a fistful of dirt

Have you ever fantasized about being someone different?

As a girl I can remember the aching desire to be someone, or something, else. I dreamed of being a bird able to soar far above the treetops and skim across the top of the ocean, or a horse with strong, powerful legs and a flowing, wild mane. I also wished to be several others things… the popular girl, the beautiful girl, the smartest girl, the girl with the best body, or the best skin or the best something. Instead, I felt ordinary and plain.

Thus began a long journey up Achievement Mountain. Perhaps you have traveled this road too? The path winds up a treacherous incline and the way involves striving, reaching, climbing, pushing… but always, even when your steps are taking you up the mountain, there is a nagging, relentless whip lashing at you, driving you on. No achievement is enough to silence this taskmaster. You think with the next step the voice will finally diminish. But the opposite happens, it grows louder and increasingly insistent. I have discovered that this mountain has no summit. There is no end to this uphill battle. I will never “get there.”

No matter how high I climb, I am still me. I’m not able to be someone else. I realize that I am being transformed. Christ is changing me, and I see those changes and celebrate them. But there are some things that haven’t changed about me and I don’t know if they ever will. It is difficult for me to accept this. But I believe acceptance, not perfection, is the path to joy.

My hope is that I will learn to take firm hold of acceptance, instead of grasping handfuls of dirt on Achievement Mountain.

a sunny day in november

Unusual weather for November, isn’t it?

I took my girls to the park on Monday and while we were there I noticed how stunning it was. The sun was descending through the sky, making its arc toward the western horizon. A thick blanket of orange, golden and auburn leaves covered the grass. And it was warm. I remember thinking that these types of days are rare in November. Days like this don’t make a big impression on me in June or even September, because most of us know that there will be more days like these in the not-too-distant future. But because this day occurred in November, I am aware that it is one of the last before winter. And that knowledge makes me want to hold on to it.

When a person is dying and their loved ones know it, they make efforts to create space for intimate conversations and special moments that they can keep with them when their loved one leaves. As a beautiful thing comes to a close, we all do what we can to hold onto its beauty a little longer.

This experience of awareness at the park with my girls made me think about time and mortality, things beginning and things ending. It made me want to hold onto beautiful things that I know cannot last. Being there helped me to become more aware of my own existence and the existence of the world around me. No startling revelations occurred at the moment, just a sense of peace. Reflecting on it, I believe that peace was a result of an aligning of my soul with reality. Like the thin places the Celtics believed in, this place felt holy somehow. I was alive and present right there, relieved of the incessant nagging of my mind tugging at me to go somewhere else.

the freight car

A while back I had a dream.

I dreamt that I was riding in the last car of a freight train. I was there with my sister and my mom, and we were traveling a great distance. We were in a foreign land, a place unfamiliar to us. I couldn’t tell you where we were going. The freight car transporting us was in bad shape. It was leaking water from the ceiling and everybody was being jostled about. My sister and I were concerned and decided to attempt to change cars. We opened the door leading out of the car and looked down at the narrow “walkway” before us. The walkway consisted of a couple of latches of metal holding our car to the car in front of us. The latches connected to make a sort of bridge. But the bridge was rocking and bumping and it was no wider than a few inches. After some deliberation, we concluded that it was a little too risky for us. We opted to stay in our freight car. Shortly after our deliberation the last freight car detached itself from the rest of the train and we came to a screeching halt. We were left with no adequate form of transportation. The rest of the dream was made up of inquiries by my mother as to how we could get out of the country, but no resolution was found.

It is said God speaks to us in our dreams, in the twilight hours as our eyes tremble beneath closed lids. At the time that I experienced this dream I had no idea what it meant. But now as I review it I think I have better insight.

I am not a risk-taker. In my opinion, it is wiser to choose the path that looks safe and reasonable. The narrow walkway leading us out of that freight car was not safe and reasonable; it would require faith, exceptional balance and probably divine intervention to cross. This is why my sister and I, who were so practical in my dream, decided it would be better to remain in the pitiful freight car. We knew that there was a very good chance that the crossing would result in death, or at least dismemberment. But after making that choice my journey came to a standstill. We never did get out of that place.

Perhaps there is some parallel here between the reality of my dream and the reality of my life. Maybe God is showing me the result of a risk not taken. He knows my tendency to play it safe. Perhaps he would like to show me a better way.

I wonder what we would have found in the next freight car...

monday, monday

Monday night was, as Madison said, strange. Daddy was playing piano for a long time, Mommy was crying and we allowed Abigail to rummage through the contents of Mommy’s wallet, putting everything in the wrong place.

And it was a strange night. It was the summation of a long and challenging day. It was a day that seemed to be orchestrated from the beginning by an unseen nemesis, and I could just hear him laughing maniacally as I fumbled through it. It was the kind of day that gets you down, that beats on you, wears on you, and though you try to brush it off and stand up straight again, you just keep stumbling. By the end of the day I was weary, my patience was pretty thin and I was afraid to open my mouth because I felt certain of the possibility that I might breathe fire.

And then Thane began playing the piano, and I began to cry. Before that I was sitting by myself on our bed, staring out the window at the red tree in our neighbor’s front yard. Every year I look forward to autumn and the progression of the changing colors of that tree’s leaves. The leaves turn yellow early and slowly ripen to flaming red. Red is their color now, and as I looked at them against the grey sky I felt both peace and chaos churning inside of me. With the first note Thane struck on the piano, the chaos within me broke through the surface erupting in tears. This is how it happens for me; my tears always surprise me.

Thane’s music was his own, his creation, and it flowed from his heart. And with the first note I knew he was suffering, as I was. He chose to express his emotion in music. It was beautiful, and it was a bridge for me because without it I could not have reached the tears. And it was a bridge between us, because although we were choosing to walk through our pain on our own there was something within us that was reaching out for someone to walk through it with us. His music reached to me across the gap and melted my defenses, and I knew I was not alone.

Psalm 45:1-2
1 My heart is stirred by a noble theme
as I recite my verses for the king;
my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer.
2 You are the most excellent of men
and your lips have been anointed with grace,
since God has blessed you forever.

Eph. 5:19
Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord

rain

Once again the rain comes down
To heal the parched soil of the earth
And the ground drinks it up
And the roots of the plants drink it in
Last night
Healing waters flowed through us
Words on a page spring to life
Uttered through the voice of a woman in shame
Words that once penetrated
Like a sword to my heart
Slicing it open
Laying my wounds bare
But now the words don’t ring with the truth they once did
Forgiveness
Grace
Is attainable to me too
And I know it now
And I thank God for showing me
Because sometimes it seems like I’m clawing my way up
Through a pit of dirt
The earthen ground tumbles down on me
My fingers find no solid place
To pull my body up
To see the light of day
And then I see
The pit is getting smaller
It’s not so deep anymore and
The light is spilling in
All around me
And soon I won’t be clawing dirt
But standing above
Soaking in the rain
Like healing water to a thirsty soul
So I listen to it now
The sound of the water
As it lulls me into the peace of God
And I thank Him
For all that he has brought me through

this was a poem I wrote after the first, first Wednesday
it's still true

jigsaw pieces

I’ve been told and I believe that God is everywhere, in everything, waiting to be discovered. So when I fail to see him I attribute the problem to my eyesight. So I look for him, or at least I try.

But lately I feel like I’ve been looking for him for so long. I’m piecing together the puzzle of him, but so many parts are missing that the picture is incomprehensible. So I just stare at it, and wait. I wait because I can’t do anything else. I wait because I can’t even find the pieces right now. It’s like someone came along and dumped out two hundred other puzzles and all the pieces are mixed together. I find it impossible for me to sort them out by myself. But I can’t seem to find anyone else who knows all the pieces either. Sometimes I find someone who recognizes a piece or two, and we place them into the picture of my puzzle God. But after a while we’re both stumped again, staring at the picture together in confusion. And now my eyes are straining to see the pieces, but my lids are growing heavy and I’m so tired of searching.

There seems to be One who knows where all the jigsaw pieces go. He knows the puzzle because he is in the puzzle, the puzzle is him. And I think he wants to help me. But the trouble is that someone keeps coming and dumping more pieces all over my God puzzle, and it’s getting harder and harder to see beneath the mess. And the One who can help me keeps getting pushed out of the way because all of these puzzle pieces are taking up so much space…

So I’m just waiting beneath a mess of jigsaw pieces, and hoping that God will lead me out of it and give me just one more piece. And I keep thinking that if he gives me just one more piece I’ll be able to do the puzzle, except I’m realizing that it’s going to take a lot more than just me to put this puzzle together. So I’m going to have to wait, and listen and ask for help. But even though the puzzle looks like a jumbled mess right now, I am choosing to believe that I’ll be able to see it one day. Just maybe not yet.

the fascination of 'ordinary' things

When I prepare to write, I sit at my dining room table beside a wall of three windows. Sometimes when I am thinking I look outside and let my eyes wander until they land on something of interest. There is a large tree in my neighbor’s back yard, I can see it through my windows. It is an old tree with lush leaves and beautiful form. Its trunk splits on the ascension upward, one massive trunk diverging into two of less girth. The leaves of the tree stretch forth from the diverse branches, shimmering in the sun and swaying with the wind. It seems alive, and it is, though not in the same way that I am alive, or you are.

But I don’t really gaze much on that tree as I sit here. Instead I trace the lines and slopes of the deck outside my window. This deck isn’t special, it’s really pretty ordinary. It was just power washed I notice, so the color is truer to the natural wood grain, but this makes little difference. Once again, my eyes follow the crisscross pattern of the lattice beneath the deck and the vertical lines of the railings and the parallel horizontal beams that make up the steps.

Of all the things to look at outside my window, I’m not sure why I choose the deck and not the tree. The tree is obviously more beautiful to look at, but the deck holds my attention.

My first thought, as I ponder this question, is of God and me. Of all the things God can choose to look at, why does he choose to look at me? There are so many things in this world he created which I consider to be quite stunning, and then there is me, and honestly I’m fairly ordinary… like the deck outside my window.

But what if that deck outside my window is more than ordinary? What if, without knowing it, when I look at the deck the beams are crying out to me? What if the wood from a tree once standing tall is telling me something? What if that tree saw a number of things you and I have never seen? What if the tree remembers when birds of the air nested in its arms, when tiny eggs became little creatures full of breath and life? What if the tree wants to tell me that it remembers when its fingers brushed the wind, when the lightning struck so close, when the rain pelted down and thunder rumbled through the sky? Or what if those chiseled pieces of wood remember when a family came together to build it? What if this deck was forged in love and laughter and good conversation? Maybe it remembers how it was born and wants to tell me. Maybe it still listens to the parties and arguments and tender moments, and a part of it wants me to share in these moments too.

So what appears to be a simple deck holds a lot more meaning when you look closely, because it is made up of more than wood and nails.

Perhaps the same is true of me, and of you.

Mark 6:2-3 And when the Sabbath had come, He began to teach in the synagogue. And many hearing Him were astonished, saying, “Where did this Man get these things? And what wisdom is this which is given to Him, that such mighty works are performed by His hands! Is this not the carpenter, the Son of Mary, and brother of James, Joses, Judas, and Simon? And are not His sisters here with us?” So they were offended at Him.

slavery

Last week I was talking with God about my hopes, my dreams. I was energized throughout our conversation, finally starting to believe that maybe wispy dreams could be transformed into concrete reality. And as I was dreaming with him I was also asking him to keep me humble, to keep me real. I very much want to change things, but not for the wrong reasons. I would love to say that my desire to make the world a better place comes only from a pure need to help people. That’s not entirely true though. There is a part of me that desires recognition. That desire for success, that mental plaque that proclaims that I am worthwhile and touts my success as proof of my worth, is a dangerous trap. And it could corrupt everything.

When Dr. Bob spoke at New Community last week, I got that eerie sense that God was saying something to me, personally, through his message. DB reminded us that the greatest among us must be least. He asked us to read John 13, proclaiming that God is raising an army of foot washers. He said we need to be clamoring to stand under one another, not over one another. He regarded the most liberating thing in the world as nothing more than enlisting as a slave in the kingdom of Christ.

God was speaking to me about that desire I have to be great. He was saying that if I truly want to accomplish his vision, if I want to be part of his revolution to transform lives, I’m going to have to enlist as a slave. The role of slave isn’t exactly a role I covet.

Why is it difficult to accept the position of a slave?

I imagine the way slaves are treated. They aren’t regarded highly. Their opinions are not valued. They are given the last share of everything. Slaves are regarded as property, free to be beaten if their master desires or traded in for a newer version. People hold conversations while a slave is in the room and that slave, that person, isn’t even acknowledged. It’s like they aren’t even there. They are invisible.

Life as a slave seems like the worst existence imaginable.

But Paul says, Do you not know that when you present yourselves to someone as slaves for obedience, you are slaves of the one whom you obey, either of sin resulting in death, or of obedience resulting in righteousness? Rom 6:16
Dr. Bob says that we will never be more than slaves, we will either be slaves to self or slaves to Christ.
And Jesus says, Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. John 13:14

Then, this morning God asked me a question: “What do you think it looks like to be a slave in my kingdom?”

So, I don’t know? Maybe…
To be a slave is to be free.
To be under is to be exalted.
To be last is to be chosen.
To be invisible is to be loved.

here

“…what is sought is, and has always been, right here all along. ‘It,’ in other words, is never somewhere else.” Lawrence Kushner, God was in this Place & I, I did not know

Have you ever thought you couldn’t find something, only to discover that it was always within your grasp, you just weren’t aware of it? Kind of like thinking you misplaced your car keys. You’re searching frantically all over the living room, overturning seat cushions and scanning the carpeted floor for evidence of metallic objects when you decide you better double check your purse, where you usually keep your keys. You looked there once, but you’re in a hurry and it is possible that you just didn’t see them…

Have you ever sat with a child looking for hidden objects within a picture? Your eyes search and scan every inch of the page, and when you finally come across that coveted hidden treasure, it becomes the only thing your eyes can see among numbers of other insignificant objects on the page.

Or when you’re presented with a riddle and you just can’t seem to crack it. You look at the words, the wheels of your mind cranking, trying to look at it from every angle and then the answer comes to you… and it seems so obvious that you wonder how you could have missed it at all.

This is how I feel now. It seems in answer to years of searching for the presence of God, my answer is simply that his presence was here all along. It seems I do not need to go anywhere to find it. Apparently, there is no need to conjure up any type of mystical experience, holy feeling or moment of epiphany. It seems that God is present and available in every moment and in every place. There are a number of Scriptures verifying this truth, and I regularly encounter beautiful people who reinforce this reality.

I simply refused to acknowledge this reality as true.

I am choosing to shift my concept of reality. I am choosing to acknowledge that God is here, whether I can tell that he is here or not. I am trying to become aware of his presence. In essence, I am practicing the presence of God.

“When you look closely and for a long time, you discover things that are invisible to others. Most people make the mistake of trying to ‘look deeper’ when all they need is to pay attention to the obvious.” Lawrence Kushner, God was in this Place & I, I did not know

“The trick is to pay attention to what is going on around you long enough to behold the miracle without falling asleep. There is another world, right here within this one, whenever we pay attention.” Lawrence Kushner, God was in this Place & I, I did not know

God was in this place

Mary Magdalene is crying her eyes out and Jesus asks her who she is seeking… she doesn’t even realize it’s him…..and then he speaks to her, but she thinks he is the gardener…

John 20:15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, “Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.”

Two men are traveling together toward a village… they are talking, trying to figure out what is happening… the body of Jesus is no longer in the tomb and the women are saying they have seen angels… and these men mourn because they thought Jesus would redeem Israel… and they are telling all of this to a stranger who met them on the road, only that stranger is really Jesus and they don’t even realize it…

Luke 24:15-16 So it was, while they conversed and reasoned, that Jesus Himself drew near and went with them. But their eyes were restrained, so that they did not know Him.

God is all around us and sometimes we think he’s just a gardener, tending the earth.
But sometimes in hindsight we recognize that he was here…

Luke 24:30-32 Now it came to pass, as He sat at the table with them, that He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they knew Him; and He vanished from their sight. And they said to one another, “Did not our heart burn within us while He talked with us on the road, and while He opened the Scriptures to us?”

But what if God is always here? What if his presence continually lingers with us, manifested even in the breath of created beings? Is some part of God in every inhale, every exhale?

“The holy of holies was so sacred that, according to Rabbinic tradition, only the High Priest could enter, and even he could only do so on Yom Kippur… Once inside the holy of holies, he had to do only one thing. And he had prepared to do this for months. He would utter the Shaym HaMeforash, the ineffable four-letter Name of God. Yod, Hey, Vav, Hey. It is a name made from the three letters of the Hebrew alphabet that function primarily as vowels. How do you pronounce all the vowel sounds at once? The reason that God’s name is unpronounceable is because the Name of Being is the sound of breathing. The High Priest went into the innermost sanctuary and simply breathed.” Lawrence Kushner, God was in this Place & I, i did not know

What if you and me and every single person in the world are uttering the name of God simply by breathing?

If so, then truly…
God was in this place and I, i did not know. ~Gen. 28:16

dive in

diving into the coolness that is You,
for a moment my fingertips meet the edge,
where You begin
and i begin to end.
and yet there is no beginning to You,
You have always been,
though how You came to be,
remains a mystery.
unanswered questions surround You.
You tell me to lose myself
and i’ll find myself where You are.
not a girl with a plastic face,
not a God with an iron heart,
but who i really am
and who You really are.
diving in,
into the bottomless pool that is You,
my arms propel me deeper
and the water draws me down
deeper and
i think i’ll find the bottom,
surely i must be getting close,
and then another bend,
an open corridor,
waiting for my footsteps
to shatter the silence.
so i explore the depths
and i see…
my little girl coming home,
a smile lights her face
and tears sparkle in her eyes.
she met You
at a cross,
on a zip line,
in the giggling conversations
and the quiet moments of little girls.
and we dive in,
into the depths of You.
and i see…
my tender-hearted warrior
who thought he was just treading water,
diving deeper
finding new paths waiting to be trodden.
and he pulls himself deeper
reaching,
shining a light in the darkness,
where love looks brighter
against the contrast of darkened quarters,
desperate alleyways
and sinking sand.
it is there You called us,
inviting us
to carry your treasure
and set the captives free.
and we dive in,
into the bottomless pool
that is
You.

maze

I feel like I’m stuck in Your maze right now. I’m looking for the way out, but I keep finding dead ends. So I turn around and go back the way I came and look for another corridor, hoping to find the neon exit sign. I spot a passage that leads somewhere new, so I start walking but pretty soon I see that it’s just an illusion ending in a mirror reflecting my own image at me. It’s not really a passageway at all, just a dead end in disguise.

I take a look at myself in the mirror. I’ve seen this before, it’s just my image staring back at me. But there is something there nudging me, encouraging me to probe deeper, to look closer. Maybe the answer is there after all. Is the answer in self-reflection? Or do I think too much? Do I analyze and dissect the why’s and how’s of my behavior until my mind is too exhausted to find You? Maybe I need to find the mirror that reflects You.

You’ve got to be the way out, that’s all I can figure.

I know You are here in this maze. One of these passageways must lead to where You are. Or maybe they all do. Maybe I’m just missing You. Maybe You’re standing there and I breeze right by, absorbed in my own thoughts. Find me in the maze, Abba. I’m directionally challenged and unsure of the way.

So I’m stuck in this maze, but I’m not really stuck. I guess I’m growing in here. I must be learning something as I explore all these corridors.

I like to be an idealist, the dreamer I think everyone must love. The idealist sees how things could be and believes it is possible to transform reality. The idealist would have no problem with this maze. She would see beyond the maze, she would make a detour and escape it easily. But I’m not her right now, I’m the realist. A realist thinks practically, she methodically solves problems, her feet are firmly planted on the ground. The realist finds difficulty dreaming big dreams and talking about how things could be. She sees things how they are, right now. That’s her focus.

I don’t like being a realist. It’s my burlap sack, as Kristin would put it. It’s itchy and uncomfortable and I don’t want to wear it. But that’s where I am right now. The idealist soars above the maze, but the realist must find the way out.

Job 28:12 But where can wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding?

a girl, a tiger and a piece of glass

It is summer and that means lots of outdoor adventures. On a recent escapade to the zoo with my girls, we looked in on the white Siberian tiger…

She sits in the shade of the rocky cave, facing outward and peering through a piece of glass. She has positioned herself at the edge of her habitat, with only a few inches of glass between her territory and ours. In awe we approach her, conscious of the rarity of the moment. We watch her. She watches us.

My daughter Madison, energized by this intimate encounter with a tiger, raises her hand to the wall, her fingers dance on the glass. She wants to get as close as she possibly can. The tiger is frightened by Madison’s approach and lashes out with a growl and a flash of teeth. And then the tiger lunges. But her paws don’t meet flesh, they meet glass. Madison is immediately stilled, recognizing the power of this animal. At that moment we were acutely aware of that piece of glass, the only thing standing between us and an angry tiger.

There are two levels to this story.

First level – the earthly moral of the story:
Don’t go near tigers, unless you can count on an impenetrable wall to protect you from imminent death. A titanium body suit could serve as plan B.

Second level – the spiritual significance of the story:
We have an enemy; you might think of him as a tiger. We can be like children, ignorant of danger that is just beyond our fingertips. And there is something between us and the enemy, a protective barrier; you might liken it to a glass wall.

In the spiritual realm a metaphor was being played out again. At first glance the tiger appeared tranquil, even approachable. She lazily peered at us through the glass. We began to feel she might be safe. A few seconds changed that perception. She was anything but safe. Isn’t this what the enemy wants us to think? He presents himself as approachable, serene, safe. He tells me that he has the true reality; his way is the path to life. And when I get close enough, he tries to rip my throat out.

But there is this barricade between me and the tiger. The barricade is growing stronger these days. I can still get around it if I really want to. I could tear it down. Sometimes I entertain the thought. The tiger looks safe to me. He looks like he knows something that is just within my grasp, and if I could just lean in a little closer he could whisper the secret in my ear…

And then I remember.

The tiger is dangerous, and he is afraid of me. He is afraid of me because of the power that resides in me, a power transferred from Jesus. That tiger would rip me to shreds, except for that power.

1 Sam. 22:23 Stay with me; do not fear. For he who seeks my life seeks your life, but with me you shall be safe.

pendulum

Swinging
Back and forth,
Slowly gliding to one extreme
And then the other,
Looking for the center,
Not finding it and
Swinging
Back again.
The steady rhythm of it
Lulling me as
I make the arc again,
Momentum ebbing
I fall back into line
And find myself again
On the other side
Of a weighted circle.
Swinging
Back and forth
Looking for the center,
Where I’ll be perfectly balanced
And swing only a little
Or maybe not at all.

I am a swinging pendulum, trying to steady myself between two extremes.

There is a lot of talk about living in the tension, finding balance. I am trying to do this because it seems like the wisest way to live.

But at present, I am a swinging pendulum.

rambo

We recently viewed the final act in an epic of Hollywood films starring Rambo. Rambo is a man who needs no one. He is a hard man, embittered by years of combat. He is a hero, boldly rushing in to rescue the innocent when no one else is strong enough to overcome the enemy. Rambo is a warrior and he is good.

The enemy is not good. The enemy is portrayed screaming and yelling, killing and pillaging. The brutality of the enemy is boundless. As I watched images of soldiers, ripping the caps off of grenades and tossing them into nearby ponds, I wondered what they were trying to accomplish? There were no other soldiers nearby, there was no ongoing combat. There were only prisoners of war, hands bound behind their backs, starting at the ground and some crying with fear. The soldiers tossed the grenades and began shouting, motioning the prisoners to run, shooting into the air. The scene was chaotic, but it became clear that the soldiers’ purpose was to create terror and a sense of inferiority in their prisoners. Another purpose was simply to dispose of these people in an entertaining way. This was a game aimed at stealing their humanity, to turn them from image-bearers into animals.

Of course, Rambo liberates the imprisoned. As I watched the warrior charge forth, slaying the enemy soldiers and rescuing the innocent, I noticed that I felt no pity for the victims of Rambo’s wrath. These people seemed to have no compassion, no mercy and no love. They no longer seemed human. They no longer looked like image-bearers of God. A glimmer of understanding flickered through my mind, an “ah-ha” moment.

Every one of us is an image-bearer of God.
But we can choose to embrace that,
or we can give it away.

“…in the Scriptures, anything that’s anti-human is anti-God. Genesis begins with God creating the world and then creating people ‘in his own image.’…The writer of Genesis makes it clear that in all of creation there is something different about humans. They aren’t God, and they aren’t going to become God, but in some distinct, intentional way, something of God has been placed in them. We reflect what God is like and who God is. A divine spark resides in every single human being. Everybody, everywhere. Bearers of the divine image.”
Rob Bell, Sex God

“When Jesus talks about heaven and hell, they are first and foremost present realities that have serious implications for the future. Either can be invited to earth, right now, through our actions. It’s possible for heaven to invade earth. And it’s possible for hell to invade earth. A friend of mine talks honestly about how he spent years exploiting women for sex. He knew exactly what to say, how to act. He was a master at finding a woman who had a troubled relationship with her father and manipulating the situation for his pleasure. The first time he was telling me his story, he made a profound point that is true for all of us. He said that exploiting women for sex didn’t just rob them of their humanity, it robbed him as well. As the years went on, he found that he didn’t like what was happening to him. He was becoming less human in the process. He said he was becoming a monster.”
Rob Bell, Sex God

bargains

Last weekend I watched the Twilight Zone. Do you know of this old, sci-fi show? The show I watched was about a dark, pretty girl named Jezebel.

The heart of Jezebel was captured by a young man who made promises of his undying affection toward her, and then broke them. He scorned her love for the hand of a fair young woman, Elle. At a barn dance, the engagement of Jezebel’s lover and Elle was announced and the cold sting of rejection penetrated Jezebel’s heart with bitterness and betrayal. Jezebel flees the party in search of respite and a way to win her lover back. She finds Granny Hart, a witch. The witch hears of the heartbreak of young, naive Jezebel and offers a remedy, but Jezebel is poor and has nothing of monetary value to offer the witch. The witch begins to turn her away, but Jezebel is desperate and agrees to pay any price, any price, for the love of her man. So the witch gives her a potion and she drinks it. The vileness of the potion racks her body, but it achieves its purpose and Jezebel regains the adoration of a lover who had hitherto forgotten her. Now he cannot take his eyes off of her and begs her to give her hand in marriage. But the price was high. At midnight, Jezebel learns what she paid as she is transformed into a witch and is loosed of her soul. Her soul contains her ability to love and since it is now lost, she cannot love the man she paid such a dear price to have.

This show intrigued me. I think this story is also our story. It is my story. You see this theme resurface again and again through the pages of our storybooks. A young, naïve creature makes a bargain with a sinister being without realizing the cost. The price she pays is high, much higher than she imagined. More than once, I’ve made a bargain I was sorry to pay. I’ve recreated a scene first played out in a garden long ago. I remember the moments when I decided to take the fruit, despite the knowledge that it held bitter nectar.

The remembrance of these moments forces me to recall the separation between me and God. Jesus came to earth and built a bridge between this world and heaven. I think I am crossing that bridge. But, there are times when I perceive the dull ache in my heart. Last weekend I felt that ache. The longing that is often pushed to the back of my mind broke through the surface and demanded to be recognized. I couldn’t deny it or try to talk myself out of it. I could only acknowledge it and walk into it.

Matt. 26:14-16 Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, “What are you willing to give me if I deliver Him to you?” And they counted out to him thirty pieces of silver. So from that time he sought opportunity to betray Him.
Matt. 27:3-5 Then Judas, His betrayer, seeing that He had been condemned, was remorseful and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, saying, “I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.” And they said, “What is that to us? You see to it!” Then he threw down the pieces of silver in the temple and departed, and went and hanged himself.

moments

The latch clicked shut. Overcome with the crushing weight of sorrow, she looked for a way out of it and found it through the bathroom door and tears. Sitting on the linoleum floor, in secrecy she cried. She never felt she could cry in front of anyone. For her it always represented weakness, and she could never let on that she was vulnerable. To feel vulnerable was to feel shaken, exposed. Someone could take advantage of you if you were vulnerable. It had happened to her too many times, and after each blow she became tougher. Now her shell was strong, many layers of hardened varnish built up to protect the tender heart encased within. But in the secrecy of her tiny bathroom, in the comforting embrace of darkness, she could weep. Oh, but how it hurt to cry like that. It hurt so much.
P A I N

She was singing. Her voice was never spectacular, but it was never about the quality of her vocal cords. Singing is more than hitting all the notes. When she sang she could express something pent up within her, something that no words can tell of, an unnameable passion. When she sang, a piece of her was escaping, soaring and free. She could communicate this way, things she would never say in normal conversation or everyday chit-chat. Somehow the singer and the song and the listeners were being knit together, woven into a tapestry that has been in the making since the beginning. She felt at peace, she felt at home. The joy of the moment pulsed through her and it felt so… perfect.
J O Y

She sat on her daddy’s knee. Her daddy always wore blue jeans, and most of them had holes in the knees. But she always liked that, though she couldn’t say why. Before bed, they liked to rock in her daddy’s rocking chair. She loved to sit there with him, on his knee in their favorite chair. They would sit together and watch baseball games and M.A.S.H. and Taxi, but it never mattered what was on the television. It only mattered that she was here with him and everything was right, as it should be. She was happy and she was safe.
P E A C E

She used to love looking into his eyes. In his eyes she saw a reflection of herself, someone she liked. Not the boring, quiet girl most people saw, but someone with a spark, someone special. That’s how she used to feel with him. But now when she looked into those eyes, she saw contempt. The words from his lips were no longer soothing and comforting, but hard and cutting and cruel. She tried to pretend that look wasn’t there, she tried to pretend he wasn’t cheating, but she was never any good at pretending. Eventually she realized he hated her, and she began to hate him back.
B E T R A Y A L

It never mattered anyway. Nothing anyone thought was important really made any difference at all. So what if her parents split? Happens all the time. So what if she was living with him? Everybody does that. It doesn’t matter. So what if she dropped out of school? She was doing just fine. Who cares if she didn’t believe in God? He’s just a fairy tale anyway, a made up image that people have to make themselves feel better.
A P A T H Y

Lying in bed, facing the dawn of a new day and these same thoughts and feelings rolling over her again and again… She can’t shake the loneliness. She walks through the halls of her empty home and wishes he were still here. But he isn’t here, and he isn’t coming back. She is so afraid to step outside her door. Murmuring voices and eyes bearing down on her, that’s all she felt when she left the seclusion of her familiar apartment. Why did they seem so alienated by her? She could only reason that she was too full of pain, and her pain escaped through the keyhole of a door that remained locked within her. And though she tried to hold the pain in, it kept trickling out and no one could figure out how to help her.
D E S P A I R

Looking over her shoulder at a decade rolling away, she found she felt grateful. Some people look into their past and regret things they’ve done or things that cannot be undone, others feel proud of their accomplishments, and some look back and see a haze and shake their head to clear the fog. But she felt grateful because she could again live with hope. Hope is a wonderful thing, something to live for. Hope touches your door and ushers in a gentle breeze, stirring forgotten dreams and awakening things long asleep.
H O P E

There are so many moments in time that make up a person. Pain, joy, peace, betrayal, apathy, the agony of despair and the elevation of hope. Our lives are one long string of moments…

Eccl. 11:7-8 Truly the light is sweet, and it is pleasant for the eyes to behold the sun; but if a man lives many years and rejoices in them all, yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they will be many. All that is coming is vanity.

the enemy comes

Many times when I dream my role is just to watch. I am not actively involved in what is transpiring in my dreams, but I am everywhere the action is, a silent spectator. Often, I am able to feel things the main character of my nocturnal feature film is experiencing. I recently encountered such a dream…

The setting is chaotic, frightening. People are running frantically but not really going anywhere. They are afraid and they need to keep moving. I notice it’s noisy, and many people are talking and shouting. There is a high level of energy in the air, a sense of urgency. Taking notice of my surroundings, I see I am in an enclosed area, with no windows and no natural light of any kind. The walls are strewn with large, metallic objects and though I am unfamiliar with weaponry, I conclude that these objects are artillery of some sort. We seem to be in a bunker.

Most of the people in this bunker are women. One woman in particular captures my attention. She is young and pretty, with thick, dark brown hair cropped to her shoulders. Her hair style reminds me of a picture of my grandmother back in the 50’s. She retains her composure as she gathers her belongings in preparation to leave this dark, underground enclosure. But though her appearance gives the impression of strength and confidence, I can feel her emotions. Her thoughts are in my mind, and I know what she keeps hidden behind her stoic exterior.

She is afraid, and rightly so because there is no certainty in war. A person’s world can be turned upside down in the space of a day. Her American life was for the most part good and happy, with only a few bumps along the way. There was talk of a conflict and the whisperings of war, but she pushed her worries to the back of her mind and continued to carry on with her life. Except now, there is no more carrying on of a normal life. Now she, and everyone here, must flee or be captured by the enemy. The enemy comes to steal and destroy, and the enemy has no pity. She knows this, and tries not to think of it.

Her meager supplies in order, the woman whose mind is also in my mind, whose thoughts and emotions I feel as though they are my own… waits. She and the other women are told that a soldier will come for them. They are to follow this soldier and he will lead them out, to safety. The women are relieved and each takes careful note of the names given them. I see the young brunette receive the name of her rescuer. I feel her anticipation, her hope. She waits.

A rescuer comes.

At the discovery that this man is her soldier, come to lead her out, her relief is so great she feels she will burst with it. She is eager to leave and makes her way toward him, but another woman intercepts him first. This woman is frantic, hysterical, desperate to get out. The brunette realizes that her soldier was sent to rescue both women, but for some reason that I do not know, he can only take one woman at a time. Seeing the other woman’s distress, the brunette decides to wait a little longer. She allows the soldier to guide the other woman out first.

The soldier promises to return. The brunette begs him not to forget her, to come back for her, as he is her only hope. The soldier promises he will return. Then he is gone. And she waits.

Slowly, each woman is guided out of danger and into safety. Each woman leaves the dark bunker, except for the young brunette. She is left alone.

And the enemy is coming.

Realizing that her soldier is not coming back, the brunette is overcome with despair. Black tears line her smooth cheeks, and she puts her hands on her face to hold in the terror, to fight for control, but the tears are coming now. Silent sobs find their voices as the despair overtakes her. She cries bitterly, and I feel the heaviness of her heart. She weeps for a long time. And still, no one comes.

When I awoke, I acutely felt the sadness of that abandoned woman. Interestingly, this dream took me back to John 10:12-13, “The hired hand is not the shepherd who owns the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.” The brunette’s fleeing soldier was like a hired hand. He did not come back because the risk was too great, he counted the cost and found it too high.

But John 10:10-11 says this, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”

Jesus is the good shepherd, he is no hired hand.

John 10:1-3 I tell you the truth, the man who does not enter the sheep pen by the gate, but climbs in by some other way, is a thief and a robber. The man who enters by the gate is the shepherd of his sheep. The watchman opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. (NIV)

a cautionary tale

We’re vacationing in the Smokies. We are spending a lot of time hiking and picnicking in the national park. Coming from flatland Indiana, the rolling hills and towering peaks are a startling contrast. So we’ve been driving and hiking through the mountains and valleys, drinking in the beauty of it.

Trekking up a mountain requires physical agility. Madison, our 8 year old daughter, is a trooper (most of the time). Once on a trail up a steady incline she declared that her body “just wasn’t made for this.” Other than that, she is willing to tackle any obstacle. Abigail, our 16 month old, enjoys the royal treatment and is being carried everywhere.

The trails are strenuous but relatively safe for hikers. The trouble came for us when we diverged from the beaten path.

A couple of days ago we were hiking it. The trail was climbing steadily and we were doing fine, growing tired but thinking of taking it all the way up the mountain. About a third of the way into it, we noticed a trail to the stream running next to us with a perfect little rock outcrop where we thought it might be nice to sit and relax. Upon approaching this rocky rest stop I noticed that there was a large gap where the water flowed through, which we would all have to cross in order to reach our selected rest spot.

Like most mothers, I worry incessantly about possible horrendous outcomes of normal, everyday experiences. What if our car falls over the edge of that cliff? The drop there is pretty steep, and the ground is littered with rocks… I’m sure we would all die if we fell down there... Or when my husband stood near the edge of a waterfall with our toddler and casually propped his foot up on the cliff edge – a once peaceful scene was transformed as images of Thane and Abigail tumbling to a rocky death filled my mind.

So I am learning valuable lessons in trust and talking to God when I get scared.

But back to the infamous hike… So we’re off the beaten path, getting ready to cross the roaring rapids (not really, it was just a stream). My husband is contemplating how best to get across and I am wondering if we should do this at all. As I am telling him that I don’t think this is a great idea, he decides to cross the stream with our toddler in arms. I’m starting to get angry now. Did he have to cross with Abigail in his arms!? So I ask him to hand her back to me, which he does with success, though I take note of the difficulty of passing a twenty pound toddler over a 2 foot divide. My husband decides that the rock is good for resting and bids the family to come over. Although I am nervous, I decide to trust him and pass Abigail over the divide again. This time, unsuccessfully.

Yes, I said unsuccessfully! My balance shifted as the weight of our toddler transferred and I slipped on the rock. I couldn’t catch myself and I couldn’t catch my daughter.

But what threatened to be disastrous, wasn’t. Thane caught my arm and my fall was broken. I was wet, but I wasn’t hurt. Thane caught Abigail and she didn’t fall either. She was completely unscathed. Thane pulled me up I climbed onto the rock with him and Abigail. Madison waited in the wings on the other side, totally agape and not entertaining the idea of coming over at all.

My first reaction? Anger. Oh yeah, I was angry. I was so angry I just sat down on the rock, thinking of what might have happened.

The next reasonable course of action was getting back over to the other side without another fall, which we accomplished. After that I picked up our bag of supplies and proceeded to make my way down the mountain. Wet up to my stomach, shoes sloshing with water and my family following behind me, the anger strangely melted away. Acceptance replaced it and a sense that one of my horrible scenarios came true, but ended differently than I anticipated. Gratefulness replaced anger as I reflected on what we just experienced.

Thane asked me if I trusted him more or less after this incident. My answer was a little more and a little less. I trust him less to know the limitations of his family. I trust him more to rescue us when we fall. And, I trust God a little more too. I believe God was there when we fell. I believe he was there as Thane pulled Abigail and me to safety. He was there in my anger, and he was there in my gratefulness.

Just a word of caution… when hiking, don’t pass toddlers over rocky outcrops and rushing streams.

the wind

In the book, “Heart of the Artist,” Rory Noland asks the reader to choose a verse that reflects your passion. For me this verse is John 3:8, “The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

The wind represents the Holy Spirit, who is wild and untamed. The Spirit is in constant motion, working through us and in us. When the wind of the Spirit blows, you hear it and you see the footprint of the Spirit’s work, but you cannot decipher what the Spirit will do next. It is impossible to nail God down. He isn’t tame and he isn’t predictable. Jesus didn’t do what people expected and he didn’t appear as people expected. God doesn’t follow our guidelines. He cannot be put on a leash. Like the wind, he is wild and free and unpredictable. John tells us that those who choose to follow in God’s footsteps will take on this characteristic of God. People will not be able to tell where we come from or where we are going.

I love the mystery surrounding God, yet at times I wish his image was more focused. God can be difficult to recognize. Jesus revealed the heart of God in all he said and did, yet, there were many who did not recognize God in Christ because the image they saw didn’t fit the one they drew up in their minds.

In the verses leading up to John 3:8, Jesus is having a conversation with Nicodemus about being born again. This is a difficult concept and though Nicodemus is a learned man, he cannot grasp it. He is thinking literally, reigning in his thoughts and tucking his ideas into concise little boxes. Jesus is encouraging him to free himself of his mental chains. I understand the confusion of Nicodemus. Though God tells me I am free, that the power given me through Christ is limitless, many times I feel weighted down, caged in. I feel predictable, limited, tame. In those moments my mind cannot grasp the heavenly visions because by body is weighted down in the mire of earthly things.

But though my body might be stuck in the gravitational pull of this world, my soul is reaching toward heaven.

My desire is to free myself and others from the clutches of the mundane and lifeless…
to be rid of the chains that bind us…
to realize who we are, who we truly are…
to be free and alive…
to be like the wind.

the gap

Do you feel the gap?

I feel the gap when my soul stretches forth, reaching for something greater than myself. In moments of joyful celebration, I feel the gap. When my heart is burdened with sorrow and my cheeks are stained with tears, the gap is there. I perceive this gap I feel is the distance between God and me. There was never supposed to be a gap. It doesn’t belong, and my spirit fights against it.

I believe what I feel touches on a piece of our story, the story of human beings. I believe the ache in my heart is shared by many. Donald Miller writes in Blue Like Jazz, “I am early in my story, but I believe I will stretch out into eternity, and in heaven I will reflect upon these early days, these days when it seemed God was down a dirt road, walking toward me. Years ago He was a swinging speck in the distance; now He is close enough I can hear His singing. Soon I will see the lines on His face.”

It is not God’s intention to elude us. He wants to be known. So as he walks toward me, I wonder how to bridge the space between us? As I take each step the gap shortens, but on my own strength I could never reach the other side.

In the book of Jeremiah, we learn of a new covenant God made with us. Humans made covenants with God before this, but we broke them all. God did as he said he would, but we kept falling down. So God kept making new covenants, and continued to give us opportunities to know him. In this new covenant God says he’s going to write his law in our minds and on our hearts. And he goes on to say that all will have the chance to know him, from the least of us to the greatest (Jer. 31:31-34).

Not just a select few can know God, but everyone can know him.

And then there is Jesus standing within the gap between me and God. Pascal said, “A man does not prove his greatness by standing at an extremity, but by touching both extremities at once and filling all that lies between them.”

Jesus fills the gap between divinity and humanity.

And through Jesus we meet the Holy Spirit, who can dwell within us, in our minds and in our hearts. And through the Spirit’s guidance we can know truths that were previously hidden (Jn. 16:13).

God is bridging the gap between us.
And though the distance is shortening, it's still there. My soul reaches forth, aching to fill the void. I want to be close to God, but I can't seem to get close enough.

misconceptions

My friend Emily was once my nemesis.

In high school, we couldn’t stand each other. Most of Emily’s disdain for me was probably a direct result of my verbal assaults and contemptuous glares. Unfortunately for us, we were thrown together in numerous classes throughout our four years of high school agony. One particular memory is especially clear in mind…

Sitting in geometry class, I again found myself annoyed with my arch enemy, Emily, the girl who couldn’t spell paper but somehow managed to believe she would become the first female president. We loaded our verbal artillery and engaged in the crossfire of brutal words. The teacher broke it up. I am now ashamed of the way I treated my friend. But back then I was hurting and angry, dissatisfied with my life and longing for more, but unsure how to fill the gaping hole within me. Some bore the brunt of my wrath, Emily was one of those.

Some years after commencement ceremonies, as I traveled through undergraduate studies I found myself sharing an art class with my old nemesis. At this point in my life I was learning about God and had recently entered into a relationship with him. Granger Community Church introduced me to Jesus, and I was just beginning to discover spiritual truths and freedom from condemnation. It was wonderfully freeing, and it was exactly what I had always searched for. That gaping hole within me was being filled.

So I found myself regretting my harsh treatment of Emily, and faced with her again in a new classroom. She of course, noticed me too and both of us thought it ironic that we would meet again in this way. The art class met once a week for three hours each meeting. The classroom style was informal and we were encouraged to get to know our classmates. I think we both realized we would have to talk sometime.

Emily approached me first. She apologized for her behavior in high school. I apologized too. So we made up, and that was really all I desired. But something happened during that class. I got to know Emily, my new friend. We talked for hours while our hands crafted art. We talked about spirituality, relationships, struggles and victories. We became good friends. I was amazed that I could have once interpreted Emily’s heart so badly. My perception of her in high school was wrong. And as I engaged in relationship with her, relieved of my bitterness and preconceived notions, I found I really liked her.

My relationship with Jesus began with a similar realization. Growing up, my image of God was that of a foreboding taskmaster. A God very big and very far away, but a God that always looked down from his imperial palace in the heavens pointing out every evil thing I ever did. He was cold and uncaring and distant, at least that’s what I thought. As I grew older, I began to nurture a disdain for Christ and Christians. All my encounters with Christianity left me feeling empty. I wanted nothing to do with any of it. So my aversion to Christ solidified.

But something remarkable occurred the summer of 2002. Once again I encountered Jesus, but this time I saw him truly. And upon meeting him, I discovered that he was nothing like what I expected. My preconceived notions of Jesus were wrong. He was forgiving and welcoming and revolutionary. He wasn’t always shouting at me about how bad I was, I already knew that. He was telling me that I was really special, that I was of precious value to him, that he would lay down his life for me… that he loved me. When I met Jesus, I was expecting condemnation but what I received was grace. And that grace has made all the difference in my life.

John 1:17 For the law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.

Eph. 2:1-10 And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins, in which you once walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit who now works in the sons of disobedience, among whom also we all once conducted ourselves in the lusts of our flesh, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, just as the others. But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, that in the ages to come He might show the exceeding riches of His grace in His kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.

plastic

I am reupholstering chair cushions.

The first one turned out pretty well, aside from some bits of bunched up fabric and uneven staples. In an attempt to safeguard my new fabric, I prepared to administer a protective liquid barrier. But as I stood poised with stain repellant spray in hand, I discovered my newly upholstered cushion already has a stain! A tiny almost indiscriminate green mark mars the fabric now. A fleeting thought in favor of covering these cushions with plastic bolted through my mind… I imagined my family eating dinner amidst the sounds of crunching plastic… and thought, no way. I’m not going that far.

I just don’t like furniture in plastic. It seems out of place in a home, like it belongs in a store. Now I know that plastic keeps your piece looking new and unstained, but I don’t find it worth the sacrifice. As I contemplated this, another thought occurred to me. My cushions aren’t the only things I’m tempted to wrap in protective plastic.

I think I want to conceal myself in plastic too.

Instead of allowing my messiness to be seen, sometimes I opt for a false covering, a veil that shelters and protects, but diminishes beauty. It seems to achieve the desired effect, it seems to protect me from the stains of messy relationships and the spills of a life lived outside of plastic.

I’m so afraid that everyone will see the stains that are so obvious to me. I know where these marks came from and I know the imprint they left on me. I see the wreckage of broken relationships in my past, like a tear in the fabric of my life. The tear mends but the fabric is never quite whole again. I imagine that everyone must be able to see these imperfections, these flaws that are so obvious to me. And I’m afraid I’ll be discarded as a wasted piece of furniture.

But… I don’t want to hide behind plastic. It’s suffocating. And though I battle the urge to hide, love is penetrating my synthetic walls.

Gen. 3:6-10 When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves. Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and they hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden. But the Lord God called to the man, “Where are you?” He answered, “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.”

glass ballerina

Last weekend GCC women attended a retreat. The women’s retreat is designed with the intention of guiding women into deeper relationship with God. Mark Waltz taught us a method that engages the creativity of the human mind. We meditated on Matt. 11:29 and lost ourselves in a melody sung by a man and his piano. Mark guided us as we drew upon our imaginations to create space for a meeting with Jesus…

I searched my mind for a place of comfort and safety, a place fitting for a rendezvous with Jesus. Woods near the home where I grew up flash in my mind, and disappear. The tree that grew in our back yard springs to my memory. I passed many hours nestled among the branches of that tree as a child, enclosed in shade and secrecy. But that place isn’t right either. My imagination drifts to the shores of Lake Michigan. The beach has always been a place of solace for me. As a girl when I was haunted by nightmares and jolted awake with fear, I lulled myself to sleep again with memories of the beach.

I am standing near the water’s edge, my feet bathed in the warmth of sand. I wiggle my toes and feel the grains slip through. The wind is blowing the hair from my face, and the rhythmic crashing of waves fills my ears.

I am alone.
And then I’m not.
Jesus is standing before me.

I look at his hands. Within them he holds a gift, so I open my hands to receive it. And as my hands unfold the gift is revealed.

She is so small and delicate, no bigger than my thumb. She is graceful, elegantly poised on tip toe, perfectly balanced on one tiny slipper. She is formed of transparent glass, and I can see the sand and water through her.

She is a tiny, glass ballerina.

My glass ballerina represents my dream, a dream so fragile and wonderful I fear I’ll destroy it. Why would God give me such a gift? Doesn’t he realize the risk he is taking?
In my hands she could break, her beauty reduced to shards of glass. And yet… if he thinks I am capable of carrying the dream, if he thinks my glass ballerina can dance… maybe I should too.

So I’ll hold onto my glass ballerina, and hope she doesn’t break.

Hos. 2:15 There I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. There she will sing as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt.

limits

I am learning Middle Eastern dance, also known as belly dancing. The dance is fun, the costumes are colorful and the history is interesting. I love dance because it is a form of beauty and creative expression. There are two levels in this type of dance class, the first is purely instructional (this is the class I am involved in) and the second is performance oriented.

If you’ve ever experienced Middle Eastern dance, you’ll quickly realize it is sensual. Historically, Middle Eastern women danced only for other women, not for men. This is not the case in America. The performance class does not restrict their audience to women only. There is no bouncer at the door escorting men off the premises. A man watching this type of dance may enjoy it, a little too much. For this reason, my husband and I feel that if I were to become involved in performances of this dance, it would be a bad thing for us.

For some reason this reality was frustrating to me last week. I didn’t know if I would ever actually want to participate in the performance dance class, but I knew I wanted the option to. I felt it was unfair that I should be limited in my pursuit of a beautiful art form. I vented about it to my husband, who listened patiently and said little (smart man, isn’t he?).

In the shower as I was thinking, I sensed God doing his gentle nudging thing. A question entered my mind… “Will you limit yourself?”

Immediately, I thought of Jesus. Jesus limited himself by coming to earth to live among us, and he continued to limit himself the entire time he resided with us in the flesh. He was God and he allowed himself to need parents to care for him. He confined himself to a human body, with a need for food and sleep. He had the authority to command angels, and he gave that up. He was God and he allowed human beings to mock him, beat him and eventually kill him. Jesus limited himself for our sake.

I love Jesus and want to emulate all he does, because I believe he is the wisest and truest being ever to live. I believe his is the path to true life. If he limited himself, I am willing to do it too.

So though I am free to dance for anyone I wish, I will choose to limit myself because Jesus asked it of me. He didn’t command me or make me, he just asked me.

That’s his way.

Phil. 2:5-8 Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: who being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death – even death on a cross!

hurt

What do you do when you get hurt?

I don’t like getting hurt. When I get hurt, I recoil. The urge to run away is strong. And after I run, I build a fortress. Brick by brick I build a wall around my heart as a defense against pain. That’s my tendency.

Pain just hurts. I don’t like it. But as much as I try to escape it, pain finds me eventually. Pain finds us all, eventually.

Recently, I experienced an argument with someone I love. Words were said and some of those words hurt. In the middle of the conflict, I just left. I took a walk, and I talked with God as I walked. I escaped the situation. I don’t know if that was the best way to approach it, but I know it diffused my frustration and it helped me step away from the conflict and engage with God. I have experienced anger often enough to know that things I say in anger have a lasting impact, an impact that can be very damaging to the person and the relationship. I don’t want to hurt the people I love.

Later, as I bathed my youngest daughter I reflected on the conflict. God tends to choose these times of quiet reflection to gently nudge me. I sensed him asking me a question. “What will you do with the hurt?”

I thought about that. I want to add another brick to my fortress. I want to escape the pain. But I know there is a better way, it’s just… harder.

Mark Beeson says “hurt people hurt people.” And he’s right. We do. I do. I hurt people. If every person I am in relationship with runs away from me after I hurt them, I am going to be left alone. If I run away from every person who hurts me, eventually I’ll end up… alone.

So somehow, I’ve got to put it behind me. Somehow I need to resist the impulse to stack a brick on my wall. If I want to further this relationship and develop it and nurture it and see it grow, I can’t lock my heart away behind a prison of bricks. I need to knock down my wall. That’s hard to do. And I’m not sure I know how yet…

Prov. 4:23 Watch over your heart with all diligence, for from it flow the springs of life.

love affair

I am entangled in a love affair… with two men.

The first man is one in whom I find the embodiment of everything hopeful and good. He is quick to forgive, loving and trustworthy. His love transforms me. He helps me see truth more clearly. He sees me as so much more than I think I am. He is the most intelligent man I’ve ever known, and he wants to revolutionize the world.

I met this man when my days were darkest, when it seemed all lights had gone out. He was a light to me, shining out of the darkness.

And though he loves me dearly and he assures me he is always there for me, there are times when I can’t seem to find him. I look for his reassuring words and his comforting embrace, but they escape me. There are times when he is all but invisible to me – I cannot look into his eyes, nor can I touch his face or feel his hands in mine.

The second man I am in love with is strong, wise and kind. He was one of the first to reveal the meaning of unconditional love.

He too is quick to forgive, loving and trustworthy. His love is changing me. He sees something special and beautiful in me. We talk and we laugh and we cry. He is my companion, my confidant, my best friend. And though at times we disagree, and even hurt each other, I can always hear his words in my ear and feel his strong arms around me.

So have you guessed who these lovers are?

The first is Jesus, the One who redeemed me, the lover of my soul. He is my Lord and always will be. The second is Thane, my husband. He is also the lover of my soul and we are committed to each other until death parts our ways.

Jesus reveals His love to me personally. And He also reveals His love through my husband. Jesus chooses Thane to be a primary vessel for expressing His unconditional love. But the vessel can choose to give that love, or withhold it. I am thankful that my husband isn’t stingy with his love. He helps me know the love of Christ, and I am better for it.

1 John 4:7-9 Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love. By this the love of God was manifested in us, that God has sent His only begotten Son into the world so that we might live through Him.

tears

We received communion last Thursday. Sometimes during communion, I like to look at the people around me. So many different people approach the cup and the bread. I find myself wondering what brought them to this place? How did they find the courage to allow God into their hearts? What pain have they suffered?

But last Thursday, my attention was captured not by the people receiving the bread of life, but by one offering it. She was serving, and she was crying.

I believe she was crying because she experienced a moment of clarity. She was alive and aware of what was taking place, and she was riveted in the beauty of the moment. She was still weeping when my turn came to receive the bread. She offered it to me, and I took it. Moved by her compassion, I kissed her cheek. She was beautiful. When confronted with beauty, people do unexpected things.

I have a friend who is full of passion and energy. You should see her talk when she is excited. You can’t help but be caught up in it. But it’s been tough for her lately. She is suffering. The last time I saw her, she was crying. We embraced and we cried.

Tears of joy… tears of pain. Tears speak in a language that nothing else can emulate. When you have no words, your tears intercede for you. When you allow your tears to be seen, you allow the one who sees them to see a piece of your soul.

Jesus deeply loved his friends, and wept for one who was dead.
John 11:35 Jesus wept.

Does God collect our tears?
Psalm 56:8 You have taken account of my wanderings, put my tears in your bottle…

Why must we sometimes sow in sorrow to reap in joy?
Ps. 126:5 Those who sow in tears shall reap with joyful shouting.

God saw the tears of Hezekiah and granted him fifteen more years of life.
Is. 38:5 …I have heard your prayer, I have seen your tears…

Luke 7:36-50 reveals a stunning portrait of love between a woman and her Savior.
Luke 7:38 and standing behind Him at His feet, weeping, she began to wet His feet with her tears, and kept wiping them with the hair of her head, and kissing His feet, and anointing them with the perfume.

death to life

I had come to the end of myself.

If you ever take the road of self and actually make it to the end, you’ll find the hype doesn’t live up to the reality. That road leads nowhere.

It was a pivotal moment, a turning point in my life.

My dream world runs parallel to my spiritual life. A truth became clear in a dream…

I’m young and unwritten, for the most part. My life lies before me. Picture me flying over a highway. I’m feeling the rush of air in my face and feeling the freedom of flight. Next to me is a car. I look inside the car and I see an old woman. She’s driving on this highway, nearing the end of her life, and the sun is shining and the world is passing by outside her vehicle and she doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Then, she turns to look at me. Her eyes are pools of darkness, utterly black. They contain no hint of color, no current of emotion.

She is simply empty. Her physical body is alive, but her soul is dead.

Here’s the truth hidden in this dream: if I continued my journey on the road of self, that old, battered woman was going to be me… physically alive, spiritually dead.

Trying to live life by my own rules was not working. I was drowning in a river of despair, and I knew that no matter how hard I swam I could not pull myself out of it. That despair threatened to ravage my soul.

But I was intercepted. God presented me with a way out. He offered a way from death to life.

So, I exited the road of self and entered a new path, and the journey continues…

John 5:24 Truly, truly, I say to you, he who hears My word, and believes Him who sent Me, has eternal life, and does not come into judgment, but has passed out of death into life.

watch these women

I have a couple of insightful, genuine, funny, compassionate, simply AMAZING friends. These women are real. They are transparent. They trust. They love.

Stephanie... I told her about my newly formed idea of maybe, possibly, writing a blog. Her response was to go for it. She told me she would read it. She thinks I have something to say. She sees something valuable in me.

Heather... I told her that I’ve stopped dreaming. Just didn’t see any point anymore after the brokenness and failure in my past. She heard that. She spoke to that. She saw the lie in it and pointed me toward truth. She sees that God breathed a dream into me when He created me.

I love these women. They add value to my life. They inspire me to reach higher, to dive deeper. They reflect the heart of God.

For the past few months we’ve gathered together. We’ve talked and laughed and listened. Through the intersection of our lives and the fruit of our conversations, this blog is born.

1 Sam. 18:1 …”the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.”