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)
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
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 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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
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.”
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.”
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
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.
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