You Have One Job

A little over 24 hours ago, I sat in the waiting room of the emergency room with a brace strapped around my neck. And in the two hours before that, I stared out my vehicle windshield and saw a crumpled pile of metal and felt the ache of a knee that was slowly developing its own pulse. In my hand was my phone, with a 9-1-1 dispatcher on the other end of the line, and me trying to control my voice enough to get the words out.

Life really does happen in the blink of a mascara-laden eye.

I was heading to work yesterday morning, taking my usual route. I came around a blind corner on a scenic little side street not far from my office, and I saw the incoming vehicle, already crowding over into my lane. I just remember thinking, "They'll move, they'll move, they'll move." They kept coming and I kept thinking they'll get over.

Only they didn't.

So there I sat on the road in my 4-month old, brand new vehicle, stunned, crying and sobbing all over the 9-1-1 dispatcher, waiting for the police to arrive. I tried to get out of the driver's side, but the door was jammed, and I didn't want to force it. I fumbled my way over the center console, and poured myself out of the passenger side. I walked over to the other van, equally crunched, and the driver opened up her door, tears streaming down her face as well.

"I'm so sorry, I was just fixing my mascara."

In the blink of an eye my whole world changed.

If only she had looked up and seen me coming.

Then I wouldn't be waiting in an emergency room.
Then I wouldn't be staring at the inside of an X-ray machine or CT scanner.
Then I wouldn't be wrapped in a hospital gown with an awesomely uncomfortable neck brace on.
Then I wouldn't be waiting on test results.
Then I wouldn't have this aching neck, stiff muscles and hurting back.
Then I wouldn't be laying flat on the floor with ice packs underneath me to keep the swelling at bay.

If only she had looked up and seen me coming.

So much would have been different.

But it's not.

And while I'm not entirely sure why God seems to be allowing a whole lot of ridiculousness to pass through his hands and into my life, I do know this:

I'm going to keep looking up.

What other choice is there?

We generally have two options in life: we can either worship God or we can curse him.  There really isn't room for the middle ground.  I've already been down the cursing road years ago, and I'm not too interested in going down it again.  It's a miserable one.  So that leaves me with the only other option.

I'll choose to worship him.

"Even when it hurts like hell, I'll praise you.  Even when it makes no sense to sing, louder then I'll sing." ("Even When It Hurts" by Hillsong United)

Even when it hurts like hell, I'll praise you.

Those are the choices laid before all of us.  We can either worship God or curse him, to look up and see our salvation or look up and see our enemy.

Abraham made a point to look up and see his salvation.  Just as he raised his knife to slay the long-awaited son promised to him, "[He] looked up and there in a thicket he saw a ram caught by its horns. He went over and took the ram and sacrificed it as a burnt offering instead of his son" (Genesis 22:13).

Abraham looked up and saw the ram caught in the thicket, the ram that would be the substitute for his son, the ram that would be the salvation of his son, the ram that was the perfect provision.

But then here come the Israelites, trapped between the Red Sea and Egypt's massive army, and when they looked up, all they saw was their defeat and impending doom. "As Pharaoh approached, the Israelites looked up, and there were the Egyptians, marching after them. They were terrified and cried out to the Lord" (Exodus 14:10).

They both looked up, but they saw two very different visions.  One of deliverance, the other of destruction.

I could have looked up from that accident yesterday, made the other driver my enemy, and made God the biggest enemy of all.  I could have cursed him.  I could have said through gritted teeth, How.dare.you.  Did you not just hear my prayers this morning to heal my body?  Did you not just hear my prayers for joy and delight?  Why are you letting all of these things happen to me?  Why is it that you keep letting me get smashed upon the rocks?  Don't you care?    

Job's wife's words could easily have become my own, "Curse God and die" (Job 2:9).

But I would argue that's the easy way out, that's the lazy and unbelieving man's escape.

When life leaves us literally and figuratively shattered and overwhelmed by the blows, we have got to do the hard work of lifting up our eyes and fixing them on Jesus (Hebrews 12:1-2).  It will not be easy.  It will not come naturally.  It will take a tremendous amount of effort to exercise those spiritual muscles, to choose to place our gaze on something other than the end of our own nose.  

It's what the disciples found themselves doing in Matthew 17:

After six days Jesus took with him Peter, James and John the brother of James, and led them up a high mountain by themselves.  There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light.  Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus.

But the best part comes in Matthew 17:8, after the visions of Elijah and Moses disappear:

"When they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus."

My God, let us look up and see only you.

While we're busy looking up, God will be busy looking down from heaven, the place where he sits enthroned in his rightful place.

Let this be written for a future generation, that a people not yet created may praise the Lord: 'The Lord looked down from his sanctuary on high, from heaven he viewed the earth, to hear the groans of the prisoners and release those condemned to death.'  (Psalm 102:18-20)   

You let God be in the business of looking down, and you be in the business of looking up.  And when your gazes meet in the space between, it's there that the greatest collision occurs. 

It's there that your salvation and deliverance happens.

Worship him, do not curse him, if for no other reason than that.

You have one job, friends: Keep looking up.
___________

For the record, I am okay mostly.  I did spend most of the day in the ER getting CT scans and X-rays done, especially given my spinal history and because my neck was killing me.  I banged my knee into the dashboard, so it's a bit bruised and my neck and shoulders are pretty tight given the whiplash.  My car got hammered on one corner so it will be in the care of the autobody shop for awhile.  But all things considered, it could have been a lot worse.    

He Met Me in a Stable

A couple of weeks ago, I slipped into my old, worn out Carhartt, stained with who knows what, and probably hasn't seen the inside of a washer since who knows when.  I piled on layers of leggings, jeans and ski pants that were doubling as overalls, keeping the cold night air at bay.  I jammed on my winter hat and set foot inside a stable, something I hadn't done in what felt like an eternity.  

If you've known me for any length of time, then you'll be well-acquainted with my longstanding love affair with all things equine.  For those that don't know me, though, you can get the crash course on my horse saga here, here, here, here and here.  Horses (animals in general, really) were my safe haven as a child and as a teenager, my place to run and hide, to retreat from the world and from people.  I found great comfort in their presence, in the routine of caring for them, tending to their needs, working with my hands.  Somewhere in the depths of an old journal is an entry I wrote about my dog Bubbles (yes, I named my half-Rottweiler Bubbles), and how I considered her my best friend.  I still miss that dog to this day and she's been gone for over a decade now.  There was power in the companionship of creatures that viewed life from a fairly uncomplicated lens - you feed me, brush me, pet me, and I will love you forever and shower you with kisses in return.  It's a simple exchange.  

     

I've unexpectedly longed for that companionship again in recent days.  In the craziness and turmoil of this anxiety that has wrecked my world, I found myself wishing for a dog by my side or to bury my face in the mane of a horse. I have found myself wanting to return to the places and interests I once found solace in, place and interests that brought a measure of peace and quiet, predictability and routine.  

Having been out of the horse world for so long now, the outlets I once had no longer exist.  My childhood trainers have since sold their farm and all their horses, so I can't go back there.  My own pony died several years ago, so I can't wander out to my parents' backyard to tinker around.  I haven't had a dog in ages, so I can't even reach out for a wagging tail either.  The closest thing I've had for a pet these days is the Bob Ross Chia Pet my brother and sister-in-law got me for my birthday.    

But thank God.  He knows just what we need precisely when we need it.  The mother of a friend of mine from church has a stable and a barn full of ponies.  Janet and I connected earlier this year when she asked me to judge her pony club show in the spring.  She kept saying I could come out to the barn any time I wanted, just let her know.  I never took her up on the offer until two weeks ago.  I was craving the safe haven of a stables again, so I texted her, asking if I could finally take her up on her offer to visit the stables and her ponies.  Of course, she said.  

That's when I found myself slipping into my Carhartt coat and setting foot inside a stable.  Instant memories.  The smells brought back a flood of images to my mind, the dim lights reminding me of my own grandfather's barn.  Janet showed me where all of the brushes were and where I could cross-tie the little pony I was going to groom, Coco.  She said she had some stuff to get done up to the house, and would leave me alone to the task at hand - brushing a very wet, very shaggy and very woolly Shetland pony.  Just before she slipped out, she called over her shoulder, something that brought me to tears once she disappeared:

"God will meet you here tonight.  I already made a reservation."

She said nothing more as she slipped into the dark of the night, while I was left holding a grooming brush, listening to the quiet munching of the horses eating their hay.

God will meet you here tonight.  

I'm grateful that God meets us in our hours of deepest need, in the places that are neither churches nor temples, but rather the places that are often common, familiar, dusty and smelly.  The places that aren't always tidy, aren't always fit for the presence of a King.  Places like stables and barns and stalls.

He did that once before, you know.

He met all of humanity in a manger, among the straw and the hay, the dust and the dirt, among the very animals he created.  He met us in the common, familiar, dusty and smelly nook of a place, a town called Bethlehem, in the hour of humanity's deepest need.  

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David.  He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.  While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.  An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.  But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.  Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”  (Luke 2:4-12)

This will be a sign for you - a baby lying in a manger. 

Among the animals.

He met me in a stable as a child - then as a teenager - and now as an adult.

But really he met me over 2,000 years ago when he came as a baby wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger.

Our God is a God who meets us in the places of our lives that are not always tidy, not always fit for a King.  In our less-than-Pinterest-worthy homes, at the bedside of loved ones fighting to live another day, behind prison bars where men and women crumble under the weight of their guilt and shame, in the darkened alleys of the city streets where women sell their bodies, in our offices with desks piled high with paperwork and stress, in our yards where the weeds and the worms grow, in the orphanages filled with children who have no one claiming them.  He meets us in all of those places and countless others.  

There's not a place on Planet Earth where Jesus cannot or will not meet his children.  The psalmist declares in Psalm 139:7-10: "Where can I go from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?  If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."

There's nowhere I can go where I can flee his presence.  There's nowhere I can go where his hand will not guide, where it will not hold me fast.

Including a stable.  

Because he knows what it's like to listen to the quiet munching of horses eating their hay, and he knows what it's like to meet with his Father.

God will meet you here tonight, on this night, and he will do so every moment of every day for now and all eternity.  Just like he did all those years ago.

I'm so very grateful the God of the universe met me in a stable - both now and over 2,000 years ago on a starry, starry night.

Though You Slay Me

Many times in recent weeks I have returned to a song performed by Shane & Shane called "Though You Slay Me," based on Job 13:15, which says, "Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him."  The version of the song I really love, though, is one that features pastor John Piper.  It includes an excerpt from his sermon titled "The Glory of God in the Sight of Eternity."  Gets me every.single.time. It makes me want to groan deep in my spirit.  He says it with such power, such conviction.  You can listen to the song and John's words below, but I also included the transcript from his particular part.

“Not only is all your affliction momentary. Not only is all your affliction light in comparison to eternity, and the glory there, but all of it is totally meaningful. Every millisecond of your pain from the fallen nature or fallen man, every millisecond of your misery in the path of obedience is producing a peculiar glory you will get because of that. I don't care if it was cancer or criticism. I don't care if it was slander or sickness. It wasn't meaningless! It's doing something! It's not meaningless! Of course you can't see what it's doing! Don't look to what is seen. When your mom dies, when your kid dies, when you've got cancer at 40, when a car careens into the sidewalk, takes her out, don't say it’s meaningless. It's not. It's working for you an eternal weight of glory. Therefore – therefore - do not lose heart but take these truths ,and day-by-day, focus on them. Preach them to yourself every morning. Get alone with God and preach his word into your mind until your heart sings with confidence that you are new and cared for.” 

Jesus, even amidst anxiety and a perplexed spirit, I will still sing a song to the One I need.  Still I will worship.  My heart and flesh may fail, and the earth below me may give way, but with my eyes I'll see you.  You're still all that I need.  You are enough for me.  I believe that what I am going through in this season of life is totally meaningful.  I will not lose heart.  My heart will sing with confidence because you have made me new and you care for me.  Though you slay me, yet I will hope in you.  

I come, God, I come
I return to the Lord
The one who's broken
The one who's torn me apart
You struck down to bind me up
You say You do it all in love
That I might know You in Your suffering

Though You slay me
Yet I will praise You
Though You take from me
I will bless Your name
Though You ruin me
Still I will worship
Sing a song to the one who's all I need

My heart and flesh may fail
The earth below give way
But with my eyes, with my eyes I'll see the Lord
Lifted high on that day
Behold, the Lamb that was slain
And I'll know every tear was worth it all

Though You slay me
Yet I will praise You
Though You take from me
I will bless Your name
Though You ruin me
Still I will worship
Sing a song to the one who's all I need

Though tonight…
Though tonight I'm crying out
Let this cup pass from me now
You're still all that I need
You're enough for me
You're enough for me

Though You slay me
Yet I will praise You
Though You take from me
I will bless Your name
Though You ruin me
Still I will worship

Sing a song to the one who's all I need
Sing a song to the one who's all I need

Always Winter, Never Christmas

My mother stood on the porch this morning in her pajamas, no shoes or socks on, taking pictures of the snow that was falling from the heavens, our first snow of the season.  In October.  And you know Christmas has officially arrived according to Hallmark, since today kicks off their "Countdown to Christmas."  A whopping 21 movies premiering between now and New Year's Eve.  My mother has had a countdown to Christmas going since sometime in August, and now she's practically shivering with excitement with all these signs pointing to that magical day of December 25.

I don't know that I'm too far behind her, if I'm being honest.  I'm just a little less demonstrative about it, and wave my "I love Christmas" flag a little less boldly.  I purchased Christy Nockels' Christmas album, The Thrill of Hope, the other day and listened to it on my way to work.  ("Wrap This One Up" is definitely worth a listen.)  Although, I will say I don't necessarily care to have Christmas constantly in my face either.  I don't want to walk into a retail store right now and be bombdarded by all things ornaments, tinsel, Santa and jingle bells.  My mother asked my dad and me if we could put up one (yes, there are multiple - I think we maxed out at 7 trees one year when I was a kid) of the Christmas trees this weekend, and my face must have twisted into some sort of appalled, disgusted look which very firmly conveyed "no" without so much as saying a word.  There's a happy medium to this whole Christmas celebrating thing.  Not too much, too soon.

I discovered the band Relient K has a song called "In Like a Lion (Always Winter)," which is based on one of my very favorite movies, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe: 

It's always nice to look out the window
And see those very first few flakes of snow
And later on we can go outside
And create the impression of an angel that just fell from the sky

When February rolls around I'll roll my eyes
Turn a cold shoulder to these even colder skies
And by the fire my heart it heaves a sigh
For the green grass waiting on the other side

It's always winter but never Christmas
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
Yet in the midst of all this ice and snow
Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope

The lyrics speak to a scene in the movie where Mr. Tumnus, one of the creatures in the land of Narnia, explains how a curse has come upon the land since the evil White Witch has taken power.  Narnia is covered in ice and snow, the rivers have frozen over, the flowers have stopped blooming, the trees have lost their leaves, and a perpetual cold has settled on the kingdom.  "Always winter, never Christmas," Tumnus declares.  He's really saying there's a barrenness here in this place, and not just barrenness, but barrennes without hope.  No hope of a thaw, no hope of green things growing again, no hope of a freedom from the weight of the curse.

Always winter, never Christmas.

I realized that's what the 400-plus years of silence must have felt like, the time stretched between the final words of Malachi 4 in the Old Testament and the first words of Matthew 1 in the New Testament. 

Four hundred long, long years of no prophets, no words from on high, no documented miracles.  Nothing.  Silence.  This great gaping void, the threat of a curse looming from Malachi 4:6, the last verse of the Old Testament, standing as the parting words from God before he would seemingly go underground and let a deep winter sweep over humanity, "He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers; or else I will come and strike the land with a curse."    

Always winter, never Christmas. 

But then - but then -

Praise God, but then.

But then there arrives a baby in a manger, a King born in a stable, there among the cattle and the donkeys and the hay and the stench.  "The time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son.  She wrapped him in clothes and placed him in a manger..." (Luke 2:6-7).

Four hundred years of silence broken by the cry of a baby and the shout of angels.  Four hundred years of a seeming barrenness without hope completely wrecked by "a great company of the heavenly host" appearing, "praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests' " (Luke 2:13-14).

Four hundred years of silence ushered in by a thunderous shout and proclamation of glory. 

Christmas.

Finally.

And not Christmas because it was marked by a day on the calendar, but Christmas because it was marked by a season of waiting met by a season of fulfillment.  Christmas because it was marked by hope - the thrill of hope.  "Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope," as Relient K says.

Jesus came to earth - a baby who grew into a man who became the Savior who went to the cross - and the thaw began.  The thawing of the hearts of men, the thawing of humanity that had been blanketed in cold and ice.  Buds began to appear on the trees yet again, and the people began to shake off the winter clothes wrapped tightly around their hearts.

But it seems winter has returned to our hearts.  We now live stretched between the time of his first coming as a baby and the time of his second coming as divine King.  It seems things have frozen over yet again, and humanity is showing its tendency to harden their hearts with ice, thickened with violence, pride, abuse, unforgiveness, slander, brutality, treachery, conceit, "lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God" (2 Timothy 3:1-5).

Always winter, never Christmas.

And it's in the waiting where we are most prone to lose heart.  To feel like the snow surrounding us is a permanent fixture, and the icicles hanging from our souls will never melt away.        

But then - but then -

Praise God, but then.

But then some day - a day that only God knows about -

The frost of over two thousand years will be broken by the cry of the four the living creatures, and the elders and the saints.  Two thousand-plus years of a seeming barrenness without hope completely wrecked by, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come" (Revelation 4:8).

Two thousand-plus years of seeming silence ushered in by flashes of lightning, rumblings and peals of thunder (Revelation 4:5), and a mighty shout and proclamation of glory.

Christmas.

Finally. 

Finally it will never be winter.

But always Christmas.

Cause when it's always winter but never Christmas
Sometimes it feels like you're not with us
But deep inside our hearts we know
That you are here and we will not lose hope.

You are here, Jesus, and we will not lose hope in the waiting.  We long for when it is always Christmas, never winter.  We will celebrate you even in the cold, even in the barrenness, even in the silence of our world gone mad, all while we wait for the warmth of your Son. 

     

Put a Muzzle On It

In the wake of these recent weeks, I am realizing just how steep the learning curve has been and how rapid the growth.  Lord, have mercy.  All I gotta say is anxiety is a brutal beast, and the devil has no interest in playing nice.  He's interested in playing for keeps.

But praise the Lord, my God is a God who plays for keeps too.  And it's one game he always wins.  That's the hope on which I stand.  He's engraved me on the palm of his hand (Isaiah 49:16), and he's told me nothing can separate me from his love (Romans 8:38-39).  My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness. 

There have been certain themes which have arisen in the midst of all that has been happening - themes of grit, endurance, stamina, determination, community, relationships, dependence, change.  Significant shifts have occurred in my life.  Not all of them external, and maybe to those on the outside, it may appear as though not much has changed.  But on the inside?  Tectonic plates have shifted and the earth has given way.

Because of staying with my parents for the time being, I've now got about a 30-minute one-way commute, for which I have been very grateful.  It's been a time to have a good cry, maybe yell and scream on occasion, listen to worship music, pull out a few sermons.  I spent part of last week's daily commute listening to Louie Giglio's 3-part sermon series "Waiting Here For You" from December 2013.   It's one of my very favorite sermon series of any pastor I've ever listened to, whether from a local church, podcast or otherwise.  Full of rich truth, and despite this being probably the third time I've listened to it, it has fallen fresh on me yet again.

In the series, he draws attention to the story of Jesus calming the wind and the waves, found in Mark 4:35-41:

On the same day, when evening had come, [Jesus] said to them, “Let us cross over to the other side.” Now when they had left the multitude, they took him along in the boat as he was. And other little boats were also with him.  And a great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that it was already filling.  But he was in the stern, asleep on a pillow. And they awoke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

Then he arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.  But he said to them, “Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?” And they feared exceedingly, and said to one another, “Who can this be, that even the wind and the sea obey him!”

If you've been around church for any length of time, you're likely familiar with the story.  It can feel worn out, maybe a little too familiar to those of us who have read it a hundred times over.  Our eyes start to glaze over and we tune the story out. 

But ah - the beauty of God's word.  It's alive and active, revealing fresh insight and wisdom to us every time we pick it up - never stale, never stagnant.

As I pondered this story, coincidentally a dear friend of mine gave me a bracelet for my birthday (thank you, Twyla), a smashed penny with the words "Be still" stamped on it. I've worn it nearly every day since then, grateful for the reminder now strapped to my wrist.  I feel like I'm in the middle of one of the biggest storms of my life and Jesus is saying, "Be still."

But despite the familiarity of this story in Mark 4, something struck me anew this week (proof of that living and active Word) as I dug around in some commentaries and dictionaries, one eye on the reminder wrapped around my wrist.  I kept coming back to the phrase "be still" specifically, curious to know what that really meant.  In Psalm 46:10 it says, "Be still and know that I am God," and the phrase "be still" here means "to sink, relax, sink down, let drop," to effectively let your heart be at rest, to hang limp before the Lord and know that he is God and he's got this all under control. It has a very kumbaya kind of feel to it, a kind of warm fuzzy tone.   

But in Mark 4:39, where he says, "Be still"? 

It means "to muzzle."

I'm pretty sure the disciples weren't singing "Kumbaya" and having a Psalm 46:10 kind of moment while the wind and the waves were raging.

The boat was taking on water, rapidly filling up, the waves were cresting white, the wind was whipping their tunics nearly off their bodies.  Jesus meanwhile was pleasantly fast asleep. 

He's being still.  The kind of still Psalm 46:10 talks about.  The kind of still where Jesus knows exactly who his Father is and what he's capable of.  He's relaxed and sinking down into the weight of who his Father is while the boat he is on is quite literally sinking. 

He's still because he knows he's not sinking with it - he knows God is God. 

But here comes the disciples.  Anything but "still" could be used to describe their state.  "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?"  There's a frenzied, urgent tone to their cries.  "Jesus, we need you to do something. Now!"  Forget this whole "be still" business!  It's rubbish!  We need you to move before this whole thing winds up at the bottom of the lake, and us with it!  We're not just going under here, we are dying here.

So Jesus gets up. 

And he puts a muzzle on the storm. 

Peace, be still.

The wind and the waves immediately stopped, and there was a great calm, a silence and stillness that swept over their circumstances.          

Here lately I've wanted to be like the sleeping version of Jesus and the verse found in Psalm 46, to possess the kind of stillness that knows who God is and rests in that. 

But there are also the moments when I really just want Jesus to put a muzzle on the mouth of my storm.  Because I just want it to be over.  Now.

In the midst of the wind and the waves that have crashed against my figurative boat, God has made one thing very clear:

His chief concern is not always about putting a muzzle on my circumstances. 

Sometimes his chief concern is about putting a muzzle on me so that I'll shut up long enough to find out what stillness really looks like. 

Yes, sometimes he does put a muzzle on our circumstances.

But sometimes he puts a muzzle on us. 
   
Yes, sometimes he does render our circumstances mute and brings about a great calm.

But sometimes he renders us mute and brings about a great chaos.

Jesus can calm both the circumstances outside of us, and the conditions inside of us.  He may choose to do one, the other, neither or both.  He is able and sovereign to act in a way that brings him the most glory, even if that means the storm rages unabated around us. 

And sometimes he uses the chaos of the storm to teach us what true stillness looks like, a stillness rooted in the weight of who he is, and not who we are.

Louie said in his series, "I don't know what storm you're in, but your storm is full of Jesus."

In this past month, I have felt like my boat is going under, and I have been anything but still.  And I haven't felt a great calm sweep over me yet, and I haven't decided whether Jesus has put a muzzle on my storm yet or not. 

But thank God - my storm is full of Jesus.   
______________________________________

I highly recommend listening to Louie's entire series, "Waiting Here For You."  You can listen to them in their entirety here:

Part 1: Seeing Christ in the Storms of Life
Part 2: Who Are You Waiting With?
Part 3: When the Wait Is Over       

The Silver Lining of Anxiety

My handi-work and signs of hope

About two weeks into this mess that has recently become my world, I realized I needed something to do with my hands.  I needed something to keep the monster of anxiety at bay, to keep my hands busy, and my mind distracted.  I grabbed a wire brush, a wide, thick paint brush, a bucket of pure white paint, and set to work on adding a fresh coat of paint to my parents' board fence. It was my own sort of therapy, the far cheaper kind but just as beneficial and maybe far more practical.  You find you can kill a lot of birds with one stone when you're driven by anxiety. 

The fence had been worn by the years.  Mossy stains left it speckled and discolored with a slightly green tint.  Cob webs gathered in various corners of the posts and boards. Lady bugs, stink bugs and spiders crept along its rails.  Dust from the newly-combined bean fields added a hint of brown to the already mossy-green white paint.     

I stood at one end of the section, and slowly started, staring down the length of the rows.  Back and forth with the wire brush, going with the grain.  Dust and dirt spraying the air in a cloud of minute particles, the wind carrying them adrift.  Shards and splinters of wood sent flying.  Paint chipped off.  The wood and knots underneath slowly exposed, layers getting rubbed and stripped off.   

My heart and my mind felt like that board fence, like someone took a wire brush to them and maybe used a little too much force.  Splinters.  Dust.  Exposed knots.  Raw emotions.  All of it a little rough around the edges. 

But as I stood next to that fence, and gazed out over that freshly combined field, one thing and one thing only rose up in my mind:  hope.  Hope that it wouldn't always be like this.  Hope that Jesus is who he says he is.  Hope that somehow I would make it through, through the grace of God alone, somehow, someway.  Hope of survival.  Hope of victory. 

And peace.  There arrived peace, sweeping in on the breeze to brush my face and remind my heart that I was not forgotten by God, but rather that he drawn so very near in my deepest hours of need.  Board by board, rail by rail, post by post, I dipped that brush in the thick paint, and breathed a little easier, my anxiety seeming to release its vice-like grip on my chest and my mind.  Still splinters, still dust, still knots.  But slowly, with each passing stroke, clean white paint wiped away all those splinters, and the wind brushed off the dust, and the knots were no longer laid bare.  (Although I may have painted a bug or two accidentally.) 

It took me several days, but I finally finished painting one side of one section of the fence.  I joked with my parents,  "Well, the good news is there's a silver lining to my anxiety - you got yourselves a freshly painted white-board fence out of the whole deal."  There's always a bright side to the trials we face.  We might have to search high and low, but the bright side is there.  And we might have to fight for joy, and we might have to fight to hold onto Jesus, but he is worth every ounce of energy we expend to see to it that we don't let go of him.  Because he sure isn't letting go of us in the midst of the trials. 

I by no means wish for it or want it to happen again, but I suppose if God in his infinite wisdom should allow this season of anxiety to linger, I imagine my parents may just get the other side of their fence painted.   

But I'm content to let it go for now, to leave the other side for another day, and maybe for someone else to paint. 

That white board fence stands as proof - I've still got a pulse.  And I'm still breathing.  And my God is still worthy of praise, even here in this figurative desert that threatens to suck me dry.  And yes, the dust and the knots and the splinters of my life have nearly done me in, but thank God - he makes all things new.

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel:
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt as your ransom, Cush and Seba in exchange for you. Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, peoples in exchange for your life. Fear not, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you. I will say to the north, 'Give up,' and to the south, 'Do not withhold'; bring my sons from afar and my daughters from the end of the earth, everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.”   

Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, who brings forth chariot and horse, army and warrior; they lie down, they cannot rise, they are extinguished, quenched like a wick: “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. The wild beasts will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches, for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise."
- Isaiah 43:1-7, 16-21

The Soundtrack of My Life

For someone who is a lover of words, they have failed me often as of late.  For days I have wondered where to begin to document and catalog all that has happened in the last four weeks, not only here but in my own journal.  The words have come in fits and starts, with glimmers of sentences, and the hope of paragraphs.  But for the most part, the figurative wounds are raw, my pulse is a bit unsteady, and the shattered pieces of my heart are still lying scattered on the floor.  God has completely up-ended my world, and I'm gasping for air, literally and figuratively these days. 

I liken it to an earthquake.  There were tremors at the onset, these early warning signs I now recognize only in hindsight.  And then the earthquake struck that registered high on the Richter scale, where the rooms of my heart and mind shook so hard the entire foundation cracked and tectonic plates shifted beneath me.  In some areas, gaping chasms yawned wide, these massive black holes that stretch so deep I can't see the bottom and I'm not entirely sure what's down there.  Or that I even want to know what's down there.  Other areas, there's red-hot emotional lava spewing out, too hot to touch right now.  Other places, there are mountains being built, rising to meet the sky, made of granite, their presence looming.  And even after the earthquake, there are still the aftershocks that come in waves, some of them threatening to be just as powerful as the initial quake.

I sat in a doctor's office four weeks ago, tears streaming down my face, wondering what on earth was happening to my body and my mind.  I had begun experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, including one day when I was literally on the floor of my office, struggling to breath, unable to stop crying, my heart racing, wondering if a visit to the ER was warranted.  Anxiety shot through the roof for days on end.  I didn't go to work for two weeks.  I didn't leave my parents' house for an entire week.  I struggled to eat.  I couldn't bear the thought of being alone at night, so I slept in bed with my mom next to me (my poor dad got ousted to another room).  I slept maybe 30 hours over the course of a week. I would sit at the dinner table with my parents and sob uncontrollably, seemingly without cause.  I got sick to my stomach from the medication I am now on.  I began wondering if somehow this was going to be a permanent condition.  I began wondering how on earth I was going to work, or ever function like a normal human being again.  

It was hands-down, without a doubt, one of the worst weeks of my life.  And it's been rocky ever since.

But never have I ever held tighter to Jesus and the hope of his salvation.  Never have I leaned in closer to him, begging for his presence, his peace, his hope, his joy, his victory.  Begging simply for him.  Because what else is there?  What else is going to possibly save me from this anxiety and these attacks?  In Christ alone my hope is found. 

And never have I ever leaned harder on the great worth and value of music.  My God.  The saving grace every day for these last four weeks has been the gift of music.  Song after song after song has flooded my soul, a balm to the deep wounds.  At all hours of the day and deep into the night have I held on to melodies and lyrics, listening to some songs on loop for what seems like hours.  Holding onto the truth of the lyrics, turning them into my prayers and pleas for desperation.  These songs have become my anthems, the soundtrack to my life, the songs I have stood in the middle of the room and declared over my life, the banners I have lifted high, with arms stretched wide, shouting into the void. 

Even in the midst of this figurative desert, there has been an oasis of words - just not my own.  Because far too often here lately, I've been without them.  So, I lean on the words of God found on the pages of Scripture and the words of those who have strung together notes and words, producing songs that have been my lifeline.  I will be forever grateful for every single of them. 

And someday - who knows when - I will eventually have words for all that has happened in recent weeks.  I will pick up the scattered pieces of my heart and mind, and I will write, because at the end of the day, that's usually all I know how to do.  Ann Voskamp said in her book One Thousand Gifts, "Because the picking up of a pen isn't painful and ink can be cheap medicine.  And I just might live."

Thank God for cheap medicine.  I will live.  I refuse to die in this desert, and if it comes down to me or the devil, I can promise you, I won't be the first one to wave the white flag of surrender.  Not to this crippling fear, and this anxiety that threatens to take me under. I don't fully understand why God has allowed this season of life to happen, to allow things like this to pass through his hands, but "though he slay me, yet I will hope in him" (Job 13:15).

So until I can find my own words again - I borrowed these words from others.             

I lift my hands, if my hands fail me
I’ll bend my knees, if my knees grow weak
I’ll raise my voice and sing,
I’ll sing I know that You love me
Give me a song to sing
And I will sing it
("Give Me a Song," Will Reagan and United Pursuit)

Though you slay me
Yet I will praise
Though you take from me
I will bless your name
("Though You Slay Me," Shane & Shane)

You have overcome the world
Took the keys from death and hell
Joining heaven we declare
You're greater, greater

("Greater," Elevation Worship)

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly trust in Jesus' name

("Cornerstone," Hillsong)

When the night is holding onto me
God is holding on
("King of My Heart," Sarah McMillan)

'Cause when You speak, when You move
When You do what only You can do
It changes us
It changes what we see and what we seek
When You come in the room
When You do what only You can do
It changes us
It changes what we see and what we seek
You're changing everything
("Spirit of the Living God," Vertical Church Band)

This is my prayer in the desert
When all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer and my hunger in me
My God is the God who provides
And this is my prayer in the fire
In weakness or trial or pain
There is a faith proved
Of more worth than gold
So refine me Lord through the flames
I will bring praise
I will bring praise
No weapon formed against me shall remain
I will rejoice
("Desert Song," by Hillsong)

The King is among us
And His glory surrounds us
And His fire is falling as we sing
The Savior is for us
And His love is victorious
And revival is rising in His name

("The King is Among Us," Elevation Worship)

And we will see You in
The land of the living
We will find You in
The mystery
Your presence is
The joy set before us
For now and all eternity
We're getting there
We're determined to discover
All that You have hidden for us
Along the way
And we're getting there
Your presence is the promise
There is nothing that could stop us
We're on our way

("Getting There," Steffany Gretzinger)

It's Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It's Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

("Great Are You Lord," All Sons and Daughters)

You've brought me to the end of myself
And this has been the longest road
Just when my hallelujah was tired
You gave me a new song

("Letting Go," Steffany Gretzinger)

You're an overcomer
Stay in the fight 'til the final round
You're not going under
'Cause God is holding you right now
You might be down for a moment
Feeling like it's hopeless
That's when he reminds you
That you're an overcomer
You're an overcomer

("Overcomer," Mandisa)

I know You're able and I know You can
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone
They say it only takes a little faith
To move a mountain
Well good thing
A little faith is all I have, right now
But God, when You choose
To leave mountains unmovable
Oh give me the strength to be able to sing
It is well with my soul
("Even If," MercyMe)

A New Adventure

Sometimes you just need a little extra coaxing and prodding in order to get some things done in life.

Awhile back, my mentor from college, Debbie, jotted me a text and basically said, "Hey. You should submit some of your writing to this one particular website."

My response back was somewhere along the lines of "a nice thought, but no."  Insecurities have a very unpleasant way of short-circuiting opportunities in life.

She prodded some more, and I gave it some more thought, and decided to give a shot.

I cleaned up some pieces I had written previously and submitted to Gospel-Centered Discipleship. I honestly thought it would go nowhere, and when I submitted my first piece and didn't hear back from the editor for what felt like far too long, my Negative Nancy mindset hovered somewhere around, "Agh.  It's such a terrible work they don't even know how to gently tell me or even how to salvage the piece."

But lo, and behold, I finally heard back from them and they decided to published the piece, and two others since.  That was a fun moment for me to see something I had written reach a wider audience, to be out there for the world to read.  And to realize I needed to get over myself.

So, thank you, Debbie, for the kick in the pants.  :-)  

To read the submissions published so far, check 'em out here:

Why Plan B Must No Longer Be An Option 

The Gospel Domino Effect

On Fire, But Not Consumed

Don't Wait to Celebrate

Years ago, I dated this one particular boy. We’ll call him John for the sake of protecting the innocent even though that’s not his real name. John and I met through church, and since I had practically no social media accounts by then, the poor boy had to resort to sending me a message on LinkedIn, the lone account I had left, since there was basically no other means of getting in touch with me. We eventually started dating, and around the 6-month mark, we found ourselves in a fairly deep discussion late one night about the future of our relationship. He already had us on the train to marriage, while I was still trying to decide if I was even at the right depot. I had been pretty deeply marked by a previous relationship from college, one I thought I had gotten over. The realization that I hadn’t came fast and furious when John asked that night, “Are you wishing he was here with you tonight instead of me?”

It was like a bomb exploded in my chest when he uttered that question.

I realized in that moment – while unintentional – I had been holding on to a life I thought I would have, a life with this other boy who had made it clear years ago it wasn’t mean to be. But my heart clearly never got quite that message. So all that time I had been waiting to celebrate, waiting to celebrate this life I thought I would have instead of the life I had been given. It was costing me, and not just with John, but in so many other ways in my life.

Jay and Katherine Wolf know what it looks like to live a life they never thought they’d have. In 2008, Katherine suffered a massive brain stem stroke at twenty-six years old. Jay was in law school, their son was six months old, and Katherine was pursuing a career in modeling. Life forever changed that one day in 2008. She was not expected to live through the stroke, let alone recover. She did both. In 2016, they released their book Hope Heals, which shined a light on all that had happened between Katherine’s stroke and their present life. They shared the struggles and challenges of having to cope with this drastic and dramatic shift in their lives – rehab, surgeries, doctors, hospitals, medications, setbacks, and uncertainties. Who ever plans for such things? The Wolfs sure didn’t.

In the midst of it all, they tied a knot on the end of their rope that led to Jesus and chose to cling to him.  Jay wrote at one point, “Don’t wait to celebrate the life you’ve been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.” Jay and Katherine learned to celebrate the life they’d been given – even one filled with tremendous suffering and pain – despite the fact it looked different from the one they thought they’d have.

We have the same choice standing before us. Even if it’s sheer grit and determination that gets us through, we have to learn to celebrate the life we have right before us.

Maybe your boss drives you crazy, and maybe you got overlooked for that promotion, and maybe you’re sick of the daily grind, and the rat race, and the hour-long commute for a job that is nothing but a dead-end.

Don’t wait to celebrate the job you’ve been given even if looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe your family is dysfunctional and broken, and maybe you aren’t on speaking terms with your siblings or your parents, and maybe they’ve said things that hurt you and you’re not sure you’re ever going to recover from the pain, and maybe your childhood was a complete train wreck.

Don’t wait to celebrate the family you’ve been given even if they look different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe your spouse drives you crazy, and maybe he forgets to do things you’ve asked him to do a million times over, and maybe he doesn’t love you the way you think he should, and maybe he’s let you down more times than you care to count, and maybe you’re not sure how you ever got so far left-of-center from your vows.

Don’t wait to celebrate the spouse you’ve been given even if he looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Maybe you’re single and have been for years or decades, and you’re not sure there’s anyone on the horizon (or ever will be), and maybe you’re tired of Friday nights (and Saturdays, and Sundays, and Mondays, and Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and Thursdays) alone, and maybe you’re worn out from rolling over in bed every day only to realize there’s no one else staring back.

Don’t wait to celebrate the singleness you’ve been given even if it looks different from the marriage you thought you’d have.

Maybe your body is aging and it’s not doing what you want it do, and maybe disease has showed up on your doorstep, and maybe you’re not as fit as you want to be, and maybe the joints creak a little more and the eyesight is failing, and maybe that injury from all those years ago is haunting you on an all-too-regular basis.

Don’t wait to celebrate the body you’ve been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

Don’t wait to celebrate the life you have been given even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have because that’s just it – it’s the life you’ve been given. For whatever reason, God in his sovereignty and wisdom, elected to give you the life you have. It’s the life he entrusted to you.

We’ve got to do the hard work of narrowing the gap between the life we imagined and the life we already have. Because the space in between is where disappointment dwells, and if we willingly let the chasm grow too wide between the two, then we also allow the disappointment to grow and sink roots. And once disappointment sinks roots, it’s tough to rip it out without doing irreparable harm to the soil of hearts and minds.

Paul says in Romans 5:3-5, “We also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."  I can promise you if you are ever disappointed then it was because you were holding on to a misplaced and misguided hope, a hope rooted in something other than Jesus Christ. Misguided and misplaced hope always disappoints. Always, always, always, without fail.   If we are putting our hopes in our jobs, our spouses (or the idea of a someday-one), our families, our bodies, our governments, our culture, our laws, our children – then we are bound to be disappointed eventually. Those things weren’t designed to hold up underneath the weight of our expectations. We’ll crush both them and ourselves in the process if we don’t relieve the pressure of those expectations.

Look, I’m not saying we become eternal pessimists and resign ourselves to becoming the human version of Eeyore, and we wander around wondering where our tails went. And I’m not saying we settle for mediocrity and become apathetic doormats. What I am saying, however, is that we’ve got to hold loosely to these ideas of what we thought our lives would look like. Because if we’re not careful we will reach the end of our lives and realize we failed to celebrate a single thing we had been given because we were too hung up on what we had not been given. That’s a life wasted right there.

Celebrate the life you’ve been given – in all its broken and messy glory. Celebrate the family that just can’t quite figure out how to be normal, whatever normal means anymore. Celebrate the job that feels like a grind. Celebrate the spouse that is still standing next to you even though you want to clock him for leaving his socks on the floor yet again. Celebrate the marriage, the singleness, the children, the house, the apartment, the good, the bad, the hard, the suffering, the sadness.  Find the good in these things. Find the joy in these things. Fight for the joy. (Make no mistake, it is a fight to find joy and celebrate.) Believe the best in the people around you.

But don’t make those people your hope. That’s what Jesus is for.

When you make Jesus your only hope, you can celebrate the life you’ve been given.

Even if it looks different from the one you thought you’d have.

No More Major Life Decisions

Update: I found my credit card! Three guesses as to where it was, and the first two don't count. In my wallet, you ask? Why, yes, yes it was. Just in a different pocket than normal.  *Palm to forehead.*

Y'all.

I should not be allowed to make anymore major life decisions.  It does crazy things to my brain. 

I texted my brother the other night explaining all that had been going on and he informed me I should just stay in my apartment for the rest of the weekend and not move.  My other friend suggested I find myself a bunker and just hunker down for awhile until my sanity was restored. 

And by major life decision I mean purchasing a new vehicle. 

I have been saving for years for a new vehicle.  While my little Mercury Mariner has been a faithful little car for the last 10 years, I was getting to the point where I was spending more money on repairs than the car was worth.  And when I found myself quite literally sweating through my t-shirt, fearful it wouldn't even survive the drive to the mechanic (thank you, failed fuel injector), I knew I was going to have to move up my timeline.  I was hoping to make it to the end of the year, but that just wasn't going to happen.

A Ford F-150 had long been the dream, but I eventually came to the conclusion I was going to pay a lot of money for a vehicle I only planned on using one part of.  I had no plans to tow or haul anything, so I basically would be spending money on the bed of a truck I never intended to use.  And gas mileage?  Yeah, we all know what gas mileage looks like on trucks.  Lousy.  So I talked myself out of that one. 

After more homework, and test driving, and reading Consumer Reports, and talking to a variety of friends, I made the big decision to buy a Subaru Forester.  I found one I wanted online, promptly headed to the dealer, and 4 hours later, I walked out with the keys to a new vehicle.

My capacity to think straight went downhill after that. 

The day after I bought it, I made plans with my brother and sister-in-law to go with them to a local Irish festival. While on my way there, I discovered I had left my wallet behind at my aunt and uncle's house, for whom I had been house/dog-sitting. 

Never in all my life have I ever left my wallet behind.  Never.  Not once.  It's not like me to forget things or be disorganized.

Being displaced by staying at someone else's house for 10 days probably wasn't helping the cause, shuffling between their house, my apartment and work, but still.  I got to the Irish festival (and even that was questionable because I was so frazzled at this point that I wasn't even entirely sure what road I was on or where I was going) and found a parking space.  But since I was in an unfamiliar vehicle, I had a moment when I couldn't figure out how to unlock the car and get out.  Help me, Jesus, help me.

I managed to make it a few more days with my head barely attached, but that was a minor miracle.  Then yesterday rolled around.

I discovered I had a thumbtack stuck in one of my brand new tires. I haven't even had this car one week! Just my luck.  I called around to both a local tire store and the dealer, to see who had the tire on hand and for what price.  I ended up back at the Subaru dealer and they replaced the tire.

But while I was standing there at the counter to pay for the new tire, rummaging through my wallet (which I had left behind at my aunt and uncle's and now had in my possession again), I discovered my credit card is gone.  Not in its usual spot, not anywhere else in my purse, gone.  Vanished.  I rarely use it, so it would be easy for me to go some time without realizing it's gone.  I called the card company immediately and cancelled, and I still have no idea where it is.

What has happened to my brain?  I leave my wallet behind, I can't find my credit card, I nearly couldn't figure out how to get out of my own vehicle.  I might as well be a cat trying to fight its way out of a paper bag. 

Can you imagine what it will be like if I ever buy a house? Get married? Have children?  All I did was buy a new vehicle and suddenly I can't function.

Say a prayer now for my future husband.  He's going to need all the help he can get.  Because I sure won't be much help at this rate.