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.