Earthquakes, Part II

Earthquakes.

We continue to see the devastation the earthquake and its aftershocks have caused in Haiti. My heart is still hurting, and as I said, it is simply not enough. Even now, when I pull up news web pages—the earthquake is old news.

Earlier this week, I read about a 31 year old man who was rescued after two weeks under the rubble. Alive because he had access to water.

The human body is resilient and tough. It can be pushed to incredible depths and lengths and still survive.

As you continue to read, please understand that the physical and emotional suffering in Haiti continues to break my heart. I am still in the middle of deciding what I need to do to help. What can I do that will truly benefit the Haitian people? What can I do to come to their aid and truly make a difference?

I can open my eyes.

Earthquakes are the result of major shifts in the earth’s geological structures.

Earthquakes do not just occur in the geological realm of this world.

I have always thought of our emotional, mental, and spiritual lives in terms of geology. Our inner terrain. This idea came from someone else, and I can’t remember who, but this makes sense to me.

On a daily basis I am quite sure I come in contact with someone who is experiencing or is about to experience an earthquake.

And there is a great chance I am missing the signs.

We often ignore the signs of an earthquake in others and in ourselves. (Just like we ignore the gentle tug at our hearts when we see the images from Haiti) We try to avoid the responsibility we will assume if we acknowledge the potential danger. Our mercy is curbed by our fear of getting too deeply involved. We are concerned of the danger we might experience. We are wary of the power of association.

Sometimes we don’t see the signs because the person has become incredibly adept at camouflaging their pain and circumstances. They don’t want us to see the cracks and fissures in their spiritual and emotional terrain. But if we look into our brothers’ and sisters’ faces, if we peer long enough and deep enough, we can see the fault lines. We can detect the unstable ground.

Who and where?

The lovely couple at church who seems to have it all together. Great kids. Great house. Great jobs. But their marriage is sitting on a fault line. The foundation is cracked and the gap is ever-widening.

The young adult who is weary of the peer pressure. He is tired of trying to make right choices. All his friends are drinking. A lot. This young man is so frustrated. In his attempt to do what is right there doesn’t seem to be much reward. Why continue to walk such a hard road?

The minister who knows that the relationship is not appropriate. It has crossed acceptable lines, but he is weary from the fight. And he is about to let his guard down.

The little boy who is constantly bullied at school. Being teased and ridiculed. He becomes like a timid dog backed into a corner. But in his attempts to fight back he just gains more ridicule.

The young girl who has been told she is too fat or too skinny. She is weary of being told she is simply not beautiful enough to have value. She is exhausted from the attempts to try and meet the standards and so she resorts to things she can control: her eating habits and cutting.

The middle-aged wife who has a husband who doesn’t seem to see or hear her anymore. She feels invisible. And someone pays her a compliment and her heart reawakens, but in the wrong direction.

The beautiful young woman who is told she has cancer. She has a family. An incredible career. An encouraging, faithful husband. And she loves Jesus.

The family who is living from paycheck to paycheck. Scraping to just barely get by. And the last paycheck has been issued. They have been laid off.

The once-thriving business is about to end. There is not enough clientele to keep the doors open. The owners now face bankruptcy or lose everything.

Earthquakes.

And after the earthquake there are usually multiple aftershocks, and they often leave their victims paralyzed.

Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.

We need to see that the Body is often severely wounded. It is hurting and suffering.

Sometimes it will break our hearts. But that will simply not be enough.

We must decide what we can do to help. What can we do that will truly benefit these earthquake victims? What can we do to come to their aid and truly make a difference?

We need to open our eyes.

Earthquakes, Part I

Strokes are known as the silent killers. Doctors can often see the predictors of a stroke: genetics and lifestyle, but we are still never sure when and where they will attack. And when they do they often leave their victims paralyzed. Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.

Earthquakes could also be known as silent killers. Scientists can often see the predictors of an earthquake: fault lines, unstable layers of the mantle beneath the earth’s crust and volcanic activity. To a certain degree they can predict where one might happen, but never with absolute accuracy. And when the earthquakes do happen they leave their victims paralyzed. Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.

For all our knowledge, advancements and predictions we did not see this silent killer coming when it did. Nor has our world’s technological advancements and sophistication immediately alleviated the suffering in Haiti.

The ground ruptured and broke open. Buildings shifted and collapsed. Roads were displaced. And people were/are caught, pinned and buried in the destruction. And the aftershocks cause panic and fear and chaos.

Silent killers.

We have all seen the photos on the internet or the television. We have been bombarded with images that capture the agony and misery and suffering of the Haitian people. We have heard the pleas of father not wanting the search to stop for his daughter—a daughter who was on a mission of service. She was there to feed the poor and take care of the needy. And now she is nowhere to be found. Her birthday was this week. She turned 20.

I have a twenty year old year old daughter.

One video followed a rescue team digging in the rubble, cement slabs collapsed at odd angles, to uncover a small child. The baby couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen months old—dressed in a onesie and a diaper swelled from the six or seven days she had been under the debris. One of her rescue workers held her close and gave her water, doused her head, loved on her, and then handed her to a Haitian man next to him.

We have heard the nightmare tales from the make-shift surgery centers resorting to using vodka being used to sterilize the surgery tools, hacksaws to amputate limbs and giving only Motrin to alleviate the pain. And we are reminded of our own days during the Civil War.

Catastrophe often causes us to revert to primitive and horrifying ways.

Haiti will feel the devastation of this earthquake for years and years to come.

Haiti is severely wounded. She is hurting and suffering. And it breaks my heart. But my heart breaking is just simply not enough.

Winter Seed

My kitchen window has an incredible view. I can look through the long panes of glass, six feet or more, out into our yard. We have a tree stump in clear view of the kitchen window. It is what remains of a very, very large maple tree. The tree had to be cut down because it was dead—hollow and leaning precariously toward our house.

Some of it has been cut into scraps and firewood, but a stump, almost six feet long and two and a half feet in diameter, remains. There have been times I found the stump an eyesore and a nuisance. Many times I have said I want it gone.

But right now, I am so glad that it is here. We have been scattering birdseed on the top of the toppled trunk. Just plain birdseed, nothing fancy. During our last snow, I covered the trunk thickly with seeds and nuts and even a few cranberries left over from Christmas.

The birds have found the seed. And they must have told their neighbors—woodpeckers, cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, and starlings have made appearances. Squirrels too—sitting on their haunches and furiously nibbling the food in their tiny paws. Watching them all has been a delight.

They came because there was food. They came because I took the time, effort and the little funds to scatter seed to feed them.

Just a simple act, nothing elaborate, produced, performed, or choreographed. I just wanted to provide a little nourishment for the birds in the yard.

Today as I watched the flock, I felt my heart swell and begin to hurt. I know when this happens, the Holy Spirit is trying to get my attention; He wants me to see something—to be aware. My eyes brimmed and my nostrils burned.

Come eat.
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
I will feed you the richest of fare.
I will set a table in the wilderness for you.
Manna will never taste so good as what I offer you now.

I want to feed God’s people in whatever capacity that means.

I want to find a rotten, useless stump and turn it into a banquet table.

Come

Come, Holy Spirit.

I invite you. I welcome you. I bid you—Come.

Be near me. Be in the vision of my limited sight. Be Immanuel to me now. Abide with me.

You are not an apparition. Help me not to quench you, and please forgive me when I cause you to grieve. Remind me to fear not.

Give birth to spirit in me. Bring me out of the confining womb of this world. Let me born again—daily. Moment by moment.

Holy Spirit, show me Jesus. Remind me of what he said, and so guide me into the truth. Share with me the whispers of the throne room.

Testify to who I am—I am the adopted child of the Father. Remind me of the name to which I belong. Enable me to cry Abba.

Oh, Holy Spirit, you are my deposit. You are my engagement ring—the promise guaranteeing I am a part of the Bride of Christ. Guide me as I dress and prepare for His Second coming.

You are my intercessor. When words fail, moan for me. Groan for me—according to the Father’s will.

Purify me. Sanctify me—set me apart. Earmark me for use in the Father’s kingdom.
Equip me to bless the saints.

You have determined my giftings—according to your measure. Enable me to use these in proportion to my faith and the limitlessness of your grace.

Prepare me. Tell me what is yet to come. Train me. Manifest yourself in me for the common good of your Body.




John 3:5-8; John 14:15-21, 25-26; John 16:5-16;
I Corinthians 12:1-11; Romans 8:15-16; Romans 8:26-27

Marked Differences

This time of year always prompts resolutions. Many are set with what we hope is diligent resolve. This time we are going to follow through. This time we are going to finish the list. So, we buy a new journal, adopt a new diet plan, set plans to finish long-overdue projects and sundry other abstract goals.

Our own experience and statistics, however, tell us that most of these resolutions fizzle and fade and are forgotten by February.

How depressing. And the thought of making another list that I would fail to finish or fulfill seemed quite futile.

My daughter and I were discussing this the other day. Last year she really didn’t make a list, she just simply said she wanted to do better—she just wanted there to be a marked difference in the things that mattered to her.

I found my 2008 New Year’s Resolution List. I don’t know where my 2009 list is. I am not sure I even made one. The 2008 list showed up in a box of my important papers—things I don’t want to lose or misplace.

22 things were on the list.

22

Here are some of the goals I had then:

1. In-depth bible study with Terri. We studied the book of Romans. My view and perception of Paul was forever changed.

2. More art. I produced very little art that year. Lots of ideas and plans and good intentions, but little fruition.

3. Keep up this blogspot. I have kept it up, but not with the consistency I have wanted.

4. Be in a better financial place. I had someone do my taxes for me for the first time that year. I learned how to operate on a better budget.

5. Keep my relationship with my Dad and Step-mom strong and real. What a delight and thrill this one has been and is. They ate New Year’s Eve lunch with us and stopped by again today.

6. Work on loving myself…and loving others more as a result. 2008 was a remarkable year for this one.

7. I wanted a year of deep, deep prayer about where God was taking me and what he wanted me to do. Be assured when you pray this one from your heart, God will answer (you may be stunned at the answer, but he will answer).

8. I wanted more laughter. I got it.

9. I wanted to give intentionally. My goal was to give one gift per month. It didn’t happen. Again, good intentions…

10. Better school calendar. More creative and tougher. This has happened partially this year, but not to the extent I desire.

11. I wanted to have deeper involvement in a spiritual and friendship community. The roots of this goal began in 2008, but not where or what I expected—it was much deeper and far more extraordinary.

Now it is 2010.

Not only a new year, but a new decade.

Will I make a list this year?

No. Not the traditional kind.

I seem to be pretty fond of No Particular Order lists. So here are some of the goals and aspirations I have for 2010 in no particular order.

Spend less.
Envy less.
Fail less.
Complain less.
Dawdle less.
Judge less.
Worry less.
Compare less.
Exasperate less.
Critique less.
Waste less.
Afraid less.
Talk less.
Conform less.
Argue less.

Worship more.
Learn more.
Give more.
Laugh more.
Create more.
Study more.
Rest more.
Pray more.
Confess more.
Listen more.
Play more.
Encourage more.
Write more.
Care more.
Read more.


Love more.
Yes, love more.

Christmas Favorites

Another No Particular Order series, but how can I resist?

Christmas lights
Wrapped packages
Midnight on Christmas Eve
Christmas magic
Cinnamon
O Holy Night
What Child is this?
My daughter playing Carol of the Bells on the piano
Snow
Feeding the birds
Ornaments
Jingle bells
Gingerbread men
The Magi
Our Christmas tree
Laughter
Little girls in Christmas dresses
Baking
Secrets
Gatherings
Hope
Red
Poinsettias
Christmas stories (esp. The Miracle of Jonathan Toomey and The Legend of the Poinsettia by Tomie DePaolo)
The Little Drummer Boy
Creativity
Twelve Days of Christmas packages
Crèches and Nativities
Candles
Stillness
Reconciliation
Christmas magic
Sausage balls
Last minute rush
Very little sleep
Home
The people we love
Immanuel—God with us.

Blessed are the Poor in Spirit

For weeks I have been thinking about Jesus' words: Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of God. I have contemplated and pondered what Jesus meant--not what the commentaries or bible study authors suggest, but what did Jesus mean?

This past week God gave me a glimpse of the reality of Jesus' words.

A couple of friends and I were having a conversation with a precious woman. It was one of those random, out-of-the blue conversations.

Unplanned. Unrehearsed.

At least by us.

I can see this woman's face clearly. Gently rounded. Lovely skin. Wounded eyes.

The woundedness in her eyes broke my heart.

In the course of the conversation we started talking about church--church in general. Then we discussed the church my friends and I are a part of. We wanted her to join us and we told her. We did so because we have found healing and love there. And this woman needs both.

She looked at us and took a deep breath. The breath was so deep her chest visibly rose. Then she spoke.

"I am not sure if I can say this without crying." She whispered. She was right. The tears pooled in her eyes. She took another deep breath. I took one with her. "I am not sure If I can live up to it."

In that moment I understood religion had required too much of her. The weight of its expectations had been too great a burden.

My heart broke.

The three of us were stunned.

What a beautiful, real admission.

Simultaneously we said, "Neither can we. No one can. That's why we have grace. Jesus' grace fills the gap."

She was stunned.

The conversation started and ended in less than thirty minutes.

It was a pinhead space of time, yet a thousand angels were dancing.

A lucid, luminous moment illuminating the sweet grace of God.

If Jesus had been talking to this woman he would have told her she was not far from the Kingdom of God. It was very near her; in fact, in her statement it actually arrived and could belong to her.

Being poor in spirit means we acknowledge that we fall short. We agree there is a lack we cannot satisfy.

Religion tells us just how far we fall short and just how much we lack.

Sadly, religion also stops there--leaving the burden pressed and biting into our shoulders--with little or no hope.

On the front doors of the church we go to there is a statement: Real Hope for Real People.

Jesus offers real hope.

Jesus said when we acknowledge the poverty of our spirit then we are blessed.

When we look at the reality of our true poverty, then ours is the kingdom of God.

And we have hope.

I want this dear woman to know the richness and lavishness of God's grace. I want her to experience him filling in the gap. I want her to feel her spirit expand with the hope He offers. I want to see the woundedness in her eyes heal.

Blessed are the poor in spirit...

Refrigerator Wisdom

The side of our fridge looks like a small dictionary exploded. We have magnetic sets of words for refrigerator poetry and such. This morning I was standing at the sink and started reading the combinations these little strips of paper and magnet made.

I am not sure of who has contributed, but I was caught by the random phrases displayed on the black metal surface. I wrote down the ones that triggered reactions and responses in my soul.

Enjoy possibilities.

Express your person.

The sunshine smile

Free of never

Our present life is from within.

Opening the truth with help

I forgive you.

Allow yourself room for laughter.

Hold her crazy, tender heart.

Every strong spirit celebrates opportunities.

Choose faith.

God’s dreams create attention.


Amazing isn’t it?

Wisdom is revealed in the oddest and most obscure places.


Enjoy possibilities. Enjoy, not endure. Enjoy, not lament. Embrace what could be.

Express your person. Make a statement; speak who you are. Let the real you manifest.

The sunshine smile. Exude energy. Brighten someone’s day. It is truly amazing what a smile can and will do—especially if the smile reaches all the way to your eyes.

Free of never. The chains of never are strong. I could never go there…I could never do that. Oh, to be free of that limitation.

Our present life is within. The true life, the essential life, is rooted in Who is in you. It is also learning to live in the NOW.

Opening the truth with help. Imagine a present at Christmas and it is so big you need help to get it open.

I forgive you. Three of the most powerful words in the human vocabulary.

Allow yourself room for laughter. Give yourself permission to laugh. Make space in your life to entertain laughter (or for laughter to entertain you).


Hold her crazy, tender heart (or his). Holding something implies it is in your care, under your protection. Recognize the wild craziness embedded in someone’s heart—encourage it. And remember the flesh of someone’s heart is tender—be gentle.

Every strong spirit celebrates opportunities. Celebrates, not tolerates. Strong spirits do not approach opportunities with caution. They enter into them and have a party.

Choose faith. An action of the will. A decision to choose to believe even when you can’t see the whole picture. Choose to believe in the substance of those things hoped for…

God’s dreams create attention. When God dreams, he dreams big. He dreams that his people would be conformed to the image of his Son. And that God, His Son and us would be one—abiding in unity. And this unity would bring reconciliation to the world.

A set of refrigerator magnetic words.

This might be a good investment.

Smiling in the Mirror

Steve and I have this wonderful early morning breakfast routine. We wake up smiling. I know—cheesy. I can hear our pastor and my daughters right now, but it is true. We fix our yogurt and oatmeal concoctions and then sit in our room and read something together while we eat. Right now we are half-way through Donald Miller’s book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.

I am amazed.

I am amazed because I didn’t always wake up smiling and didn’t eat breakfast. I read, but most of the time it was for escape certainly not for transformation. For years I often woke in dread, in apathy or in resentment. I knew I was going to have to face another day by putting on another mask. I didn’t want to look in the mirror and face who I was, who I had been, and who I was becoming. I didn’t like her.

As Donald Miller says, I was living a bad story.

God knew I was living a bad story. I certainly wasn’t living the story he had written for me. Somewhere along the way I decided I would be the novelist of my own life. Needless to say, the story I wrote would never be considered for a Pulitzer or a Newbury—more than likely I would have found my story bound in a cheap trade paperback on the red dot clearance table at Barnes & Noble.

In the fall of 2005 I had a wake-up call. I was on a trip to The Cove with one of the dearest women in my life. She had booked our trip eighteen months in advance—a year and a half of waiting and planning and anticipating. It was well worth the effort, but not in the ways I most expected.

God had placed mirrors everywhere. Every corner I turned and every hallway I ducked into there were reflecting glasses. I took a long, long look in the mirror that weekend. I faced myself. I actually made eye contact. To say I was startled would be an understatement.

That weekend God told me he wanted the pen to my story back. He held out his great merciful hand and waited patiently while I sat there fiddling with it…doodling, scribbling, erasing. Reluctantly, I finally passed it to him—keeping a grip even while I tried to place it in his fingers. Giving the pen to him meant giving him back the artistic license in my life (his in the first place). This meant giving him back the control of my story. I was living such a bad story I am not sure why I was so reluctant. Now, I understand it was because it was a story I was familiar with.

I was miserably comfortable.

Sadly, I hit the snooze button several times after that wake-up call. Groggy, disoriented and anxious, I kept thinking my life would get better. Surely if I tried really hard the miserable feelings would slowly dissipate. They did not. Actually they got worse.

I didn’t know how to wake up. I didn’t know how to move my lethargic mental, emotional and spiritual muscles to action.

Later, I would read William Young’s The Shack and he would call this The Great Sadness. Immediately I knew what Young was describing.

Then an event happened that caused the miserable comfortableness to explode. It was an expected and yet an unexpected event. I certainly wasn’t comfortable anymore, but I wasn’t miserable either. What a paradox.

Pain woke me. The struggle pierced the lethargy. My life began to tingle like your leg after you have sat in one position far too long. I had been asleep and circulation was returning to pinched limbs. This sensation can be annoying and even painful. You shake, rub and massage your limb hoping to increase the blood circulation.

Feeling somewhat like Rip Van Winkle, I realized I had missed so much of life while I was asleep.

I was awake.

God had punctured my Great Sadness.

The stagnation of my storyline was interrupted.

I understood I needed to move.

I began to walk. Three miles a day five and six times a week. I walked hard. Pushing myself. Commanding one foot in front of another.

Slowly the pain turned to a dull ache. Manageable. No longer incapacitating. Strangely I began to understand I could deal with real, direct pain easier than with miserable comfortableness.

There would be other major events.

My walking was interrupted by two fluke accidents which resulted in three broken bones.

I took inventory of my emotional health. I was anemic and malnourished.

More than once I questioned and reevaluated my faith. I sifted and sorted through the frailties and contradictions (and there were many) of the most essential part of who I am.

Reluctantly I tried to look at the relationships in my life. Many were good, strong and solid, but some were truly unhealthy: smothering, neglectful, apathetic.

My 42nd birthday was a turning point in my story. Almost two years since the wake-up call at The Cove—when I couldn’t even look in the mirror.

I have written about this in earlier entries of my blog…my daughters created a very special birthday for me that year. They were all involved in the planning, and my second daughter carried out the plans. At the end of that day I gazed in the mirror and looked the woman I saw directly in the eye. I said something to her.

“I like you. I am being challenged by the direction you are taking. I am enjoying what you are doing. I am interested in who you are. You still have work to do. You have rough edges and gravelly inner terrain, but you are making progress.”

What a strange thing to talk to myself. I carried on a conversation with a woman named Tamera. I was attempting to encourage her as if she were someone else. I was seeing myself from the outside.

I was reading the text of my own story and was intrigued.

Since that day I haven’t had to do much writing.

I gave my pen back to the Author and Finisher of my faith.

He writes a better story.

I know I am in the middle of the rising action. Lately, I have seen so much of the greater story unfold. I have been able to see transitions and connections. Sometimes the enormity and intricacy of his plot is overwhelming. In a beautiful, powerful way I am beginning to understand my story is only a brief paragraph in the greater story. I have no idea where this story is going, but He has promised me he will complete the good work He started.

He began a good story in me.

Now, because I am assured of this truth—

I wake smiling and can look in the mirror.

Ripening and Fermenting

I sit at the kitchen window and stare outside at the visible square of yard and watch the rain fall. It is slanted, pushing toward the east. I can’t hear it—though I did this morning. In the early hours of darkness I heard it beating on our roof and it lulled me into sleeping too long. I know the rain is permeating the ground—saturating it. Chill and cold have arrived and with it scents have sharpened and the air has tightened.

I just moved from the kitchen to my room. The rain is still dancing on the roof, the air is chilled (only in relevancy—the temperature would be too warm for summer), and my dogs are all piled around my feet. Their snuffling, shifting, and snoring do not annoy me, but comforts me instead.

There’s a muted hammering in my breast today. I woke with urgency, a welling-up of phrases and snippets of language—of unfettered prayers beating their subtle rhythm in my spirit.

I hear Him whispering—faint and muted—like listening to the leaves fall. You expect to hear the sound as they collide with the grass and the earth, but our hearing is not quite refined enough to detect it.

I know he is speaking to me. Beckoning me closer and nearer and deeper. He isn’t playing games. He isn’t whispering so I might miss something. If he shouted his voice would just become a part of the noise in my life.

He has laid his hand on me.

I breathe deeply, trying to fill my lungs to the very bottom. I hope this physical action will open me—increase my spiritual lung capacity. I encountered the spiritual concept of ripening in a book I am reading.

Most likely I wouldn’t have considered this word or process, but we grew tomatoes this summer. Four varieties at the end of our front porch. One vine grew to be ten feet tall. I was delighted because I could pick the tomatoes straight from the vine and eat them like apples. I had a favorite—this variety looked like a mutant with bubbles and bulges. And when they grew too large their skins would split and the red flesh would be exposed. They tasted like summer.

My spirit has been ripening all through this summer season. My thin red skin is stretching and I am about to burst—and my red flesh will be revealed.

I am an old wineskin.

My God has new wine for me.

He will cause me to be a new wineskin. Soft and supple. Elasticity will provide a give in the seams.

I am fermenting.

Ripening.

Being aged.

The urgency I woke with this morning is the swelling and frothing of this new wine stretching my seams.

Come quickly, oh my God!
Come and make me new so that not one drop of wine will be spilled and wasted.
Come quickly.
Come and hold me so that when my skin splits not one seed will be lost.

He has laid his hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, to lofty for me to attain. Psalm 139:5b-6

A Better Story

I was talking with my oldest daughter recently, she recommended Donald Miller’s new book: A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. I put my name on the list at the local library and waited.

We met her at a coffee shop one day last week and she pulled the book out of her over-sized bag and began to read out loud. I love to hear her read. She has beautiful inflection and lovely nuances in her voice—she is interpreting as she reads. Her face is animated and alive. I would have been interested simply because of her reading.

She flipped through the chapters and found snippets and one-liners with very little pause or rest—saying nothing besides Miller’s words from the page. And she would wait until we had soaked the words into our skin.

She talked about how the author wanted to live a better story, and how in turn that made her want to live a better story (you can read hers at www.ancientstillness.blogspot.com).

To live a better story--this line caught my attention.

I want to live a better story.

I got the book and my husband and I decided to read it out loud together. This morning we read the second chapter and laughed so hard we almost spewed our breakfast drinks through our nostrils (I know—graphic, but you have to understand how incredibly funny Miller is.)

As we were reading I remembered the first day my daughter talked to me about this book. She talked about living a better story. We were on the phone and I scrambled to write the phrase down on the first piece of paper that was handy.

It became a prayer.

A one sentence prayer that I have been praying ever since.

My sweet God is answering my prayers.

Yesterday, we got to be a part of the greater story—the big story. For a brief moment we got to witness how our stories wove and interwove with others and created a whole. The entire morning was in slow time. Lines in our worship seemed to be punctuated by the myriad of voices and highlighted on the screens in case we had missed them.

Lord, I want to love you from the inside out…consume me from the inside out….

Dave taught the word with a rawness and an urgency that was tangible. I was caught in the story of Gideon.

Notice that?

Caught in the story.

It is the stories that grab us. The stories hold us. The stories teach us. Jesus knew this and so he told the story of the woman with the lost coin, the prodigal son, the workers in the vineyard, and the rich man and Lazarus.

He told stories because they snag us even when we don’t want them to.

Stories linger. Stories stir.

Dave told the story of Gideon. The story is rife with this man’s excuses for not being the right man for God’s job. It is the story of his fleeces to test the calling of God. And so we were caught in the story.

I want to live a better story.

When the service was over there were some decisions to be made concerning the vision and future of the Body of Christ at our church. For a few minutes that small store-front sanctuary was filled with a tension. Not a negative one. But one that is like the underside of a sewing machine stitch. At times and in certain situations you need tension to hold things together.

Again, it was as if we were in slow time. Not slow motion, but slow time. Words were highlighted. Emotions were bared. Vision was illuminated.

I was a part of a better story. Part of something bigger and greater than myself.

Then we gathered as a body to pray for a young man who will be going into the military service in a couple of weeks.

We'll simply call him Christian.

Green. Intelligent. Guarded.

Searching.

Afraid.

The series of events that led Christian to this particular body is amazing and crazy. His story was/is so intertwined with ours.

He sat on a stool at the front. The first circle to gather around him was full of pillars--men past their primes. Yet there was was so much strength and power in that circle. Their gnarled and veined hands cupped the young man’s shoulders.

The second circle consisted of others who had invested in Christian's life. People who had prayed for him before. Those arms reached through the first circle and put their hands on him too.

We prayed.

And we became a part of the bigger story. Not just Christian's story or our story, but THE STORY.

And like Gideon and Jacob we built an altar so this young man would remember. Every prayer spoken, uttered, or breathed placed a stone in its construction.

This will be a place he can return to and remember.

This is the place Christian can go back to in his mind when life around him is frightening and lonely, and he will remember that God will never leave him or forsake him. This altar, built with weeping and soul cries, will remind him that he is loved. It will remind him that he is a part of a bigger story.

I want to live a better story.

I want my life to be filled with making altars so others can be reminded of the overwhelming, deep, powerful, gripping love of God!

Peter talked about it. He said we were living stones.

I want to live a better story.

Don’t you?