13 Attributes of YHVH’s Mercy

I was on Tumblr website one day and I found a poster-like photo that showed the 13 Attributes of Mercy. Of course this piqued my interest, because it was one of the Typography posters and I love a wide variety of fonts, but I went on about the day. Since then I’ve read about this several times but kept walking away from it. Today I was finishing up some Drafts that I’d started on and ran across this one.  I didn’t completely ignore the interest I first had in this topic because I got this much written:

The 13 Attributes of Mercy are found after the incident of the Golden calf, when God threatened to destroy the people of Israel rather than forgive them (Exodus 32:10). Moses felt that Israel’s sin was so serious that there was no possibility of intercession on their behalf.  God appeared to Moses and taught him the 13 Attributes, saying: “Whenever Israel sins, let them recite this (the 13 Attributes) in order and I will forgive them. Thus this appeal to God’s mercy reassures us that repentance is always possible and that God always awaits our return.

Exodus 34:6,7

The 13 Attributes of Mercy are based on two verses in Exodus: “The Lord! The Lord! God, Compassionate and Gracious, Slow to anger and Abundant in Kindness and Truth, Preserver of kindness for thousands of generations, Forgiver of iniquity, willful sin, and error, and Who Cleanses (but does not cleanse completely, recalling the iniquity of parents upon children and grandchildren, to the third and fourth generations).

As I’m sitting here writing about all this it’s just occurred to me that I wasn’t thinking I’d learn this through my own writing. I can’t believe it, I am somebody, I am like Yeshua is. How could I be so wretched and ugly and sinful and have the same qualities that He does. How can I have gone through 32 years of adult life and not ever put this together. I really am part of our Messiah.  He really is in me, His blood too, no but His spirit is? I’m okay, I am acceptable. He loves me because I’m part of Him! I read what a friend said about not being status quo and I’ve never wanted to be just status quo, I want to be more!  I think I’m having a breakthrough here.  He’s not even just a part of me, Yeshua is IN me. I feel like I’m half frozen in Awe and my mind is in slow motion as I’m trying to describe what I realize.

 

In The Stillness and Silence…

Sometimes we don’t hear YHVH because we don’t know how to accept silence or stillness.  Sometimes it’s denial or other reasons but if we learn to be silent and be still we can hear His voice. It may not be loud or coming through a trumpet, it might be like the tinkling sound of brass. Small. Whispers. It might not be a sound at all, just a feeling inside of us.

There’s a lot of truth in that statement. “Be still, and know that I am God; I WILL be exalted among the nations, I WILL be exalted in the earth.” Psalm 46:10. I love this verse, I can see where it is talking to us as individuals saying listen up all you people because even if you don’t I will be known and heard among all people so don’t wait till then it just might be too late. (Dee Ann)

He will get through to us, somehow, and we probably won’t like it! I have lots of experience with this. I know now that silence is present because He’s trying to talk to me and wants me to tune into His voice. I had this friend just a few nights ago that is seeking a way to hear Him. I told her that she’s at a place now where she has so little to distract her that it’s making her uncomfortable and she probably can’t hear Him because she’s trying to find a distraction. We need to be open and willing but He gives us a chance to Hear Him on our own and we have to learn how and what capacity we can Hear Him in and once we do then we’re thinking, how could I NOT hear Him talking to me…I quite enjoy stillness and silence myself because I know the opposite can be much worse, anxiety and rattled thoughts, hopeless feelings. I know in the silence He’s always there.

Sometimes its uncomfortable to hear what He has to say, usually when He is trying to tell us to get some sin out of our life! You are so right we do often try and find ways to tune it out if its uncomfortable. Kinda like the dog in the movie Up ‘squirrel’. I hope you watched the movie! We might not be as bad as the poor dog but we do have our own ‘triggers’ that keeps us from truly hearing Him. I also had a lot of experience not listening I joke I can still feel the hammer marks on my head from all that pounding He gave me. Now I much like the silence, not just in my own mind but around me I like the stillness within that only He can provide. (Dee Ann)

Another verse that dives into truth on stillness is: Stand STILL and see the salvation of YHWH who is with me.” Exodus 14:13.

Often we get impatient waiting but it’s in those times we are being transformed, learning to trust, to wait to be STILL and watch Him work His wonders! It’s part of removing the defilement often times. Not only in our own lives but in those around us. He is faithful and certainly doesn’t need our help. We have to move aside sometimes and watch the Holy One work out His plans and purposes. What a beautiful thing! I never want to be in a position that I’m not on my face, humble, seeking and waiting on Him! It’s in these times I am closest to Him. Doesn’t it seem that way? (Stephanie B.)

“I only want to go lower” is something I penned last summer, it means, I always want to be at His feet, I want to be continuously reminded of our great ‘I AM’ and that He is in control my life. It is in these times that the small silent and quiet times are so illuminating for many of us…though some are afraid of them…if people only knew what it all really means.

I am reminded of the song “You Raise Me Up” even though Josh Groban wrote it for his grandmother, that song was so meaningful and so empowering because as YHVH is raising us up, we should never be far from the ground, never lower, we should desire to be lower in order to be Higher.

My Knight In Shining Armour ~ My Dad

A young baby boy was brought into this earth. He was born in Greenville, South Carolina on September 27, 1932 to the parents of Homer and Bessie King. I would guess he lived a pretty normal life that everyone else in the time of the Depression did, with the exception that his father died while working on a truck. It fell onto his chest when the boy was only 4 years old. He never grew to know his father, at least not his earthly father. He was the middle child of three sons. When he was 16 he fell in love for the first and only time in his life with a pretty young girl who attended the same church that he did. They didn’t run off and get married or anything crazy, instead it was 5 years later when they did. When he was 17 years old he joined the military, the Marines to be more exact. The boy I’m writing about is my father, Marion Wilson King. After boot camp he and my mother, Viola Poole, married and had three daughters. I, Nancy, am the middle child just as my father was.

My father was the greatest man alive as far as I’m concerned. He spent many years traveling the Marine Corps and fought in the Korean Conflict from the years 1952-1958. I can’t really say how much fighting he did but he was there for 5 years. I know that he worked as a medic on the helicopters that brought in the wounded and others. He was shot in the back, literally, and had to wear a full back brace, so that probably kept him off the front lines, for which I am eternally grateful! He retired from the Marines after 22 active years of service in 1972 and then remained on inactive duty (meaning he could be called back to serve at any given moment) for another 8 years. All those 30 years my father served his country and dedicated his life to being of service to these United States. My dad also served as a volunteer fireman as part of the military duty that he was required to fulfill. Our family was required to move, as all families are, whenever duty calls for it. My dad moved us between North and South Carolina many times, probably more than I can ever remember. I know I went to at least 12 different schools while growing up. My education was always important to my parents but back in the 70’s it wasn’t all about politics and CATS testing. I went to military schools on some occasions and it was definitely more strict than ordinary public school was.

Before retiring from the Marines my dad worked at a factory making tools for cars as well as his job on the base. He would work from 6am until 2pm and then from 3pm until 11pm. We lived on the coast of SC at that time and we would always wait for daddy to come home from work because he wanted for us all to go swimming as a family at midnight. I know where I get my spontaneity from for sure.

Soon after his retirement my dad felt that he was being called to Minister a church, so we moved to the Upstate Area of SC so he could go to college and do Bible Studies. He went to school in Hendersonville, NC at Fruitland Baptist Bible College and worked as a Pastor at a few small churches during his time at college. I remember hearing my mom and dad in the kitchen as early as 4am for him to get his breakfast and lunch for the day and then he would catch a ride with other Pastors-to-be a few miles from where we lived. Those four men traveled for 4-6 hours a day through rough mountain terrain to get back and forth to school for three years so they could better teach their congregations. My dad graduated from college in 1979 and I graduated from High School the same year! My dad was always my inspiration for going to college. I always wanted to learn more and more and study and read like he did. Later that year my dad was called to be Associate Pastor at a church in Covington, KY (Southside Baptist) and he stayed there for about a year until he left to be a full-time Pastor at another church just a few miles down the road, or a few towns away. He was there until his passing in 1982 and loved doing God’s work.

I wasn’t always close to my dad because he was gone a lot serving his country with the military, the fire departments, and the ministry. I think I was starting to understand who he was and what he stood for when I was 19. I loved my dad very much; he was the biggest, the best and the second most important person to me in my life, my mom was first. I can remember being 9 months pregnant at the age of 22 and sitting on my daddy’s lap. He always told everyone that he held his grandchild for the first time on that day! Four months after my daughter Jennifer was born my dad passed on to be with God. He loved her so much and on the day he died my mom told me that he was passing her newborn picture around and showing it to everyone. He was a very proud grandpa and would still be today with both of his granddaughters and great grandchildren.

Below are some pictures of my dad when he was in Korea, they’re the only ones that I have of him at all.  In a few of them he was receiving awards including several purple heart awards and he had tons of Rifleman Expert awards that we played with when I was little.  He didn’t mind at aassortedpicsofdaddy1956ll.  Notice the one where he is wearing a full back cast and shaving a patient.  It’s my favorite because it shows his compassion for others!  In the first picture from left to right he is standing alone, then in the middle receiving an award and the same picture is next with a turn of his head, then the back cast one and one with a fellow soldier and the last picture he is the second from the end (wearing the darkest uniform).  Speaking of uniforms, I always loved to iron my dad’s military uniforms; something about the smell of starch and the crispness of the clothing.  I still love ironing to this day!  My dad would be much older today but he died at a young age of 49. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone for so many years.  I do miss him,  just like it was yesterday that I last saw him.

The Fabric Of My Life ~ My Mom

The distant sound of whirring and the foot pedal up and down on the floor. The sliding sound of scissors on the table as pieces of fabric were cut to embellish our bodies. These were the fabrics that wove our life together. My mom would sit at her sewing machine sewing all the clothing of my younger years. Rarely using a store bought pattern, she’d piece together her homemade newspaper patterns. With three girls, two boys and two foster children there was always a need for new clothing.  My mom worked tirelessly for hours and hours piecing and sewing one outfit, usually dresses, after another.  She stitched by hand the hems of all the dresses, the pant legs of my brothers clothing and many military patches on my dads Marine Corp fatigues. When my sisters and I were majorettes mom and her friend got together and made all the girls uniforms complete with fancy sequins and satin shirts to wear with them.

Many years later when I had my first daughter mom made Jennifer her first dress and bonnet to wear home from the hospital, it was yellow floral and stitched entirely by hand. Mom made my youngest daughter’s first dress too and even made the layette, bedroom curtains, a sheet set and bumper pads for Kelsey’s crib.  

My mom sewed through two generations of doll clothes for my sisters and I when we would lose our dolls clothes or they would just get torn from playing with them so much.  My mom sewed my daughters doll clothes as well.  Mom sewed all four of my bridesmaid dresses when I got married in a little under three weeks time.  It seemed as though she could just whip out anything that was ever needed as long as she had a needle and thread.  I remember always having trouble learning Math in school but mom helped me with that too.  I learned about measurements and fractions from my mom and her sewing techniques. I learned how to fit pieces that seemed impossible and make my own skirts and dresses. I sew myself now and even my youngest likes to sew with me on occasion. The days of sewing and watching mom are gone now but the memories will be forever embedded in my mind.

I’d have to say that what I remember most about mom’s sewing were the sounds that filled the rooms when she sewed. She usually had 6 to 8 straight pens stuck just on the edge of her lips as she pulled them out of the fabric one by one. Sweet sounds of her humming was often heard, though sometimes buried under the whirring sound of the machine.  They were usually old gospel hymns, “Sweet Hour of Prayer”, “The Old Rugged Cross”, “In the Garden” or her all-time favorite, “Where Could I Go.” I loved being with my mom. The way she moved around our home working swiftly and steadily from one task to another. It wasn’t the modern day work or the “Proverbs 31  thing to do, it was just my mom taking care of her family. The greatest title ever bestowed upon her.

©Nancy King, December 2008.

Grandma’s Hands

Grandma’s Hands

Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn’t move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside her, she didn’t acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat, I wondered if she was OK.

Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check on her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK. She raised her head
and looked at me and smiled. Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking, she said in a clear strong voice. I didn’t mean to disturb you, Grandma, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK, I explained to her.

Have you ever looked at your hands she asked. I mean really looked at your hands?

I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making.

Grandma smiled and related this story:

Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all of my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.

They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life. They wiped my tears when my husband went off to war. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold our newborn daughter.

Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse. They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn’t understand.

They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer.

These hands are the mark of where I’ve been and the ruggedness of my life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when He leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ.

I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandma’s hands and led her home.

When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I thank grandma. I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.
(Author Unknown)