Twenty years ago this June - June 28, 1998, to be exact - marks the moment in which I realized the depth of my own sin and the length to which Jesus was willing to go to save me. That day, that instant, changed the trajectory of my life.
But fast forward a short time later to when I found myself rejecting the very God I had embraced a few years prior. I thought following Jesus consisted of an easy life, free of heartache and pain, where everything came naturally, where life would be a perpetual "high." The chasm was wide between my expectations and reality, and that gap sent me spiraling. Bitterness, disillusionment and resentment settled deep, deep into my bones, followed by unforgiveness and hatred in a variety of forms. God wasn't performing like I thought he would. He wasn't behaving like I thought he would, and the impact was crushing. The miracles weren't happening - and I suspended my belief in him in the absence.
Fast forward another handful of years. Different setting, but the same chasm between expectations and reality gaped wide before me. I was in college, a little older, a little wiser, a little less disillusioned, and while God had done a radical work of softening my heart and restoring what was once broken since those years in high school, my faith was still faulty in that it hinged on what he did, not who he was. This was never more evident than the summer I lived in San Diego. I recall speaking at a women's event, explaining how I had been waiting all summer for God to do that one thing that would convince me he was real - and it never came. I was seeing him do all these amazing things in the lives of other people, but I felt like he was holding out on me when I reflected on my own life. The miracles weren't happening - and I suspended my belief in him yet again in their absence. It would not be until after that summer passed that I would look back with grief over what my unbelief had cost me.
Must we always be so slow to believe? Is our faith so small that we always have to wait for the miracle to come before we believe he is who he says he is? Why do we treat the almighty God as if he is some sort of wind-up circus monkey, where we twist the knob, set him loose, and oooh and ahhh over his clanging cymbals and frantic spinning in circles?
It seems Jesus's contemporaries had the same problem I do. "After [Jesus] was raised from the dead, his disciples recalled what he had said. Then they believed the Scripture and the words that Jesus had spoken" (John 2:22).
After the miracle, then the belief.
"Unless you people see miraculous signs and wonders," Jesus told him, "you will never believe" (John 4:48).
After the miracle, then the belief.
"After the people saw the miraculous sign that Jesus did, they began to say, "Surely this is the Prophet who is to come into the world" (John 6:14).
After the miracle, then the belief.
"At first his disciples did not understand all this. Only after Jesus was glorified did they realize that these things had been written about him and that they had done these things to him" (John 12:16).
After the miracle, then the belief.
The pages of Scripture are littered with people just like me who demanded God first perform and deliver before they believe. Thomas: "Show me the scars!" (John 20:25). The crowds: "Show us the miraculous signs!" (John 6:30). The Pharisees: "Show us proof!" (Matthew 12:38).
Perform for us, and then we'll believe you, they said.
Jesus had repeatedly told them who he was. He had spoken over and over again, I am the Son of God, I am I AM, I am the Deliverer, I am the Promised One, I am the salvation of Israel. And still they remained in their unbelief. His word was never sufficient, never enough, not in their eyes, at least.
Dear God, forgive us for waiting for the miracle until we believe you. Let us believe you now - on this side the miracle. Let us believe you now - long before we ever see any evidences that confirms your Word. If our faith is dependent or contingent on the miracle, then it is no faith at all. Blessed are those who believe God on this side of the miracle. Blessed are those whose faith is not dependent on what he does. Blessed are those who are not waiting for the miracle to come before they choose to believe his Word.
Because what if the miracle never comes? What if there's never a husband in response to your singleness? What if there's never a cure for the cancer diagnosis ravaging your friend's body? What if your child never gets out of that wheelchair ever again? What if that long-held dream never comes to fruition? Then what? Will you believe him only on the other side of the miracle? Will you believe him only when there is a ring on your finger, a cure in hand, and a dream brought to life?
Heed Jesus's words to Thomas after Thomas says he won't believe until he sees the nail-pierced hands: 'Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed'" (John 20:29).
Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.
Let us be the kind of people who are "before" believers, the kind of people who believe Jesus long before the miracle ever appears - if it ever does. Let us take him at his Word and trust that he is who he says he is. Let us be the kind of people who believe him, even if we never "see" him.
Let us not be "after" kind of believers
A.W. Tozer said it best, "What God declares the believing heart confesses without need of further proof."
If God declares it, I want to believe it - whether there is ever a sign, a miracle, or a bolt of lightning from the sky to confirm it.
I don't want to wait for further proof.
If he declares it, may my believing heart confess it.
Miracle or no miracle.
5.20.2018
3.30.2018
You're Relieved of Duty
Growing up as a kid, I had a half-Rottweiler named Bubbles. I know, “Bubbles” is not really an appropriate name for a Rottweiler, but when you’re 9-years old, you’re not really thinking all that hard about such things. You’re just glad to have a puppy. She would prove to be one of my dearest friends as a child. Once she got over her maniac-puppy stage, she mellowed out and became a big lumbering ball of serenity. She was my calm in the storm, a safe haven when life seemed to go sideways. I’d go out to the barn and she’d be there waiting for me. I’d stoop down to sit on the back steps, and she’d come up behind me, burying her nose between my side and my elbow, unrelenting until I had looped an arm around her neck. And then she’d just sit, leaning all her body weight against me, quietly breathing. Sometimes she would slide down, like slime running down the wall, and melt onto the floor, waiting for me to scratch her belly. I couldn’t have asked for a better companion during those years. She died the summer after I graduated from college, and I find myself on the rare occasion still expecting to see her poke her head out from behind the bushes when I pull in the driveway of my parents’ house.
But for as great of a pet as she was - loving, patient, and calm – and despite looking very much like an intimidating Rottweiler, she made for a lousy watchdog. She would run around like an idiot during a rainstorm, barking at thunder, this imaginary invader, but if someone pulled in the driveway or came around, she was lucky if she lifted her head up from her resting spot. She was never aggressive or territorial unless you took her bone or got near the puppies she eventually birthed. “Bubbles” and “stellar watchdog” never really ended up in the same sentence together when we described her to people.
I suppose, though, that we humans don’t make for very good guardians either. I have been slow-walking my way through the Gospels here lately, reading one chapter per day, starting in Matthew. When I came to Matthew 27, I was struck by this seemingly innocuous detail found in verse 35, “When they had crucified him, they divided up his clothes by casting lots. And sitting down, they kept watch over him there. Above his head they placed the written charge against him: THIS IS JESUS, THE KING OF THE JEWS.”
They kept watch over him there. “They” meaning Roman soldiers, “him” meaning Jesus.
Soldiers of Rome keeping watch over the King of the Jews.
But for as great of a pet as she was - loving, patient, and calm – and despite looking very much like an intimidating Rottweiler, she made for a lousy watchdog. She would run around like an idiot during a rainstorm, barking at thunder, this imaginary invader, but if someone pulled in the driveway or came around, she was lucky if she lifted her head up from her resting spot. She was never aggressive or territorial unless you took her bone or got near the puppies she eventually birthed. “Bubbles” and “stellar watchdog” never really ended up in the same sentence together when we described her to people.
I suppose, though, that we humans don’t make for very good guardians either. I have been slow-walking my way through the Gospels here lately, reading one chapter per day, starting in Matthew. When I came to Matthew 27, I was struck by this seemingly innocuous detail found in verse 35, “When they had crucified him, they divided up his clothes by casting lots. And sitting down, they kept watch over him there. Above his head they placed the written charge against him: THIS IS JESUS, THE KING OF THE JEWS.”
They kept watch over him there. “They” meaning Roman soldiers, “him” meaning Jesus.
Soldiers of Rome keeping watch over the King of the Jews.
If they only knew how absurd the idea was.
Why would Rome bother to have their soldiers, these men equipped and trained to mete out unimaginable brutality, stand guard over a man pierced to a tree, shoulders wrenched out of joint, every breath a struggle? Why stand guard over a man physically destined for death?
Because there was always that small possibility he may just be exactly who he said he was.
It’s a kind of guardianship borne ultimately of distrust. These men of Rome stood guard while he hung on a cross, and they stood guard when he was sealed in a tomb. The chief priests and Pharisees remembered Jesus had said he would rise on the third day, and because, again, there was that small possibility that Jesus may just be exactly who he said he was, they stationed a soldier by the tomb and sealed it.
Somewhere along the way they had appointed themselves the guardians of not just Golgotha but the grave, too.
What fools we become when we think we can stand guard over Jesus.
They told themselves, we have to keep watch because clearly this man can’t be trusted. We’re going to stand here at the foot of this cross and see to it that he doesn’t come down from that tree. They even mocked him with the thought,
And yet – and yet, we are just like them.
We maybe never say it out loud, but we tell ourselves in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different circumstances, “Jesus, I don’t trust you, so I’m going to have to stand guard over you and make sure you don’t try any funny business.”
We tell ourselves we’re not convinced God won’t let any harm befall our child, so we’re going to stand guard over their every move, every breath. We’re going to so sterilize their world, and eliminate to the best of our ability any chance of harm coming their way. We’re going to do it because we’re not convinced God will.
We’re not convinced God won’t let someone we love take his own life, so we’re going to call him every day, and check on him, make sure he’s still got a pulse and make sure God’s doing his job.
We’re not convinced God will provide for us financially, so we’re going to clench our fists so tight around our money and our budget and we decide we’re never going to trust him with a dime of it.
We’re not convinced God can keep our bodies from failing or from getting cancer, so we’re going to control and manage every calorie, every pound, every ounce, every bite, every sore muscle, and get our hands on every anti-aging crème we can find.
We’re not convinced God can manage people the way we do, so we’re going to micromanage and overanalyze every move of every person around us, and be relentless in our expectations of them.
We’re not convinced you are who you say you are, God, so that leaves us no option but to stand watch over you. We’re not convinced you will do what we think you ought to do, so we’re not going to trust you, believe you or have faith in you.
Because - after all – just like the soldiers of Rome, the chief priests and the Pharisees, we are the self-appointed guardians of the galaxy, are we not?
The soldiers of Rome kept watch over Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, but what they – and we – failed to realize was that the God of the galaxy, King of the universe, kept watch over them.
Their watching was in vain, and our watching is no less in vain.
You were neither appointed God nor guardian of God.
Why would Rome bother to have their soldiers, these men equipped and trained to mete out unimaginable brutality, stand guard over a man pierced to a tree, shoulders wrenched out of joint, every breath a struggle? Why stand guard over a man physically destined for death?
Because there was always that small possibility he may just be exactly who he said he was.
It’s a kind of guardianship borne ultimately of distrust. These men of Rome stood guard while he hung on a cross, and they stood guard when he was sealed in a tomb. The chief priests and Pharisees remembered Jesus had said he would rise on the third day, and because, again, there was that small possibility that Jesus may just be exactly who he said he was, they stationed a soldier by the tomb and sealed it.
Somewhere along the way they had appointed themselves the guardians of not just Golgotha but the grave, too.
What fools we become when we think we can stand guard over Jesus.
They told themselves, we have to keep watch because clearly this man can’t be trusted. We’re going to stand here at the foot of this cross and see to it that he doesn’t come down from that tree. They even mocked him with the thought,
And those who passed by derided him, wagging their heads and saying, "You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself! If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross." So also the chief priests, with the scribes and elders, mocked him, saying, "He saved others; he cannot save himself. He is the King of Israel; let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he desires him. For he said, 'I am the Son of God.'" (Matthew 27:39-43)We point our fingers at the soldiers of Rome and the chief priests and elders, shaking our heads at them, saying, “You do know how ridiculous you are, right? Ha. As if you could stand guard over Jesus.”
And yet – and yet, we are just like them.
We maybe never say it out loud, but we tell ourselves in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different circumstances, “Jesus, I don’t trust you, so I’m going to have to stand guard over you and make sure you don’t try any funny business.”
We tell ourselves we’re not convinced God won’t let any harm befall our child, so we’re going to stand guard over their every move, every breath. We’re going to so sterilize their world, and eliminate to the best of our ability any chance of harm coming their way. We’re going to do it because we’re not convinced God will.
We’re not convinced God won’t let someone we love take his own life, so we’re going to call him every day, and check on him, make sure he’s still got a pulse and make sure God’s doing his job.
We’re not convinced God will provide for us financially, so we’re going to clench our fists so tight around our money and our budget and we decide we’re never going to trust him with a dime of it.
We’re not convinced God can keep our bodies from failing or from getting cancer, so we’re going to control and manage every calorie, every pound, every ounce, every bite, every sore muscle, and get our hands on every anti-aging crème we can find.
We’re not convinced God can manage people the way we do, so we’re going to micromanage and overanalyze every move of every person around us, and be relentless in our expectations of them.
We’re not convinced you are who you say you are, God, so that leaves us no option but to stand watch over you. We’re not convinced you will do what we think you ought to do, so we’re not going to trust you, believe you or have faith in you.
Because - after all – just like the soldiers of Rome, the chief priests and the Pharisees, we are the self-appointed guardians of the galaxy, are we not?
The soldiers of Rome kept watch over Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, but what they – and we – failed to realize was that the God of the galaxy, King of the universe, kept watch over them.
Their watching was in vain, and our watching is no less in vain.
You were neither appointed God nor guardian of God.
We make for lousy watchmen.
In Mark 14: 33-34 and 37, just before Jesus’ arrest, Jesus and his disciples head to Gethsemane to pray. Jesus leaves them while he goes off alone to pray. Scripture says, “He took Peter, James, and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,’ he said to them. ‘Stay here and keep watch.’” Jesus goes off to pray, and then “he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. ‘Simon,’ he said to Peter, ‘are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour?’”
All Jesus needed was one hour, and they couldn’t even manage that.
All Rome needed was for a tomb to remain occupied for three days, and they couldn’t even manage that.
Their watching was in vain.
Our watching is in vain.
This is JESUS, the sin-slaying, death-defying, grave-robbing, lie-silencing, God of the universe – and yet we dare to believe we can keep watch over him, as if it not only our duty, but our obligation, to do so.
In Mark 14: 33-34 and 37, just before Jesus’ arrest, Jesus and his disciples head to Gethsemane to pray. Jesus leaves them while he goes off alone to pray. Scripture says, “He took Peter, James, and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,’ he said to them. ‘Stay here and keep watch.’” Jesus goes off to pray, and then “he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. ‘Simon,’ he said to Peter, ‘are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour?’”
All Jesus needed was one hour, and they couldn’t even manage that.
All Rome needed was for a tomb to remain occupied for three days, and they couldn’t even manage that.
Their watching was in vain.
Our watching is in vain.
This is JESUS, the sin-slaying, death-defying, grave-robbing, lie-silencing, God of the universe – and yet we dare to believe we can keep watch over him, as if it not only our duty, but our obligation, to do so.
I’ve got some news for you:
You’ve been relieved of your job as guardian of the galaxy, watchmen over your children, your brother’s keeper, police officer of the world, neighborhood watchdog. Your performance review shows you’re no good at it. Never have been, never will be. There will be no pay raise, no matter how hard you try, and this is not the kind of job where you move up the ranks. You’ll never get promoted, and you’ll never make it to the C-suite. If anything, you’ve been demoted. You’ll never get a corner office with a view. You’ll never see your name etched on the door. You’ll never have business cards with your title listed as “Chief Operating Watchman.” (Besides, that would make you a COW.) There is no golden parachute. Consider this your pink slip. Don’t even bother with a two-week notice. There is no severance package, and there are no retirement benefits. You’re fired.
Do we have a responsibility to steward what has been entrusted to us, such as our finances, our children, our jobs, our resources, our gifts, and our talents? Yes. Do we have a responsibility to engage the world around us, to put forth some effort, and leverage the gifts and resources God has given us? Yes. I’m not saying we abdicate all responsibility and just become apathetic and lazy. But neither do we have the responsibility to hold so tightly to them that we never trust God with what was his to begin with.
God doesn’t need your watchdog skills.
Psalm 121:3-8 says, “He will not let your foot slip – he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord watches over you – the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all harm – he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
God is not like his disciples who fell asleep on their watch while Jesus prayed in the garden. He neither slumbers nor sleeps. God is not like the soldiers of Rome, or the guardian of the tomb who failed at their jobs.
God never fails as a watchman. Both now and forevermore, he stands guard over your life, keeping watching, in total loving and sovereign control.
This Easter – as we look to the crucifixion and resurrection – I want you think of the soldiers who stood at the foot of the cross, these men who are so often a footnote to history. They would have looked up and seen a man bloodied and bruised beyond recognition, a sword pierced through his side, a banner hanging high over his head: Jesus, King of the Jews. I want you to remember that banner that hung over Jesus on that cross, and remember that, Jesus, King of the universe, doesn’t need you as his guardian.
You’ve been relieved of duty. Time to pack your bags.
Do we have a responsibility to steward what has been entrusted to us, such as our finances, our children, our jobs, our resources, our gifts, and our talents? Yes. Do we have a responsibility to engage the world around us, to put forth some effort, and leverage the gifts and resources God has given us? Yes. I’m not saying we abdicate all responsibility and just become apathetic and lazy. But neither do we have the responsibility to hold so tightly to them that we never trust God with what was his to begin with.
God doesn’t need your watchdog skills.
Psalm 121:3-8 says, “He will not let your foot slip – he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord watches over you – the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all harm – he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
God is not like his disciples who fell asleep on their watch while Jesus prayed in the garden. He neither slumbers nor sleeps. God is not like the soldiers of Rome, or the guardian of the tomb who failed at their jobs.
God never fails as a watchman. Both now and forevermore, he stands guard over your life, keeping watching, in total loving and sovereign control.
This Easter – as we look to the crucifixion and resurrection – I want you think of the soldiers who stood at the foot of the cross, these men who are so often a footnote to history. They would have looked up and seen a man bloodied and bruised beyond recognition, a sword pierced through his side, a banner hanging high over his head: Jesus, King of the Jews. I want you to remember that banner that hung over Jesus on that cross, and remember that, Jesus, King of the universe, doesn’t need you as his guardian.
You’ve been relieved of duty. Time to pack your bags.
2.24.2018
1,000 (– 338 = 662) Gifts
“It was a dare, like a love dare of sorts…Could I write a list of a thousand things I love? To name one thousand blessings – one thousand gifts…? Learn how to be thankful – whether empty or full. Could the list teach me even that hard language? Over time? Gratitude in the midst of death and divorce and debt – that’s the language I’ve got to learn to speak – because that’s the kind of life I’m living, the kind I have to solve.” - Ann Voskamp
A little over one year ago – February 20, 2017, to be exact – I put pen to paper and began. One thousand blank lines waiting to be filled. I originally intended to fill all one thousand lines in one year, but it didn’t quite work out that way, which is fine. It’s not worth being a legalist when it comes to counting blessings. The list was inspired by Ann Voskamp’s book, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Where You Are. It spent sixty weeks on The New York Times best-sellers list and sold over one million copies. It’s ultimately a book on gratitude, and addresses the question how do we learn to give thanks no matter what?
I had read the book years ago, but even after initially reading it, I didn’t take up Ann’s call to document one thousand blessings. For whatever reason, though, I finally decided to follow suit and start my own list early last year. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I bend more to the side of pessimism, skepticism, criticism and negativity than I do toward optimism, gratitude and positivity. I’m more likely to find fault than I am to believe the best about a person or a situation. It’s not an admirable quality, I know. And the Holy Spirit has convicted me about it on more than one occasion. So, I decided to do the hard work to start changing that perspective, to actively and intentionally fight against my own nature and tendencies.
Thus began the quest to chronicle one thousand gifts in one year.
The list in a lot of ways became a daily journal, small notes about each day for which I was thankful, a catalog of blessings. When I looked back over the list this past week, marking the one-year anniversary, that alone counted as a gift, the reminiscing and remembering. As I skimmed each line, reviewing them one by one, I began to see trends. Some people’s names showed up repeatedly. Some sentiments showed up on loop. Since it was my list, I made up my own rules and allowed myself to repeat items. No one said it had to be one thousand unique gifts. While I can’t say with scientific certainty, as I did not analyze the data with any sort of eye for precision, I did spot what seemed to be a very clear winner for “most frequently-listed gift”:
Naps.
I have often joked with those around me that I have no idea how I’m going to survive raising children of my own because I love sleeping way too much. This list proves my deep affection.
In fact, guess what was number one on the list?
1. Afternoon naps
Not long after that, I followed with various other types of naps and sleep-related items:
22. Sunday afternoon naps
43. Sunday naps!
44. Lunchtime naps!
(Apparently I felt the exclamation marks were of great value and necessary for emphasis because pretty much nothing else on the list warranted its own punctuation quite like naps did.)
I had read the book years ago, but even after initially reading it, I didn’t take up Ann’s call to document one thousand blessings. For whatever reason, though, I finally decided to follow suit and start my own list early last year. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I bend more to the side of pessimism, skepticism, criticism and negativity than I do toward optimism, gratitude and positivity. I’m more likely to find fault than I am to believe the best about a person or a situation. It’s not an admirable quality, I know. And the Holy Spirit has convicted me about it on more than one occasion. So, I decided to do the hard work to start changing that perspective, to actively and intentionally fight against my own nature and tendencies.
Thus began the quest to chronicle one thousand gifts in one year.
The list in a lot of ways became a daily journal, small notes about each day for which I was thankful, a catalog of blessings. When I looked back over the list this past week, marking the one-year anniversary, that alone counted as a gift, the reminiscing and remembering. As I skimmed each line, reviewing them one by one, I began to see trends. Some people’s names showed up repeatedly. Some sentiments showed up on loop. Since it was my list, I made up my own rules and allowed myself to repeat items. No one said it had to be one thousand unique gifts. While I can’t say with scientific certainty, as I did not analyze the data with any sort of eye for precision, I did spot what seemed to be a very clear winner for “most frequently-listed gift”:
Naps.
I have often joked with those around me that I have no idea how I’m going to survive raising children of my own because I love sleeping way too much. This list proves my deep affection.
In fact, guess what was number one on the list?
1. Afternoon naps
Not long after that, I followed with various other types of naps and sleep-related items:
22. Sunday afternoon naps
43. Sunday naps!
44. Lunchtime naps!
(Apparently I felt the exclamation marks were of great value and necessary for emphasis because pretty much nothing else on the list warranted its own punctuation quite like naps did.)
77. Two-nap Saturdays
91. Sleeping in until 7:45 a.m. (I know that seems early to most of the world, but that qualifies as late for me.)
114. 7:20 p.m. bed times
206. The bliss of two naps in one day
412. Sleeping in on a Saturday morning
568. Sleeping in until 11 a.m. (this was only after a 3-hour time change from the West Coast and a late flight. Last time I slept that late was probably when I was five.)
588. Saturday afternoon naps
I clearly love naps of any and all kinds. I sound like Bubba Gump in Forrest Gump when he explains all the ways you can eat shrimp, “You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it. There’s shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan-fried, deep-fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich.”
91. Sleeping in until 7:45 a.m. (I know that seems early to most of the world, but that qualifies as late for me.)
114. 7:20 p.m. bed times
206. The bliss of two naps in one day
412. Sleeping in on a Saturday morning
568. Sleeping in until 11 a.m. (this was only after a 3-hour time change from the West Coast and a late flight. Last time I slept that late was probably when I was five.)
588. Saturday afternoon naps
I clearly love naps of any and all kinds. I sound like Bubba Gump in Forrest Gump when he explains all the ways you can eat shrimp, “You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it. There’s shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan-fried, deep-fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich.”
I didn’t make it to one thousand gifts in one year, but I did manage to document a total of 662 items total. Contrary to how it seems, I did chronicle blessings other than naps. There were no shortage of light-hearted and simple things:
12. Text messages from Josh that make me laugh out loud
40. New leather purse for $9
66. Ghirardelli chocolate caramel bars
75. Leftover pie
168. Travis laughing at my stories
355. Ice
391. The start of college football season
491. Laughing until my cheeks hurt
502. The feel of a horse’s warm breath on my face
551. The dawn of a new year
589. “This Is Us”
605. Pictures of Emily’s triplets
634. Valentine’s card from my mom
But there were the hard things, too, things where gratitude did not come naturally or instinctively, things where I had to fight to find the gratitude:
177. Sitting with Myrt in the hospital
185. Phone call from Myrt’s son to see how I was taking the news of her cancer
193. To be the one who cleans up Myrt’s puke while she moans in pain
249. Unanswered prayers
260. Being by Myrt’s side in her final days
279. God turning the bitter into sweet
281. Listening to David’s voicemail saying Myrt had passed
282. Knowing that someone I love very much who struggles with suicide is still alive
286. Having the courage to have hard conversations
319. The gentleness of God’s dealing with my sin
431. God’s breath in my lungs (after having a panic attack)
438. The realization that my heart, mind and body are utterly broken without Jesus (on the day that ushered in what I call my “Week from Hell”)
453. Sleeping in my parents’ bed (with my mom by my side because I couldn’t handle being alone at night)
464. Knowing I am not alone
470. Working a full day of work with no anxiety
514. Surviving a car accident
528. Being the one on the other end of the phone when my friend tells me he’s at the lowest point of his life
One year later, and a record of 662 gifts for which I am thankful - both the good and the bad, the bitter and the sweet, the highs and the lows. I can honestly say that I am grateful for things like anxiety. Maybe I should say more accurately that I’m grateful for what it has produced in me. I’m not grateful for my car accident in and of itself, but I am grateful for God’s protection, for angels that stood guard over my life. I’m not glad Myrt died, but I can be grateful she’s with Jesus and I’ll see her again some day. Ann Voskamp said in her book, “Life-changing gratitude does not fasten to a life unless nailed through with one very specific nail at a time.”
These 662 gifts have been 662 nails I nailed down, one at a time, choosing gratitude over bitterness and discontentment. Last year was a doozy of a year for me in a lot of ways, and it would have been easy to give into the sadness or to have adopted a woe-is-me attitude.
But it’s the truth that Paul points to in Philippians 4:11-12 that should shape our lives, “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need” (ESV).
I have not mastered by any means, but I am learning the secret, the secret of being content in whatever situation.
The secret is found in the 500th item I listed:
500. Jesus
"The secret is Christ in me, not me in a different set of circumstances.” said Elisabeth Eliot. God doesn’t need to place me in a different set of circumstances that don’t involve anxiety and car accidents and deep, deep pain in the lives of people I love. Different circumstances won’t solve anything. The secret was - and is - Jesus in me.
“And I see it now for what this really is, this dare to write down one thousand things I love. It really is a dare to name all the ways that God loves me," Ann noted in her book.
Jesus loves me, this I know.
I have a list of 662 gifts (and a few dozen naps) that tell me so.
2.04.2018
I'm Not the One
As much as I hate to admit it, I love control. I love knowing what to expect, when to expect it, and how to expect it. I love details. I love predictability and routines, schedules and lists. I love feeling like things are within my reach and under my dominion. It creates a sense of security and confidence, albeit most likely a false sense of security. But I crave that control nonetheless.
I stood at the kitchen sink this morning, staring out the window, reflecting on a conversation I had with a group of ladies in my Bible study yesterday morning. Each of us voiced the heaviness of feeling like we somehow are the only ones responsible for holding the world together, or at least our corners of the world. Parents who are aging - how will I care for them and hold onto them? Nephews who have abandoned Jesus - how will I get them to turn back? Daughters who have gone rogue - how do I get the prodigal to return? Family members tangled up in addictions and mental health troubles so dark and so deep they are on the brink of death - how do I stop the cycle of madness?
I've spent many a moment wrestling here lately with this idea of control. It has weighed heavy on me in this season of life, more so than any other time I can recall. I've become acutely aware of how little control I actually have, particularly over other people in my life. I have felt this crushing weight of feeling like I need to save those closest to me - to save them from suicide, to save them from their own destruction, to save them from drugs, to save them from poor choices, to save them from darkness, to save them from the edge of whatever cliff they are standing on. I act as if it all rests on me - as if it will be up to me to pray them into heaven, up to me to pull them out of the pit they're in, up to me to save them from walking past the hinges of hell. I think some of these thoughts precipitated the crazy panic attacks I had in the fall, causing me to buckle under the weight of feeling like I'm the only one who is keeping this big blue marble from spinning off its axis.
It's exhausting.
I stood at the kitchen sink this morning, staring out the window, reflecting on a conversation I had with a group of ladies in my Bible study yesterday morning. Each of us voiced the heaviness of feeling like we somehow are the only ones responsible for holding the world together, or at least our corners of the world. Parents who are aging - how will I care for them and hold onto them? Nephews who have abandoned Jesus - how will I get them to turn back? Daughters who have gone rogue - how do I get the prodigal to return? Family members tangled up in addictions and mental health troubles so dark and so deep they are on the brink of death - how do I stop the cycle of madness?
I've spent many a moment wrestling here lately with this idea of control. It has weighed heavy on me in this season of life, more so than any other time I can recall. I've become acutely aware of how little control I actually have, particularly over other people in my life. I have felt this crushing weight of feeling like I need to save those closest to me - to save them from suicide, to save them from their own destruction, to save them from drugs, to save them from poor choices, to save them from darkness, to save them from the edge of whatever cliff they are standing on. I act as if it all rests on me - as if it will be up to me to pray them into heaven, up to me to pull them out of the pit they're in, up to me to save them from walking past the hinges of hell. I think some of these thoughts precipitated the crazy panic attacks I had in the fall, causing me to buckle under the weight of feeling like I'm the only one who is keeping this big blue marble from spinning off its axis.
It's exhausting.
And completely rooted in unbelief and a failure to remember who is really in control.
As I stood at the sink this morning, replaying yesterday's conversation in my head and mulling over my own thoughts on the matter, God spoke this truth so clearly to me:
I am not the one.
I'm not the who held the hand of a dead little girl and brought her back to life.
I'm not the one who flung the stars in the skies and called them each by name.
I'm not the one who spoke a word and drove out the demons.
I'm not the one who laid the foundations of the earth and told the waters where to go.
I'm not the one who immediately healed the leper and made him clean.
I'm not the one who multiplied the bread and fed the thousands.
I'm not the one who breathed a breath and brought man to life.
I'm not the one who walked on the water as if it were pavement.
I'm not the one who calmed the wind and the waves but with a word.
I'm not the one who parted the Red Sea and made a way on dry ground.
I'm not the one who still forgave the man who would betray me with a kiss.
I'm not the one who was beaten, whipped, scourged, and bore a crown of thorns.
I'm not the one who hung on the cross with nails thrust into my hands and feet.
I'm not the one who took the keys from death and hell.
I'm not the one who rolled back the rock.
I'm not the one who rose again.
I'm not the one.
My God, I'm not the one who did any.of.those.things.
As I stood at the sink this morning, replaying yesterday's conversation in my head and mulling over my own thoughts on the matter, God spoke this truth so clearly to me:
I am not the one.
I'm not the who held the hand of a dead little girl and brought her back to life.
I'm not the one who flung the stars in the skies and called them each by name.
I'm not the one who spoke a word and drove out the demons.
I'm not the one who laid the foundations of the earth and told the waters where to go.
I'm not the one who immediately healed the leper and made him clean.
I'm not the one who multiplied the bread and fed the thousands.
I'm not the one who breathed a breath and brought man to life.
I'm not the one who walked on the water as if it were pavement.
I'm not the one who calmed the wind and the waves but with a word.
I'm not the one who parted the Red Sea and made a way on dry ground.
I'm not the one who still forgave the man who would betray me with a kiss.
I'm not the one who was beaten, whipped, scourged, and bore a crown of thorns.
I'm not the one who hung on the cross with nails thrust into my hands and feet.
I'm not the one who took the keys from death and hell.
I'm not the one who rolled back the rock.
I'm not the one who rose again.
I'm not the one.
My God, I'm not the one who did any.of.those.things.
But I so desperately want to be - or I at least live and think as if I want to be. I live as though the very existence of certain people rests on me. The "what if" question robs me time and again - what if I don't pray enough for them? What if I don't speak words of encouragement enough to them? What if I don't love them enough? What if I don't call them often enough? What if, what if, what if. 'Round and around we go. Somewhere along the way I've made an idol out of myself, appointing myself savior of the world instead of Jesus.
But because Jesus is the one who took the hand of a dead little girl and brought her back to life.
But because Jesus is the one who flung the stars in the skies and called them each by name.
But because Jesus spoke, laid, healed, breathed, walked, parted, accepted, hung, took, rolled, rose and sits - I'm set free from feeling like I'm the one.
I can let go of control and rest knowing I'm not the one.
And I never will be. I'm not capable of saving anyone else. I can't save the people closest to me, the ones whom I fear for their lives. I can't do it. No matter how much I may want to control them or will them into a certain state of being - I simply cannot do it. I was never designed to have that kind of power. We will destroy ourselves in the process by giving ourselves that much credit, to think we can hold up underneath the weight of being someone else's savior.
But because Jesus is the one who took the hand of a dead little girl and brought her back to life.
But because Jesus is the one who flung the stars in the skies and called them each by name.
But because Jesus spoke, laid, healed, breathed, walked, parted, accepted, hung, took, rolled, rose and sits - I'm set free from feeling like I'm the one.
I can let go of control and rest knowing I'm not the one.
And I never will be. I'm not capable of saving anyone else. I can't save the people closest to me, the ones whom I fear for their lives. I can't do it. No matter how much I may want to control them or will them into a certain state of being - I simply cannot do it. I was never designed to have that kind of power. We will destroy ourselves in the process by giving ourselves that much credit, to think we can hold up underneath the weight of being someone else's savior.
I'm not the one who is capable.
And neither are you.
You're not the one who can save your child from addiction.
You're not the one who can break your spouse's bonds of pornography.
You're not the one who can rid your father's body of the ravages of cancer.
You're not the one who can beckon the prodigal to return.
Whatever your circumstances - you're not the one.
Whatever trial or tribulation you're facing, whatever situation where you feel like, "If I just had control..." - remember:
You're not the one who is the keeper of the stars, the keeper of your heart, and the Savior of the world.
That title goes to one person and one person only:
Jesus Christ, the One and Only.
"The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. No one has ever seen God, but God the One and Only, who is at the Father's side, has made him known" (John 1:14, 18).
I can rest knowing He is the One.
And I am not.
And neither are you.
Let the One and Only do what only the One and Only can do:
Save.
And neither are you.
You're not the one who can save your child from addiction.
You're not the one who can break your spouse's bonds of pornography.
You're not the one who can rid your father's body of the ravages of cancer.
You're not the one who can beckon the prodigal to return.
Whatever your circumstances - you're not the one.
Whatever trial or tribulation you're facing, whatever situation where you feel like, "If I just had control..." - remember:
You're not the one who is the keeper of the stars, the keeper of your heart, and the Savior of the world.
That title goes to one person and one person only:
Jesus Christ, the One and Only.
"The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. No one has ever seen God, but God the One and Only, who is at the Father's side, has made him known" (John 1:14, 18).
I can rest knowing He is the One.
And I am not.
And neither are you.
Let the One and Only do what only the One and Only can do:
Save.
1.28.2018
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?
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.
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.
__________________________________
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."
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."
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 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. |
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."
12.31.2017
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.
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.
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.
12.25.2017
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 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.
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 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.
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.
12.21.2017
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.
Be still and move.
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.
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.
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.
11.28.2017
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.
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.
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.
___________
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.
11.12.2017
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.This will be a sign for you - a baby lying in a manger.
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)
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.
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