The Power of Place

I don't know how other people have marked seasons of their lives, but I have largely marked mine by different map dots and zip codes.  Do you ever stop to consider the power of geography, how the topography of a map really becomes the topography of your life?

Author Hannah Anderson said in a recent post,

"The paradox of place is that while God may exist everywhere, human beings don’t. Made from the dust of the earth, we’re forever linked to it and can no more escape its boundaries than we can escape ourselves. In fact, we each owe our existence, at least in some small way, to geography. We can’t trace our heritage without simultaneously tracing the map, the places where our forebears lived and loved forever bound up in the strands of our DNA. So important is geography to human identity that when God the Son became human, when he willfully assumed the limits of time and space, he became Jesus of Nazareth, the son of the carpenter Joseph who went up to Bethlehem because he was of the house and lineage of David."   

I owe my existence, in some small way, to geography.  The wide open spaces of Missouri's farmlands were where I learned to flourish and thrive as a Christian, the place where I sunk deep spiritual roots.  The jaw-dropping mountains of Jackson Hole were where I found rest and a piece of my heart.  The endless savannas of Kenya and its horrifically bumpy roads were where I learned satisfaction, the deep-in-your-gut kind of satisfaction.  The winding roads and dusty horse show arenas of Kentucky were where I learned the value of discipline and perseverance.  The island waters of New Caledonia were where I learned to let go of fear and preach the gospel (and that I am never ever going snorkeling again).  The deep red bricks of Red Square and the shadows of the Kremlin of Russia were where I learned the weight and gravity of my own depravity.  The lush jungles of Guatemala were where I learned the lengths some people will go to in order to get their hands on the gospel.

All these places, and so many others in between.

They are how I've marked my life.  Season by season, I've traced my life through pages of road atlases, Google Maps and airline miles.  I've flown over those "flyover states" more times than I count.  I've crossed the Atlantic, and I've crossed the Pacific.  I've seen the Rocky Mountains, the Caucuses Mountains, the Smoky Mountains, the St. Elias Mountains, and a few others in between.  

But there's always that one place.  That one place that has marked us more significantly than all the others combined.

San Diego has been that place for me.

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I lived in Mission Beach, an area not far from downtown San Diego.  That summer changed everything for me.  Jesus changed everything for me.  He completely altered the trajectory of my life, in ways I couldn't have fathomed as a college kid or fully comprehended at the time.

Sunset over the Pacific, off the shores of Mission Beach

I had been wanting to go back to San Diego for years.  Other trips kept taking priority and I kept putting it off.  Five years rolled by, ten years rolled by, twelve years rolled by.  The more time that lapsed, the more I felt the need to go back.  I finally decided last summer to quit talking about it and just go.  I booked flights, made arrangements with an AirBnB, convinced my mom to go and off we went a few weeks ago.

I set foot on that beach a few weeks ago, and I was taken back in time, remembering that college girl I used to be.  I recognized so many of the shops and streets and buildings, all of them reminders of a different season of life, a season so full of wrestling, doubt and uncertainty, a season that disrupted my life and set me on a path of fierce determination to chase after Jesus for all my days.  San Diego is where I anchored my faith out in deep waters, the place where I shouted at God in the pages of my journals, desperate for him to reveal himself to me.  It's the place where I demanded signs of him and all I got in return was silence and that still small voice.  It's the place where he asked of me, "Are you all in whether you ever sense my presence again or not, whether you ever see me move again in your life?" No cloud, no whirlwind, no bolt of lightning.  Just that still small voice.

And I hear that still small voice again in this season of life.  This season of anxiety and panic attacks, a season of feeling like the rug got ripped out from underneath me, leaving me floundering, my body feeling the shock waves for months now.  A season when he's asking yet again, "Are you still all in?"

I stood on the beaches of San Diego a few weeks ago and told Jesus -

"My answer is 'yes.'  I'm still all in."      

I was marking another season of life by geography.

In 1 Samuel 7, Samuel took a stone, set it up between Mizpah and Shen and named it Ebenezer.  "Thus far the Lord has helped us."

He was effectively declaring, "It is here, now, in this place, where we will proclaim what God has done for us, how he has carried us thus far."

It was there, then, in that place, on that beach, where I declared, "Thus far the Lord has helped me."

My life has been forever marked by the sand and shores of San Diego.  It was between Coronado Island and Pacific Beach, in a neighborhood called Mission Beach, where I took a figurative stone, named it Ebenezer, and declared:

Thus far has the Lord helped me.

You always have to take a jumping photo for good measure.

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If you want to read more about the power of place and location, check out Hannah Anderson's compelling read over on the The Gospel Coalition's site, "Finding Our Place: Our Family's Long Quest for Calling and Home."

2017: Year in Review

Whew, boy, 2017. I thought you were nearly going to do me in, especially there at the end. I spent these last several months thinking I should just go ahead and make myself comfortable on the floor because, quite frankly, I was getting tired of getting back up only to get knocked down again. I figured it might as well just be easier to go ahead and lie on the floor, and tell Jesus to come find me again when the coast is clear. And I know I’m not the only one. Many of my family members and people I love dearly in my circle of influence have faced profound hurts and challenges this year. I've got friends who have been deeply, deeply wounded by things like the weight of a broken engagement, the death of friends or the announcement of cancer at forty-something-years old. This past year just seemed to be the year that was on a mission to outright destroy some people I love. Heck, I thought it was on a mission to destroy me. Our nation and globe have been turned upside down, for better or for worse, on more than one occasion, between mass shootings, new political leaders, and social movements like #MeToo. I can’t say that I’m all that sad to wave farewell to 2017. Not that it was all bad – there were certainly highlights – but it just seemed to be a season of difficulty and grief for a number of people close to me.

But for the first time in a long time, the prospect of a new year personally feels just like that – a new year. I’ve always been rather indifferent toward New Year’s festivities. It just seemed like another day, another year (and I can rarely stay awake until midnight anyway). But this year feels different, like I really am being given a blank slate and a fresh start.

Every year for the last several years, I've taken stock of the year by going back through my journals, re-reading entries, clicking through old blog posts, reflecting on all that has happened. Anais Nin said, “We write to taste life twice.” It’s worth tasting life twice. It’s worth looking back and seeing God’s faithfulness. We don’t write down stories and document the annals of history so we can forget; we do it so we can remember. What good is a nation, a kingdom, a people if they don’t remember anything? What good are God’s people if they don’t recall and bring to mind the evidences of his kindness and provisions? What good are his people if they don’t build an altar to God, raise their Ebenezers and declare, “Thus far the Lord has helped me” (1 Samuel 7:12)?

So, in keeping up with the habit, I present to you my 2017 year-in-review:

January - You ever have those prayers you want to take back? I seem to have a knack for doing that here these last several years. I started off January 2017 by jotting down in my journal, “Rid me of these fears that consume and control me, that hold me hostage and captivate me. I want your thoughts to be precious to me, for your will to become my will, your thoughts to become my thoughts. Help me to live in alignment with your Word.” Yeah, you know what, Jesus? On second thought, let me rephrase that prayer. Or better yet, let’s just forget I made that request at all. By September of this year, I was ready to cry “uncle” on this prayer.

February - Y’all. Jill Briscoe at IF: Gathering. Good Lord Almighty. Just promise me you’ll watch her segment, okay? It’s worth every single minute. I sat leaning on the edge of my chair through her entire message. I also attended Beth Moore’s Lit conference, which was aimed specifically at women in their 20s and 30s who feel called to teach, speak or write. I have poured over the notes from that event several times since then. Profound. I didn't want to leave the hotel ballroom on the final night, I just wanted to linger in those closing moments of worship for hours. The song “Spirit of the Living God” by Vertical Church Band became my prayer, “Because when Jesus comes into the room, everything changes. He changes what we see and what we seek. I want him to change what I see and what I seek.”

March - I wrote in my journal, “I’m so grateful for how you watch out for me in ways I’m not even aware.” I have thought that at least a dozen times over this year, in awe of how God orchestrates and cares for my life, long before I even know there’s a need.

April - I helped coordinate a surprise birthday party for my mom. That event was followed by the words, “I have no intention of ever planning a surprise party again in my life.” It went great, but good heavens, was there a lot of angst leading up to it. I also took a week-long road trip out to Missouri to visit my alma mater and visit some friends I had not seen in nearly a decade. I celebrated 10 years since I finished undergrad by loading up on chocolate peanut butter Big Trains, Beks spinach artichoke dip, and good conversations with good company. I also got a text message from my brother saying his wife was pregnant, after they had been told by 3 different medical specialists that they would likely never have children again. Specialists smecialists. What do you know.

May - Days after I got back from Missouri, my dear friend Myrt was rushed to the hospital, which would be the start of a sudden and rapid decline. We celebrated her 84th birthday in the nursing home by buying her a crown and a scepter, as my friends, Jill and Alex, and I had dubbed her the Queen. She had dubbed us her "Princesses."  They were bittersweet days spent with a very dear person to me.

June - I started a journal entry this month simply with the words, “God works miracles.” I had one particular co-worker that, for a season, I was at perpetual odds with. We might as well have been mortal enemies. We each inflicted wounds on the other in ways I wasn't ever sure we would ever recover from. But my God – my God is a God of mercy and grace, redemption and healing. I got an unexpected phone call from this co-worker late one night, just wanting to chat with me because she was unraveling in a lot of ways and knew she could trust me. We had come a long way in our relationship since the days of hurt, and that phone call truly was a miracle. On a totally separate note, I also got my first article published with Gospel-Centered Discipleship. 

July - Myrt had been rushed to the hospital on May 5, and she wouldn't live to see July 5. Those were hard days, watching her die, watching her in agony and pain. I so often prayed death would come swiftly for her, but then “I began praying that Jesus would come swiftly, not death. And maybe those are two sides of the same coin, but I want Jesus to come. I know he has conquered death, so death doesn't get the final say. Maybe in these fleeting earthly moments it seems death wins, but he loses for all eternity.”

August - I bought a new car. After which, I penned the words, “I should never be allowed to make another major life decision.” I seem to get a little scattered when I make significant purchases. I’m in serious trouble if I ever buy a house.

September - I mentally came off the rails. What I affectionately refer to as “The Week From Hell” occurred this month. I experienced a round of panic attacks for the first time in my life, and they sent me spiraling. I suddenly became incapable of functioning like I used to, and my life came to a crashing halt for a period of a couple weeks. The anxiety truly was debilitating and life-altering.  I selfishly pray I never go through another episode like that again.

October - I typed out nine pages of a single-spaced journal entry, words that just came tumbling out in light of the anxiety and all that was happening in its wake. I was temporarily staying with my parents in the weeks immediate after my panic attacks, but early October would prove to be the last time I would spent the night in my own apartment. I spent one night there after everything started, and it nearly did me in, being there alone. My birthday was that month and it ended up being less than stellar and consisted of a lot of tears and a meltdown for good measure. Hi, welcome to 33, Courtney. Oh, and an essay I wrote got published in a new book.  So maybe that made up some for the crappy birthday meltdown.

November - I keep getting sucker-punched by life. Just when I feel like I was gaining some semblance of normalcy, I find myself standing on the side of the road, giving a statement to a police officer after a woman hit me head-on and did a number on my brand new car. I spent a chunk of time in the ER, missed a week of work, and wondered what on earth the good Lord was trying to tell me in this season of life. I also gave notice to my landlord that I would be terminating my lease 8 months early.

December - I packed up my life into boxes and moved back home, which in some ways felt like admitting defeat, but in a lot of ways felt like relief. I get reluctant to divulge I’m living with my parents again, but most of the time, I’m just grateful I even have that option. I am beyond blessed to have a family that has supported me without question these last several months. I knew at the end of the day that I needed time to heal and recover from this season of life, and that wasn't going to happen if I stayed at my apartment. It was time to say goodbye to my little space and move on. And miracle baby nephew was born.  

So, there it is, a walk down the memory lane of 2017. A year filled with some unexpected twists and turns, but what year isn't filled with those sorts of things? What day isn't filled with those sorts of things? But we always have a choice as to how we weather the storm. 

I choose faith. I choose hope. I choose grit. I choose determination.

My friend Jill bought me a t-shirt for Christmas. It said, “Clear eyes, full hearts, Dave Barnes.” Now, you have to be both a Dave Barnes fan and at least have some familiarity with Friday Night Lights to fully get that reference. The original line from the TV show is “clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose.” As I slipped into that shirt here not too long ago, I began to think, “This is what I want 2018 to look like – clear eyes and a full heart.” I want to walk through 2018 with eyes wide open and a heart that is overflowing with joy and delight, a heart that is full to the brim simply because I know with Jesus I can’t lose. And not losing doesn't mean I think I’m going to sail through 2018 without a care in the world and not an ounce of struggle. I have no doubt those elements will be present. But even in the struggle, my heart can be full, and I can still radiate joy.

So here’s to you, 2018. 

Clear eyes. Full heart. Can’t lose.

25 Days of Drinkin'

I generally consider myself a fairly terrible gift-giver.  It's not that I give bad gifts necessarily (except for that one Snuggie I bought Alex.  Sorry, Alex), as much as I just don't give any gifts.  For the last several weddings I've been to? I'm somewhat confident I showed up gift-less.  Christmas gifts for my nieces and nephews? Nah.  In fact, I don't give them birthday gifts either.  Friends' birthdays? Um, I typically send cards.  I know, that makes me sound like a total Scrooge. It's not that I'm anti-gifts, as much as I just don't think about it. It's not instinctive for me. (Okay, okay, maybe there is a small part of me that is anti-gifts on occasion.) I'm always amazed by people who are excellent gift-givers.  My mom is one of those people.  My friend Alex is another.  Jill, too.  They'll find things and I'll think, "I don't know that I could have picked out a better gift for me if I had bought it for myself."  When I get really stellar gifts from other people, I always feel like such a slouch because I just don't have a strong track record.  Here's my defense for my poor gift-giving skills, though:

• I hate giving gifts out of obligation or tradition.  I'm not interested in buying gifts for the sake of buying gifts.  Those kind of gifts feel pointless to me.  
• I hate giving meaningless gifts.  If I'm going to give somebody something, I want it to have personal significance, purpose or value, not just some random item.
• I'd rather give the gift of experience rather than the gift of "stuff."  I want to buy time with people and memories, not more useless things to fill their homes and collect dust.

But every once in a blue moon, I go out in a gift-giving blaze of glory.  I get struck by a bolt of brilliance and find the perfect gift.  This happens only about once every three years, but when it does - I am golden.  That surprise 40th birthday party for my friend?  Knocked it out of the park (at least I think I did?) And that miniature replica I had made of my parents' house?  Nailed it.  My mom carted the thing around in her purse for days, showing it off.  And the donkey piñata I mailed to my friend Erica?  One for the ages.  Her and her husband were dressing up as Mary and Joseph for Halloween, so I mailed her a donkey to complete the look.  I nicknamed him Hey-Soos. (Get it? It's the pseudo-phonetic spelling of Jesus.  I know, probably a little sacrilegious, but I thought the whole thing was genius.  You can't have Mary and Joseph without a donkey.  And you really can just slap some postage on a piñata and mail it as-is. No need to put it in a box.)

But those are about the only example of brilliant gifts I can think of in my 33-years of existence, which is either a sad commentary on my memory or a sad commentary on my gift-giving abilities.  For the sake of this conversation, we'll go with the latter.

Since I hadn't had a flash of brilliance in awhile, I was due for one.

It has become a bit of a running joke in my family how my dad frequently stands in front of the refrigerator, doors wide open, looking for something to drink, contemplating the options.  "I don't want pop.  Too much sugar."  "I'm tired of drinking unsweetened tea."  "Water is boring."  He usually closes the doors, quietly lamenting, his thirst still not quenched. [Insert #firstworldproblem.]

I decided to solve his problem.

The week after Thanksgiving, my niece and I set off on an adventure to buy my dad 25 different kinds of drinks, one for each day of December.  We only had to stop at two locations to complete the task: World Market and Giant Eagle.  Who knew the average grocery store and specialty store could boast such a random assortment of drinks.  We basically pulled off the shelves the most off-the-wall options we could spot.  The weirder it sounded, the faster we scooped it up and put in our cart (all non-alcoholic, of course). I bought one bottle of each drink, figuring if one was truly atrocious, he wouldn't have to suffer through an entire 6-pack or 2-liter bottle, and instead just had to finish 8-12 ounces of each.  I arranged them in somewhat of an intentional order, trying to balance carbonated drinks with juice drinks.  On the outside of each of them, I wrapped my own label, sort of a commentary on each selection.  Then, each day, I put the day's bottle in the fridge, front and center.

We kicked it off on December 1 with a drink called "Dandelion Burdock."  My dad was mildly unimpressed.  Day 2 consisted of Blume Honey Water, Blueberry.  Also not a real winner.  Along came Prickly Pear, Ginger Kombucha, Cock'n Bull Ginger Beer, Pomegranate Maple Water, Mamma Chia, Thai Tea, Cucumber Sparkling Soda, Rose Lemonade, Matcha, and Lemon Cayenne Drinking Vinegar.  None of which got a thumbs up, let alone two.

But Days 7, 11 and 19?  Real doozies.  In the words of my father:              
             

Day 7, 1915 Organic Cold-Pressed Apple, Romaine, Cucumber, Spinach, Kale, Lemon Juice = "It's like drinking a bale of hay."  He took one sip of this and then promptly poured it down the drain. (You have to realize something - my dad has a stomach of steel.  So you know it's real bad if even my dad isn't willing to finish drinking it.)

Day 11, Alo Exposed Original + Honey (Aloe Vera Juice Drink) = "This is nasty.  I don't know how anybody drinks this garbage.  I sure don't need bits of aloe floating in my drink."  He may have used a different word for "garbage," but we'll keep it family-friendly.  I think he also poured this one down the drain.  

Day 19, Sparkling Jasmine Essence Water = "I'm pretty sure that's just a straight-up bottle of perfume with some carbonation."  My dad isn't a very demonstrative person, but I would imagine he was feeling like Buddy the Elf on the inside when he drank this one.

Day 21 proved to be the most complicated one to get open.  It actually required directions.  I mean, like multi-step directions with images to go with them.  Hello Kitty Ramune Strawberry soda.  Somehow or another, there's a marble enclosed in the bottle, acting like a stopper, so you can't just tip it back and drink the whole thing, even once you do figure out how to open it.  My dad found it frustrating and a "pain in the ---" to open.

I was striking out so bad on the series of drinks that I texted my dad half-way through and told him he was going to be cured of ever wanting to drink anything other than water ever again.

By the time we got to Christmas Eve and 24 drinks later, we had only three winners.  Three.  That's a 13% success rate.  The only qualification for being a winner was whether my dad would go out and buy it again.  Bolthouse Farms Peach Parfait Breakfast Smoothie, Bolthouse Farms Tropical Goodness, and Bai Costa Rica Clementine made the cut. So, yeah, maybe three out of 24 doesn't make me quite the all-star gift-giver I thought I'd be this year.

But then today, Day 25 came, Christmas Day.  I knew I had this one in the bag.  It was a can't-lose-option.  I wrapped up the bottle and put a note on the outside of it:  "Day 25.  This is it.  The grand finale.  The defining moment.  The sum of all things.  The apex of glory.  BEHOLD! The nectar of the gods, and most assuredly a WINNER."

I wrapped it in quite a few layers of wrapping paper, just to keep the suspense going.  I didn't want to make it too easy, after all.  He had made it through 25 days, so what was a few more minutes of fighting his way through some excessive amounts of wrapping paper?

Finally, he unveiled Day 25.  The heavens opened up, beams of sunlight poured down, angels sang.  A divine moment, no doubt.

And what should my dad find buried in the many layers?

Nothing less than a humble, pure, time-tested, classic, loved-by-all, bottle -

Of water.

There was no pouring this one down the drain.

Congratulations, Dad, on drinkin' your way through the holidays. 

You're the real winner of 'em all.

Be Still and Move

I remember when I first moved into my teeny-tiny apartment.  My dad thought I was moving into a glorified walk-in closet, and my mom was concerned about whether I was going to crazy in such a small place.

I, on the other hand, loved my little corner of the world, all 350 rambling square feet of it.  I used to dream of living in this lavish house when I grew up, but then I traveled around the world a few times and discovered that there wasn't a whole heck of a lot that I needed in order to live.  Some books, some clothes, my bed, a small kitchen, a functional bathroom, and enough elbow room to turn around in a small circle and I'm good to go.  And that is pretty much exactly what I got when I moved into my studio apartment over three years ago.

I had no internet, no cable, no microwave, and I unashamedly loved it that way.  I didn't bother using drinking glasses (I eventually just hid them in the back of my cupboard) because I always just drank straight out of whatever carton or container the drink came in.  I never closed the bathroom door.  I had a 23" TV, which my parents gave to me for my 30th birthday, along with a magnifying glass, because my dad had no idea how I was going to see anything on such a small screen.  When you're used to 60" screens, yes, 23" does seem a touch under-sized.  I had a dorm-sized refrigerator with a freezer the size of a glove compartment, so I learned to eat a lot healthier and better because, quite simply, frozen meals were not an option when your freezer was generally pretty worthless.  There were exactly five (six, if you count the bed, which doesn't technically belong to me) pieces of furniture to my name in that space - three bookshelves, one recliner, and a desk.  I lived exactly 0.6 miles from work, 0.2 miles from the local library, 0.4 miles from my gym, 0.8 miles from my favorite park, and 1.7 miles from my favorite pie joint - Just Pies.  I had two windows, which was one more window than pretty much everyone else in the building.  I specifically held out for a corner apartment and paid extra for it, just so I could have that additional window.  I wanted as much light as possible.

I had a string of crazy neighbors that nearly did me in.  The latest one was not only a fan of playing his guitar at all hours, but he never quite understood the purpose of a garbage disposal.  Dude, it's for grinding up your scraps, not your entire refrigerator.  I lost track of the number of times my kitchen sink and bathtub would back up with all sorts of crud and black sludge all because this guy couldn't seem to get a clue.

Despite the paper thin door and the neighbors I prayed God would somehow cause to move elsewhere, I loved that space.  I loved that neighborhood.  I loved living near the library.  I loved walking to the park in the summer.  I loved having a small space to call all my own.  I loved walking to the farmer's market.  I loved being able to run home over my lunch breaks and take cat naps. 

I lived a lot of life in that apartment.  I experienced one of the hardest seasons of my life in that apartment.  I cried a lot in that apartment.  I wrote a lot in that apartment.

I encountered Jesus in that apartment.

And now - now it's all over.

I am learning that God quite literally uproots us from our places of comfort to see to it that we don't miss what he has planned next for us.  I think I would have stayed in that apartment for years without questioning it.  I would have stayed because it was comfortable, and it was convenient, and it was easy.  Sometimes he uproots us in order to see to it that we don't miss the promised land.  It's what he said to Abraham in Genesis 12:1, "Go...to the land I will show you."  Sometimes we have to leave the places we love to go to places not yet named.  In the wake of the upheaval that has been these last few months, I just kept sensing God say to me, "Move."  And then after awhile it became, "MOVE."  I didn't understand it at the time - and still don't.  I didn't understand this command to quite literally move out of the physical space I was living in, a space that I loved, but was now a place of deep anxiety for me.  I started to have a very physical response to my apartment when I would go there.  I started staying with my parents several months ago because I couldn't handle being alone at night, but even when I would stop by my apartment to pick up some things or grab clothes for the gym, I would walk into it and suddenly feel desperate to get out of there.  It was - and is - such a mystery to me. 

When the Israelites of the Old Testament were escaping from their centuries of slavery in Egypt, marching out boldly, they were heading out to a land they had not yet named, this was place that was unknown and uncertain.  And it didn't take long for the fears to settle in.

The Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, so that he pursued the Israelites, who were marching out boldly.  The Egyptians—all Pharaoh’s horses and chariots, horsemen and troops—pursued the Israelites and overtook them as they camped by the sea near Pi Hahiroth, opposite Baal Zephon. 

As Pharaoh approached, the Israelites looked up, and there were the Egyptians, marching after them. They were terrified and cried out to the Lord. They said to Moses, “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? What have you done to us by bringing us out of Egypt?  Didn’t we say to you in Egypt, ‘Leave us alone; let us serve the Egyptians’? It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert!” 

Moses answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again.  The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” 

Then the Lord said to Moses, “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on (Exodus 14:8-15).

One of the great paradoxes of the Christian faith is that we must simultaneously be still and move.  It is not an either/or state of being, but rather a both/and.  It's also not a matter of sequence, that we are first still and then we move, or vice versa.

The Word of God commands us to be still.  Psalm 46 leaves no doubt about that.  "Be still, and know that I am God," he commands (verse 10).  Be still.  Set your heart at rest and be still.  Sink down, relax, tell your heart to let go, and be still.  Psalm 37:7 says, "Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him."  Silence the noise, and put a damper on all the racket in your head, and be still.  

It's what Moses commands the people to do.  "Do not be afraid," he declares, "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."  

[Allow me this minor tangent: That's one of those verses we like to conveniently leave at that, and never continue on to the verses that come after that.  It's kind of like Jeremiah 29:11.  I've got a very personal gripe against people who casually quote Jeremiah 29:11.  Everybody loves Jeremiah 29:11 and claims it as their life verse, but nobody really likes to bother with the weight of Jeremiah 29:1, or Jeremiah 29:13, or Jeremiah 29:14.  These were people living in exile when Jeremiah 29:11 makes an entrance.  These people were not living in the land of sunshine and rainbows when Jeremiah declares over the people that God has plans to prosper them.  They had come to a place that had been named and it was called Babylon and exile.  God's speaking a promise of plans and prosperity all while the people have feet firmly planted in a place in which they do not wish to be.]  

And as Moses declares over the people, "Be still," God follows shortly thereafter with "Move."  

That's the part we like to leave out.  

Stop crying out to me and move.

As much as the Word of God commands us to be still, it also unequivocally tells us to move. Forward motion is the only kind of motion that counts in the kingdom of God. Paul exhorts us in Philippians 3:13-14: "But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."  To the paralytic, Jesus said, "Take up your mat and walk."  To the adulteress, he said, "Leave your life of sin."  To the cripple, he said, "Stretch out your hand."  To Lazarus, he said, "Come forth!"  To the servants at the wedding, he said, "Fill the jars."  Jesus, more often than not, was always telling people to move.  

If we are to commit our lives to Jesus, and to have any hope of following in his footsteps, then we must figure out what it looks to simultaneously be still and move.  We must figure out what it means to set our hearts at rest, to know he is God, and trust he is in complete and loving control.  We must set aside our desire for control and certainty and rational explanations as to why God ordains what he does for our lives.  But we must also figure out how to keep pressing on, to quit our complaining and whining, to get our eyes off the end of our own noses, and move.  In my case, that literally meant packing up my bags and moving all of my possessions, even if I don't understand. Your version of move may look different.  But whatever our relative circumstances, we must simultaneously be still on the inside, while still setting our heart at rest. 

I stood in the door frame of my apartment this morning, my hand resting on the door knob, the door cracked halfway. I stole one last glance, noticing the sunlight filling up a space that was now empty, blank, and echo-y, with nothing in it to absorb the noise. I quietly closed the door, slipped the key into the lock one last time, twisted it, felt the bolt click into place.

Then I turned and walked away.

Be still and move.

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.   
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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