Monday, October 31, 2011
But man, am I tired.
My body has basically stopped believing it will be getting sleep, and its cues are a little off. So while I down my kava tea and wait for that stuff to take hold, I thought I'd share a little something from my day.
The subject is Communion. In 1998, I entered a period of doubt and confusion regarding my faith - particularly regarding my security as a believer. It was horrendous. But it was when I learned what it is to draw near to the heart of God. It was when I fell in love with His Word. It was when He began to lovingly show me how my mind works, and how the Spirit works, and how the two work together. And what to do when they do not. During this time, I didn't take Communion. I didn't feel it was right for a person to take of the Body and the Blood when she wasn't even sure if she was covered. Also, I rarely had the opportunity to take Communion. Springs on Singers tours and summers spent away doing mission work meant no church home for me. When the opportunity would present itself, I would sit in somber silence and meditation - usually confusing - glued to my seat, afraid to sin against the Body and the Blood with my doubtful hands.
Then I went to China. It was 2001. There was one state-approved church that we could safely attend, and on the Sunday we went, you guessed it - they took Communion. After the singing and the sermon, the bread and juice were passed around, and the pastor invited the congregation to pray, meditate, then eat and drink when they each were each ready. An older Chinese woman sat alone, in the center of the third pew from the front. She gingerly cupped the bread in her hands and rocked back and forth, weeping and praying, an endless stream of Mandarin. I was transfixed. I was certain that whatever she was saying had to be among the most eloquent of prayers uttered. I was in awe at the profundity of this moment, and I knew that if I could understand her words, I would never forget them...I would never forget her, this frail Chinese woman, weeping and praying over the Body and the Blood.
So I leaned forward, and I asked our translator, seated in front of me, what she was saying. She turned, looked at me, and said: "She is saying 'thank you.'" "What else?" I asked. "Nothing else," she replied, "only 'thank you.'" I sat back, stunned. The woman literally had not stopped speaking for minutes on end. And she had so much to say. For every sin forgiven, a thank you. For every grace received, thank you. For every breath, for every new mercy, for every gift: thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Gan xie. Shi fen gan ji.
After returning to the States, opportunities to take Communion were still rare, and when they presented themselves, I still held back. And then I wandered from the Lord. Heartbreakingly, foolishly, wandered. And I stopped going to church altogether. He drew me back to Him, and even in the midst of great pain, all was light and life. Through bitter tears, my eyes saw the depth of His grace, the breadth of His compassion. And one Sunday in April of 2006, I was invited to share in Communion at the church I'd just begun attending. It would be the first time since China that I had participated. As I sat there, cracker and juice in hand, I thought about the Chinese woman. I thought about the years since that day in China, the years that the locusts ate. And I wept. Only these tears were not as bitter. They were grateful. And all I could manage, the only words my lips wanted to form were: thank You. Oh, thank You.
This morning, we took Communion. Considering the schedule I've kept lately, and the issues I've been dealing with, I was concerned about partaking. I never want to be distracted in this...it is, after all, an act of remembering. And how can you remember something when you can't get your mind to be quiet? But I stood anyway, took the bread and the juice, and returned to my seat. And I began to pray. Rather, I closed my eyes and tried to pray. I was instantly overwhelmed. Guilt, shame and accusation tried to elbow their way into my mind. Feelings of inadequacy, of condemnation, even fear. But the thing about physical exhaustion is
that it makes it so much easier to get to the place where you throw up your hands and yell help!!! to the heavens. The moment I did, the Spirit brought to mind the Chinese woman and the simplicity with which she approached the sacrament. So I ate, and I drank, and I simply said thank You. And you know, the miracle of gratitude is in its growing more gratitude. One simple thank You became the act of remembering, of communing, of believing. And before I knew it, I couldn't think of anything but thanks.
And so I do not lose heart. I am hard-pressed, but I am not crushed. And though outwardly I waste away, yet inwardly He renews me day by day. And in the act of gratitude, He allows me to glimpse some of that far-outweighing eternal glory.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
How was I so foolish, so reckless? How did I miss that first sign of Temper raising her ugly head to fight? Fearing the worst, and knowing it to be plausible, I geared up. Running shoes. Ponytail. Pullover. As I headed into the street, the thought occurred to me: music. I need music. So I went back and began again.
Setting out, my playlist was tailor-made. Songs of security, comfort, protection. Songs of grace, forgiveness. Songs of hope for those times when the world comes crashing down around your ears, and you hear every last piece of rubble topple, fall and settle into dusty place on the ground. My exhausted soul soared. It’s the weary joy, the faith of saying – this may be really difficult, but I refuse to despair because I know better.
Really, how could I not know better? How could I possibly even skim over the chapters of my history and believe anything other than the Father’s grace and protection over my days? And so I ran. And I prayed. I cried and sang and pushed myself to go as far as I could until I the pain in my lungs finally overpowered the desperate ache in my chest.
I came to rest on the half-finished deck at Mom and Charlie’s house. Mom had been asking for the deck for a while, so Charlie began to build as soon as the weather got cooler. For some reason, it felt like the right place to land, so I sat and was still. I prayed for more hope, for a unique word spoken into this mess I’d created.
I looked around me at the tools, boards and scraps scattered about the patio. The work was about half done, but Charlie’s design was clear – boards running diagonal from brick to post, one level, fenced in with two openings here and there. Already, it was beautiful because you could tell how it was going to turn out – you could see what he had in mind. And so I was lost in thought when the song began. You make beautiful things, You make beautiful things out of the dust. I brushed sawdust from my pants, hugged my knees to my chest and thought, Indeed. It was the word I'd prayed for, the hope I needed in that moment.
Not long after, the storm passed. My broken spirit gave way to a whole new brand of humility, contrition. Through no skill of my own, I found the words to say what I felt, what needed to be said to mend the fence. And even now, when the hope that gleamed uncontrollably just days ago is faintly flickering and threatening to disappear, I go back to the deck and I sit. The work is almost finished. Just a few more boards, a few more nails. I imagine by this time next weekend, the tools will be gone, the sawdust will have been swept away, and the memory of wood, metal, dust and chaos will begin to be replaced by memories of evenings spent outside in crisp air, taking in the beauty.
And I will remember the greatness of the love the Father has given unto us, that we should be called the children of God. That we are His workmanship, created in His image. That He is the ultimate Craftsman, and that my soul full well knows that His works are wonderful.
I will trust Him.
What He has built already is beautiful beyond words. Years ago, I wouldn’t have dared hoped for this restoration of dignity, for this setting of feet in such a spacious place, for the continuation of anything but sorrow, much less the beginning of a good work in me. I know that He will be faithful to complete it.
I know that He will be faithful. Tonight, and for always, that is enough.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
RIGHT STAY WALKERS
NOW DOWN SLOW BIKES
It doesn't compute and the brain tells me it's meant to be read opposite and why, but my eyes refuse to adjust and read the way I'm meant to. My gaze continues fixed, trained on the distance and not the race. I know I need this trek today, but my goodness if I don't have a to-do list one mile long waiting for me at the end of it all. I start every run like this - counting seconds that pass too slowly, wondering when I'll get to the end and claim my share of that sore muscle satisfaction. He asks me about the words, why do they sound so backwards, and I explain: it's because they are.
But are they?
We continue to walk, brisk, planning the future. Buying this kind of house, pursuing this kind of work, finding this level of joy. He runs ahead and I stop to stretch and rest on the bench overlooking the river. I'm afraid of heights, and I'm afraid of this river, but I lean on the rail, fully lean, and stare over. It's just water. It's just space. And I stand safe, braced by metal that I'm sure won't give under my lean, feeling peace. Allowing myself to take in beauty instead of imagining a terrifying fall. He makes me this brave. I sit on the bench and stretch out warm in the sun. I close my eyes to be still and silently giggle at the detailed explanation of gussets being given behind me. I had no idea that word had multiple meanings. I don't think these folks do, either...
He returns, drenched and happy, and we sit, talk. Our words somehow glance the past, and he struggles, works hard to say what I need said, that all is well. We stand and I struggle, I work hard to tell him that I know, and that I believe it too. And as we walk, pulled unexpectedly and fully aware into this moment, this tender declaration of now, by the pain of our past, I look down and read:
Walkers, stay right.
My eyes widen and I realize and I laugh, grateful for the ways He shows us grace. For the reminders we have of our own limitations. For a mind that isn't designed to know the future but is built to know the now, to seek Him today. To find grace and joy in Him today. And oh the grace I find when I do. Oh, the joy.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
My child has always been a squirmy worm at the doctor’s office. Maybe all the poking, prodding, shot-giving and such that our little ones endure when they enter the world really does stay with them. They learn to recognize the walls of the clinic, the crackle of exam table paper, the faces and voices of doctors, receptionists, nurses. With all those triggers, it’s no surprise that my sensitive daughter won’t even let them take a look in her ears without putting up a fight.
Having had it up to here with her particularly persistent sinus issues, I decide to take her in and get things checked out. The nurse weighs her, asks me the standard questions, and Liv sets about her usual wandering around the exam room, picking up this book and that, jumping on the step stool, asking to play Angry Birds on my phone. As the doctor walks in, I’m prepared – as usual – for Liv to come sit on my lap, act shy/scared, bury her head in my chest and then generally resist, squirm, wriggle, whine while the doctor and I awkwardly try to hold her still for the exam. Instead, my little Olivia Carolyn Grace ever so casually wanders over to the bench just beside mine, climbs up, smiles sweetly at Dr. Y, opens her mouth, and says, “Aaaaaaahhhh.” With as far as my jaw drops at that moment, the doc may very well decide to have a good look at my tonsils, too. I am stunned at this new display of independence. The exam progresses as it has began, and I wonder at how well Liv is behaving for the doctor, making a mental note to call my mother and tell her what a big girl I have…until I realize that she is sitting there, by herself, in the doctor’s office, unphased, and what a big girl I have.
With the actual examination over, the doctor turns her attention to me. I wonder if she has ever felt her own mommy heart pride-swell and break in time’s hands. We talk about treatment, she recommends a certain course. I take notes and make sure I’m straight on times and doses. Smiling, Dr. Y offers the standard end-of-visit assurances. I stand, gather our things, and walk with my daughter out of the clinic, still unsure of exactly what just happened back there.
We return home to rest and let the medicine do its work, and my child – stubborn as a splinter in the heel of your hand – refuses to sleep. I refuse to rebut her refusal and opt instead for low-energy activities like coloring and Blue’s Clues. As she occupies herself and I focus on bits of work, I keep remembering how she looked, sitting there so tall and confident. So grown up. So not needing me. I chide myself for my melodramatic mommy moment even as April thunder shakes the walls of our house and I turn on my heel to comfort my daughter who, as luck would have it, is unimpressed with the storm.
I want to honor and encourage her growth. I want to be present for that journey, to see her become an amazing woman. So I want her to experience all of the right levels of independence at all of the right times. Like, when she’s 27.
After the Little Naptime That Wouldn’t, dinner and a worship team rehearsal, I prepare my sleepy one for bath and bed. Because I am her mother, I know that she is too tired to manage bath time on her own tonight. No nap and new meds – that’s enough for one day, and after getting her into the tub, I ask her to tilt her head back so I can begin washing her hair. She insists she can do it herself. I insist that, tonight, she will not. She splashes. She dives. She grapples and cries and screams – loud, angry screams that actually alarm me. As steadily as I can manage, I hurry through shampoo and soap and rinsing until I can finally drain the water and rescue the both of us from drowning in this hysterical moment. When I wrap her in the towels and pick her up, her previously tense and punch-throwing body instantly relaxes into my arms and she goes quiet. Moments later, dry, warm and pajama-clad, she crawls under her covers as I cue Lullabies on Pandora and sit up in bed next to her. It’s one of those nights when I know that we both need a little extra comforting, so I promise to stay with her until she falls asleep. She rests her clean, wet head on my chest, and we stay there, just like that, through Rock-a-bye Baby, Sleep Baby Sleep, Good Night and Beautiful Dreamer. She asks me to rub her back, and I feel her eyelashes flutter shut against my chest, giving thanks for this little one who needs me after all.
Monday, August 1, 2011
I must admit, I had an agenda in mind as we were planning the trip. See, there's this issue I've been processing for the last several weeks, and it has to do with worship, callings, gifts, community....all of that. Since I first started mulling all of it over, I've realized that I can just as easily talk myself out of one corner and into the next, and I just can't seem to gain a clear sense of direction on things. So I figured I'd go to the backwoods of Louisiana, spend exactly 48 hours being quiet and get myself an answer. Cause that's how God works, right?
Needless to say, I did not return to Arkansas knowing exactly what to do with all of the question marks in my head. And at first I felt a little disappointed, like maybe I had somehow missed the point. Then I remembered that just because I planted myself somewhere without cell reception for a day or two didn't necessarily mean I would find clarity on this complex, multi-faceted issue. In fact, it stayed fairly far from my mind the entire time I was down there. And maybe that was the point.
Whatever the reason for my being there, I remembered tonight some of the grace-filled moments that I took the time to jot down in my journal. And they are....
Six-hour car rides with bestests where the radio is never necessary
Learning more about what makes our dear ones who they are
Awe-struck at stories of humble parents raising children well
Saturday morning coffee made just for me
Pajama walks to the dock, coffee mug in hand
Robin's Texas nephews with their unmistakable Texas accents
Eagles swooping down over lakes
Cloaked in wilderness, all greens, browns and blues
Pine trees and ceiling fan breezes
Screened-in porches and pouring Louisiana rain
And tonight, I call those sweet moments to mind, and my sleepy hand scrawls...
Lists that help us remember
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
18 Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity
and passing over transgression
for the remnant of his inheritance?
He does not retain his anger forever,
because he delights in steadfast love.
19 He will again have compassion on us;
he will tread our iniquities underfoot.
You will cast all our sins
into the depths of the sea.
20 You will show faithfulness to Jacob
and steadfast love to Abraham,
as you have sworn to our fathers
from the days of old.
Several years ago, my sister Holly wrote these verses for me on the back of a leftover welcome card from her wedding reception. It was a precious gift from her, coming just after a difficult period in my life, when the Lord was restoring me and showing me just how loving and gentle He is. The card has stayed in my Bible since then, and its edges are creased and curled from where the paper has jutted out just so from my pocket-size NIV. Having broken loose and spent the last several weeks floating around in my purse, the poor thing was begging to be rescued, so I pulled it out and placed it in my gratitude journal, but as I did, I paused to read the words again…words now familiar but still so cherished. Tonight, I saw them new.
A fresh wind so needed, I read that He delights in steadfast love. The lovely thing there is that it allows me to stop thinking about all of my junk – all of the things that I think make me so ridiculously difficult as a person – and I get to relax into something that does not depend on me. He delights in steadfast love. That’s honestly just such a relief. Slow reading, I see: He will again have compassion on us. Compassion. Again. Not just this one time. One word: again. And subsequently, our iniquities are tread underfoot. Trampled. By Him. Whether we choose to realize it or not, sin always threatens to enslave and embattle us. So I imagine myself, in a helpless heap on the battlefield, and I think of Trampling Feet, warrior-stomping to my rescue. Again.
Three verses earlier in the prophecy, God references the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt. Then here we see that He promises to cast all our sins into the depths of the sea. That ring any bells for you? It didn’t for me at first; not until I started doing some digging (read: Googling). Think Red Sea. Pharoah’s army. Enemies literally vanishing into the bottom of the sea while the Israelites are free to run onward, away from captivity, away from slavery, into a life of liberty, rescue.
Now, I think I can say with some confidence that the Exodus story, while I believe it fully, probably does not resound with me the way that it would have resounded with an 8th century BC Israelite. So from my modern day viewpoint, I consider: He doesn’t promise to stand on the shore, carelessly toss our sins into the waves and see what happens…we’d be scooping those same things up just as soon as the tide came back in. No, He will cast them into the depths of the sea. Where they will sink. And stay. Never to be found, thought of, or relevant…again.
Finally, Micah reflects on the faithfulness God has shown His people from the beginning. He has not forgotten His promise to Israel’s fathers; it is as alive today as it was when Abram gazed at stars and Jacob used a stone for his pillow; as alive as when Sarah laughed and Jacob wrestled and Israel and Judah rebelled. As alive as when I sang wandering songs and lifted my soul to another.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
As with so many young single Christian women, for days on end I've been encouraged to be available but not too available, willing but not desperate; to not wear that ring on this finger, and memorize the fine, fine line between feminine frailty and offensive strength because really, in the end, men are such simple creatures who need just the slightest hint of encouragement, dear, and you wouldn't want to miss out on THE opportunity, now would you?
My God is so very, very big. He owns - made - controls the cosmos. I trust that His purposes, whatever they may be, will be realized in my life, without any help from my frantic second-guesses and wildly unsuccessful attempts at being the perfectly balanced image of all womanhood. So, I give. I breathe. I sigh. And I get back to life, most gratefully.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
1 : to surround with an army so as to prevent escape : BESIEGE 1
2 : to subject to troublesome forces : HARASS
And so it goes. Not that I'm surrounded by an army. Not that I'm unable to escape. More that I feel a bit as though I've been engaged in this or that type of combat almost constantly since the week's beginning.
Battling my will.
Battling my temper.
Battling my ego.
Battling my fatigue.
Battling my insecurities.
Battling my fears.
Battling that plank in my eye.
At first, I was tempted to blame it all on outside attack - an untimely combination of happenings and circumstances joining forces in Operation Unnerve Andrea. Hence, this pitiful thought of being beleaguered. And then I realized: isn't it perhaps that I have walked through a basically normal set of days, and the struggle has existed primarily within my own boundaries?
Nonetheless, the war rages on. May the Lord answer you when you are in distress... On the drive home, my unsettled spirit was jumping from one irrationality to the next, and I was day-dreaming of rescue. ...may the name of the God of Jacob protect you... Too often I've attempted my own rescue. Never has it held up. Some trust in chariots and some in horses...But lately, He's been showing me just what a relief it is to trust. To trust Him. To hope in Him. ...but we trust in the name of the Lord our God. And there it is.
Now this I know...When I wake up in the morning, I'm sure to have another fight on my hands. ...the Lord gives victory to his anointed. And a bag chock full of new mercies.
And that, my friends, is good news.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
I Have a Dream
After we walked through our Mission statement, considered our Purpose and identified our Core Values, it was time for my favorite part: the Vision Statement. I was so excited (and a little nervous) to see what our folks would name as our vision - as the ultimate in achievement for our organization. I tried to give the team as detailed an explanation of vision statements on the front end as possible, and I think I might have even gone a little overboard. You know, really, a vision statement can be summed up as: a description of the ideal - the pinnacle of what we want the organization to be in the future. What is the ultimate for us? Where do we want to be?
Easy enough, right?
Right. I'm pleased to report that, despite my bumbling definitions, the group did a bang-up job of drafting our vision statement. I'm very happy with what we have, and I think they are, too. You know, the interesting thing about a well-written vision statement is that it's not just this ambiguous bag of words that you toss into the air because all of it sounds pretty. Is it meant to be inspiring? Yes. Is it meant to be lofty? Absolutely. But it is also meant to be relevant to the journey. A truly valuable vision statement will provide guidance to members of the organization as they make decisions, it will remind them of why they are about they business they are about, and it will compel them to focus on what lies ahead, rather than what is behind.
So, we wrote this beautiful vision statement, and after seven hours of training, talking, list-making, thinking and debating, we were ready to call it a day. I headed north to pick Livi up and get to worship team rehearsal. I grabbed the songs we're doing on Sunday and fired up the playlist. As I listened to the various lyrics - words of ultimate commitment, faith and surrender - all I could think was: how can I say all of that? Do I really mean this stuff? Does my life reflect that I have a right to speak those words? Maybe I should tell Dena to take me off the schedule...until I can, you know, be perfect.
Then it hit me. No one can say these words and have them be 100% true in the present. Because in the present, we are mortal beings, bound by flesh, torn in the struggle and stained with all of humanity...human.
But it's still the Vision, I heard, and I realized the Truth in what I'd spent my day teaching. In remembering that a vision statement is a perfect-world picture of who and what we want to be in the future. A declaration that guides us from one day to the next as we endeavor to reach the ideal. Is that the key? That echoing these words reminds me to strive ever onward, upward? That, full well knowing I will not achieve absolute holiness in my handful of human days, my steps can still be marked by its pursuit? And by the conviction that this is the best of all journeys?
I relaxed. I took a breath. And I belted out words that are meant in deep, deep places of my soul. Places that this broken down skin cuts off at the pass far too often. And I kept singing because I know that this perfect-world picture of ultimate surrender, ultimate commitment, ultimate trust - it's not just a pretty painting hanging on a wall somewhere. It's my future. It's the vision that is held for me. And the wonderful, amazing, blissfully beautiful thing about it is that I can trust that I will get there. My agency may never completely and fully realize its vision. Google probably won't 'develop a perfect search engine'. Toyota most likely will not 'provide the best customer experience and dealer support'. But one day...one glorious day, my reality will be...free at last, meeting face to face, I am Yours, Jesus, You are mine...
Saturday, June 4, 2011
I’d like to blame technology and the amount of information we’re able to instantly access at any given moment. And CNN and Twitter and Steve Jobs and Jim Cantore and iReporters everywhere. But I can’t. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s my wiring. How I’m built. I’m sensitive.
In April, when the storms began, I learned how to quickly access the information needed to help keep us safe. If I can just outsmart the wind... So I glued myself to the iPad, constantly switching between Twitter and The Weather Channel, checking radar, watching the #arwx stream, and cussing TweetDeck for being such a gimpy app. A single clap of thunder and I’d fire up my own little command central. As you can imagine, this begins to wear on a person.
Then the storms became Osama bin Laden and bin Laden became a beheaded British woman in Spain and she became the flood victims and flood victims became the world, all of us, battered, beaten, dying. I read pain, and I’m present. I feel it in my bones.
By mid-May, I was in despair. Only once before in my life do I remember feeling true hopelessness. It lasted about ninety seconds, and it was the most miserable emotion I’ve ever experienced. And now it was beginning to seep in through tiny little cracks in the wall. I was so tired. How long, O Lord?
And how can I live here without fear swallowing me whole and alive?
I pen the questions and they hang there for eight days, until this:
“Sitting at my desk doing that weird woman thing where u sorta laugh & cry @ same time. @AmandaMoJo just [sent] me a pic of her sis-in-law’s brand new baby girl. Precious Ava Hope, born in Missouri today. Oh, this world is filled w/so much pain & destruction. Our souls will only be war-torn and weary if we do not also stop & behold ‘whatsoever things are true, noble, right, pure, lovely…’ His mercy is w/us.” @BethMooreLPM
My eyes shoot open wide, and it’s all relief, the way a wanderer feels when he finally sees home’s lights. Whatsoever things! It’s the remedy. It’s always been the remedy. I breathe thanks and feel the heaviness begin to fall away. I fill up on truth and nobility and starve myself of reading pain. Later that week, I write my thanks, and a friend calls to say he’s read them, and he needs help cultivating gratitude. I want to laugh until I cry. Knowing that “72 hours without CNN” is not the answer he’s after, I somehow manage to find a story, and I hang up shaking my head at these gifts, all of these precious, crazy moments swirling together in this lovely life.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
I continue by stating the reality: I have no words.
I have thoughts. I have reflections. I have inspirations. I have themes. I even have notes.
(Never before have I made notes. Kim Roth, I blame the Moleskines on my 30th.)
But I have no words.
What I do have tonight, what I can name, are thanks. I have thanks.
That I am home tonight. Because four trips in two months equals a challenging amount of days to spend away from your home. And I am happy to be here. Even if housekeeping will not be here tomorrow to make my bed and bring me clean towels and mini shampoos.
That there are three more kids who call me Aunnie running around the compound. (Well, maybe just two. The middle Jones still routinely asks me who I am.) And Liv gets all giddy about "the cousins". I know they are ridiculously out of their norm. Is ridiculously a strong enough word? But I am so crazy happy they are here for this time.
That, for all the difficult decisions I have to make each day, grace is there. And sometimes, logic shows up, too. And they reinforce each other.
That I made a superior batch of chocolate chip cookies tonight.
That my gutters are clean. It seems trivial, yes, but YOU try being a homeowner who's afraid of heights! (My thanks to Jim Crabill. He's a good man. Also I pay him in cookies and meatloaf.)
That long weekends exist.
That best friends call on Thursday nights.
That C.S. Lewis wrote Chronicles of Narnia.
And that's that. We're heading out of a straight six weeks of regional calamity into a weekend of memoriam. Of honor. Of thanks.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Get up. Walk in the way of forgiveness.
Walk in the way of life.
Walk in Light. Peace. Joy.
Walk as one who has been forgiven.
And this is resurrection power. The faith act of leaving the tomb, of allowing the Life inside to carry me forward, of owning the victory already in hand. Of living as one who is alive, in whom death has been defeated. Over whom the power of sin has been broken and can reign no more.
Still I hide in the tomb. There is nothing for me there, but I pace stone floors connecting bare walls, staring at the gaping hole created for my glorious exit. I see things vibrant just beyond the entrance, but I shrink back. I cower in the corner. The Life within me pleads, Get up.
Unsteadily, I turn my eyes upward. Can I? Asked honest, bare. You have everything you need. Replied gentle, firm. I’m really going to need your help. With knowing where to begin…how. I am with you to the ends of the age; buckled belt of truth, shield of faith, Word sword and ready feet.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
It's not that I'm just a little cranky, that a foul mood has settled over my day as a dark cloud passes over the sun. I didn't drop a hammer on my toe or get some bad news this morning. I'm afraid it's more serious than that. There is a bright red current of infected hurt and neglected ache running through my chest and proudly calling itself Anger. And it is threatening to undo me.
The pain of events now one year behind us, still surfacing, and after twelve months of dealing and thinking and praying and trying so desperately to heal, all I really want to do is throw stones at the whole thing because I am tired. So desperately, very tired.
The disappointment of realizing my evolution will never meet the ridiculous standards I blindly set for myself and still being so completely unwilling and partially unable to say: it is good enough. It is, all of it, enough.
The errant urge to compare my gifts to another's and shake indignant fists at the sky, demanding an answer and sulkily plotting backup plans that are ill-fated at best.
Toxins and sludge threaten to burst through the sieve and I inwardly yearn for an emptying out. To feel the darkness fall from me until my chest is empty, to allow light to trickle in and pool around the craters and crevices, until Gilead's balm heals my sin-sick soul and it is all joy, grace, peace...wholeness.
I know that the promise is for these things, that my inheritance is grace. I find comfort in the knowledge that if I can abandon my pouting and, standing on tip-toes, peer over the counter, I will see the Father who so lovingly knows and calls me waiting there. But for days on end I am crouched just below, staring at the mess and forgetting all about the grace. I kick the dirt and against the goads and wind up dusty and weaker than I was when this began.
How do we find the courage to stop being angry? Why is it that only after the anger has exhausted us, until we two together have done our worst that we turn our tattered, windless sails toward home?
Courage. Surrender. Grace.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
I'll try to share my thoughts here each week (it's part of my process, after all), so with no further ado...
We've begun with the first three chapters, and they are: luminescence, an organic appetite, and bighearted. The first chapter, luminescence, is really more a preface...okay, it is a preface. But I did about 15 reflection questions on it, so I get to call it a chapter. At the end of the next chapter, she asks us to read John 20 and Luke 24, the passages where Jesus appeared to Mary and Cleopas (+ one), respectively, after His resurrection. She asks her readers to consider why all three of these individuals had a hard time recognizing Jesus.
The perspectives that the women in my group brought to the table last night were very interesting. That's one thing that I love about an intimate group study...we really have the chance to sharpen one another, even if just by explaining our own insights into the Word. Julie said that perhaps Mary and the travelers didn't recognize Jesus because He didn't want them to, wasn't ready to reveal Himself yet. Marty suggested that their recognition of Jesus was proportionate to their motivation in finding Him. Bev's eyes lit up as she recounted how magical she finds the story of the road to Emmaus, and she pointed out how Cleopas and his companion were caught in despair over everything that had happened in the previous week and unable to recognize Jesus for their own grief.
My opinion on Mary and the travelers' inability to see Jesus initially is fairly straightforward, but as I began to unpack it and realize its application in my life, an intricate urge toward faith and awareness picked up where the simplicity left off. I believe that Mary, Cleopas and Cleopas' companion failed to recognize Jesus because he was neither who nor what they were expecting in those moments. Grief-stricken, Mary was expecting to find Jesus' body and return Him to the tomb. Thinking He's the gardener, she implores Him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." I think this is where Jesus' heart may have broken a little. Mary cannot have been a very large woman, and here she is, wanting to find Jesus' body so desperately that she's willing to carry it back to the tomb herself. I can almost hear the compassion as He says her name. And instantly, she recognizes Him. I've always loved that it only takes Jesus saying Mary's name for her eyes to be opened.
In Luke, we read about two travelers on the road to Emmaus, Cleopas and his companion (possibly his wife). I think it's significant that Cleopas and friend are leaving Jerusalem, that it symbolizes resignation and a loss of hope. Now, I'm not judgin'. I've often wondered how I would have reacted in those days, and I most likely would've been about a mile ahead of them on the way home, crying my eyes out and drowning in a sea of confusion and disappointment. But Jesus shows up. He meets their grief and bewilderment head on, taking them back to the beginning and explaining the prophecy that revealed just how much of a tragedy this all was not. At best, they recognize that He's special, but it's not until they sit down to eat with Him, and He breaks bread, that their eyes are opened. Whether it was the act of Jesus breaking bread that they recognized or the fact that He chose to open their eyes in that moment is not clear to me. Regardless, they recognize Him, it all falls into place, and they immediately rush (uphill) several miles back to Jerusalem to tell the disciples what they've seen.
So what do I do with all of this today? Quite simply, I realize how often my expectations cost me an encounter with Jesus. When I pray for help, I tend to have specific ideas on how that should be provided. How many times have I missed His comforting presence because it didn't arrive in the shiny little package I thought I'd ordered?
By the same token, how willing am I to believe that God can show up in magnificent ways that are not, at first, easily believable? It was easier to believe that Jesus' death had been a loss than to believe that He had risen from the dead, even for people who had seen Him perform that miracle for another. I tend to fall back on convenient expectations, not realizing that I've set the bar too low by limiting what God can do to how much I can anticipate.
Jesus had told His followers that He would be crucified and rise from the dead on the third day. Still, they had trouble believing it when they saw it, perhaps because their hearts didn't fully believe it when they heard it. What promises has God made that my heart has not fully believed? And how often am I failing to recognize Him because my eyes are clouded by my own uninformed grief? And so...
I pray that the eyes of my heart may be enlightened, that I may know the hope to which He has called us, the riches of His glorious inheritance in His holy people...(Eph 1:18)
Monday, January 10, 2011
I am not a gardener. Not even close. In fact, I find the entire practice of gardening both mystifying and maddening. I grew tomatoes once, with my grandmother’s help. She happens to have the greenest thumb south of the Mason-Dixon line, though, so I’m pretty sure I did not grow those tomatoes. I tied some vines to some stakes and did a whole lot of post-planting inspection. That’s all. If the growing itself had been left to me, we’d have had a salsa-less summer. I just can’t grow things. Unfortunately, my yard reflects this.
The last few times I’ve pulled out of my driveway, I’ve looked at my flowerbeds and winced. I was too concerned with our busy schedule this summer to pay attention to my overgrown, weed-infested flowerbeds. Said overgrowth and weeds had remained in place and simply become petrified versions of themselves as we headed into the fall and, now, winter. So I thought: this weekend. I have to start thinking about spring planting this weekend. And I resolved to get out there on Saturday, yank those weeds out, rake some leaves, and lay the foundation for what I’m sure will be a wildly successful spring planting endeavor. Right? Right.
The wonder of yard work when you have a 3 year-old is that you have someone to keep you company – someone who is thrilled to be outside, soaking up the sun and generally enjoying Mommy’s lack of focus on whatever mischief is being made. So Olivia and I ventured outside on Saturday, armed with nothing but the best of intentions and one very serious set of gardening gloves. As Livi ran off to explore and play, I began my work in the flower beds.
As I reached for the first brown, crackled stems that had invaded my garden earlier this year, I was surprised to notice how much resistance I encountered. The strength of these roots was no match for the frailty of their above-ground extensions, and my first few attempts at ‘cleaning house’ yielded a few broken-off stems and little more. I guess I thought that since everything I could see was so weak and dead-looking, pulling the entire plant up would be no problem. Wrong. Those roots were still thriving.
It reminded me of the dead things in our lives, of the things that don’t belong, the invasive imitators that rise up to choke beauty. It reminded me of my reluctance to try to yank those things out of the soil because I know what their roots are, and I know how deeply they’re embedded. I know how much soil they’ll disturb on their way out, and I know how much strength it will take to grab hold and give ‘em a good pull. So, very often, I settle for some good old-fashioned cosmetic gardening - you know, cutting back those feeble old stems, the things that signal to the world that weeds are choking parts of my life - and figuring that I’ll deal with the bigger issue later.
Still, I called this to mind and found hope: that within the difficulties of the past year, some of the more invasive roots began to find themselves being pulled up and tossed into the burn pile. And that’s good. What’s hard is realizing that our work is never done, that as long as we’re here on this earth, we remain in need of constant pruning. But I also find comfort in that…comfort in knowing that this is common to all men, that if I can lay eyes on you, the good work is still in the process of being completed. And I find comfort in knowing that He who called us is faithful. And He’s far better at gardening than I am.
At one point during all of this, Livi presented herself and asked what I was doing. I explained to her that these were weeds, and they were in the way, and to get rid of them we had to pull them up by their roots, and that sometimes their roots were buried deep, so we had to be really strong to get them up. She seemed, at best, under-impressed and resumed her play elsewhere. I finished cleaning out the flower beds and set to work sweeping leaves out of my carport.
While she may not have been thrilled with the weed-pulling, Livi found the sweeping extra interesting, thanks to a couple of genius kiddie brooms gifted to her by my mom and Nana. So she decided she would help. She kicked a few leaves toward the edge of the carport, and then I heard her say, “Mama, look! I’m helping!” I looked up, and she was leaning into the tree just beside our house, with her head down and both hands on the trunk of the tree, pushing with all of her little might.
I chuckled a little at the irony…this very tree will have to be professionally removed within the next 3-5 years because of its proximity to the house and the threat of its roots disturbing my home’s foundation. A little bit wearily, I asked her what she was doing. She said, “I’m pushing this tree up, Mama.” As I began to explain to her that this is a giant tree, that it is huge and heavy, its roots are stronger and deeper than we could imagine, and that there’s no way her little body could move such a force, my soul heard: “…and you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’, and it will move…” And I realized, she had not stopped to consider the process and the variables. She didn’t grimace at the possibility of discomfort. She knew only that she didn’t want that tree to be there, and if her mommy could move things like that around, then she could too. It was just that simple.
I want that kind of faith. I want that courage. I want to see what my Father has done in one area of my life and unswervingly trust that He can do the same in another. I want to tell that mountain to move.