Sunday, February 26, 2012
laid low
I have so far to go. I feel
entirely leveled and so severely pruned back, I have little left to say. I am so
unimpressive. I am so entirely impoverished that I find I despise myself in the
best way. I have no arguments, I have no agendas, I have nothing but the
grace of God that is keeping me alive. I am entirely and eternally indebted to my
Creator. My knowledge of Him is but a grain of sand in the ocean. The deepest depths
of me are as but shallow waters compared to who He really is. I came at God as
Jacob, with a wrestle in my spirit, to know Him, to know His ways, to lay hold of His blessing. I have concluded
the struggle with a limp that I pray will stay with me the entirety of my walk.
My questions end with His questioning of me, to which I reply as Job, “I am unworthy—how can I reply to you?”
Friday, February 24, 2012
a grown up lesson
She came in from what seemed like hours outside. I feel a subtle
change, thoughtfulness in her eyes, though twirling on her toes as she always does. She
glances at me and then down again before sharing her thoughts.
“I really needed that.” said with sincere relief, leaning against the countertop nearby.
“I really needed that.” said with sincere relief, leaning against the countertop nearby.
“Needed what, babe?” even more curious now.
“Well…” she picks at her fingernails, hair falling into her
face, “…you know since Papa and Tammy and France Lee died, I’ve kind of been a
little angry at God. Like, why he let it all happen.”
She now has my full attention, mama’s heart reaching across
the room to her though I stand over the stovetop giving dinner a quick stir.
“Yeah, and I just had to talk to God out loud and tell him
what’s been in my heart.” I relate, having spent weeks now talking aloud to God and myself, at the expense of looking crazier than I already do.
“And I realized that I was kind of angry at him for what all
happened and so I just told him that and I had to repent. I just repented of
being mad at Him and I feel a lot better now.”
Spatula laid aside now, my body catches up with my heart and
I’m at her side, holding her, kissing her wild wind-blown hair. My heart grows
and I can feel it actually get larger, actually throw overboard fear and
concern making room for hope and faith.
“I’m so proud of you, baby. I know it’s easy to become
offended and you have done something today that many adults will wrestle against
the length of their lives. So good.”
I hold her, embrace God’s redemptive work in her, letting it
absorb into me. I feel clean, pure, and whole as I cling to Him inside of her. I feel the cleansing work of forgiveness through her innocent heart.
Yes, this is the beauty of the season of Lent, where we let
go and let God, where we give in and give up daily only to in turn gain
Christ and all that He did on that tree.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
kept
Sometimes God puts a hope in our hearts that seems so
contrary to that which is in the world. Sometimes he brings a deluge of love
and floods it, cleansing and purging and sweeping away all the junk while
leaving it entirely larger than it was before. Sometimes He takes all the messy
drawers of life and dumps them out before us; holds each article up against the
light and truth of who He is and you make decisions, together, as to what to
keep and what to get rid of. Sometimes He asks you to do the impossible, to
love well beyond hurt. At times He comes like a fire, burning off all that will
not do and brings a perfect shine to His gold inside of you. Sometimes He comes
as a salve, healing, protecting, and covering all the exposed places. Sometimes
He comes as the friend who is closer than a brother, as the Word made flesh and
you dwell in the richness and the power of His words to you. Other times He
comes as your past, present, and future, as the Omniscient One who has known
you all along and will always know you. Sometimes He comes as Father, affirming
and approving and speaking identity. He also comes as a mother, His tender
Spirit reaching to every weak place with gentleness foreign to human hands. He
comes again and again, as all that I need, will ever need, have ever needed.
Monday, February 20, 2012
a true story
I had a memory wash over me yesterday. It hit me so hard, like a wave breaking onto the shore that lifts you up and sits you back down about a foot further back. I could not hold back the tears, they came and liquid love crested over my eyelids and the brim of my heart. It was an image that I will never forget, forever seared into my memory.
A dear friend of mine was in hospice the weeks leading up to her death last fall. Her body was frail and swollen with steroids, at the time. I remember coming to visit her one evening and the center was filled with about 20 people (men, women and children) beautifully singing hymns with just their voices. It was incredible. My friend was making requests and they would sing them for her. The truth of the hymns brought warmth and light to the entire place. It was a holy time and I drank up the moments visually, not knowing if they would be my last with her. When I walked in I found her upright, sitting in a chair, facing the window. Her husband was leaning on the window sill, facing her. Her father had pulled up a chair for me, to sit right next to her, my friend. He slumped down nearby in a love seat, exhausted. My dear friend’s husband leaned over and kissed her long on the forehead and said he loved her so much and straightened up to a slouch before leaving for home. He too was exhausted, weary. We all were. My friend had been in her chair for some time so she was ready to move to her bed, tired after a long but good day. Her face and neck were so swollen; she had taken on a much different look by now. Every day was a gift at this point. She wanted to live. She told me this. She told me she was going to live and not die. She wanted a chance to make right all she had done wrong. She wanted mercy.
As her father was trying to move her from the chair to the bed, she collapsed to her knees. She fell hard. She said, “I’m sorry daddy, I’m not strong enough. I’m so sorry.” She said it a couple of times, frantic, concerned. She was entirely helpless, her body more than her ankles could bear. Her father held tight, back wrenched over, pulling up with all his strength; holding his little girl, loving her, being what a daddy should be at that moment. We had to call in a couple of nurses to lift her carefully into the bed. She thanked them profusely the entire time. “Thank you so much. Thank you for helping me.” She kept telling me how gracious and wonderful the nurses were, how they were showing her extravagant grace and mercy. I was wrecked on the inside. Had she been a stranger to me, my heart still would have wept to see such a helpless and grateful display, mingled together. I will never forget. I will never forget the way she said, “I’m sorry, daddy;” the way her bare knees hit the cold, hard floor; the heap of weakness she was, apologies flowing out like tears. I will never forget the beauty of that broken woman, so thankful, so sorry, all at once. In that moment I beheld what a repentant heart looks like, when there is nothing but days separating you from heaven.
“I’m sorry, daddy. I’m not strong enough.” It echoes around on the inside, like speaking into a well. She did. She spoke into the well of me in that moment, though she had no idea. These are the simple confessions of a laid-low heart; of a weak one who is unable, appealing to her father and her Father, at the same time. And to watch her daddy hold her, with all of his might, and knowing that he was not strong enough, either. There is only one strong enough and He held them both in that moment because He said that a broken and contrite spirit He will never despise. Where you see suffering, Jesus is near. Where you find sorrow, Jesus is well versed. Where you find pain, He is in the midst of it. He is always so near, with a compassion and concern greater than we can fathom; He is our sympathetic high Priest. He is mercy.
A dear friend of mine was in hospice the weeks leading up to her death last fall. Her body was frail and swollen with steroids, at the time. I remember coming to visit her one evening and the center was filled with about 20 people (men, women and children) beautifully singing hymns with just their voices. It was incredible. My friend was making requests and they would sing them for her. The truth of the hymns brought warmth and light to the entire place. It was a holy time and I drank up the moments visually, not knowing if they would be my last with her. When I walked in I found her upright, sitting in a chair, facing the window. Her husband was leaning on the window sill, facing her. Her father had pulled up a chair for me, to sit right next to her, my friend. He slumped down nearby in a love seat, exhausted. My dear friend’s husband leaned over and kissed her long on the forehead and said he loved her so much and straightened up to a slouch before leaving for home. He too was exhausted, weary. We all were. My friend had been in her chair for some time so she was ready to move to her bed, tired after a long but good day. Her face and neck were so swollen; she had taken on a much different look by now. Every day was a gift at this point. She wanted to live. She told me this. She told me she was going to live and not die. She wanted a chance to make right all she had done wrong. She wanted mercy.
As her father was trying to move her from the chair to the bed, she collapsed to her knees. She fell hard. She said, “I’m sorry daddy, I’m not strong enough. I’m so sorry.” She said it a couple of times, frantic, concerned. She was entirely helpless, her body more than her ankles could bear. Her father held tight, back wrenched over, pulling up with all his strength; holding his little girl, loving her, being what a daddy should be at that moment. We had to call in a couple of nurses to lift her carefully into the bed. She thanked them profusely the entire time. “Thank you so much. Thank you for helping me.” She kept telling me how gracious and wonderful the nurses were, how they were showing her extravagant grace and mercy. I was wrecked on the inside. Had she been a stranger to me, my heart still would have wept to see such a helpless and grateful display, mingled together. I will never forget. I will never forget the way she said, “I’m sorry, daddy;” the way her bare knees hit the cold, hard floor; the heap of weakness she was, apologies flowing out like tears. I will never forget the beauty of that broken woman, so thankful, so sorry, all at once. In that moment I beheld what a repentant heart looks like, when there is nothing but days separating you from heaven.
“I’m sorry, daddy. I’m not strong enough.” It echoes around on the inside, like speaking into a well. She did. She spoke into the well of me in that moment, though she had no idea. These are the simple confessions of a laid-low heart; of a weak one who is unable, appealing to her father and her Father, at the same time. And to watch her daddy hold her, with all of his might, and knowing that he was not strong enough, either. There is only one strong enough and He held them both in that moment because He said that a broken and contrite spirit He will never despise. Where you see suffering, Jesus is near. Where you find sorrow, Jesus is well versed. Where you find pain, He is in the midst of it. He is always so near, with a compassion and concern greater than we can fathom; He is our sympathetic high Priest. He is mercy.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
mourning for more
At one point a couple of weeks ago I found myself wanting to
write a letter to everybody in my entire life and tell them I'm sorry for
everything I've ever done wrong to them, to apologize for what anybody else has
ever done to hurt them or misrepresent who Jesus really is. Of course, I’ve
done a number of these things over the course of my life, having made many
mistakes, having left a handful of messy trails but this was overwhelming, this
desire to make all things right on the earth. I wondered about it all and why such
a desperate desire. I have to chalk it up to the mourning in my heart for God
to set all the wrong things right; for God to make everything bad, good again. There
is still pain in my heart to see Jesus work supernaturally as a restorer and
repairer of all things broken and torn, for justice and mercy to marry over
every circumstance. It is a holy mourning that I realize can only be addressed
in prayer with the God of the universe, not in a mass appeal or apology to the
entire universe. My consolation is this; blessed are those who mourn for they
shall be comforted. How I mourn for the coming of His kingdom, to bring total
redemption to every heart, to even the earth itself. I mourn for my own heart
to be enlarged, to love the unlovely and the undeserving, as Jesus does for me.
I mourn my inability to be all that He says I am at times and long for eternal
resolution. I mourn our love deficits, towards Him and each other. I mourn for
a better way to be demonstrated in my own life and for the life of others. I
mourn for every divide to be filled by the love of God. I mourn for more of who
He is and his promise to me is His comfort, the Comforter. Jesus, I cannot make
anything better for anybody. You can go to every hurt; every place of pain in
the human heart and you can heal it. When you kiss a wound, it is made better.
Lord, would you kiss wounds today? Would you heal hearts today? Would you use
me to be your hands to heal, your arms to embrace and your heart to bless? How
I mourn for more of who You are and for less of who I am; for more of your
Kingdom to come and more of mine to bow.
note to self
A Note to Self:
― Ann Voskamp
You don’t have to be afraid. You need not be afraid of
anything or anyone here on earth, but only the One in heaven who keeps your
soul in perfect Love. You don’t have to be fearful of people or their stuff or poor opinions.
You don’t have to be afraid to love messy and unstable people, who may curse
you, hurt you, use you, or attempt to manipulate or steal, even kill you. In
fact, don’t fear them at all but rather; love them, serve them and do well by
them because you need them to work deep meekness and humility in your life.
If disappointments, betrayals, and trauma were always side-stepped, you would
be a very anemic, inept believer whom would know not of the greater graces in
this life. If you never had somebody tell lies about you, or think the worst of
you, or bring great loss to you then you would never know the richness of what
it means to forgive and bless them as Jesus did while on the cross. You would
not have the honor of bestowing upon another, what God has bestowed upon you
while even still in your unrepentant enemy-of-God state. You know it is better
to give than to receive. You know the blessedness of forgiveness; what it means
to have your debt erased and your crimson stain removed. It is joy unspeakable
to be free, to be clean, in every way and in every part. And yet, the Word of
God says it is more blessed to give than to receive. You are more blessed to
give forgiveness, seventy times seven times, than to receive it seventy times
seven times. You are more enriched in this life the more you lose, suffer loss.
You are credited righteousness every time you choose faith over fear, love over
offense and healing over harming. Let the radiant love of Jesus shine in every
dark part of your heart. Let it drive out the fear and suspicion for they serve
to divide and drive out love. If you choose to honor all others above yourself, God
will be honored. If you choose to offer the other cheek for another strike, you
are choosing deeper faith in a greater God to keep you, to restore all that man
would require of you. If you lay down your life only to be trampled upon, it can
never be taken from you. Wisdom will always prove itself and meekness will bear
no regret. If ever you feel the temptation to fight for your rights, cling to
Jesus, the One who justifies men before God. If ever you feel the finger of men
pointed at you in accusation, do not defend yourself. Just love, believe the best
always, do not pose any pretense but stay tender and teachable, always. Consider
yourself no greater than another, offer yourself as a servant of all,
especially those who have done you harm. Love wins. It cannot be injured, it
cannot be conquered, and it cannot be trumped. It is the remedy for all things.
“Who would ever know the greater graces of comfort and
perserverance, mercy and forgiveness, patience and courage, if no shadows fell
over a life?” ― Ann Voskamp
Friday, January 27, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
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.
Good way to measure the heart's condition.
Friday, January 20, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
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!
"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!
Thursday, January 12, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, January 9, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, December 12, 2011
It's ideal right now. It's short and sweet, like very few things in my life. It's my new place to collect potent one-liners and incredible insights. {not speaking of just my own, of course} I can unpack these later into full-blown blogs but for now, my mind is working in snippets, or tweets rather. It is finally relevant to my life!
Monday, December 5, 2011
Jesus is praying for you
I don't think there is any greater comfort than to know that Christ, the one so fully aquainted with my sufferings, my sympathetic and compassionate high priest, is making intercession for me (for you), right now, before the Father. If I had to pick one person to call with my urgent prayer requests, it should be Jesus, in light of this.
Words to Peter swirl in my head, “Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift all of you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”
"But I have prayed for you"...with the perfect will of the Father laid out before His very throne...while the enemy hurls accusations and begs God for the right to steal, kill and destroy...He prays for you. He prays for me.
Satan wants to sift but God intends to strengthen. Satan intends to scatter but God intends to sow. Satan intends to steal but God intends to secure.
Because He is praying for me, I will be OK. The devil is a liar and I'm going to be OK. And not only that, I'm going to come back stronger and more in love than ever before, with Christ and His church. This is what Jesus is praying for me and this is the perfect will of the Father in heaven. Take that, devil.
Words to Peter swirl in my head, “Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift all of you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”
"But I have prayed for you"...with the perfect will of the Father laid out before His very throne...while the enemy hurls accusations and begs God for the right to steal, kill and destroy...He prays for you. He prays for me.
Satan wants to sift but God intends to strengthen. Satan intends to scatter but God intends to sow. Satan intends to steal but God intends to secure.
Because He is praying for me, I will be OK. The devil is a liar and I'm going to be OK. And not only that, I'm going to come back stronger and more in love than ever before, with Christ and His church. This is what Jesus is praying for me and this is the perfect will of the Father in heaven. Take that, devil.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Who Are You Really, God?
Because I really need to know. The way I live my life depends on it.
I've been finding who you are not, which rules out many false ideologies I've had of you. I don't believe you are like my earthly father. In fact, I don't believe you are entirely like any earthly father I may know or relate to. I believe you are so totally other than, even as a father, that I have yet to see you rightly in any one person on this earth. I'm so glad you are not like men. If you were, I would be unsubscribing now and taking my chances as an orphan. You are not my father but you are my Father. You are not like men but you came as a Man.
You are not illusive and you do not play hard to get or tease me or make me jump through hoops like a circus side-show. In fact, your word says that you revealed yourself to a people who did not even seek you out (unfaithful Israel). You are forever making yourself known to us. You are revealing yourself, every moment of every day. Your handiwork displays your splendor and your majesty. Creation reveals that you are God and that you WANT to be known. I have the assurance of the scriptures that say that if I look for you, you will be found by me. You, at times, conceal a matter that I would seek you out but never in an effort to be cruel or illusive but always and only to breed more of a search and hunger in me...that you will satisfy. You want to be known. I want to be known. I believe that desire in me comes from you. I don't have to worry that I might turn around one day and find that I never knew you, missed you or never found you. You have found us and have made yourself known to us. You said that the hungry and thirsty shall be satisfied. If I hunger for you, I will be filled. This is what your word says. You fulfill every desire for righteousness with yourself. You said that if I ask, it will be given to me, if I seek, I will find it, if I knock, the door will be opened to me. I believe this about you. If a simple-minded child can find you at the tender age of 4 or 5, it is because you have made yourself easily and readily available to them. It is not a difficult thing for man to be saved by grace through faith. I believe the cross is THAT powerful.
I don't believe that you want me to pay the price for my sin. It is humanly impossible, anyhow. You paid the price for my sin. The cross would not exist if I had could foot the bill. But, alas, I cannot pay the bill and deserve hell because of the great debt and depravity of my condition. My spilled blood does nothing but leave a stain. But, You are the Holy, blameless, spotless Lamb of God and you atoned for every sin I've ever had, have and will have. My sin is not greater than your blood. Hallelujah!!! If the blood of One man could cover creation's entire history of sin (past, present and future), then surely it can cover mine, on my worst day, at my worst moments, all stacked up together and concentrated in their filthy, stinky stench. My sin does not cheapen your blood when it is put underneath your blood.
I don't believe you are waiting for me to mess up so you can disqualify or punish me or pull a, "Aha! Caught ya!" moment. I don't believe you are setting me up for failure or leading me into traps or webs. I don't believe that you want to humiliate or shame or exploit me. I don't believe that you receive any pleasure when evil comes, to anyone. You don't delight in these things. Your heart is FOR me, for ALL of your children and you are gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and your relent to bring calamity! According to your word, you long, you wait, to be gracious to me and that you rise up to show compassion to me. THIS IS WHO YOU ARE!!!!
I've been finding who you are not, which rules out many false ideologies I've had of you. I don't believe you are like my earthly father. In fact, I don't believe you are entirely like any earthly father I may know or relate to. I believe you are so totally other than, even as a father, that I have yet to see you rightly in any one person on this earth. I'm so glad you are not like men. If you were, I would be unsubscribing now and taking my chances as an orphan. You are not my father but you are my Father. You are not like men but you came as a Man.
You are not illusive and you do not play hard to get or tease me or make me jump through hoops like a circus side-show. In fact, your word says that you revealed yourself to a people who did not even seek you out (unfaithful Israel). You are forever making yourself known to us. You are revealing yourself, every moment of every day. Your handiwork displays your splendor and your majesty. Creation reveals that you are God and that you WANT to be known. I have the assurance of the scriptures that say that if I look for you, you will be found by me. You, at times, conceal a matter that I would seek you out but never in an effort to be cruel or illusive but always and only to breed more of a search and hunger in me...that you will satisfy. You want to be known. I want to be known. I believe that desire in me comes from you. I don't have to worry that I might turn around one day and find that I never knew you, missed you or never found you. You have found us and have made yourself known to us. You said that the hungry and thirsty shall be satisfied. If I hunger for you, I will be filled. This is what your word says. You fulfill every desire for righteousness with yourself. You said that if I ask, it will be given to me, if I seek, I will find it, if I knock, the door will be opened to me. I believe this about you. If a simple-minded child can find you at the tender age of 4 or 5, it is because you have made yourself easily and readily available to them. It is not a difficult thing for man to be saved by grace through faith. I believe the cross is THAT powerful.
I don't believe that you want me to pay the price for my sin. It is humanly impossible, anyhow. You paid the price for my sin. The cross would not exist if I had could foot the bill. But, alas, I cannot pay the bill and deserve hell because of the great debt and depravity of my condition. My spilled blood does nothing but leave a stain. But, You are the Holy, blameless, spotless Lamb of God and you atoned for every sin I've ever had, have and will have. My sin is not greater than your blood. Hallelujah!!! If the blood of One man could cover creation's entire history of sin (past, present and future), then surely it can cover mine, on my worst day, at my worst moments, all stacked up together and concentrated in their filthy, stinky stench. My sin does not cheapen your blood when it is put underneath your blood.
I don't believe you are waiting for me to mess up so you can disqualify or punish me or pull a, "Aha! Caught ya!" moment. I don't believe you are setting me up for failure or leading me into traps or webs. I don't believe that you want to humiliate or shame or exploit me. I don't believe that you receive any pleasure when evil comes, to anyone. You don't delight in these things. Your heart is FOR me, for ALL of your children and you are gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and your relent to bring calamity! According to your word, you long, you wait, to be gracious to me and that you rise up to show compassion to me. THIS IS WHO YOU ARE!!!!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
What I’m learning…
That love really is the greatest force on the face of the earth.
That my love pales in comparison to who Love really is.
That there is none found worthy, none.
That I have a strong urge to run when I am in pain.
That all men are like grass.
That hay and stubble make for a bittersweet bonfire.
That not knowing is really not better than knowing.
That only Jesus is righteous.
That trusting God is a risk I can’t afford to not take.
That loving well means I don’t have the right to be offended.
That what we believe about the nature of God is the lens through which we view circumstances, life and people.
That nothing can separate me from the love of God, not even myself.
That I will never measure up. Never.
That there is provision for my inability to measure up.
That if I’m really honest, I am easily offended that God uses broken people to do his will.
That if I’m really honest, I should then be offended that God uses me to do his will.
That I have looked to people rather than God, at times.
That I have yet to really know the depths of his great mercy and love.
That I know very little but what I do know has come from His hand.
That I am saved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and nobody can pluck me from His hand.
That my salvation was free to me, costly to God.
That it’s not OK to make peace with my sin.
That love looks foolish and mercy looks weak.
That I need more faith.
That I process slowly but deeply.
That fire burns.
That I regret regret.
That Jesus is a Just Judge.
That there is great comfort and terror in knowing that.
That understanding breeds compassion.
That suspicion is fear and it actually drives out love.
That love drives out fear.
That He is good but seemingly unsafe.
That I could gain the world but lose my soul.
That love is a choice.
That the blood of Jesus is greater than.
That Jesus died for every bad thing I have ever done and will ever do.
That I have no means of atoning for my own sin.
That I am a despicable wretch but for the grace of God.
That I cannot make things happen.
That all things are possible because of Christ.
That He makes all things new.
That God is a resourceful God, working all things to my good because I do indeed love him.
That wisdom begins when we fear God.
That mercy triumphs over judgment.
That I don’t have to steward people’s emotions for them.
That I am the steward of my own heart.
That He is the Good Shepherd.
That I have nothing else going for me but God.
That I have judged wrongly.
That I am sorry for when I have judged wrongly.
That I have the capacity to feel very complex emotions all at once.
That God is no less God in the midst of my very complex emotions.
That I do love truth in love.
That true lovers labor more for truth.
That where sin abounds, much greater does grace.
That there is hope, because He lives.
That my love pales in comparison to who Love really is.
That there is none found worthy, none.
That I have a strong urge to run when I am in pain.
That all men are like grass.
That hay and stubble make for a bittersweet bonfire.
That not knowing is really not better than knowing.
That only Jesus is righteous.
That trusting God is a risk I can’t afford to not take.
That loving well means I don’t have the right to be offended.
That what we believe about the nature of God is the lens through which we view circumstances, life and people.
That nothing can separate me from the love of God, not even myself.
That I will never measure up. Never.
That there is provision for my inability to measure up.
That if I’m really honest, I am easily offended that God uses broken people to do his will.
That if I’m really honest, I should then be offended that God uses me to do his will.
That I have looked to people rather than God, at times.
That I have yet to really know the depths of his great mercy and love.
That I know very little but what I do know has come from His hand.
That I am saved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and nobody can pluck me from His hand.
That my salvation was free to me, costly to God.
That it’s not OK to make peace with my sin.
That love looks foolish and mercy looks weak.
That I need more faith.
That I process slowly but deeply.
That fire burns.
That I regret regret.
That Jesus is a Just Judge.
That there is great comfort and terror in knowing that.
That understanding breeds compassion.
That suspicion is fear and it actually drives out love.
That love drives out fear.
That He is good but seemingly unsafe.
That I could gain the world but lose my soul.
That love is a choice.
That the blood of Jesus is greater than.
That Jesus died for every bad thing I have ever done and will ever do.
That I have no means of atoning for my own sin.
That I am a despicable wretch but for the grace of God.
That I cannot make things happen.
That all things are possible because of Christ.
That He makes all things new.
That God is a resourceful God, working all things to my good because I do indeed love him.
That wisdom begins when we fear God.
That mercy triumphs over judgment.
That I don’t have to steward people’s emotions for them.
That I am the steward of my own heart.
That He is the Good Shepherd.
That I have nothing else going for me but God.
That I have judged wrongly.
That I am sorry for when I have judged wrongly.
That I have the capacity to feel very complex emotions all at once.
That God is no less God in the midst of my very complex emotions.
That I do love truth in love.
That true lovers labor more for truth.
That where sin abounds, much greater does grace.
That there is hope, because He lives.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Sacrifice of Praise
I'm going to give it to Him, especially when it hurts and nothing makes sense and my world is spinning 'round. Here you go, God. Have my praise, my declarations of your goodness, kindness and mercy. In the midst of pain I confess that just and true are all of your ways. You are God and I am man. Your ways and thoughts are higher than mine. Your love endures forever...
Monday, August 22, 2011
Today and Everyday
Dirty dishes stacked high in the sink, tidy piles of laundry patiently awaiting a home, fuzzy carpet that begs to be vacuumed and sticky floors that petition me to mop them. That's today and everyday.
Tiny teeth that need a good scrubbing (let alone flossing), jagged fingernails and toenails that need some clipping attention, a wee one who solicits me more than any other, and stumped little girls with fists smashed into their frustrated faces. That's today and everyday.
I would not trade my today and everyday for anything. I have too often tried to wish myself into the future, missing my many presents (pun intended). Too often I find myself dissatisfied with today or worried about tomorrow. Today's offerings are sufficient, more than enough, really. The mess, the chaos, the clutter...all of it meant to bless me, to enrich my life, to perfect me. This is my life and I have not another to live. So I must love it, live it, give it...as thanks, for it.
Tiny teeth that need a good scrubbing (let alone flossing), jagged fingernails and toenails that need some clipping attention, a wee one who solicits me more than any other, and stumped little girls with fists smashed into their frustrated faces. That's today and everyday.
I would not trade my today and everyday for anything. I have too often tried to wish myself into the future, missing my many presents (pun intended). Too often I find myself dissatisfied with today or worried about tomorrow. Today's offerings are sufficient, more than enough, really. The mess, the chaos, the clutter...all of it meant to bless me, to enrich my life, to perfect me. This is my life and I have not another to live. So I must love it, live it, give it...as thanks, for it.
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