I stumble into worry the way an alcoholic stumbles into a bar after a long day spent trying to keep it all together.
"I'm just here for a few minutes," I stammer ... but before I know it I've spent the entire night drinking cocktails of what ifs and mights and maybes. I leave drunk on fear, and I wallow in the certainty of death ... before waking up in the morning and realizing I've done it all over again: I've died more times than I've lived this week, and yet I'm still breathing.
It's a waste. A waste of time, a waste of breath, a waste of energy.
A waste.
And is that how I want to summarize my life?
Wasted, drunk on fear. Wallowed in and swallowed by worry.
There is a beckoning of Grace nodded in my direction each morning as I walk in the shame of another binge, a gift from Heaven waiting to be received.
And I? I eye it wearily and mistake the offerings of grace for that of disappointment and anger, wonder if I'm still so drunk that I can't even determine between the two.
When will I live like I am living instead of like I am already half-way dead?
You asked who of us by worrying could add a single second to our lives. I realize the simplicity of this truth. And I also realize something more that was written in between the lines.
Who of us by worrying could erase seconds of our lives
moments that could be spent smelling the sweetness of a preschooler's hair
or the warmth of the sun shining boldly through the cold of March winds
the embrace of strong arms around my waist
and the faint smell of winter melting into spring just outside my window.
If worrying empties today of its strength
then I want to empty my heart of worry.
I want to fast from fears, forget even taking one sip of the drink that pulls me under.
I won't swallow it any longer
because I won't allow it to swallow me whole.
In the watering holes of my mind
I empty my bottles of fear
and I drink of the grace
You've poured for me instead.
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Friday, April 17, 2015
Monday, October 14, 2013
Life After Miscarriage: Every Storm Runs Out of Rain
She gave me this painting back in April when I was drenched from standing in the middle of a torrential down pour that felt like it might never end.
My heart dripping and my flooded, she had prayed peace and healing over the colors and words she so lovingly spread out over the white of canvas and pages of His Word from James 1, a visual prayer layered with truth and hope.
And that painting stood as an encouragement that my suffering wouldn't be in vain
and
that every storm runs out of rain.
I kept it close day in and day out for months, reading the words from James so many times I could almost say them in my sleep. Sometime during the summer, though, I noticed that I didn't need that prayer quite like I needed it before, so I began paying more attention to some other passages of scripture that were meeting me where I'd been living -- abiding {John 15) and living a life of faith {Hebrews 11}.
A few weeks ago, one of my really good friends lost her baby, and as I sat on my bed crying for her, crying over the brokenness of our world, I looked long and hard at that painting that still sits on my nightstand.
That visual prayer -- it was right.
Every storm does run out of rain.
It's something I can see seven months away from when we unexpectedly said goodbye to our baby and I said hello to a whole new level of anxiety for a period of time. It's something I can understand now. But when that storm was raging, it was hard to imagine any break in rain would ever occur.
And the first chapter of James was, of course, right, too; every ounce of suffering does produce perseverance and character.
Last week, as I standing in the park watching my boys laugh and play with warm October sunshine warming my face, I realized the storm storm clouds have been broken apart and cleared for awhile now.
I can feel the warmth of the sun again, my heart no longer a sopping wet mess of tears and anxiety,
and I can feel my lungs inhale the deepest of breaths without feeling like I'm exhaling the weight of the world through my mouth.
That very night, I shared while at a session with a beautiful soul whose been walking with me through the grief that has accompanied the loss of our babies that I don't feel like I'm the person I was even a year ago.
She nodded and smiled and agreed, saying that my spirit was calmer, my demeanor softer, my heart less guarded. And while I'd never choose to walk that path of hurt again, I could now appreciate what suffering has produced in my character, my spirit, my heart. All of that doesn't make the loss any less stinging, but it does grow hope in a weary heart that is so very tired of hurting.
I left that session feeling stronger, more of the woman I was created to be than I had in months, even years.
And I left that session realizing that what I thought couldn't be true is, indeed, true-- every storm runs out of rain, passes at some point. I think, perhaps that visual prayer that was an umbrella of hope over my head for so long needs to be passed along, too, a small but mighty shield from the storms of life, a traveling reminder that our hearts can hope for healing because He does heal and He is Healer.
And it will be accompanied by a journal with my story of the healing {and hopefully passed along again with another story of healing}, a traveling visual prayer of hope with stories of how the storms have passed and what He did in the midst.
For Michelle, the painter of my visual prayer, fellow hope seeker and heart-companion who keeps pointing me back to Jesus.
And that painting stood as an encouragement that my suffering wouldn't be in vain
and
that every storm runs out of rain.
I kept it close day in and day out for months, reading the words from James so many times I could almost say them in my sleep. Sometime during the summer, though, I noticed that I didn't need that prayer quite like I needed it before, so I began paying more attention to some other passages of scripture that were meeting me where I'd been living -- abiding {John 15) and living a life of faith {Hebrews 11}.
A few weeks ago, one of my really good friends lost her baby, and as I sat on my bed crying for her, crying over the brokenness of our world, I looked long and hard at that painting that still sits on my nightstand.
That visual prayer -- it was right.
Every storm does run out of rain.
It's something I can see seven months away from when we unexpectedly said goodbye to our baby and I said hello to a whole new level of anxiety for a period of time. It's something I can understand now. But when that storm was raging, it was hard to imagine any break in rain would ever occur.
And the first chapter of James was, of course, right, too; every ounce of suffering does produce perseverance and character.
I can feel the warmth of the sun again, my heart no longer a sopping wet mess of tears and anxiety,
and I can feel my lungs inhale the deepest of breaths without feeling like I'm exhaling the weight of the world through my mouth.
That very night, I shared while at a session with a beautiful soul whose been walking with me through the grief that has accompanied the loss of our babies that I don't feel like I'm the person I was even a year ago.
She nodded and smiled and agreed, saying that my spirit was calmer, my demeanor softer, my heart less guarded. And while I'd never choose to walk that path of hurt again, I could now appreciate what suffering has produced in my character, my spirit, my heart. All of that doesn't make the loss any less stinging, but it does grow hope in a weary heart that is so very tired of hurting.
I left that session feeling stronger, more of the woman I was created to be than I had in months, even years.
And I left that session realizing that what I thought couldn't be true is, indeed, true-- every storm runs out of rain, passes at some point. I think, perhaps that visual prayer that was an umbrella of hope over my head for so long needs to be passed along, too, a small but mighty shield from the storms of life, a traveling reminder that our hearts can hope for healing because He does heal and He is Healer.
And it will be accompanied by a journal with my story of the healing {and hopefully passed along again with another story of healing}, a traveling visual prayer of hope with stories of how the storms have passed and what He did in the midst.
For Michelle, the painter of my visual prayer, fellow hope seeker and heart-companion who keeps pointing me back to Jesus.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Life After Miscarriage: Dear Selah
My dear Selah,
I certainly thought at the dawn of the new year that I'd either be holding you in my arms this week or anticipating your pending arrival. When you slipped into eternity after 12 weeks nestled in the depths of my womb, I was broken hearted and just plain broken.
I simply couldn't believe we'd lost you; I thought you'd call these arms, this family, this place here on Earth home for longer than your short life here. When I birthed you and held your tiny body, I marveled at your small but perfect form. We named you Selah because in the Psalms, the Psalmists often put a break in their Psalms with the word Selah -- a pregnant pause of sorts, a praise to God. But there really isn't an accurate direct translation ... Your name is fitting.
Because you, beautiful soul, have been just that for me -- a pregnant pause. A long, drawn-out pause amid the hectic nature of life, calling my attention to beauty and miracles and overflow.
For days turned weeks turned months, I longed for you; the empty inside of me screamed and the space where you once fit ached, the heaviest empty I've known in years.
Truth be told, that empty wasn't yours to fill, and you know that because where you dwell there is no empty. There's only overflow.
But your life -- it made me pause, long and slow and steady. It pushed me to the Filler of the Empty, asking, aching to be filled. It pushed me to consider the faith I've long clung to; it pushed me to claim the promise that whenever we seek, we find Him waiting, ready to take that ocean of empty I thought I could fill bucket full at a time, with His very self. Your life showed me that beauty and miracles and overflow are often born of pain and grief and empty.
You are a praise to God from my lips.
You are not the baby we lost. We know you are; you dwell in very depths of goodness and in my heart.
And because of your life and because of His goodness, you'll always live in the overflow there inside my chest instead of in the empty.
I love you,
Mommy
Friday, June 7, 2013
Healing: Undressed
He met with me graciously in a quaint bedroom-turned-office, a moment where I could feel the warmth of God's breath on my neck.
I sat on the couch across from Michelle, a woman who's graciously been walking with me through the grief and healing of losing another baby during pregnancy, as she thanked God for being healer and restorer, almighty and good and then petitioned God to remind me of a time when I felt loved, cared for, safe.
Because after losing another baby, I've needed constant reminders of those feelings to heal. After losing a baby and knowing week by week how far along in the pregnancy I would have been had the baby lived, I've needed pictures of tender care to remind me that God isn't the pain I've been feeling but rather He's the comfort in the pain.
Through deep breaths and hands open wide, God brought to mind a time when I was small and sick. Small and uncomfortable and sitting in an oatmeal bath at my grandparents' house.
The itching was relentless, and my had grandmother pulled me out of the tub and proceeded to gather a cotton ball and calamine lotion to dab each and every sore on my skin.
And as I remembered her care, her love poured out in the act of trying to ease my pain, God whispered to my heart that He wanted to do the same with all of the sores coating my heartskin, all of the wounds that are still open and gaping.
But I'd have to stop running from the pain. I'd have to stop shooing away the hurt when it surfaced while deleting another "Your Pregnancy This Week" email. Or while looking at the calendar for September, wide open and clear. Or while remembering the other two babies who never snuggled into my arms.
I'd have to stop hiding myself away beneath the clothing of coping, and I'd have to shed those clothes and sit in the healing waters He offers and bring to Him my sores and allow Him to dab the lotion on with cotton balls.
I'd have to remember what it's like to come before a loving caregiver as a child in need, to shed the clothes of cover I've been hiding beneath and find freedom and comfort in sitting before Him in my own skin, wounded as it is.
And could I?
Could I do that?
Could I just trust the God who sent me the grandmother who'd poured love over me in a vulnerable season to also pour love over me in another vulnerable season?
On a couch, in small quaint bedroom-turned-office, on a cool Early- June day, I decided I could.
And I undressed from the clothes of coping and stood still as He dabbed the first of the sores, relief cooling the first of many.
Relief in losing the clothes that I've been outgrowing and that no longer fit.
Relief in remembering what it's like to be safe despite feeling underdressed.
Are you walking through a season of grief and need someone to walk alongside you? Michelle Lenz at Cherry Hill Counseling in Lake Zurich has been walking beside me, and I'd be happy to connect you with her. This isn't a sponsored post; just a helping hand extended because, you know, sometimes we can't walk through pain alone.
I sat on the couch across from Michelle, a woman who's graciously been walking with me through the grief and healing of losing another baby during pregnancy, as she thanked God for being healer and restorer, almighty and good and then petitioned God to remind me of a time when I felt loved, cared for, safe.
Because after losing another baby, I've needed constant reminders of those feelings to heal. After losing a baby and knowing week by week how far along in the pregnancy I would have been had the baby lived, I've needed pictures of tender care to remind me that God isn't the pain I've been feeling but rather He's the comfort in the pain.
Through deep breaths and hands open wide, God brought to mind a time when I was small and sick. Small and uncomfortable and sitting in an oatmeal bath at my grandparents' house.
The itching was relentless, and my had grandmother pulled me out of the tub and proceeded to gather a cotton ball and calamine lotion to dab each and every sore on my skin.
And as I remembered her care, her love poured out in the act of trying to ease my pain, God whispered to my heart that He wanted to do the same with all of the sores coating my heartskin, all of the wounds that are still open and gaping.
But I'd have to stop running from the pain. I'd have to stop shooing away the hurt when it surfaced while deleting another "Your Pregnancy This Week" email. Or while looking at the calendar for September, wide open and clear. Or while remembering the other two babies who never snuggled into my arms.
I'd have to stop hiding myself away beneath the clothing of coping, and I'd have to shed those clothes and sit in the healing waters He offers and bring to Him my sores and allow Him to dab the lotion on with cotton balls.
I'd have to remember what it's like to come before a loving caregiver as a child in need, to shed the clothes of cover I've been hiding beneath and find freedom and comfort in sitting before Him in my own skin, wounded as it is.
And could I?
Could I do that?
Could I just trust the God who sent me the grandmother who'd poured love over me in a vulnerable season to also pour love over me in another vulnerable season?
On a couch, in small quaint bedroom-turned-office, on a cool Early- June day, I decided I could.
And I undressed from the clothes of coping and stood still as He dabbed the first of the sores, relief cooling the first of many.
Relief in losing the clothes that I've been outgrowing and that no longer fit.
Relief in remembering what it's like to be safe despite feeling underdressed.
Are you walking through a season of grief and need someone to walk alongside you? Michelle Lenz at Cherry Hill Counseling in Lake Zurich has been walking beside me, and I'd be happy to connect you with her. This isn't a sponsored post; just a helping hand extended because, you know, sometimes we can't walk through pain alone.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Everyday Poetry: What Did We Know
I grabbed his hand and ran wild
into roped-off spaces of ancient digs
following a man with a machine gun into the shadows.
He said he knew then that he loved me;
why else would he have followed a wild-child of a beautiful mess
like me into the dark unknown of catacombs
half way around the world from
where he first read about them in books
dreamed of a brown-eyed girl.
But what did he know of love.
I followed him a few months later
a sparkling diamond on my ring finger
back to his old stomping grounds
promised I did and I do and I would.
But what did I know of vows.
I birthed him two babies
and we built a life and planted a garden
of trust and tears and laughter
in our backyard and living room,
found out what sickness and worse
and pockets of poorer meant.
Looked at each other, hands on hips,
from across the room some nights
before finally giving in,
melting into each other's arms
wondering aloud
what we knew of love.
I've stained his shirt with soft gray smudges of eyeliner
and hot tears more days than not now
in these four weeks and counting
since the baby in my womb traded
breathing amniotic fluid for angel air
And we've folded up into conversation
of babies gone
and sleeping soundly in the next room
of heavenly lights
and earthly darkness
of questions pleaded into the night
and answers given by morning sun
of a rugged tree where He was nailed
and an empty tomb where He was risen
Realizing exactly what we now know of love
and still also have yet to grasp.
into roped-off spaces of ancient digs
following a man with a machine gun into the shadows.
He said he knew then that he loved me;
why else would he have followed a wild-child of a beautiful mess
like me into the dark unknown of catacombs
half way around the world from
where he first read about them in books
dreamed of a brown-eyed girl.
But what did he know of love.
I followed him a few months later
a sparkling diamond on my ring finger
back to his old stomping grounds
promised I did and I do and I would.
But what did I know of vows.
I birthed him two babies
and we built a life and planted a garden
of trust and tears and laughter
in our backyard and living room,
found out what sickness and worse
and pockets of poorer meant.
Looked at each other, hands on hips,
from across the room some nights
before finally giving in,
melting into each other's arms
wondering aloud
what we knew of love.
I've stained his shirt with soft gray smudges of eyeliner
and hot tears more days than not now
in these four weeks and counting
since the baby in my womb traded
breathing amniotic fluid for angel air
And we've folded up into conversation
of babies gone
and sleeping soundly in the next room
of heavenly lights
and earthly darkness
of questions pleaded into the night
and answers given by morning sun
of a rugged tree where He was nailed
and an empty tomb where He was risen
Realizing exactly what we now know of love
and still also have yet to grasp.
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| Join us every Monday for every-day poetry during the month of April! |
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: The Sacred Ground
Gay marriage and circumcision and GMO foods and gun control.
All of these issues have been exploding all around me via social media and news and in-person conversation this week.
And I've been very quiet in the actual conversations mostly because I've been wrestling on the inside, crying out to God, asking him how to respond thoughtfully and lovingly to these ongoing debates as someone who proclaims to love Jesus, as someone who really loves people.
John and I have long dialogued about these issues and these types of issues and we're often on different pages or even chapters regarding the actual issues. And we still share an intimate life together, abiding in family and love under the same roof and even the same blankets.
With our different perspectives and experiences and thoughts, we often have to meet on the sacred ground of Jesus while abiding in the living Word He's given us.
And remember how He loved. How He interacted with sinners like us.
How He lived in the world but was not of the world. How He left us with His Spirit and His truth-filled Word.
Wednesday morning, a night after a long discussion ensued, I felt myself needing to just soak and saturate in the Word.
I read through 1 Corinthians and was struck by this one especially during this Holy Week.
"I do want to point out, friends, that time is of the essence. There is not time to waste, so don't complicate your lives unnecessarily. Keep it simple -- in marriage, grief, joy, whatever. Even in ordinary things -- your daily routines of shopping and so on. Deal as sparingly as possible with the things the world thrusts on you. This world as you see it is on its way out." {The Message, 1 Corinthians 7: 29-31}
Simply, life is about a reconciliation of our hearts to our Creator, and during this Holy Week especially, I think my own mind and heart need to take a step back from the issues of this world
and focus on the Savior of this world.
All of these issues have been exploding all around me via social media and news and in-person conversation this week.
And I've been very quiet in the actual conversations mostly because I've been wrestling on the inside, crying out to God, asking him how to respond thoughtfully and lovingly to these ongoing debates as someone who proclaims to love Jesus, as someone who really loves people.
John and I have long dialogued about these issues and these types of issues and we're often on different pages or even chapters regarding the actual issues. And we still share an intimate life together, abiding in family and love under the same roof and even the same blankets.
With our different perspectives and experiences and thoughts, we often have to meet on the sacred ground of Jesus while abiding in the living Word He's given us.
And remember how He loved. How He interacted with sinners like us.
How He lived in the world but was not of the world. How He left us with His Spirit and His truth-filled Word.
Wednesday morning, a night after a long discussion ensued, I felt myself needing to just soak and saturate in the Word.
I read through 1 Corinthians and was struck by this one especially during this Holy Week.
"I do want to point out, friends, that time is of the essence. There is not time to waste, so don't complicate your lives unnecessarily. Keep it simple -- in marriage, grief, joy, whatever. Even in ordinary things -- your daily routines of shopping and so on. Deal as sparingly as possible with the things the world thrusts on you. This world as you see it is on its way out." {The Message, 1 Corinthians 7: 29-31}
Simply, life is about a reconciliation of our hearts to our Creator, and during this Holy Week especially, I think my own mind and heart need to take a step back from the issues of this world
and focus on the Savior of this world.
Share your Bigger Picture Moment
Monday, December 24, 2012
'Twas the Write Before Christmas: All is Calm
It's unbelievable, she thinks
and no one would understand
try as she may to explain
that beneath a star bright shining against an inky sky
amid the busyness of crowds moving through the streets
surrounded by bundles of hay
that stillness
and peace
and beauty
shine brighter than any star in little eyes staring widely back into her own.
It's unbelievable
really
as the world rushes by
how the moment she held him in her arms
fresh from her womb
fresh from heaven
it all seemingly stopped spinning.
Breathing in His scent
in the midst of the chaos
in the craze in the dizziness of life
how all is calm in the moments
she spends meeting His gaze with her own
and
holding open her palms to be filled with Life.
and no one would understand
try as she may to explain
that beneath a star bright shining against an inky sky
amid the busyness of crowds moving through the streets
surrounded by bundles of hay
that stillness
and peace
and beauty
shine brighter than any star in little eyes staring widely back into her own.
It's unbelievable
really
as the world rushes by
how the moment she held him in her arms
fresh from her womb
fresh from heaven
it all seemingly stopped spinning.
Breathing in His scent
in the midst of the chaos
in the craze in the dizziness of life
how all is calm in the moments
she spends meeting His gaze with her own
and
holding open her palms to be filled with Life.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Bigger Picture Moments: Peace on Earth
Gently, the baby slumbering in her arms stirs in the sleepy shadows of 2 a.m.
She wonders if he's been stirring for longer than she realized; she'd been in a deep sleep, exhausted from the past few days filled with trudging through crowds, giving birth and meeting her new little one's needs.
Her son nuzzles her arm, his little mouth searching for milk a little more frantically than just a few seconds ago.
She turns his head toward her, sweeps his small body closer to her breast and deftly helps him secure a perfect latch, praying he falls back asleep quickly so she, too, can return to rest.
As he nuzzles his head into her chest, he nurses with intent.
The milk begins flowing, and his small hands relax against her stomach.
His breathing calms.
His legs rest against her body, while he quietly swallows, sucks and sighs in a sweet nursing song.
Her own heartbeat slows, muscles relax, comforted by his comfort.
She sweeps her hand through his thick, dark hair, exhales a soft breath of contentment onto his small head.
The thoughts filled with the past few day's events fade, and she revels in the peace that has swept over her body.
Unimaginable peace brought about by a baby, she muses in her mind, in the midst of a starry night.
Hope unexpected.
Peace on Earth.
Reposted from Dec. 14, 2010
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Share.
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Monday, December 17, 2012
'Twas the Write Before Christmas: The Brightest Light
"But Nothing is Impossible with God." Luke 1:37
It began heavy coated with darkness -- evil showing its face apparent Friday morning in the slaying of innocent lives in Newtown, CT, darkness trying to overshadow the third weekend of Advent.
I wanted to hide, crowd around the Light of Jesus, the only light that burns bright enough to set aglow a blaze of hope in the blackened sky.
I didn't want to go anywhere this weekend. I wanted to tuck safely my family in the comforts of our house, sit together in the soft shimmer of our Christmas tree and hibernate the weekend away
bask in the Light of Jesus
and keep far from the darkness that threatens to overshadow our land
because it seems impossible that the candle of Hope we hold in our meek hands
could burn bright enough to make light a world where small children are killed in a slew of evil rage
where women are sold into slavery daily
where lives waste away for lack of food and water.
****
It began in darkness -- the first Advent, the Christmas.
And in silence -- 400 years worth of silence from God,
His people waiting for a word, left to grasp onto a Promise made
that a deliverer would come and rescue them.
That first Christmas was thick with waiting,
darkness coating the land
people longing for a Promise fulfilled
longing for Light to sweep over the horizon and fill the sky with bright ways
that would wipe out the darkness, the hopelessness that had settled over the land.
****
Impossible.
It seems impossible that a girl who'd never come together with a man would be heavy with child.
That angels would appear to men and proclaim the Promises soon to be fulfilled.
That 400 years of silence from God would be broken by the cries of a newborn baby.
That a sweet baby, born humbly in a stable, would redeem us, would deliver the world from darkness not through sword and slay
but through death where the Light absorbed all the darkness of the world.
Impossible.
But what seems most impossible of all is that the same God who created millions of stars in the sky, millions of cells in our body, would leave His Heavenly home and come near.
That Jesus was Immanuel -- God with us, Light in the darkness.
"But nothing is impossible with God."****
I drag myself out of the house, reluctantly follow my family into the darkness covering thick our world, make our way into a busy weekend, the third weekend of Advent and hold meekly my candle of Hope burning, burning, burning ... looking for another wick to pass along some light.
It seems impossible, to set such a world of darkness ablaze with His light, His hope.
But so did a virgin birth, a baby king, a God who came near.
I remember the darkness in which they waited for any word
any light
any hope.
It seemed impossible.
"But nothing is impossible with God."I look at my hands, holding my candle
His Promise of Light
holding close the very God who came near
who is near.
It seems impossible.
We thread our arms and heart cries together with others in prayer.We live with His Light shining bright through us.
We hold open doors and speak kindness through well wishes to ears longing for those words.
We open-arm embrace through hugs those who need the warmth.
We bring gifts to those who have not.
We speak Love and Truth to friends.
We scrub dishes and prepare food and soft beds.
We hug our kids when they are hard to love
and offer love when our hearts are shredded into pieces.
And we remember the brightest Light
sets the world aglow
not in a fierce blaze
but by
candle of Hope
by candle of Hope
by candle Hope
one heart
at
a time.
Jesus said in Matthew 5:
"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven."
If you are a heart looking for Light in the darkness, may I suggest reading Luke 1-3? Or listening to Christmas Wrappings: Wrapped in Prophecy?
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| Join us for 'Twas the Write Before Christmas here |
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Thinking, That's All: In Grieving
Like most everyone else I know, my heart felt like it went through a paper shredder as news broke yesterday about the dozens of little lost lives in the Newtown elementary school shooting.
Shredded into millions of tiny pieces.
My sister happened to come over as the news was breaking, and we sat at my dining room table with her only and my youngest, weeping and praying ... mostly unable to even find words to cry even prayers.
What happened yesterday is undoubtedly and rightfully devastating to the Newtown community and particularly to the families who have suffered a heart-wrenchingly tragic loss.
But many of us onlookers are reeling, too, as if we were a physical part of that community, as if we actually knew the families who lost these precious babies when we know them only by news stories, only through our deep empathy and realizations that many of the families are likely much like our own.
Our grief seems to be deeply rooted, many of us so very truly broken hearted over the lives lost .... and maybe about more than just the lives lost.
Last night we went to a Christmas party, and I cried almost all the way there.
As I wept, I realized my grief stretched beyond sadness for the families and responders and the entire community; I grieved, too, the fallenness of our world. I grieved the evil that runs rampantly, like wildfire, throughout our world.
I grieved sin.
Oh. There's that word that separates, that divides, that stirs debate and conjures up definitions that are distorted.
I awoke to my mentor's thoughts, and I ate them for breakfast:
The kind of God, who by sending His son to be Immanuel -- God with us -- demonstrated His love for us through not only words and healing and love during His life as a man
but also demonstrated His love for us by making a way for us to be reconciled to Him through Jesus' death and resurrection, His conquering of both sin and the grave. The kind of God who gives us a choice to love Him, to choose Him.
I grieve that we choose to doubt His goodness, denying the crazy-awesome love of that kind of God -- the kind who loves us more than life and into eternity.
I grieve sin.
And that's where I'm left still and silent, heart heavy and weeping while the world continues to spin.
How are we supposed to celebrate at parties while our hearts are broken? How are we supposed to laugh and be merry in the middle of our deep sadness? How are we supposed to celebrate Christmas as we mourn and grieve?
As I spill these heart cries to a friend she asks, voice filled with compassion,
"How are we not?"
How are we not supposed to celebrate beauty, goodness and love even as we mourn and grieve?
We can grieve evil, grieve tragedy, grieve fallenness, but we cannot let it steal our joy or else evil takes more than what it deserves.
And in clinging to our true joy -- the hope we have in a God who came near, who made a way for us in our brokenness through Jesus to come to Him in His goodness, who promised to destroy sin for good on a day yet to come -- we offer Light in the darkness, Hope to the hopeless, Wholeness to the broken.
How should we best grieve as people who know this Light, this Hope, this Wholeness? {1 Thessalonians 4:13}
We comfort the afflicted.
We come to Him as we are, speechless as we may be as the "Spirit intercedes for us through wordless groans." {Romans 8:26}
We give to Him our anxiety and "with Thanksgiving through prayer and petition make our requests known to God." {Philippians 4:6}
Shredded into millions of tiny pieces.
My sister happened to come over as the news was breaking, and we sat at my dining room table with her only and my youngest, weeping and praying ... mostly unable to even find words to cry even prayers.
What happened yesterday is undoubtedly and rightfully devastating to the Newtown community and particularly to the families who have suffered a heart-wrenchingly tragic loss.
But many of us onlookers are reeling, too, as if we were a physical part of that community, as if we actually knew the families who lost these precious babies when we know them only by news stories, only through our deep empathy and realizations that many of the families are likely much like our own.
Our grief seems to be deeply rooted, many of us so very truly broken hearted over the lives lost .... and maybe about more than just the lives lost.
Last night we went to a Christmas party, and I cried almost all the way there.
As I wept, I realized my grief stretched beyond sadness for the families and responders and the entire community; I grieved, too, the fallenness of our world. I grieved the evil that runs rampantly, like wildfire, throughout our world.
I grieved sin.
Oh. There's that word that separates, that divides, that stirs debate and conjures up definitions that are distorted.
I awoke to my mentor's thoughts, and I ate them for breakfast:
"We live in a world of relativism. This week's events in OR and CT declare loudly that there are absolutes—not everything is grey. Evil exists. Sin exists. Some things are not just poor choices, they are fundamentally wrong and offensive to a holy God. As a nation, we've seen God's standards profoundly violated this week, and I think on some level all of us whose hearts are breaking know this to be true."Sin -- the very choices we make that are in direct opposition to a good God, a holy God, a righteous God, a loving God -- the kind of God who didn't just make a bunch of rules and leave us to figure existence and eternity out on our own, but the kind of God who came near.
The kind of God, who by sending His son to be Immanuel -- God with us -- demonstrated His love for us through not only words and healing and love during His life as a man
but also demonstrated His love for us by making a way for us to be reconciled to Him through Jesus' death and resurrection, His conquering of both sin and the grave. The kind of God who gives us a choice to love Him, to choose Him.
I grieve that we choose to doubt His goodness, denying the crazy-awesome love of that kind of God -- the kind who loves us more than life and into eternity.
I grieve sin.
And that's where I'm left still and silent, heart heavy and weeping while the world continues to spin.
How are we supposed to celebrate at parties while our hearts are broken? How are we supposed to laugh and be merry in the middle of our deep sadness? How are we supposed to celebrate Christmas as we mourn and grieve?
As I spill these heart cries to a friend she asks, voice filled with compassion,
"How are we not?"
How are we not supposed to celebrate beauty, goodness and love even as we mourn and grieve?
We can grieve evil, grieve tragedy, grieve fallenness, but we cannot let it steal our joy or else evil takes more than what it deserves.
And in clinging to our true joy -- the hope we have in a God who came near, who made a way for us in our brokenness through Jesus to come to Him in His goodness, who promised to destroy sin for good on a day yet to come -- we offer Light in the darkness, Hope to the hopeless, Wholeness to the broken.
How should we best grieve as people who know this Light, this Hope, this Wholeness? {1 Thessalonians 4:13}
We comfort the afflicted.
We come to Him as we are, speechless as we may be as the "Spirit intercedes for us through wordless groans." {Romans 8:26}
We give to Him our anxiety and "with Thanksgiving through prayer and petition make our requests known to God." {Philippians 4:6}
We share the Jesus who came to "bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners." {Luke 4:18-21}
And we to cling to joy, hopeful and knowing that in the end, God, in His tireless love, wins.
Why am I so certain of God's promises? Because He has been crazy faithful in my life and in this world throughout history. Click here for a really good listen about why we can trust God. Choose "Christmas Wrappings: Wrapped in Prophecy" by Josh Peterson.
And we to cling to joy, hopeful and knowing that in the end, God, in His tireless love, wins.
Why am I so certain of God's promises? Because He has been crazy faithful in my life and in this world throughout history. Click here for a really good listen about why we can trust God. Choose "Christmas Wrappings: Wrapped in Prophecy" by Josh Peterson.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
'Twas the Write Before Christmas: Rebirth in Self Truths
So in the beginning there are small fingers and tiny toes
and no mother's heart seems to really grasp
that the fingers she holds and toes that meet her lips
will one day, perhaps, be bigger than her own.
Mary, she knew, that smallness was destined to be greatness.
But probably, it was just beyond her heart,
that smallness would become such Bigness.
These ever-growing bodies
these reminders
that smallness is fleeting
and has no indicator of
how wide
how deep
how long
it can grow.
I am reborn through Grace every day
to love
and Love.
And am reminded of such love
and Love
born in smallness and growing into bigness
and Bigness
every time feet that once fit inside the palm of my hand
outgrow another pair of shoes,
travel little pieces of my heart further from me
in ever-growing portions.
Inspired by the 'Twas the Write Before Christmas Day Six prompt:
and no mother's heart seems to really grasp
that the fingers she holds and toes that meet her lips
will one day, perhaps, be bigger than her own.
Mary, she knew, that smallness was destined to be greatness.
But probably, it was just beyond her heart,
that smallness would become such Bigness.
These ever-growing bodies
these reminders
that smallness is fleeting
and has no indicator of
how wide
how deep
how long
it can grow.
I am reborn through Grace every day
to love
and Love.
And am reminded of such love
and Love
born in smallness and growing into bigness
and Bigness
every time feet that once fit inside the palm of my hand
outgrow another pair of shoes,
travel little pieces of my heart further from me
in ever-growing portions.
Inspired by the 'Twas the Write Before Christmas Day Six prompt:
 |
| Join us in creating as we get into the Christmas spirit! |
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
'Twas the Write Before Christmas: Brimming in Scarlet
I wonder
what she thought
that night
when heaven
and her body burst open
poured out
Love covered in the skin of a tiny baby
tucked gently into her shaky arms.
I wonder
if all the long stares
and whispers spoken
as she walked by clearly round
and newly bound in a marriage vow
all faded into background noise
the moment she kissed his small head.
If while the manger was brimming in scarlet,
her labor cries piercing a dark night sky,
immediately glittered star-silver-beautiful
when she first fell deep into his eyes.
I wonder if she long treasured
more than mighty words to come promising His greatness,
simply sat soaking in the sweet smell of Heaven
freshly dusted on the softest skin
she'd ever felt on her fingers
her lips
her heart.
what she thought
that night
when heaven
and her body burst open
poured out
Love covered in the skin of a tiny baby
tucked gently into her shaky arms.
I wonder
if all the long stares
and whispers spoken
as she walked by clearly round
and newly bound in a marriage vow
all faded into background noise
the moment she kissed his small head.
If while the manger was brimming in scarlet,
her labor cries piercing a dark night sky,
immediately glittered star-silver-beautiful
when she first fell deep into his eyes.
I wonder if she long treasured
more than mighty words to come promising His greatness,
simply sat soaking in the sweet smell of Heaven
freshly dusted on the softest skin
she'd ever felt on her fingers
her lips
her heart.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Celebrating Christmas: The Secret of Gift Giving
Some days I think the wrong things are overflowing inside these four walls we call home:
boxes of Legos
and recycling bins
and mailboxes filled with ads, some bills and lots of catalogues
and baskets of laundry
and large plastic boxes filled with the tokens we've accumulated along the years.
The oldest, he complains about not having a cookie alongside his ice cream.
The little one, his temper flares when turn off the TV after an entire morning of Curious George.
The parents, we scoff whenever the Internet has slowed to a crawl or when there is mud tracked from small boots across the hallway floors.
And my own heart, it groans at the thought of yet another sinkfull of dishes, high and towering after a hearty, filling meal.
Light dawns on the reality of the lay of our slice of Earth -- that which we thought of as blessings has actually become overgrown.
We are chest-deep in a a mess of thick weed-vines wrapped around our hearts, binding us up in the tangles of overabundance.
There is pressure and suffocation and with every mounting item, the vines, they tighten and pull and smother out the gratitude that comes when our blessings seem few.
We don't want to be the Christmas grinches, but both John and I have been thinking about abandoning the tradition of gift giving.
I've longed to take a torch to the weeds and attempt a controlled burn; and the thought of carrying in new seed to the overflowing garden makes me gasp a bit for air.
We weigh the idea heavily -- to radically abandon giving each other gifts and instead give generously to those actually in need -- and we cannot come to a peace.
While we're ready to untangle from the mess of vines, we know that others are not -- namely two little boys.
As we pray and think and converse over the weeks spanning before Advent begins, I'm reminded that clearing the visible weed doesn't rid the garden of weed seed.
We can remove presents from Christmas and reduce the amount of vines, but what good is that if we grow seeds of bitterness in the hearts of our sons? What good have we accomplished if we've stopped others from giving to our family out of love?
After all, there is joy in giving because when we give we emulate the best Gift Giver of all -- He who sent us a King of King in the flesh of a swaddled baby boy meant to plow the soils of our hearts and burn the bad seeds only to replace them with the fruit of the Spirit.
And there lies the secret of giving.
If we want to best emulate the Best Giver, we must give not just good gifts, but irreplaceable gifts.
And maybe those gifts don't come wrapped in big, shiny packages and fit comfortably under the tree.
Maybe those gifts can't be stuffed into stockings or bought at the store.
Maybe those gifts never go on sale.
Maybe those gifts are tiny seeds of time spent together, memories made, lessons learned in living out loud, life experienced together.
Maybe those are the seeds of gifts that begin to grow in the heart and choke out the weeds, untangling the heart without, too, setting it on red-hot fire.
boxes of Legos
and recycling bins
and mailboxes filled with ads, some bills and lots of catalogues
and baskets of laundry
and large plastic boxes filled with the tokens we've accumulated along the years.
The oldest, he complains about not having a cookie alongside his ice cream.
The little one, his temper flares when turn off the TV after an entire morning of Curious George.
The parents, we scoff whenever the Internet has slowed to a crawl or when there is mud tracked from small boots across the hallway floors.
And my own heart, it groans at the thought of yet another sinkfull of dishes, high and towering after a hearty, filling meal.
Light dawns on the reality of the lay of our slice of Earth -- that which we thought of as blessings has actually become overgrown.
We are chest-deep in a a mess of thick weed-vines wrapped around our hearts, binding us up in the tangles of overabundance.
There is pressure and suffocation and with every mounting item, the vines, they tighten and pull and smother out the gratitude that comes when our blessings seem few.
We don't want to be the Christmas grinches, but both John and I have been thinking about abandoning the tradition of gift giving.
I've longed to take a torch to the weeds and attempt a controlled burn; and the thought of carrying in new seed to the overflowing garden makes me gasp a bit for air.
We weigh the idea heavily -- to radically abandon giving each other gifts and instead give generously to those actually in need -- and we cannot come to a peace.
While we're ready to untangle from the mess of vines, we know that others are not -- namely two little boys.
As we pray and think and converse over the weeks spanning before Advent begins, I'm reminded that clearing the visible weed doesn't rid the garden of weed seed.
We can remove presents from Christmas and reduce the amount of vines, but what good is that if we grow seeds of bitterness in the hearts of our sons? What good have we accomplished if we've stopped others from giving to our family out of love?
After all, there is joy in giving because when we give we emulate the best Gift Giver of all -- He who sent us a King of King in the flesh of a swaddled baby boy meant to plow the soils of our hearts and burn the bad seeds only to replace them with the fruit of the Spirit.
And there lies the secret of giving.
If we want to best emulate the Best Giver, we must give not just good gifts, but irreplaceable gifts.
And maybe those gifts don't come wrapped in big, shiny packages and fit comfortably under the tree.
Maybe those gifts can't be stuffed into stockings or bought at the store.
Maybe those gifts never go on sale.
Maybe those gifts are tiny seeds of time spent together, memories made, lessons learned in living out loud, life experienced together.
Maybe those are the seeds of gifts that begin to grow in the heart and choke out the weeds, untangling the heart without, too, setting it on red-hot fire.
Monday, November 5, 2012
The Bigger Picture: How I'm Voting Tuesday
Honestly, I don't write about politics or religion for two extremely good reasons:
I still want to be friends after you're done reading
and
The political is deeply personal.
Heated, intense debates about moral issues turned government debates that many of the religious right and liberal left and everyone in between often heatedly word-spar about especially around election times?
I still want to be friends after you're done reading
and
The political is deeply personal.
Heated, intense debates about moral issues turned government debates that many of the religious right and liberal left and everyone in between often heatedly word-spar about especially around election times?
I don't want to even want to touch on those subjects in a blog post because honestly it's a lot like discussing s*x life or something equally as personal.
And those types of deep discussions, I believe, deserve face-to-face, flesh-to-flesh interaction.
And those types of deep discussions, I believe, deserve face-to-face, flesh-to-flesh interaction.
I think I've sorely overlooked a game-changing differentiation:
just like I've long differentiated religion from my relationship with God because while they are seemingly the same to some they are immensely different to me, I've long needed to separate the politics from leadership.
But this morning, in Divine revelation, it clicked. And I walked away from a message by our senior pastor about God and Government compelled to share how I'm voting Tuesday. {The rest of this post is largely inspired by his message, which you can listen to here.}
Because maybe, if you're like me, you've been so caught up in the political you've missed the essence of elections: leadership.
Honestly, though? It's easy to miss when we're totally bombarded by the issues:
Economy. Taxes. Health Care. Women's Rights. The Right to life. Social justice. The separation of church and state.
These are all issues, and I agree they are important ones that affect our daily lives. Personally, I've long clung to the separation of church and state because, really, I don't want my government telling me who I can and cannot worship. I deeply appreciate our religious liberties, and I'm thankful I live in a country where I won't be jailed or stoned for pledging my heart to Jesus.
And there's also a long list of other things I don't want my government telling me what I can and can't do with, oh, say my body or my family or my business.
But the thing is -- all of these issues become bullet points on platforms that serve to divide rather than unite, points of contention rather than discussion detracting from the real issue I'd barely given thought about during the process leading up to me visiting the polls: leadership and character.
What makes for a good leader? Really.
Ones who have inspired good and who have led by example and who have walked the walk?
Is what makes a good leader a laundry list of qualification, degrees, pedigrees, awards, distinguishings?
Because we've had a WHOLE lot of that recently, and it's seemingly left us parched and thirsty for something more.
When I think of good leaders I think of people who left the world a better place. People like Mother Theresa. People like Martin Luther King. People like Jesus.
People who weren't just giving orders from the top but those who were serving others on a day-to-day basis. Who were feeding the hungry while they, perhaps, were hungry. Who were standing alongside those being oppressed while also in oppression. And, in the ultimate act of servant leadership, Jesus, who took on the flesh of being human and washed feet knowing fully that He was the Creator of those feet, who took all fault as He bore a heavy cross though He was faultless.
Those who ruled in love, humility. Those who didn't just serve at a job but served with their lives.
God's qualifications of a good leader set the bar at a high standard not only in the example of Jesus but also in word:
"Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him. For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." 1 Samuel 16:7
"But select capable men from all the people—men who fear God, trustworthy men who hate dishonest gain." Exodus 18:21
Now I know full well that platforms can essentially have been built on values and values stem from character but in our political system it seems that platforms are more built on party systems.
And I think that distracts us from really looking at the integrity of character of those we seek to elect to make decisions on our behalf.
Do we need to take some of the platform issues to the polls with us to help make our decisions?
Yes, but I really think the driving issues should be ones that reveal the character of those we are electing.
What do not only their platforms but their lives say about the heart? About their willingness to be a servant leader? About their fear of a good and righteous God? About trustworthiness? About their disdain for dishonest gain?
I can't help but to think that if we voted for our leaders based on heart rather than appearance -- political party, oozing presidential essence, pedigrees, race, gender, etc --
that if we elected a servant instead of a "leader" in the definition of the word we've come to embrace
there may be no need for such political platforms and heated discussion
because we'd be taking the political out of politics and redefining it as service.
So how am I voting tomorrow?
I can't sum it up by simply naming parties, citing blue or red or green, naming supporters on one side or another of a specific issue.
How I'm voting is for the heart with the heart -- by prayerfully and carefully selecting those who mostly closely resemble "capable {people} from all the people— {people} who fear God, trustworthy {people} who hate dishonest gain."
{Comment rules: You may politely disagree. You may politely state an opposing opinion. You may share encouragement or other ideas that have encouraged and directed you as you prepare to vote.
There is no room for rudeness, name calling, bashing {of me or each other in the comments} or general mean spirited remarks. Any comment that doesn't exhibit care or respect will be deleted.}
And there's also a long list of other things I don't want my government telling me what I can and can't do with, oh, say my body or my family or my business.
But the thing is -- all of these issues become bullet points on platforms that serve to divide rather than unite, points of contention rather than discussion detracting from the real issue I'd barely given thought about during the process leading up to me visiting the polls: leadership and character.
What makes for a good leader? Really.
Ones who have inspired good and who have led by example and who have walked the walk?
Is what makes a good leader a laundry list of qualification, degrees, pedigrees, awards, distinguishings?
Because we've had a WHOLE lot of that recently, and it's seemingly left us parched and thirsty for something more.
When I think of good leaders I think of people who left the world a better place. People like Mother Theresa. People like Martin Luther King. People like Jesus.
People who weren't just giving orders from the top but those who were serving others on a day-to-day basis. Who were feeding the hungry while they, perhaps, were hungry. Who were standing alongside those being oppressed while also in oppression. And, in the ultimate act of servant leadership, Jesus, who took on the flesh of being human and washed feet knowing fully that He was the Creator of those feet, who took all fault as He bore a heavy cross though He was faultless.
Those who ruled in love, humility. Those who didn't just serve at a job but served with their lives.
God's qualifications of a good leader set the bar at a high standard not only in the example of Jesus but also in word:
"Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him. For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." 1 Samuel 16:7
"But select capable men from all the people—men who fear God, trustworthy men who hate dishonest gain." Exodus 18:21
The heart.Leadership is built on a foundation of heart rather than towering platforms.
A fear of the Lord, who is good and righteous.
Trustworthy.
Those who hate dishonest gain.
Now I know full well that platforms can essentially have been built on values and values stem from character but in our political system it seems that platforms are more built on party systems.
And I think that distracts us from really looking at the integrity of character of those we seek to elect to make decisions on our behalf.
Do we need to take some of the platform issues to the polls with us to help make our decisions?
Yes, but I really think the driving issues should be ones that reveal the character of those we are electing.
What do not only their platforms but their lives say about the heart? About their willingness to be a servant leader? About their fear of a good and righteous God? About trustworthiness? About their disdain for dishonest gain?
I can't help but to think that if we voted for our leaders based on heart rather than appearance -- political party, oozing presidential essence, pedigrees, race, gender, etc --
that if we elected a servant instead of a "leader" in the definition of the word we've come to embrace
there may be no need for such political platforms and heated discussion
because we'd be taking the political out of politics and redefining it as service.
So how am I voting tomorrow?
I can't sum it up by simply naming parties, citing blue or red or green, naming supporters on one side or another of a specific issue.
How I'm voting is for the heart with the heart -- by prayerfully and carefully selecting those who mostly closely resemble "capable {people} from all the people— {people} who fear God, trustworthy {people} who hate dishonest gain."
{Comment rules: You may politely disagree. You may politely state an opposing opinion. You may share encouragement or other ideas that have encouraged and directed you as you prepare to vote.
There is no room for rudeness, name calling, bashing {of me or each other in the comments} or general mean spirited remarks. Any comment that doesn't exhibit care or respect will be deleted.}
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Thinking, That's All: On Busyness and Superficiality
"Superficiality is the curse of our age. The desperate need today is not for more intelligent people, more gifted people but for deep people." Richard Foster
In the busyness, the chaotic clutter of an over scheduled life, I felt this pang of loneliness in my heart that never really left.
Until about six months ago, I was so inundated with plans and to-do lists, that I couldn't even find time to have coffee with friends without scheduling it two weeks in advance.
I didn't think it was a problem at first; I was busy with really, really good stuff.
The stuff that suburban house-wife dreams are made of -- volunteering, Bible studies, attachment parenting group meetings, preschool meetings, meetings at our small business, MOPs meetings, babywearing meetings, church, blogging meetings.
Really, really good stuff.
Really, really good stuff that when laid out on a calendar seemed daunting and completely overwhelming.
And isolating.
And, erm, kind of empty.
And all of the sudden, I'm the guy with the trash bag bursting open in the middle of the garage and raising my hands in complete anxiety toward the heavens while sporting a robe and slippers and wondering if this is as good as it gets: {Watch this if that visual doesn't make sense}
The Emerging Journey: An Invitation... from VANTAGEPOINT3 on Vimeo.
Isn't there more to living than this -- this busy, overcommitted, over scheduled, relationships-on-the-backburner kind of life?
That's the question I was asking myself about a year ago when my mentor extended an invitation to apply for Vantage Point3, the Emerging Journey at our church.
She was vague about this nine-month-long, homework-included VP3 class, but I was intrigued, nonetheless.
Without ever knowing what I was getting myself into, I submitted an application.
And about three weeks into the class, questions about who God is and who I am and what God really wanted me to do with my life began to rock my world, much the way an earthquake shakes up a house -- knocking out old foundation blocks, jiggling and revealing faulty connections, ripping apart loose beams.
But God, the gracious carpenter, rebuilder that He is, moved in and began repairing the foundations, relying the bricks and reinforcing the beams.
In that rebuilding, I began to understand that busyness did not mean important.
Busyness didn't mean successful.
And busyness didn't mean productive.
Busyness was the bricks I'd haphazardly tried to shove to fill holes of loneliness and need for success into my own cracking foundation.
And while I was shoving replacement parts, regardless of whether they were built to do such a job, into places that needed reinforcement, it felt study.
Until it didn't.
VP3 helped me sort through these thoughts and take the time I desperately needed to reflect on what exactly I'd been doing.
And what God had been up to while I was busy doing whatever I'd deemed important.
During our leader training this week, I reflected on the journey I'd taken with VP3 and I began hearing the words of Richard Foster with ears that hear:
Often, busyness breeds intelligence, skill and utilizes giftedness.
But it steals the time needed to become deep people --
the time required to pay attention in the stillness to what God is up to in our own lives and in the world around us and in our neighbor's lives.
the time it takes to reflect on who God is and who we've been created to be.
the time necessary for building relationships and vesting our giftedness into people who are also part of our journey.
I know for me, I spent so much time building my resumes and building my skills and building my own small kingdom, that I totally missed the part with which God's always been most concerned about building: my character, the depth of my person, the foundations of my soul.
If superficiality is the curse of our age, busyness most certainly is the spell that casts the curse.
Each day I fight being bound up in its empty spell, but it's a battle I've deemed worthy of waging.
{If this strikes a chord in your heart, maybe VP3 might find a home in your heart, your church. If you're interested, I'd be happy to connect you with the coordinators of the program.}
****
Today as I begin my third year of Vantage Point 3, year one, with a new group of journeyers, I still find these truths I wrote more than a year ago to be applicable and persistent. Would you pray for our this new group and this new year as we walk together on our journey of discovering who God is, who we are and what God is already up to in our lives? Blessings on your Wednesday, friends.
In the busyness, the chaotic clutter of an over scheduled life, I felt this pang of loneliness in my heart that never really left.
Until about six months ago, I was so inundated with plans and to-do lists, that I couldn't even find time to have coffee with friends without scheduling it two weeks in advance.
I didn't think it was a problem at first; I was busy with really, really good stuff.
The stuff that suburban house-wife dreams are made of -- volunteering, Bible studies, attachment parenting group meetings, preschool meetings, meetings at our small business, MOPs meetings, babywearing meetings, church, blogging meetings.
Really, really good stuff.
Really, really good stuff that when laid out on a calendar seemed daunting and completely overwhelming.
And isolating.
And, erm, kind of empty.
And all of the sudden, I'm the guy with the trash bag bursting open in the middle of the garage and raising my hands in complete anxiety toward the heavens while sporting a robe and slippers and wondering if this is as good as it gets: {Watch this if that visual doesn't make sense}
The Emerging Journey: An Invitation... from VANTAGEPOINT3 on Vimeo.
Isn't there more to living than this -- this busy, overcommitted, over scheduled, relationships-on-the-backburner kind of life?
That's the question I was asking myself about a year ago when my mentor extended an invitation to apply for Vantage Point3, the Emerging Journey at our church.
She was vague about this nine-month-long, homework-included VP3 class, but I was intrigued, nonetheless.
Without ever knowing what I was getting myself into, I submitted an application.
And about three weeks into the class, questions about who God is and who I am and what God really wanted me to do with my life began to rock my world, much the way an earthquake shakes up a house -- knocking out old foundation blocks, jiggling and revealing faulty connections, ripping apart loose beams.
But God, the gracious carpenter, rebuilder that He is, moved in and began repairing the foundations, relying the bricks and reinforcing the beams.
In that rebuilding, I began to understand that busyness did not mean important.
Busyness didn't mean successful.
And busyness didn't mean productive.
Busyness was the bricks I'd haphazardly tried to shove to fill holes of loneliness and need for success into my own cracking foundation.
And while I was shoving replacement parts, regardless of whether they were built to do such a job, into places that needed reinforcement, it felt study.
Until it didn't.
VP3 helped me sort through these thoughts and take the time I desperately needed to reflect on what exactly I'd been doing.
And what God had been up to while I was busy doing whatever I'd deemed important.
During our leader training this week, I reflected on the journey I'd taken with VP3 and I began hearing the words of Richard Foster with ears that hear:
"Superficiality is the curse of our age. The desperate need today is not for more intelligent people, more gifted people but for deep people."
Often, busyness breeds intelligence, skill and utilizes giftedness.
But it steals the time needed to become deep people --
the time required to pay attention in the stillness to what God is up to in our own lives and in the world around us and in our neighbor's lives.
the time it takes to reflect on who God is and who we've been created to be.
the time necessary for building relationships and vesting our giftedness into people who are also part of our journey.
I know for me, I spent so much time building my resumes and building my skills and building my own small kingdom, that I totally missed the part with which God's always been most concerned about building: my character, the depth of my person, the foundations of my soul.
If superficiality is the curse of our age, busyness most certainly is the spell that casts the curse.
Each day I fight being bound up in its empty spell, but it's a battle I've deemed worthy of waging.
{If this strikes a chord in your heart, maybe VP3 might find a home in your heart, your church. If you're interested, I'd be happy to connect you with the coordinators of the program.}
****
Today as I begin my third year of Vantage Point 3, year one, with a new group of journeyers, I still find these truths I wrote more than a year ago to be applicable and persistent. Would you pray for our this new group and this new year as we walk together on our journey of discovering who God is, who we are and what God is already up to in our lives? Blessings on your Wednesday, friends.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Bigger Picture Moments: Flood Waters
My mind has been absolutely drenched this week with a torrential downpour of thoughts.
And I'm left struggling to remember what to do with all this water after such a long drought.
We had a relatively quiet winter and spring event-wise and decision-wise, which was good because so much of our energy had to go into simply just parenting and connecting with each other and making it through each day while I was entrenched in such intense healing.
A drought of major life events and a break from heavy decision-making was needed for sure.
But it feels like during the past month, the clouds have rushed forth, broken open and begun pouring on us; it's not necessarily bad, because you know, rain is needed -- both in gardens and in life.
It's just, well, heavy and saturating.
Earlier this week, on what was my anticipated due date prior to miscarrying last fall a sweet little love, I realized I'm not just dripping wet and soaked with thoughts about, well, everything but that I've actually been caught up and washed away in the flood.
I've been short in patience, fast to sleep, slow to rise and quick to get all wires of communication crossed, my overworked brain unable to transmit correctly all of the information floating around in my head.
Classic over-saturation.
The beauty of this is that I now realize when I've hit that point of feeling like I'm floating away on all the rainwater of thoughts before I'm tumbling over waterfalls.
But I'm still further downstream than I'd like, flailing and kicking and grabbing onto tree branches, attempting to pull myself out.
Yesterday, as I grasped at leaves, God in all His goodness threw me a line first thing in the morning in my devotions. And then again -- just to make sure I didn't miss it -- while I was at our last Bible study session of the summer.
"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me." Jesus in John 10:27
A call to quiet the downpour of thoughts. A whisper to stop fighting against the current and let the Good Sheperd pull me out and carry me against His chest.
Because, I remember in the midst,
sheep were meant for still waters
not deep, rushing, rolling floods.
Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week..
Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.
Capture.
Harvest them!
Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Alita's. Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.
Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.
And I'm left struggling to remember what to do with all this water after such a long drought.
We had a relatively quiet winter and spring event-wise and decision-wise, which was good because so much of our energy had to go into simply just parenting and connecting with each other and making it through each day while I was entrenched in such intense healing.
A drought of major life events and a break from heavy decision-making was needed for sure.
But it feels like during the past month, the clouds have rushed forth, broken open and begun pouring on us; it's not necessarily bad, because you know, rain is needed -- both in gardens and in life.
It's just, well, heavy and saturating.
Earlier this week, on what was my anticipated due date prior to miscarrying last fall a sweet little love, I realized I'm not just dripping wet and soaked with thoughts about, well, everything but that I've actually been caught up and washed away in the flood.
I've been short in patience, fast to sleep, slow to rise and quick to get all wires of communication crossed, my overworked brain unable to transmit correctly all of the information floating around in my head.
Classic over-saturation.
The beauty of this is that I now realize when I've hit that point of feeling like I'm floating away on all the rainwater of thoughts before I'm tumbling over waterfalls.
But I'm still further downstream than I'd like, flailing and kicking and grabbing onto tree branches, attempting to pull myself out.
Yesterday, as I grasped at leaves, God in all His goodness threw me a line first thing in the morning in my devotions. And then again -- just to make sure I didn't miss it -- while I was at our last Bible study session of the summer.
"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me." Jesus in John 10:27
A call to quiet the downpour of thoughts. A whisper to stop fighting against the current and let the Good Sheperd pull me out and carry me against His chest.
Because, I remember in the midst,
sheep were meant for still waters
not deep, rushing, rolling floods.
Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week..
Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.
Capture.
Harvest them!
Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Alita's. Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.
Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Thinking, that's All: Letting Go
A generous thank you to Bounty for encouraging the pouring out of my heart by sponsoring this piece.
I've let go of trying to figure out why.
Why I'm not waddling around in the final days of being large and swollen with child.
Why my earliest signs of pregnancy were my last ones.
Why we've not been counting down the time left in my pregnancy week by week and day by day, especially now that we're in the thick of my due week.
Why we lost not just one baby in September, but then, you, too, in December.
I guess why doesn't matter so much anymore because a reason wouldn't make it feel right anyway.
A reason wouldn't make arms that wanted to hold you feel fuller, more satisfied.
It wouldn't make me more OK with the fact that sometimes pregnancies end unexpectedly and sometimes mothers don't get to hold their babies outside of the womb this side of Eternity.
And it wouldn't make my heart grieve any less the loss, the promise, the hope of you here in life as we know it.
The resignation to resting in the unknown doesn't mean, though, that I don't
give thought to whether your hair would shimmer coppery-red against dark locks when sunlight presses into it like mine, like your brothers'
that I don't long to see father, your brothers marvel over you
that I don't wonder what you could have given to a needy world.
Just because I'm no longer lingering in the why, small one, doesn't mean I don't remember.
It just means that I'm refusing to let you become synonymous with loss
because you haven't been lost.
You haven't been misplaced
or forgotten.
I know you dwell in Light I can't yet imagine.
And I know that instead of me welcoming you into my world today, this week
one day, you'll be there welcoming me into yours, His.
A generous thank you to Bounty for encouraging the pouring out of my heart by sponsoring this piece.
I've let go of trying to figure out why.
Why I'm not waddling around in the final days of being large and swollen with child.
Why my earliest signs of pregnancy were my last ones.
Why we've not been counting down the time left in my pregnancy week by week and day by day, especially now that we're in the thick of my due week.
Why we lost not just one baby in September, but then, you, too, in December.
I guess why doesn't matter so much anymore because a reason wouldn't make it feel right anyway.
A reason wouldn't make arms that wanted to hold you feel fuller, more satisfied.
It wouldn't make me more OK with the fact that sometimes pregnancies end unexpectedly and sometimes mothers don't get to hold their babies outside of the womb this side of Eternity.
And it wouldn't make my heart grieve any less the loss, the promise, the hope of you here in life as we know it.
The resignation to resting in the unknown doesn't mean, though, that I don't
give thought to whether your hair would shimmer coppery-red against dark locks when sunlight presses into it like mine, like your brothers'
that I don't long to see father, your brothers marvel over you
that I don't wonder what you could have given to a needy world.
Just because I'm no longer lingering in the why, small one, doesn't mean I don't remember.
It just means that I'm refusing to let you become synonymous with loss
because you haven't been lost.
You haven't been misplaced
or forgotten.
I know you dwell in Light I can't yet imagine.
And I know that instead of me welcoming you into my world today, this week
one day, you'll be there welcoming me into yours, His.
A generous thank you to Bounty for encouraging the pouring out of my heart by sponsoring this piece.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Five-Minute Friday: Enough
It's early morning, and sun drips through the window blinds, golden like honey from the hive.
I find fullness.
In early morning Bread of Life. In the sleepy snuggles of a toddler. In the soft kiss to my forehead from my husband. And in the sweet good morning greeting from a preschooler.
In a simple moment I leave the sweetness of serenity in my house, going outside of these four peaceful walls by way of Facebook via iPhone, and my heart is drenched in calamity.
Thirteen people killed by a gunman during a midnight movie premier.
There are more headlines promising to take me further into deeper the rising floods of chaos.
But I can't read anymore.
I sit in the gentle quiet of my kitchen.
Like clothes on the line
drenched in last night's rain
prayers drip from my lips
asking for full Sunlight
to emerge
to dry the tears,
say enough is enough.
I find fullness.
In early morning Bread of Life. In the sleepy snuggles of a toddler. In the soft kiss to my forehead from my husband. And in the sweet good morning greeting from a preschooler.
In a simple moment I leave the sweetness of serenity in my house, going outside of these four peaceful walls by way of Facebook via iPhone, and my heart is drenched in calamity.
Thirteen people killed by a gunman during a midnight movie premier.
There are more headlines promising to take me further into deeper the rising floods of chaos.
But I can't read anymore.
I sit in the gentle quiet of my kitchen.
Like clothes on the line
drenched in last night's rain
prayers drip from my lips
asking for full Sunlight
to emerge
to dry the tears,
say enough is enough.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Everyday Life: Twice
Twice.
I've stumbled twice now unexpectedly into grapevines during the past week.
Which wouldn't mean anything normally except for that this summer it sort of means everything.
Right before the beginning of the year, I landed in the text of John 15, and I just could not get away from it, both literally and mentally.
That text -- it's such a word picture painted so vividly about how we must abide in the vine if we are to bear good fruit.
And it kept following me -- this call to abide in the true Vine in the garden with the Gardener -- in devotions, in the church pew, in others' blog posts, in conversation.
And then one day this spring as I was working on a book about being fruitful and bearing ripe fruit and being kind to ourselves I heard a loud whisper redirecting.
All this talk about fruit, but how does fruit even grow?
In the garden, abiding in the Vine.
We are to live The Vine Life
And so The Vine Life was born.
The first chapters came easily, but since their completion it's been hard-coming in ways that writing normally isn't for me. There's been this stretching and this twisting and this growing and this journeying in the writing of this book that's left me ... tired. Tired and wondering exactly where to go next.
So tired and so wondering that about two weeks ago I put it aside, tabled it so I could pray, clear my head, refocus.
We took a daytrip last weekend to visit my uncle in Chicago; while the boys watched Star Wars on his big pull-down movie screen, I sneaked off to the back porch to sit beneath sun.
And there in the middle of alive and vibrant Chicago just outside the back door of my uncle's second-story flat there were these vines sprawling out across the wooden deck, thick and deep, luscious green bearing growing grapes.
There. In Chicago -- in the thickness of city hustle and busy and concrete a small garden sprawling across the deck, bearing fruit.
There in the most unlikely of places.
The Vine and the fruit in the city.
I meditated all week long on the Vine and the grapes and the fresh greenness wondering if it was divine inspiration to keep writing ... but I didn't pen another a word, still vying for clarity on the next chapters.
Sunday afternoon we visited the Chicago Botanic Garden to rest and remember His goodness and provision during our Sabbath rest, and we veered casually into the vegetable garden.
Again, I came face to face with more grapevines spread out across the overhead trellises we'd meandered into.
The boys wandered off down the path and John followed after he noticed I was totally transfixed. I stood there lost in more God-whispers beneath the sprawling vines marveling at their beauty, their strength, their vigor and their shear abundance.
And in the stillness of a late Sunday afternoon in the home stretch of June, I stopped wondering.
I abandoned thoughts about perfect order of chapters and which stories to share
and gazed incredulously at the answer He'd given me not just once
but twice:
The Vine.
And so in the broken silence, I write
I abide.
This week, we're sharing our moments at Jade's
I've stumbled twice now unexpectedly into grapevines during the past week.
Which wouldn't mean anything normally except for that this summer it sort of means everything.
Right before the beginning of the year, I landed in the text of John 15, and I just could not get away from it, both literally and mentally.
That text -- it's such a word picture painted so vividly about how we must abide in the vine if we are to bear good fruit.
And it kept following me -- this call to abide in the true Vine in the garden with the Gardener -- in devotions, in the church pew, in others' blog posts, in conversation.
And then one day this spring as I was working on a book about being fruitful and bearing ripe fruit and being kind to ourselves I heard a loud whisper redirecting.
All this talk about fruit, but how does fruit even grow?
In the garden, abiding in the Vine.
We are to live The Vine Life
And so The Vine Life was born.
The first chapters came easily, but since their completion it's been hard-coming in ways that writing normally isn't for me. There's been this stretching and this twisting and this growing and this journeying in the writing of this book that's left me ... tired. Tired and wondering exactly where to go next.
So tired and so wondering that about two weeks ago I put it aside, tabled it so I could pray, clear my head, refocus.
We took a daytrip last weekend to visit my uncle in Chicago; while the boys watched Star Wars on his big pull-down movie screen, I sneaked off to the back porch to sit beneath sun.
And there in the middle of alive and vibrant Chicago just outside the back door of my uncle's second-story flat there were these vines sprawling out across the wooden deck, thick and deep, luscious green bearing growing grapes.
There. In Chicago -- in the thickness of city hustle and busy and concrete a small garden sprawling across the deck, bearing fruit.
There in the most unlikely of places.
The Vine and the fruit in the city.
I meditated all week long on the Vine and the grapes and the fresh greenness wondering if it was divine inspiration to keep writing ... but I didn't pen another a word, still vying for clarity on the next chapters.
Sunday afternoon we visited the Chicago Botanic Garden to rest and remember His goodness and provision during our Sabbath rest, and we veered casually into the vegetable garden.
Again, I came face to face with more grapevines spread out across the overhead trellises we'd meandered into.
The boys wandered off down the path and John followed after he noticed I was totally transfixed. I stood there lost in more God-whispers beneath the sprawling vines marveling at their beauty, their strength, their vigor and their shear abundance.
And in the stillness of a late Sunday afternoon in the home stretch of June, I stopped wondering.
I abandoned thoughts about perfect order of chapters and which stories to share
and gazed incredulously at the answer He'd given me not just once
but twice:
The Vine.
And so in the broken silence, I write
I abide.
This week, we're sharing our moments at Jade's
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Everyday Life: Rest
It came in the midst of living.
In the aftermath of crying out to God and feeling held in His peace.
In the determination to live life in the now instead of living life in waiting.
Standing on the deck of a friend who is a soft landing
in the bright sunshine
of a late Friday afternoon
nearing the after-business hours of the weekend
the phone finally rang.
Before the doctor's receptionist could share the MRI test results,
I reminded myself of the song that clicked onto Pandora
as I was begging God for calmness of heart earlier that afternoon.
"Only one thing doesn't change.
Only one thing stays the same.
All I know at the end of the day is
Your love remains." {Paul Coleman Trio}
Because no matter what she said
no matter the results of this particular test
or any tests to come
none of it would change the most important Truth in my life:
He doesn't change.
That He is always and forever good.
And, as my mom reminded me while I all but hyperventilated in my living room the day of the MRI, sometimes He calms the raging seas.
And sometimes He calms the passengers in the boat.
But no matter which He chooses, He is still the Giver of Good Gifts.
Always.
As she apologized about the late call and the doctor being away from the office
I knew well that
everything could change
and still nothing could change
and He would still remain.
When she calmly and joyfully shared that everything looked perfectly NORMAL (!)
praise spilled from my lips
in a choir of gratitude and awe and reverence.
Not just for the rest, the relief of knowing that everything appeared normal
but also because in that moment and in that day
He calmed the storm
and He calmed the child.
I cannot thank you enough, my friends, for praying for me. For thinking of me. For loving on me during this growing time. Some have inquired about my symptoms -- dizziness, off-balance feeling, head pressure are a few. We're looking into hypoglycemia as a possible cause stemming from my super-low sugar, anti-candida diet and eating practices.
I'm taking the rest of the weekend to practice Sabbath -- the act remembering His goodness and His faithfulness while resting deeply in both.
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