Our physical bodies get in the way. Aren’t we more than joints and flesh and marrow and bone? Surely there is more to us than can be touched and seen.

We are a compilation of experiences. We’re running on hay bales in summertime, first kisses, wading the creek at camp, harsh words from adolescent friends, and the sum of our parents and children and the wind through the ages.

It’s so easy to hide. To duck behind skin and bones and never be seen, never see ourselves — to never really know another human being.

But all of this solitude, it can become empty. What is life if not lived with another? What is the purpose of all this pondering if it cannot be shared? Is it possible to get so wrapped up inside my own head that I go mad?

Because who sits at a restaurant and listens to fountains trickle and traffic buzz and jazz play and wonders what the person at the next table looks like under their skin?

We’re bound by these bodies. We’re bound by form and substance and the need for sustenance and connection. Wouldn’t it be easier if we were only matter taking up space and passing time?

But we are not. We long to transcend the physical.

The pragmatic part of me calls it a foolish waste of energy, thinking and writing of things that barely exist. But there are thoughts to be thought and words to be said that are mine alone. I’ve fought them back with work and responsibility and pragmatism and yet they will not relent. So, here I am talking crazy on a Monday about images that can only be seen in shadow.

A battle rages between tangible and intangible, the physical and spiritual, the visible and the invisible. The soul longs to make peace with them both, to relinquish this bifurcated life.

We are more than physical organisms. We cannot be defined by an elegant arrangement of molecules. We are relational beings with a creative nature made in the image of One who is worthy. We have a longing deep inside that only One can fill — an unquenchable fire that only He can ignite and fuel with His perfect oil.

And if we are going to be whole, if we are going to be at peace with who we were made to be, then we must say ‘Yes’ to the fire and accept the burning to see things not only as they are but as the one day will be. We must seek to merge the seen with the unseen and to know and be known, not only by the great Source but also by one another.

for our God is a consuming fire. _a

If I say, “I will not mention him,
or speak any more in his name,”
there is in my heart as it were a burning fire
shut up in my bones,
and I am weary with holding it in,
and I cannot. _b

Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. _c

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Linking today with Imperfect Prose:

This mothering thing is hard. We make thousands of decisions every day. Some of them are little but seem big and some of them seem little but are really huge and they change the course of everything.

As my kids get older and they tip-toe into deeper waters, I’m beginning to understand why you said it’s easier when they’re little.

When we talk about it now you say, “There are lots of things I would do different.” And I know. I know how it feels to want to change some of those little decisions that have left big footprints. You talk about the changes you would make and I’m so glad you do. I’m glad I can learn from the wisdom of what you did right and what you think you did wrong.

We all make mistakes because mothering is an impossible job.

But Mom, it’s an impossible job that you did well.

There are things I remember with a child’s eyes:

I remember making candy at Christmas. You, standing by the stove melting chocolate and painting the molds just so. I still love the smell of peppermint.

I remember shopping trips, and fitting rooms, and how you made sure it was all just right.

I remember the rattle of the pressure cooker and pork roast and cooked potatoes on the table.

I remember you in that tiny back yard wearing your summer shorts and cleaning green scum out of the plastic pool.

I remember watching you fall asleep on the couch while studying for college exams.

I remember your lovely handwriting and that dreaded red pen on my school papers. I owe my love of writing to you.

I remember how unaware I was that you had a life of your own completely independent from mine.

I remember church on Sundays.

I remember sitting in Dr. Fulkerson’s waiting room for hours on end.

I remember how you’d watch my baby sister struggle to breath and how you slept in a chair for days while she was in the hospital.

I remember standing in a hospital room 20 years later watching my own girl fight for every breath. I knew exactly what to do because I’d seen you do it a hundred times. You were right there with me, still sleeping in a chair.

And through all of it, I remember how hard you tried.

I knew that whatever came,

no matter how bad or unexpected,

you would handle it.

I saw you:

When your youngest girl turned blue in an ambulance because she couldn’t breath

When dad was out-of-town working hard and thieves invaded our home

When grandpa was thrust off the tractor, broke his hip, and was nearly crushed

When things went bad with the family farm and Christmas was hard and awkward

When grandpa almost lost his hand and his life to that terrible corn picker

When that same baby sister fought an even harder battle against and even fiercer foe and won

You were there. You were present for every bit of it.

And even when you think you did it wrong,

you really didn’t.

Because you cared enough to give it your all.

So today, there are no pretty packages or cards or flowers. It’s likely that I won’t even see you. But I want you to know Mom,

you did this mothering thing well.

And I am a better person because of it.

Love,

Eyvonne

Strength and dignity are her clothing,
and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
She looks well to the ways of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
“Many women have done excellently,
but you surpass them all.”
(Proverbs 31:25-29 ESV)

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The question comes as I’m standing in a cubicle with co-workers discussing horror films.  I say I don’t like movies designed to spark fear and celebrate gore.  ”I just don’t want that stuff in my head.  There’s enough bad in there already.” He looks me square in the eye and asks, “Do you ever do anything bad?”

Proverbs says that a word well spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver.

How I wish at moments like this I had a word well spoken.  But I can’t come up with two or three sentences that are sufficient.  Instead, I stare at my feet and look right at my inquisitor, “What? Has your cube turned into a confessional now?”

The conversation moves along and I have escaped.

But the question burns.  I can’t escape.

For years I’ve tried to stop keeping a list of everything I do wrong.  The Book says he’s separated my sin from me as far as the East is from the West.  He does not remember it.  If God doesn’t have a list, why should I?

The question won’t leave.  Do I ever do anything bad?  The honest response is a bit too raw for midday cubicle conversation.

What He doesn’t know is that he’s asking the wrong question.  He should be asking, “Do you ever do anything good?”

I look inside and see things the questioner doesn’t.

I am selfish.
I want my own way.
I want to be the master of my universe.
I scream at my kids.
I forget my checkbook, skip my tithe and spend too much money at Bath and Body Works.
I care way too much about what others think and  way too little about what God thinks.
I take advantage of my husband’s selflessness.
I say hurtful things.
I make obligations to myself, to my family, to God that I do not keep.
I care more about my own comfort than the needs of others.
I  constantly fight the desire to hole up in my own cocoon and make my faith, my life, my job all about me.

I am not good…

So, how does someone who has such a low view of themselves get through the day?  Knowing all that I know about me, how do I carry on?

It’s here.  It’s all right here:

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. _a

These words are etched in my memory.  When I hear the crazy lady in my head tell me all the horrible things I am, I fire right back at her:  “He who had no sin became sin for me so that in Him I might become the righteousness of God.”  

It doesn’t matter who I am.  Jesus became sin even though he never sinned.  In Him, I can be right with God.   It’s a great mystery right there in black and white.

The debt is paid.  I have a clean slate.  Not just on the day I believed, but every day.  And I need it — every day.  Not because I deserve it, not because of anything I do, but because of who He is and what He has already done.

To be honest, I don’t understand it.  I don’t understand how God changes the hearts and minds of those who believe in him.  Logic says that if the penalty for everything I could ever do wrong has been paid, I should do exactly what I want.  But that’s the thing, I want God.  He is so good that He is what I want.  I believe him when he tells me:

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. _b

I want all the good that He is — this God who came here and suffered at the hands of His creation. I think on these things.

I don’t do it well.  I bumble and say things that are hurtful and get caught up in what other people think.  I get selfish.   I fail and flail and fall.  But that’s OK; He knew I would.

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

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Linking today with Jennifer

and

Imperfect Prose

The Kids on the Farm, Taken in 2006

I watch the video and feel left out.  My parents talk about their work and then look at each other with eyes that reflect knowing, togetherness, and years of co-labor.  They’ve built something, the two of them.  They’ve built a business, horse barns, and fence but it’s more than that.  They’ve built a community.  They have their own groupies, people who will come and stay from all over the world for a piece of the magic that is Stoner Ridge Farm.

The video fades to a girl riding in slow motion. Her body moves with the 3-beat canter and her auburn hair flows behind her like the train of a wedding gown. She leans, not even moving her hands and the horse moves with her body. When you watch, it’s hard to know who is following whom. Is she moving to the rhythm of the horse’s body or is the horse moving to her? It’s as if they’re both following the cadence of a mystical drummer that only the two of them can hear. She’s so effortless on a horse, this baby sister of mine.

There was a time when that could have been my life. But roads diverge. My mother married a horse trainer before he was a horse trainer. I married a preacher before he was a preacher.

When I talk to Mom about their lives she’s always got a list. She’s so close to the magic that it doesn’t look like magic to her at all. It’s checklists, and shows, and coordination, and clients, and veterinary visits, and phone calls, and people that show up at all hours. Work that never ends.

My husband and I are building something too. It’s hard and messy and uncertain and I have my own list. It’s different and it’s the same: work, kids, weddings, funerals, births, Bible studies, counseling, cookouts, phone calls, and people that show up at all hours. It’s work that never ends. I’m so close that it doesn’t look like magic at all; but this is our lives, and we are building.

I wonder how daddy felt when he left his 20-year job to tend a farm. Did he know then he would be successful, that he was building something great? Because I don’t know if we’re doing this right.

Does anyone ever really know? Can you ever be certain that you’re doing it right? Where do I find the confidence to put one foot in front of the other and keep going? There is only one place that has answers that endure.

I am sure of this, that He who started a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6 HCSB)

These words are a reminder. This is not the path I would have chosen. He started it. God stirred in us and made us forever discontent with the pursuit of the American dream. He moved us to this city and he has given us a heart for these people. He has placed us here, in spit of our flaws and failings and inadequacy. Any other choice would be misery. And why choose misery when I can have joy.

My shoulders relax as I remind myself. Before time, there was the Word.

“And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God.”

The Word — the ultimate communication of truth, love, goodness, hope, mercy and grace. I’ve hidden these words deep inside for days like today.

I say them over and over. “In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God.”

“All things were made through him. And without him was not anything made that was made.” The words come easily, more freely than my own thoughts.

Now, it flows. I roll the sentences around in my head.

“In him was life and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not overcome it.” Another rendering, “the darkness did not comprehend it.” How true this is. The darkness cannot understand the light.

“There was a man sent from God whose name was John.”

John intrudes. In the middle of all this talk about truth, and light, and beginning, and God — is John. He seems out of place.

“He came as a witness to bear witness about the light, that all might believe through him. He was not the light, but came to bear witness about the light.”

But he is not out of place. John made the paths straight, prepared the way, told the story. What good is a great story if it’s not told? It’s my job too. To tell.

“The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him.”

The world did not know him. It did not know him then and it does not know him now.

“He came to his own and his own people did not receive him.” The very people who were told the signs, who were to be the light-bearers did not recognize him. I’ve done this. I do this still.

“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name,”

My pace quickens. My heart rate increases in anticipation.

“he gave the right to become children of God.,”

Oh the joy of these words. “To all who did receive him.” That’s me. “Who believed in his name.” That’s me too. “He gave the right to become children of God.” Could it be possible? I have the right to be called a child, the beloved offspring, the direct family of God? It’s not a privilege. It’s a right.

This is joy!

“Who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.”

The words come to a natural crescendo, building to a climax as breathtaking as Handel’s Messiah.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son of the Father full of grace and truth.”

I say it fast and the words run together.

The Word, the truth of the universe, the ultimate communication from God put on skin and lived among us. He was full of grace and truth.

“And from his fullness we all have received, grace upon grace.” Upon grace, upon grace, upon grace. That is what I have.

“For the law was given to Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.”

The hard and rigid law was given. Grace and truth came. It embodied. It ate. It lived. It walked. It wept. It touched. It bled. It died. It lived again.

My shoes go clip-clop on the brick sidewalk with these words whispered to myself and to the Creator who was there in the beginning and who is here now.

There is purpose in it all.

Your word I have treasured in my heart,
That I may not sin against You. — Psalm 119:11

This post is linked with Imperfect Prose

   

Today, I read words spoken around a dinner table to men proud of their sacrifice. Men who gave ten percent of all they earned to the church. Men who spent their lives learning the ways of God.   They knew sacrifice — giving, fasting, and a life of devotion.   Yet, they were found wanting.

Then it happened that as Jesus was reclining at the table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and were dining with Jesus and His disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to His disciples, “Why is your Teacher eating with the tax collectors and sinners?” But when Jesus heard this, He said, “It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire compassion and not sacrifice,’ for I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matthew 9:10-13 NASB)

He desires compassion, not sacrifice.

In fact, self-focused sacrifice can become prideful self-service. If we allow sacrifice to become fuel for our self-righteous ego then it is no longer a service to God, but a service to self. Sacrifice can become an idolatrous game of oneupmanship.

He says compassion is better than sacrifice.   Why? What makes compassion different? Why does Jesus urge us to understand the higher value of compassion?  Where do We look to find examples of this kind of compassion?

Compassion goes beyond a deep sympathy for others; it is a compelling desire to alleviate suffering. Compassion sees a need and meets it. Compassion focuses on the need of the recipient, not the gift of the giver. Compassion is outwardly focused and not inwardly focused.

The more I consider compassion, the more I see Jesus in the answer — not just because of what he taught, but what he did.  Motivated by his great love for us, he left perfection and became a man.  He saw our brokenness, our selfishness, and our desire for recognition.  He knew that we were destined for eternal suffering without a remedy and chose to give himself to alleviate that suffering.  In the ultimate example of compassion, he gave himself up for us.

He saw my selfishness, had compassion on me, died to pay the penalty for my selfishness, and then rose from the dead to demonstrate his power over my selfishness.

As I consider all this means, I shift my focus. Instead of asking, “What does God want from me?” I realize, “In light of all that Christ has done for me, how can I not show compassion to others?”  Going step further, I see that when I do not show  compassion I am denying Christ.  Although I say I believe, my actions demonstrate a practical atheism.

It is this practical atheism that I fear more than unbelief.  

And so, the question will no longer be, “What must I give up for God?” It has become the better question, “Who needs to experience compassion from me today?”

The answer may still involve personal sacrifice, but it will be sacrifice motivated by Christ’s love and not self-righteous hypocrisy.

Our last Sunday

What words are there for dear friends who are moving away?

I could tell you how my first impressions were so wrong. What I initially thought was shyness and fear I now see as humility, a servant’s heart, and quiet strength.

I could tell you how much your friendship has meant to us — Sunday morning breakfasts, one-on-one lunches and dinners, thoughtful notes and gifts. We cherish every moment.

I could tell you how we’ve treasured that you’ve always been here, quietly working alongside us — willing to participate regardless of the time, energy, or lack of sleep involved.

I could tell you that we’ve noticed your gentle humility and have often longed to be more like you.

I could tell you about how you’ve made us better, offering accountability and a listening ear when we’ve struggled.

I could tell you how you’ve made Christmas a more joyful time for me. Your effervescent love of the season has bubbled over to me — you’ve taught me to celebrate the joy that is the birth of our Savior.

I could tell you that I’ve always wanted God to lead you where He would have you go, but deep inside I hoped that it would be here.

I could tell you that you have no idea how wonderful you are — which only makes you more wonderful.

I could tell you how much you’ve lightened the load. You’ve never made demands of us, clamored for our time, or sought recognition. You’ve just quietly, faithfully, served.

I could tell you that we’ve never had to worry about a single task entrusted to you. This has been a huge blessing to us and is more remarkable than you realize.

If I told you all of this, you would quietly look away — a bit embarrassed by it all. You might tell yourself that I am too kind, just saying nice things before you go. But know this, every word is true.

So, as you go — our prayers are with you. We trust your ability to seek God and follow Him wherever he leads. We look forward to watching your ministry from afar and we know He has great plans for you. And we still pray that some day, as God marches us forward in different directions, our paths will cross again.

I don’t doubt God’s existence. I am not tempted to walk away from the faith. But, I feel deflated. I see hurt and pain. I am disappointed by the poor choices of others, by the willful disobedience in my own life, by brokenness at every turn.

I ask the same question as the agnostic, “God, if you’re there, why don’t you do something!” I feel powerless. Do my questions dishonor God; do I dare ask them out loud? How do I reconcile a hurting world, personal failures, my broken-heartedness, and an all-good God?

If it weren’t for His story, recorded in the pages history, despair would have its way. But then, I remember. I remember the promise made to Abraham. “Go, and I will make you a great nation.” Abraham believed. God answered — but Abraham died before it happened. I remember that Joseph’s descendants suffered in Egypt for four hundred years before they were freed. Entire generations of families lived and died as slaves. God was faithful and delivered — but not every Israelite that lived in the captivity of Egypt experienced freedom.

I remember another four hundred year period where God seemed silent. Four centuries passed between the last inspired words from the prophets and the coming of Messiah. More generations of people came and went.

How exactly do these facts provide a remedy for despair? Does it really make me feel better that generations can march by while waiting on God?

Yes, indeed it does.

Even when the Israelites were slaving away for the Egyptians, God was preparing their deliverance. Their suffering provided the backdrop for the display of His’s glory.

And, after 400 years of silence, the voice of John the Baptist, the one sent to prepare the way for Christ, exploded the prophetic vacuum. “Repent for the kingdom of Heaven is near.” The One who would change it all was coming.

He came, but in a way we would not have imagined. The savior of the world — the God-man — was beaten, tortured and murdered. Darkness, death, and despair. Again the brutality of man is a springboard for the display of his absolute glory and power.

Can I be content to live in a world that exists only to be a display of His glory? Can I accept that I may only be a tiny black dot in a dark sea whose purpose is to contrast His radiance? Can I live committed to Him even if I never get to shine this side of heaven?

What if His glory will be seen most clearly if I live a life of obscurity? Am I willing to trade my glory for His?

I consider these questions deeply, a quick ‘Yes’ is an empty response. I open the word and read:

without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is and that He is a rewarder of those who seek Him. (Hebrews 11:6 NASB)

In spite of all the darkness, in spite of all that does not make sense, the answer is found here: “Do I believe that He is and that He rewards those who seek Him?”

I cannot escape it. I may not see the rewards today. I may not see it while I walk this earth. It is not the reality I would choose, but it is real. In spite of my questions, in spite of the despair and brokenness at every turn, I believe that he exists and He rewards those who seek Him.  And this truth turns despair to joy.

“Do not abandon yourselves to despair. We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.” –Pope John Paul II

I want to flee to a world where families aren’t broken, where suicide doesn’t happen, and where children do not suffer the consequences of their parent’s failures. The voice in my head convinces me of my own uselessness. Running away seems like a reasonable option. There are places I can go to pretend this doesn’t happen.

I am weak and vulnerable.

As this shaky heart searches for answers, I see it tucked right in the middle of Hebrews 13:9: … it is good for the heart to be strengthened by grace.

I linger and reread, it is good. The same words spoken in the beginning to signify the glory of the handiwork of the Father now point to another remarkable truth — the heart can be strengthened by grace.

Grace, the unmerited favor of God himself, is my strength. But how? How do I harness grace to bolster a wobbling heart and frayed emotions?

I ponder grace and remember all the Good Book says: grace is a gift of God, so that no one can boast (Eph 2:8-9). Grace does not depend on me, but on the Father alone who is merciful (Romans 3:24). God’s grace is sufficient and shows His power in my weakness (2 Cor 12:19). By grace I am His heir and have hope for a future inheritance (Titus 3:7). These words remind me of all that I received from Him. They salve my wounds.

I begin to see that my weak and trembling heart is fertile ground for the display of His power. Indeed, His power lives in me only as I am brought to a place of weakness. Paradoxically, only when I am confronted with my own powerlessness can His power be displayed — and in this display, I find strength.

By His grace, I discover that even my weakness is a gift. A gift prepared ahead of time for when despair knocks at the door, when hopelessness sets in, or when pain comes calling. Strength by grace is another of his many gifts for which I am grateful.

This week I continue to count with gratitude:

#25. The springtime smell of charcoal in the back yard.

#26. Chubby legs and summer onesies.

#27. A house full of people who fill their bodies with food and their souls the Bread.

#28. Kids everywhere.

#29. Singing about rain and floods and seeking higher ground.

#30. An extra day at home.

#31. Long talks about God, belief, and all that changed in the garden.

#32. Homemade mother’s day gifts.

#33. Grace that I don’t deserve

#34. A heart that is easily broken

#35. Watching him study and prepare

#36. Knowing He’s with friends no matter where they go

#37. Realizing that I really do believe He exists and rewards those who earnestly seek him.

#38. Opportunities in unlikely places

#39. Quiet Sunday evenings

#40. Giggles in the back seat

With another friend, we talk about babies, tiny clothes, sweet breath, and midday naps. And again I ask, “Do you want God more? A little one won’t magically fill up the empty places. Tiny clothes need laundered, cute noses fill with goo, and peaceful naps don’t always come easy.”

To a third friend I ask, “Do you want God more? More than the deceitful drug that lies about filling you up when it really leave you empty and needing more?”

And I wonder what they think of easy council from a woman who sleeps next to a loving husband every night and wakes to a smiling baby every morning — a woman who has never experienced give-up-everything addiction that always wants more.

In the quiet I think about wanting. Maybe I’ve miscommunicated. Wanting is more than a feeling. It is more than an inner desire. It’s more than answering “Yes”. Wanting God more means leaving behind my dreams and gratefully accepting what He gives. It means trusting Him, even when it hurts.

But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ (Philippians 3:7-8)