolis gutter clinging to life and the bottle simultaneously. Most family reunions continue the same old silent story. I’m left wondering how could this happen? What I’m beginning to realize is that this specific thorn is one that has been passed down to me by those who have gone before me. In the book of Exodus, God specifically told Moses that He will punish the children for the sin of their fathers to the third and fourth generations.

I took my first drink when I was 12 years old. I took my last at age 31. Years of attempting to conquer alcohol consumption by myself, by my own power, ultimately left me in a broken heap. For me, most drinking experiences left my soul in significant spiritual torment. I’d end up sliding down a slippery slope of selfishness and wind up breaking a lot of things along the way.

TIME OUT: Do I personally believe that consuming alcohol is sinful? Absolutely not! If I am who I say I am, a follower of Jesus, then I choose to live my life following His footsteps. During the last supper, while Jesus was with His friends, he took the cup and drank from it!

My choice to surrender to this personal rebellion is a matter of life or death. Drinking brings me to a state of death. I realize that some may criticize me for trying to “be good.” This makes me laugh because I believe that attempts at being good are man-made and ultimately leave you feeling empty anyways.

Instead my pursuit is simple. To listen to God’s leading in my life. I know that He wants me, and my children, and my great grandchildren to have a life that is ultimately filled with all His best and most abundant blessings. Musician, Sarah Groves writes the following words in her song Generations. My thoughts could not be more beautifully expressed.

“I can taste the fruit of Eve. I’m aware of sickness death and disease. The results of her choices were vast. Eve was the first but she wasn’t the last. If I were honest with myself, had I been standing at that tree, my mouth and my hands would be covered with fruit. Things I shouldn’t know and things I shouldn’t see. Remind me of this with every decision. Generations will reap what I sow. I can pass on a curse or a blessing to those I will never know. She taught us to fear the serpent. I’m learning to fear myself and all of the things I am capable of in my search for acceptance, wisdom and wealth. To say the devil made me do it is a cop-out and a lie. The devil can’t make me do anything when I’m calling on Jesus Christ. To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace. To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace. To my great-great-great granddaughter, live in peace. To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace, live in peace.”

Several months ago I flew down to Florida to visit a good friend of mine. She’s had quite a down and out year so I felt that, if anything, I could offer some encouragement with a few days of good girl time. On my flight home I had a very unexpected, life changing encounter. The following comes from my journal.

9/24/2008
Once I arrived at the airport, check-in was smooth and I found myself boarding my 6:10am flight within minutes.

As I settled into my seat I began sipping my 8oz. – $3.50 cup of coffee. Thinking of the tiny airport shop that sold it to me and their clever marketing campaign. “Free refills”, the lady behind the counter proudly proclaimed. As I buckled myself into my seat, taking my final sips, I thought “A lot of good those free refills will do me thousands of feet off the ground bound for a destination a million miles away.” I smiled and laughed at the brilliance of it all. Within moments a woman approached my row. She glanced at the row behind me, which was filled up, and then turned to me and said “I think my seat has been taken. Do you mind if I sit next to you?” “No Problem” I said with a smile. The woman sat down. Her coarse blond hair, which could be equated to the length of Crystal Gale’s, began to wisp my arm, as well as, the perimeter around us. She held a book with her plane ticket and boarding pass stuffed into the pages. In her other had she held a cup of coffee. The same 8oz. – $3.50 “free refill” cup as mine. “They got her too!” I thought.

The initial moments of her getting settled were quite tornadic. She dropped her book, spilling out all its papers underneath the seat. Both of us reaching and contorting to gather them up. All of which, in a flurry of hair. Then, in an effort to gain composure, she unlatched the table top to set her coffee down. She then bumped it with her knee spilling her hot coffee all over her leg which caused a knee-jerk reaction sending her book flying, once again, into the air. Papers everywhere. “Oh my goodness” I think to myself. We were both gathering up items strewn about and as I’m watching her I realize her jitterness. Her hands are shaking as she fumbles through her black, tattered purse. All the while she is pleasantly talking to me through her wavering voice. “My name’s Chris” she says warmly as she extends her hand to mine. I notice that she is missing some teeth. “I’m Rachel” I say smiling, wondering where on earth God is going to take me with this. Chris is wearing a gray tank top. A tattoo on her left bosom is peeking out. I notice right away that her light blue wind-breaker pants are filthy. She begins to role up her wet, coffee stained pant leg. I see 3 tattoos cascading down her leg. This make 5 tattoos, including the one on her right shoulder. For a split second I recall watching a documentary in which the expert on the show stated that a high percentage of individuals with multiple tattoos tend to have mental health issues. But that thought is irrelevant. I’m fully captivated by her regardless of appearances and first impressions. That would be judging and I hate judgements!

I ask Chris about her destination and that’s when I notice her wet eyes. She wasn’t crying but it became more clear that her spirit had been shaken. “I’m on my way to Denver for my fathers unexpected funeral.”

Our flight seemed to last 5 minutes. There was not one lull in our conversation. She told me about her 7 children. Two biological and five step children. At age 42 she was now a grandmother of 4. She told me about her near death experience after a motorcycle accident. They had to take a piece of her hip bone for reconstructive surgery which later caused some of her teeth to fall out. Her frustrated expression led me to believe that she never had the means to fix them. She told me all sorts of dysfunctional stories concerning ex’s and clients with horrible diseases. I discovered that she and her husband own a tattoo shop outside of Pensacola. Which explains why her pants were so dirty, soiled with ink!

I asked Chris if she had a church home. She told me a story about one church she attended with a great pastor. The pastor had gotten bit by a spider and later due to an infection had to have his leg amputated. The church members felt that this pastor was now incapacitated to do his job so they made him leave. Ousted by the church because he no longer fit the mold.

Then she told me about the time a friend invited her to a Bible study covering the book of Revelation. Intrigued, she accepted her friends offer. When she got to the church the woman leading the Bible study told her that because of all her tattoos she would likely go to Hell. Chris met with the pastor of this church who backed up this position by saying that if she continued to get more tattoos she would be sinning and God would never let her into Heaven.

Chris looked at me and said “I’ve always believed that my body is just a shell and its my soul that goes to Heaven anyways.” I was amazed by her. You would think after 42 years of disappointment and rejection that this woman would be so angry and bitter but I could not find a hint of it anywhere.

As our flight made its final dissension I asked her if we could pray together. I’ve never stepped out of my comfort zone like this before but it just seemed so appropriate. To my surprise, she grabbed my hand and before I knew it was leading an all out prayer to the Lord. It was so beautiful. As we said our good-byes she just kept looking at me. I can’t describe it other than to say her eyes were filled with a sort of twinkling bewilderment.

In this life, its likely, I’ll never fully grasp the full scope of what really occurred during that flight. All I can say is that I have been given a new set of eyes. Eyes that consider my role in loving rather than judging. Eyes that find worth and value in each and every soul I encounter.

Last week I had an amazing opportunity to attend a premiere event for a new organization called Nudge the World. The featured guest was William Paul Young, author of the best selling book The Shack. For those of you who have read the book, no doubt you’ve walked away with a different image of God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Some have claimed this as the best book they have ever read, life changing. Others have closed the book with a throbbing question mark pounding in their head. While a select few get to a certain point, slam the book shut, and cry out “Heresy!”

Currently an unprecedented 6.1 million copies of The Shack have been sold. The numbers according to media and publishing gurus are staggering. Something profound is happening to the Spirit of its 6.1 million readers. What could one book have to say that could cause such a movement?

If there’s one thing that gets my goat, its when someone messes up my kitchen. I’m a baker by ancestry default. The passion of pastries has been weaved throughout past generations for as far as my eye can see. I know all the basics when it comes to baking but what I enjoy most is the process. It’s become a ritual for me. Choosing the ingredients, mixing to my desired consistency, then baking to perfection. The process fits so nicely in my soul. If your a baker, you know what I’m talking about. The same could likely be said for any passion that you hold dear.

I must admit however that when my kids come into my kitchen and mix up a batch of something, I have a hard time with their process. They are so messy. The whole thing sends pangs of uneasiness through me. I know, I know they are just kids. Thankfully in the end, their cookie dough kisses make up for all my internal anguish.

In Young’s book he has created this vivid imagery of God that does not conform with our traditional thinking minds. His adaptation of God through the pages of The Shack allows us to see a man faced with unspeakable loss and brokenness enter into a real relationship with the living God. I think I can understand why, for some readers, it may have felt like someone just came their kitchen and messed it up. Some of us have spent our entire lives believing that God is this distant, pie in the sky, divine person who may or may not be fully engaged in the details of our lives. Gaining a perspective like the one The Shack offers leaves us asking the question “Could I have a REAL relationship with God?”

For a long time I’ve searched for finding that perfect place that would continually feed my soul. I’ve attempted to fill it with wholesome friends, a loving family, and a close-knit church. I can’t tell you how many times while talking about church that I would say something like “It just feeds me.” I’m beginning to sense that something has changed in me. In part were always looking to be fed but what’s the actual driving force behind the desire to be fed? Hunger! Maybe its time that I dig a little deeper within to discover what’s making me hungry. Hungry for what Papa wants to teach me, hungry for a life that hinges on going where He leads me, and hungry for a REAL relationship with a God that loves me for just being me. Are you hungry yet? I am!