all is loss, to know You

No flesh can boast in His presence.

No man can stand in His glory.

Every knee will bow at His appearing and every heart will be undone before Him.

Oh Lord, that we would rightly number our days, rightly understand that we are but a vapor, here one moment and gone the next. Our vanity, our gross ambitions, the depravity of our condition, our inability to truly love you or one another...all beckon you to come like fire.

How easy it would be to become disillusioned but for the beauty of the cross. There is nowhere else to look to. There is no comfort or consolation for the heart of man but for the bleeding heart of the Man who hung, broken for all. When we squabble as children do, most of us wanting to be praised, justified, vindicated, exalted, the next to the throne, how do you answer so delicately? How in the world do you parent us the way that you do? Oh how you've suffered.

You are most patient, most long-suffering, most unlike anybody I have ever known in all my life. I want to be like You and you alone. There is no ambition in my life to be anything more or anything less than a lover of You. You say that I am and that is more than an opinion. That is the truth and I choose to believe you.

I choose to trust You.

I choose You, Jesus, again and again.

I tell you, it is not elementary, it is the first commandment. The first commandment must never become an elementary thing. It is first place, always. It must never lose it's eternal hold over my life, over my heart.

I trust you to keep me, always.

I trust you to cover me, always.

I trust you to preserve me, always.

I trust who you are, inside of me...

May I never forget that I've not a leg to stand on but for what you've given me, that I would never glory in my flesh. May I never believe that I am more than another, above another, below another but rather believe that as You, I am now a servant of all others. I am forever bound to the cross of Christ in devotion because of His great love for me.

I am what you say I am...I am yours, nothing less, nothing more...

If I never convert another soul, if I never touch another life, if I never see another healing through a prayer I've spoken, you are still good and I am still grateful that a holy God would ever come and call me his Beloved. For Love defines me; it always has and it always will. I will rejoice in this, that my sins are forgiven and that my name is written in the book of life! For the much that has been forgiven, help me to love much.

the truth about pain

We must be very careful to not allow pain to interpret truth. Truth is a hierarchy, more superior than yet foundationally below, pain. Truth does not bend, is not swayed. In our deepest moments of pain, it is most tempting to believe pain's definition of what is happening through the fiery trial, especially for the one who's flesh is on fire. But, there is an eternal reality that is higher than our temporary afflictions and it will not be moved, even when we are seemingly being swept away by the salty waves of suffering.

Pain is a teaching tool and only serves to work as such when we discern it honestly, in light of the truth, when held up next to the light of the Word made flesh. Truth is a Man, and there is a comfort that serves as an anchor for the soul in knowing that Jesus is greater than our pain and emotions, our very best ideologies, reasoning and wisdom. If you have ever suffered under an intense trial, you will understand how vital this is when every nerve ending is raw; spiritual, physical, emotional, and mental. If you have not, it is nothing that I can explain to you, you will simply have to face the furnace one day and prayerfully come forth without the traces of smoke upon your life.

Pain naturally causes the human psyche to grasp for understanding, for a logic beyond itself, just as a drowning person grasps for a life preserver. Truth, in its entirety, will preserve and save you while even a half-truth can bring about spiritual death. While our minds are clouded by pain and when we are in our weakest state, the enemy of our soul offers up half-truths as bait, just as he did to Jesus while in his wilderness season and dark night of the soul. We must look to Truth as we navigate through the miry clay.

At some point in our lives, there is allowed a struggle that is God-inspired, with imagery similar to that of a human being wrestling a crocodile in the muddy waters of the swamp. There comes a violent thrashing while muscling ourselves around something that feels so dangerous, so reckless, that we marvel over how it could ever be safe in the first place, ever be attained. I assure you that Jesus is unsafe in the safest way. He allows just enough pain in our lives that we are left leaning, in awe-struck perplexity, with wide-eyed wonder forcing us to resign in worship to a God who spared not his own son.

If we don't come out of this place with a limp, we were somehow able to shortchange the grace that God has made available to us, to perfect us and establish unshakable truths in our spirit, in our lives. If we must boast, let it be in light of the truth that a perfect God intends to be glorified in our weakness, at our weakest moments. He intends to perfect himself in us, through trial, pain and suffering.

heart on the altar

If my altar before the Lord is clean, my heart is unkempt. If my altar before the Lord is bloody, my heart is kempt.

Good way to measure the heart's condition.

A Journal Entry

Recorded the day before my dear friend Tammy suffered a traumatic seizure which led to the discovery of a cancerous brain tumor. It was my third entry in a new journal, bought for me by my husband on Valentine's day, in honor of our new daughter, Tru. The journal line is from Dayspring and it's called, 'So True.' It seemed fitting for the occasion and was a thoughtful gift. I flipped through it this evening while sitting in the prayer room, not having touched that specific journal since that day. I found it unusual to have left off where it had. I read it and cried through a smile.

I have concluded that when you can look at the earth and it's the size of a green pea on a dinner plate, then it all makes sense. Of course, only the Maker of the universe has this vantage point.

July 5th, 2011

Well ... I feel I am in the midst of many swirling things. When the pressures come from every side, you can either ascend or sink. I am hoping this will all be unto a divine thrust into the next place. It feels like a great big zit, ready to pop! Pain is for sure meant to aid us into a greater place. Tammy calls it the martyr's grace; an ability to rise above the place of earthly pain. What a concept. More than a concept but rather a reality. Is there a grace that is greater, tangibly greater than any pain in this life; emotional, physical, mental and spiritual? That's some manifest grace! I suppose that is why it is called the martyr's grace ... it is transcendent. I have been feeling relational stings as well as the pleasure of deep relationship. I'm working out my dysfunction in it all. I want to be more and more healthy as I move forward. More and more perfected in love. Just to keep the heart open and alive requires so much.

Tru Evelyn

Thanksgiving in August

The weather was not conducive for a full-fledged Thanksgiving dinner but, I was excited to pull it off despite a muggy August Sunday afternoon. I was anxious and giddy inside, having stayed up until early morning the night before preparing a yellow squash and herb *both from the garden* dressing to compliment the bird. I poured my heart into the dishes as I prepared them. I peeled, diced, boiled and whipped potatoes while whispering longings that could only come from the heart of God.

"Lord, let them taste and see that you are good."

The plan was to pick them all up for Sunday morning service and then bring them back to my house for a beautiful banquet around our dining room table, family-style. I had everything ready *but for the gravy* and had already exhausted myself in prayer before 9am. I was hopeful, not having to ask them to come to church with me but instead, they asked me if I would bring them. I thought to myself, 'The fish are practically jumping into the net!' But, this was not my first time entering into this sort of story. I had already written my own with many similar scenes, different characters. I understood the endless internal ache to not do what I despised while feeling entirely powerless to change myself. I knew what it meant to be 'stuck' in my own grime and quicksand. This allowed my arms to reach out and in though I knew they would get very dirty, perhaps even broken.

I was right on time *unusual* and I knocked timid at the door, hoping that I would hear the scurry of bodies anxious to greet me. I heard a dog bark and snarl. I heard a voice I recognized growl louder than the dog. I gave a stout knock and it all repeated itself. Heart sinking, I walked down the dingy corridor with prayers said under breath.

Next stop was to pick up the other family that I was happy and blessed to serve. Needed a fresh start, fled a life of dark shadows but brought their demons with them. I was not afraid, the darkness still having the faintest hint of familiarity. Reminded of how much I loved the light, I found my way to the hotel door which opened before I could knock. Out came an excitable little girl whom I had instantly loved. She jumped up and embraced me, professed openly her heart's thoughts, 'I love you, Tabbitha! I love you so much! I'm so excited to go to church with you!' She was sporting her new haircut, the one I gave in hopes of eliminating at least half of the lice nits. Mom looked confused, eyes glazed over, scratching her head, she led me into her excuse as to why only the two older children could come with me that morning. I nodded my head, happy to have somebody, anybody to carry off to church with me. She said it was one thing but I knew it was another. I knew too well. I was not offended but I felt a sadness settling into me straight away.

On the short ride over to the church the little guy, four short years of who knows what, flipped over my back seat at least 10 times. In the blurry week I had known him, I had yet to accomplish restraining him in a moving vehicle. I tried not to think too long about the lice we were bringing to church. I prayed for grace and confinement. I had tried to rid them of it but it would require a supernatural force working along with us.

I'm sure service was wonderful but I wouldn't remember. I spent most of the morning trying to lure little guy out from underneath the seat of the couple in front of us. He found a small roll of dollar bills and helped himself. Knowing it was some body's offering, I had to convince him somehow to put it back where he had found it. In between what seemed like talking to the floor to the people behind me, I habitually motioned to my girls to not put their heads together while whispering in church. It was all to no avail. We ended up with lice, too. I confess, my skin crawls at the thought of it but I am certain that it is considered 'suffering' for Christ. And how little I have suffered for Him as most of my suffering has been self-inflicted.

After church I try again to extend an invitation to dinner. I had literally cooked for a community. The thought of eating this feast with empty seats intended for the very ones I thought of while preparing it, made tears settle in my jaw. I was pleasantly surprised to find there was one who is willing to come. Having to make a couple of accommodations to do so, we finally make it home where the turkey aroma has taken up every room. Oddly enough, my appetite was now lacking. Tim and the children helped me serve our guest as I began to strike up curious conversation about her life, wondering what she might share with us. It was as I thought, a kind but broken soul in need of direction, in need of divine intervention. How I remember sitting in that very chair, searching for that very thing. I offered myself, again and again. I was anxious to help, eager to serve her and her new family. But I was mostly sad, the symptoms of a fallen world so blatant before me. My heart was perplexed. It grew heavier and heavier as our time carried on.

I eventually closed the door on the day and found a number of things that really stunk, for lack of a better word. One of those things being my vacuum but I would not know this until a week later when we attempted to use it and the room swelled with the smell of urine. Little guy somehow confused the vacuum with the toilet. But what stunk the most was that my home was bursting at the seams with fragrance; the fragrance of food and only a few of the hungry were willing to come and partake. Later that evening the Lord would graciously instruct my heart which was deeply grieved but looking for hope.

He began to speak to me, in my own voice inside my heart and head, about feasts and banquets and suppers. I was reminded of a dinner he shared with some risky men which included the washing of filthy feet, the breaking of humble bread and the pouring out of costly wine. He already knew the knife was at his back but he gave his thanks and shared his food, communion nonetheless. My heart began to understand, barely. He brought to mind the feast to come, the wedding supper of the Lamb. The one you don't want to miss for the world. Oh, my pallet is yet to taste such delicacy! And I picture Him, as the Father of the Bride and Groom, preparing a feast that my finite mind cannot contain. My spirit begins to lift at the mere mention of it. And then...the punchline. The kicker. The painful punt in my gut.

"All are invited but few will come."

I almost instantly feel sick at the thought of it, at the very idea of such a grossly wasted opportunity. There are no practical comparables. Throwing money out the window...casting pearls before swine...selling my birthright for a bowl of stew...nothing can touch the foolishness of refusing to come and eat, to come and partake of what has been freely given. I am cut to the core and begin to weep. Oh God, if we only knew how good you really are. If only we could taste and rightly see. More tears collect on my lap.

All that ache, that sorrow I had felt, the fellowship of his suffering. To know the hurt in his heart when the one does not come to dine, to feast on the bread of life, to drink of living water. Indescribable agony. To know, scarcely, what he has prepared for us and to imagine that one would refuse. The starving, the desolate, the depraved who roam this earth searching, scavenging for nourishment, and yet we choose to eat slop. I remember what slop tastes like. I pray I won't soon forget.

This secret of his heart, not so secret. He cries aloud for the children to come, for the weary to come, for the thirsty to come and for the hungry to dine. It was a holy lesson, the fragrance of Christ, that I pray lingers all the days of my life. Oh, taste and see!

the Man inside of a man

I was unlovable. Surely I was all crooked and deserved every unsuitable thing. To all that was right and good, I was a vandal. I did bad, I had been done bad to, and I believed bad was what was coming me. Prime for intervention or encounter, all my insides were hanging out. I was a walking, talking, hemorrhaging mesh of guts and mangled heart. One brave soul dared to wander near as our paths collided, grace came into focus.

You were not bloody but bruised, a few dings and dents to speak of. Looked like an alabaster canvas to me. I was crimson and coal. My soul stark dark but my eyes searching for light, for white. So kind. So unlikely, so unlike me yet just...like...me.

Time became times and you continued to come and I longed for more time. My tattered mess of a dress was no matter to you. Your dingy knees seemed clean to me in light of my suet. Inhale, exhale as I fuddled through my story. My narrative scribbled out on coffee-rung napkins and never-sent letters. It was mine to speak of, to unfold and lay before your imovable eyes. Those striking, clear eyes seemed luminous enough to diffuse my shadows. I felt myself rewinding, age five, alive, child-like. A time and a place retraced deliberately with a divine finger. I saw you, seeing me, as innocent and unspoiled. My beginning, middle and end cropped in those two windows without veils, giving no place for shame to hide. I saw Him...and He saw me.

I knew you knew. Somehow, you'd discerned that I was more than my marred skin that I looked so uncomfortable in. Somehow you had seen the actual me beyond the serrated edges of my shattered double-minded mirror. The me that was brought forth in skilled love and desire...the me that was called forth from the depths of death to be rescued and restored. A wounded woman-girl who had been identified by the Man inside of a man. I was who he said I was. I was His and He would have me.

Something true, a vast and vacant blue sky that invited me to freefall into it, fling all of myself wildly into it and never look back again. If I were to touch Him again, if I were to be touched, this unclean woman, again...all would be made new, be made honest and true. But now the shadows of shame, the haunts of a harlot claw me from within, desperate to rip away any fragile hope that may take root.

What to do with this tremendous tension that would be the deal maker or breaker. How to remedy or resolve me, when I don't deserve this beautiful thing called Love? How could a pure man touch me, defiled by my very attempts at finding love outside of Love himself? How could he embrace me, as unkept child,  keep me as Father?

The ravaging on the inside of my soul, violent. Could He stop this bleeding? This issue of blood, healed with more blood? My crimson for His crimson? Being nothing more than the sum of my parts, weighing nothing more than the debt that I owed, I collapsed disheveled before His feet. I will let you and You, love me.

Could I believe you enough, until I became what you beheld? Could I entrust myself to your capable hands, that you would crush me with love until all the bad bled good? Yes. Bleak, weak, surrendered in sheer defeat. Yes, again and again now in desperation. YES, in pleading, stop this bleeding. And you did what you do. You performed your word, as truth, like a skilled surgeon, opening the cavities of my life, pouring back in all that was lost. You gave me one to nurse me, love me through, dress my wounds, though even he was broken. One so wanting to be more like You, God. And yet I met You, a kind, gentle, patient Man inside of the man you brought to me. He knew. He...just...knew. He saw me like you.

strong enough to break you

This morning I heard Him whisper softly but without mistake, "Clothe yourself with strength. Put on Christ."

I was scrambling for church clothes, frightening little eyes with scantily clad images of their mother running from room to room. Suddenly every verse I could vaguely recall concerning clothing myself and garments came to mind. I later took time to jot them down.

"... clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ..." Romans 13:14

"Awake, awake, Zion, clothe yourself in strength. Put on your garments of splendor..." Isaiah 52:1

"...clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience." Colossians 3:12

"...He has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of his righteousness..." Isaiah 61:10

I yanked my blouse from the hanger in the closet, punched my arms through and slipped it over my head. Again I hear Him, "Put on strength, put on Christ."

I pray a prayer of surrender, giving my day back to the one who gave it to me. I pray a prayer of repentance, asking for more grace to lean, to trust, to embrace the humility of weakness.

Scenarios past play out in my mind. Mornings of prayerlessness, rushed and harsh. Independence blazing a bloody trail, pride of life front and center. Oh, have I put on strength. My own strength.

I'm just strong enough outside of the grace of God to break things. You know, like my children, my husband, my home, the weak... Just strong enough to tear down all that God intends for me to build up. I'm just strong and stubborn enough to get half-way through the day and see that I am not leaning, again. Not abiding, again. Again. I'm wearing rigid burlap and it rubs me raw. Where are my garments of splendor? I disrobe with revelation and repentance. Naked and exposed now. Oh Lord, save me from myself.

Putting on Christ...not on top of my garments but on top of this brash flesh and these bare bones of mine. Love covering me...real strength that comes via voluntary weakness. And now, I'm just weak enough to heal, to bless, to establish. Dependant, drawing from the power in the hem of His garment. He looks so good on me.