be·lea·guer
Function: verb
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.
Battling.
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?
Perhaps.
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.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
We Do Not Lose Heart
Yesterday I led some of our staff through the first half of a triennial strategic planning session for our organization. We split the staff into two teams (dubbed Alpha and Bravo) and scheduled two off-site planning sessions, one for each team. Alpha Team met yesterday and was responsible for drafting the Purpose Statement, Core Values and Vision Statement. Our Mission Statement is already written, otherwise that would've been in the mix, too. Next week, Bravo Team will be tasked with creating Goals, Objectives and Strategies. By the end of this process, we should have a fairly workable strategic plan, and then we'll get to move into some focused team building with our staff. It's an exciting time in our agency's history, to be sure, and I'm looking forward to the progress we see in the months to come.
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.
Inside Out
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...
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.
Inside Out
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...
"Now it is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ. He anointed us, set His seal of ownership on us, and put His Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come."
2 Cor 1:21-22
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Think on These Things
Fear has been trying to set up shop here for a while now. At the end of last month, it looked like the big day had finally come. Fear was going to live here. Move right in. Grab the sleeping bag out of the tent, ‘cause baby – we’re laying bricks on this foundation now.
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:
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.
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
Bird in the Hand
I begin by stating the obvious: I need to write.
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.
So.
Thanks.
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.
So.
Thanks.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Receive Your Sight
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.
Get up.
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.
Ready, feet?
Get up.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Raising the White Flag
It is with no small amount of nonchalance that I confess: I am angry.
Angry.
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.
Angry.
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
The Organic God, Week One: Mary, Why Are You Crying?
The ladies of the Gathering at Fellowship North have begun our new Bible study, and I have to tell you - I am loving the concept behind this one. It's a book. An actual, real, read-it-through, hardback book called The Organic God by Margaret Feinberg. Now, I got nothing against Beth Moore or Kay Arthur or Priscilla Shirer - love 'em as much as the next woman - but this book study is how I operate. I read. I think. I write. I learn. It's my process, and I get to spend the next several weeks walking through it with some of the dearest women I know.
I'll try to share my thoughts here each week (it's part of my process, after all), so with no further ado...
Week One
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)
I'll try to share my thoughts here each week (it's part of my process, after all), so with no further ado...
Week One
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)
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