Why.
A three letter word fathoms deep—
Echoing endlessly back and perpetually forward.
Every age, every era, every millennium asks.
Young and old. Male and female.
Why?
This word can be the hardest, deepest and saddest of all questions.
Why is often connected to cause and effect circumstances we can’t trace.
Why often remains answerless.
Why is a tangential question—a great tree that continues to branch and fork and grow in ringed girth.
Why is a child’s question—steeped in curiosity. Asked in the earliest stages of a child’s wing development. Asked when a teenager begins to stretch and discover flight.
Asked when a spouse leaves. Asked when the tests are clouded. Asked when the bank statement is close to negative. Asked when a child is abused. Asked when the cell divides. Asked when a dream dies. Asked when the answer is no. Asked when an earthquake destroys. Asked when a leader falls. Asked when suffering seems inevitable.
Why probes.
Why drills.
Why intrudes.
Why is like the fat carpenter bee that bore two holes in the sill of my backdoor. It hummed and buzzed furiously as it ate away at the hardwood. I watched as his round body disappeared into his spherical door and the sawdust kicked out behind him and drifted down to the deck. He continued to make the hole deeper and deeper—penetrating into the core and heartwood. Until I stopped him.
I thought about when Jesus would have asked why.
From Sunday to Thursday of this eventful week Jesus walked the steep and winding two-mile trek to Bethany. He traversed down and up the Mount of Olives. Each day before he entered and exited Jerusalem he would pass by the Garden of Gethsemane.
Every day Jesus had a foreshadowing of what awaited him. Jesus’ greatest struggle was coming. His greatest battle was being orchestrated. The enemy was strategizing.
Gethsemane waited. But, he had set his face.
Watch Jesus. Watch him.
He did not ask why. He knew and understood the why of Gethsemane.
The why was and is us.
You. Me.
As he passed by that grove of olive trees each morning, before he entered into the mayhem and chaos of Jerusalem’s demands, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.
“Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. I know your plan and purpose for me. Show me Tamera’s (put your name in place of mine) face this morning.”
And as he passed back by his would be place of suffering each evening, after all the accolades and interrogations, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.
“Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. I know you will provide strength for tomorrow. Thank you for my rest tonight.”
We are finite beings. We cannot see far enough into eternity to not have to ask why. Our perceptions, minds and realities are too narrow and too shallow to dismiss this word from our daily vocabulary. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place and a time for the why. Why indicates struggle and growth.
But there are places and times we must learn to swat and smack the carpenter bee and have faith.
We must trust the Father’s plan.
We must.
We may be walking past our Gethsemane every day. We may be making a hard trek morning and night just to get through and we want to know why.
Why, Lord? Why?
Our greatest struggle may be on its way or have already arrived. Our greatest battle may just be around the next bend in the road or we may be right in the thick of it. The enemy may be laying out his battle plan or it may be in motion.
And we can ask why. Our Father is great enough to handle our whys. But as we walk by our Gethsemane let’s put the why aside.
In the morning when we pass by let’s pray, “Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. Remind me continually today of the plan and purpose you have before me.”
And in the evening pray, “Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. Remind me that you will provide strength for tomorrow. Please give me rest tonight.”
Yes, Gethsemane waits.
But we can ask the Father to prepare us.
There’s another carpenter bee hovering at my back door. I need to go and find my flyswatter.
.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
A Temple Whip--Day 5
Jesus went back to the temple.
He had unfinished business.
Let’s call this situation at the temple exactly what it was. It was contempt. The money-changers and the dove sellers profaned the temple. They had forgotten where they were.
They had grown so familiar with the temple it had become a common place. Just an ordinary place to do business. In the midst of clinking coins and bird feathers they had forgotten to be in awe, forgotten healthy fear and forgotten reverence.
The temple wasn’t a business to Jesus. It was his Father’s house. And he was returning to remind them.
But first—
But first watch what Jesus did.
He stops and makes a whip. He stands at the gate and slowly and methodically begins to braid cords together. He takes his time. There’s no hurry. There’s no exasperation.
Judas is staring. Peter is pacing impatiently. James and John are wondering what the whip is for (Perhaps they even wondered if they were going to get to use it. Remember earlier they had asked if fire could be called down on people. They don’t have the nicknames Sons of Thunder for nothing.)
And Jesus keeps braiding. Right over middle. Left over middle. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.* Love. Justice. Grace.
When he finishes he stands. And he entered the gates with Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Father, that this is your house.
And he entered the courts with praise.
Praise you, Father, for you are holy and good.
And then the whip cracked.
Smack.
Even the disciples jumped. Startled not just by the sound, but by the transformation in Jesus. There’s a light in his face and a shofar sound in his voice.
Tables turn. Cages open. Birds fly. Money rolls. Jaws drop.
And Jesus stood sentinel refusing to allow anyone carrying merchandise to walk through the courts.
And then…
Oh, I almost missed it. I almost missed the next detail.
And as he taught them…
As he taught them.
Jesus cleared the temple with a whip. Turned everything upside down and right side out.
Then he went back to the real purpose of the temple. He spent the rest of the day teaching and healing. Glory returned.And the house of God was once again a house of prayer.
We are the temple now. Yes, you read that correctly.
And we need to make a walk-through. We need to ask if familiarity is breeding contempt here in us? We may need to get angry with what we see.
We need to stop and make a whip of cords. Justice over love. Love over grace. Grace over Justice. All woven together to form one whip. And we need to be praying while we braid. Asking for discernment, for wisdom and for clarity.
When the whip is finished we need to go through and drive out all that is distracting and hindering us from the purpose of the temple—to be a house of prayer and to glorify God.
I need to go and make a whip.
He had unfinished business.
Let’s call this situation at the temple exactly what it was. It was contempt. The money-changers and the dove sellers profaned the temple. They had forgotten where they were.
They had grown so familiar with the temple it had become a common place. Just an ordinary place to do business. In the midst of clinking coins and bird feathers they had forgotten to be in awe, forgotten healthy fear and forgotten reverence.
The temple wasn’t a business to Jesus. It was his Father’s house. And he was returning to remind them.
But first—
But first watch what Jesus did.
He stops and makes a whip. He stands at the gate and slowly and methodically begins to braid cords together. He takes his time. There’s no hurry. There’s no exasperation.
Judas is staring. Peter is pacing impatiently. James and John are wondering what the whip is for (Perhaps they even wondered if they were going to get to use it. Remember earlier they had asked if fire could be called down on people. They don’t have the nicknames Sons of Thunder for nothing.)
And Jesus keeps braiding. Right over middle. Left over middle. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.* Love. Justice. Grace.
When he finishes he stands. And he entered the gates with Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Father, that this is your house.
And he entered the courts with praise.
Praise you, Father, for you are holy and good.
And then the whip cracked.
Smack.
Even the disciples jumped. Startled not just by the sound, but by the transformation in Jesus. There’s a light in his face and a shofar sound in his voice.
Tables turn. Cages open. Birds fly. Money rolls. Jaws drop.
And Jesus stood sentinel refusing to allow anyone carrying merchandise to walk through the courts.
And then…
Oh, I almost missed it. I almost missed the next detail.
And as he taught them…
As he taught them.
Jesus cleared the temple with a whip. Turned everything upside down and right side out.
Then he went back to the real purpose of the temple. He spent the rest of the day teaching and healing. Glory returned.And the house of God was once again a house of prayer.
We are the temple now. Yes, you read that correctly.
And we need to make a walk-through. We need to ask if familiarity is breeding contempt here in us? We may need to get angry with what we see.
We need to stop and make a whip of cords. Justice over love. Love over grace. Grace over Justice. All woven together to form one whip. And we need to be praying while we braid. Asking for discernment, for wisdom and for clarity.
When the whip is finished we need to go through and drive out all that is distracting and hindering us from the purpose of the temple—to be a house of prayer and to glorify God.
I need to go and make a whip.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Family and Friends
Where do you go when you are sad or hurting? Where do you go to be safe? The better question is to whom do you go? Who do you want to be with when life is about to hand you a hard thing that has no give? Who do you want to sit with you in silence? Or make you belly laugh regardless of the circumstances?
Do you have them in mind?
Jesus did. Actually he had two places and a group of people in mind.
Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Slow, steady and smelly. The palm branches fanned the air around him and the cloaks rippled like waves as they touched the ground before him. Shouts filled the air and a children’s choir delighted his heart. Innocence singing.
Zechariah’s word manifested.
And the spiritual leaders of Israel missed it. Before the palm branches stilled the Pharisees and the teachers of the law were rebuking and berating Jesus for the content of the children’s song.
But, watch Jesus.
Jesus moved past them. He was neither flattered by laud nor discouraged by criticism. He had set his face; he went to the temple.
Home away from home.
But what did he think when he entered the gates and courts? What did he mull in his mind as he studied this shadow of the reality? What was his assessment of this meager copy? What he found was a poor copy. A mimicry.
Sadly, this was not the house of prayer he longed for and needed. He had walked through the gates and entered the courts with a set face. He had come to pray. He had come to worship. He had come to talk to his Father.
What he encountered angered him.
Would it have angered us? Would we have been offended? Or would we have not seen anything out of the ordinary?
Jesus turned and walked away. He left his temple. He would talk to his Father somewhere else. He reset his face. His destination was Jerusalem, but that wasn’t where he was going to lay his head. He was going to another home away from home.
With his twelve men Jesus set out for Bethany.
He was going to Martha, Lazarus and Mary’s house to be among friends who had become family. He was going where he knew he was loved.
He could let his guard down in Bethany. No one would attempt to trap him in trick questions. No one would demand from him there. They would just let him be. (And if they didn’t, Martha would make sure they did. Don’t mess with Martha.)
At the most critical point in Jesus’ earthy life he needed to be with his Father and he wanted to be with his dearest friends.
He knows at the end of the week he is going to be left standing alone to face his accusers. He was going to meet death—face to face.
And where does he choose to go?
The hardest part of this earth-journey for Jesus was about to come. Pain, suffering, isolation and rejection. And he shows us what we should do. He always does.
Where do you go when life starts bending you backwards, when people start giving you grief, when your accuser points the finger at you, when your life becomes a hard thing?
Where do you go?
I hope you don’t have to think about it too long
Do you have them in mind?
Jesus did. Actually he had two places and a group of people in mind.
Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Slow, steady and smelly. The palm branches fanned the air around him and the cloaks rippled like waves as they touched the ground before him. Shouts filled the air and a children’s choir delighted his heart. Innocence singing.
Zechariah’s word manifested.
And the spiritual leaders of Israel missed it. Before the palm branches stilled the Pharisees and the teachers of the law were rebuking and berating Jesus for the content of the children’s song.
But, watch Jesus.
Jesus moved past them. He was neither flattered by laud nor discouraged by criticism. He had set his face; he went to the temple.
Home away from home.
But what did he think when he entered the gates and courts? What did he mull in his mind as he studied this shadow of the reality? What was his assessment of this meager copy? What he found was a poor copy. A mimicry.
Sadly, this was not the house of prayer he longed for and needed. He had walked through the gates and entered the courts with a set face. He had come to pray. He had come to worship. He had come to talk to his Father.
What he encountered angered him.
Would it have angered us? Would we have been offended? Or would we have not seen anything out of the ordinary?
Jesus turned and walked away. He left his temple. He would talk to his Father somewhere else. He reset his face. His destination was Jerusalem, but that wasn’t where he was going to lay his head. He was going to another home away from home.
With his twelve men Jesus set out for Bethany.
He was going to Martha, Lazarus and Mary’s house to be among friends who had become family. He was going where he knew he was loved.
He could let his guard down in Bethany. No one would attempt to trap him in trick questions. No one would demand from him there. They would just let him be. (And if they didn’t, Martha would make sure they did. Don’t mess with Martha.)
At the most critical point in Jesus’ earthy life he needed to be with his Father and he wanted to be with his dearest friends.
He knows at the end of the week he is going to be left standing alone to face his accusers. He was going to meet death—face to face.
And where does he choose to go?
The hardest part of this earth-journey for Jesus was about to come. Pain, suffering, isolation and rejection. And he shows us what we should do. He always does.
Where do you go when life starts bending you backwards, when people start giving you grief, when your accuser points the finger at you, when your life becomes a hard thing?
Where do you go?
I hope you don’t have to think about it too long
Shouting and Wanting--Day 3
Last night I struggled with this post and this endeavor.
I was fighting myself wondering if I was attempting this through vain conceit. When I got home from work something happened concerning one of these posts that embarrassed me. Frantically I tried to correct my mistake. And the beautiful Holy Spirit began to talk to me. My mind is often overwhelmed in his gentleness that is extended to me. You see the error that produced the embarrassment was a trivial thing. Easily fixed. Easily remedied. The change took only two or three minutes.
But my God knows me. He knew that the true root of the problem was not embarrassment, but pride. I said yesterday, let’s call these things what they are. And so there is my ugliness. Pride. And it cost me. My pride caused me to lose my focus last night. I have a very, very narrow window of writing time these days. And I squandered the time wallowing in what I delicately tried to call embarrassment. I was in a funk and on a mission. Not a good combination. So, I set my writing aside last night and went to bed. And this morning, the Spirit was beside me before I even came fully awake. He was already speaking to me.
So, if you are reading my blog today, first of all, I am honored. Second of all, if you are reading this blog today it is because of the grace of God. And because love covers over a multitude of wrongs.
He had a routine spot on the Jericho road. Old Timaeus’ blind son had nothing more than an indentation in the rocks to lay down his cloak. No more than a wide spot in the road.
He shouted and banged his clay pot on the rocks scattered at his feet. Bartimaeus called out names and listened for particular voices. His hearing was sharp. His interpretations were astute. The residents of Jericho recognized him, but rarely did they acknowledge him.
He was unkempt, tattered and dirty. His nails were grimy. Bartimaeus’ eyes were cloudy—milked over and empty, but his blindness had made him bold. And he was either brave or a little crazy because he was begging on a dangerous and treacherous road.
You see, Bartimaeus was blind, but he wasn’t deaf. And he was certainly not dumb. He heard the talk on the street. He was privy to many private conversations. People tend to ignore beggars and treat blind men like they are invisible.
And he heard that Jesus was coming. Every snippet of conversation and information about this Rabbi was tucked away for future reference. He asked questions of anyone who got close enough. Jesus was on his way. Leaving Jericho.
Bartimaeus heard them coming long before anyone else did. He measured the step counts—in his head he knew how many steps it took from the bend in the road to his begging station.
And when he reached his count he started to shout. He shouted loud. He was determined to be heard. He was going to make sure of it.
“Son of David, have mercy on me.” Oh, so much said in this short sentence.
“Son of David, have mercy on me.”
And then they began to shush him. They rebuked him—people who normally swatted at him as if he were an annoying fly, people who almost always ignored his pleas for help—they told him to be quiet.
But Bartimaeus just shouted louder. The more they rebuked the more he shouted. The louder they got, the louder he got. Oh, how I love the audacity of this man! He didn’t care what anyone thought. He knew what he wanted.
He kept shouting, and Jesus heard.
Jesus looked around at the gathering. He told the people to call the man. Tell him to come to me.
And so they went and told this blind man to get up and go to Jesus. Now, don’t you wonder who held Bartimaeus’ hand? Who led him to Jesus? Honestly, it doesn’t seem like anyone does. No, he’s too eager. He’s ready.
Remember, he’s been waiting for this moment. This is his one chance. He’s heard the whispers about what this man can do. He has heard the conversations about the healings in other places. And he is not going to miss his chance. He’s so eager and ready that he jumps up and throws his cloak behind. Mind you, he actually throws it aside, getting it out of the way so it won’t hinder him. His cloak and his begging pot are his only valued possessions. But he doesn’t care; he’s not thinking about that cloak right then. And he becomes the begging pot. He doesn’t just want Jesus to put something into the pot. No, he wants this Jesus to put something in him. And Bartimaeus doesn’t just hope, he expects.
He would bet every coin in his pot on this.
Someone does guide him directly to Jesus.
And Jesus looks him in the eye.
How do I know this?
Because this is the kind of man Jesus is. Jesus understood that you needed to look a blind man in the eye.
Remember Jesus had set his face toward Jerusalem. And here he is not but a few minutes out of Jericho and someone has already stopped him. But, watch him now. Watch Jesus. He stops in the middle of the road. Adds a delay to his purpose-driven itinerary and calls for a blind beggar to be brought to him.
A worthless blind, beggar.
“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked.
Do you realize what type of language this is? Right before Jesus set out to leave Jericho there was a hard-nosed, pride-filled discussion among his closest followers. And Jesus said to them that he had come to serve, not to be served.
Jesus’ question to the blind beggar was spoken in common servant language. What can I do for you? Jesus will always embody and employ what he wants us to be. If he asks us to be servants he is going to show us how to be servants.
“What do you want me to do for you?” He asks.
Did you catch that?
Jesus asks Bartimaeus what he wants. Not what he needs. No, what he wants.
And Bartimaeus told him exactly what he wanted. He didn’t stand there and hem-haw. He didn’t make excuses and try to justify his answer. He just blurted out exactly what he wanted.
And I just want to weep with Bartimaeus’ answer.
“Rabbi, I want to see.”
Oh, Bartimaeus, how he speaks my heart.
Oh, my Jesus, I want to see.
Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. He will not pass this way another time. He will not see Bartimaeus again.
Watch him now. Watch Jesus.
In compassion he reached out and touched the blind man’s eyes.
“Receive your sight.”
Listen carefully. There WILL come a time (more than once) when Jesus will be passing by us. And we best be shouting his name. And when others try to censor us, when they try to get us to not be so bold, so forthright, so vocal we should short louder. (Did you notice it was the religious and the disciples who rebuked Bartimaeus?)
And what will we do when we cry out his name and he turns to us, calls us to him and asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”
Will we stutter and stammer. Will we step back and try to think of the correct thing to ask Jesus to do for us? Will we allow pride to get in the way? False humility? The voices and expectations of others?
He’s asking right now. What do you want me to do for you?
Will I follow Bartimaeus and answer honestly?
Will you?
Mark 10:46-52; Matthew 20:29-34; Luke 18:35-43 and Mark 10:35-45
I was fighting myself wondering if I was attempting this through vain conceit. When I got home from work something happened concerning one of these posts that embarrassed me. Frantically I tried to correct my mistake. And the beautiful Holy Spirit began to talk to me. My mind is often overwhelmed in his gentleness that is extended to me. You see the error that produced the embarrassment was a trivial thing. Easily fixed. Easily remedied. The change took only two or three minutes.
But my God knows me. He knew that the true root of the problem was not embarrassment, but pride. I said yesterday, let’s call these things what they are. And so there is my ugliness. Pride. And it cost me. My pride caused me to lose my focus last night. I have a very, very narrow window of writing time these days. And I squandered the time wallowing in what I delicately tried to call embarrassment. I was in a funk and on a mission. Not a good combination. So, I set my writing aside last night and went to bed. And this morning, the Spirit was beside me before I even came fully awake. He was already speaking to me.
So, if you are reading my blog today, first of all, I am honored. Second of all, if you are reading this blog today it is because of the grace of God. And because love covers over a multitude of wrongs.
He had a routine spot on the Jericho road. Old Timaeus’ blind son had nothing more than an indentation in the rocks to lay down his cloak. No more than a wide spot in the road.
He shouted and banged his clay pot on the rocks scattered at his feet. Bartimaeus called out names and listened for particular voices. His hearing was sharp. His interpretations were astute. The residents of Jericho recognized him, but rarely did they acknowledge him.
He was unkempt, tattered and dirty. His nails were grimy. Bartimaeus’ eyes were cloudy—milked over and empty, but his blindness had made him bold. And he was either brave or a little crazy because he was begging on a dangerous and treacherous road.
You see, Bartimaeus was blind, but he wasn’t deaf. And he was certainly not dumb. He heard the talk on the street. He was privy to many private conversations. People tend to ignore beggars and treat blind men like they are invisible.
And he heard that Jesus was coming. Every snippet of conversation and information about this Rabbi was tucked away for future reference. He asked questions of anyone who got close enough. Jesus was on his way. Leaving Jericho.
Bartimaeus heard them coming long before anyone else did. He measured the step counts—in his head he knew how many steps it took from the bend in the road to his begging station.
And when he reached his count he started to shout. He shouted loud. He was determined to be heard. He was going to make sure of it.
“Son of David, have mercy on me.” Oh, so much said in this short sentence.
“Son of David, have mercy on me.”
And then they began to shush him. They rebuked him—people who normally swatted at him as if he were an annoying fly, people who almost always ignored his pleas for help—they told him to be quiet.
But Bartimaeus just shouted louder. The more they rebuked the more he shouted. The louder they got, the louder he got. Oh, how I love the audacity of this man! He didn’t care what anyone thought. He knew what he wanted.
He kept shouting, and Jesus heard.
Jesus looked around at the gathering. He told the people to call the man. Tell him to come to me.
And so they went and told this blind man to get up and go to Jesus. Now, don’t you wonder who held Bartimaeus’ hand? Who led him to Jesus? Honestly, it doesn’t seem like anyone does. No, he’s too eager. He’s ready.
Remember, he’s been waiting for this moment. This is his one chance. He’s heard the whispers about what this man can do. He has heard the conversations about the healings in other places. And he is not going to miss his chance. He’s so eager and ready that he jumps up and throws his cloak behind. Mind you, he actually throws it aside, getting it out of the way so it won’t hinder him. His cloak and his begging pot are his only valued possessions. But he doesn’t care; he’s not thinking about that cloak right then. And he becomes the begging pot. He doesn’t just want Jesus to put something into the pot. No, he wants this Jesus to put something in him. And Bartimaeus doesn’t just hope, he expects.
He would bet every coin in his pot on this.
Someone does guide him directly to Jesus.
And Jesus looks him in the eye.
How do I know this?
Because this is the kind of man Jesus is. Jesus understood that you needed to look a blind man in the eye.
Remember Jesus had set his face toward Jerusalem. And here he is not but a few minutes out of Jericho and someone has already stopped him. But, watch him now. Watch Jesus. He stops in the middle of the road. Adds a delay to his purpose-driven itinerary and calls for a blind beggar to be brought to him.
A worthless blind, beggar.
“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked.
Do you realize what type of language this is? Right before Jesus set out to leave Jericho there was a hard-nosed, pride-filled discussion among his closest followers. And Jesus said to them that he had come to serve, not to be served.
Jesus’ question to the blind beggar was spoken in common servant language. What can I do for you? Jesus will always embody and employ what he wants us to be. If he asks us to be servants he is going to show us how to be servants.
“What do you want me to do for you?” He asks.
Did you catch that?
Jesus asks Bartimaeus what he wants. Not what he needs. No, what he wants.
And Bartimaeus told him exactly what he wanted. He didn’t stand there and hem-haw. He didn’t make excuses and try to justify his answer. He just blurted out exactly what he wanted.
And I just want to weep with Bartimaeus’ answer.
“Rabbi, I want to see.”
Oh, Bartimaeus, how he speaks my heart.
Oh, my Jesus, I want to see.
Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. He will not pass this way another time. He will not see Bartimaeus again.
Watch him now. Watch Jesus.
In compassion he reached out and touched the blind man’s eyes.
“Receive your sight.”
Listen carefully. There WILL come a time (more than once) when Jesus will be passing by us. And we best be shouting his name. And when others try to censor us, when they try to get us to not be so bold, so forthright, so vocal we should short louder. (Did you notice it was the religious and the disciples who rebuked Bartimaeus?)
And what will we do when we cry out his name and he turns to us, calls us to him and asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”
Will we stutter and stammer. Will we step back and try to think of the correct thing to ask Jesus to do for us? Will we allow pride to get in the way? False humility? The voices and expectations of others?
He’s asking right now. What do you want me to do for you?
Will I follow Bartimaeus and answer honestly?
Will you?
Mark 10:46-52; Matthew 20:29-34; Luke 18:35-43 and Mark 10:35-45
Monday, April 11, 2011
A Set Face--Day 2
For twenty-eight years I have been a Christ-follower. That’s longer than I have done or been anything other than being alive. I have not always been diligent. I have not always been full of fervor. I have not always been a Christ-follower to emulate. But I could never turn away. I loved the faith. I loved Christ.
Somewhere along the next twenty-two years ago he became very familiar. And I took liberties and made assumptions. One of the ways this attitude manifested was I wouldn't read certain passages in Scripture because I already knew them. I knew the words written there. Again, familiarity bred contempt. I didn’t want to call it that. I didn’t want to put such an ugly name on it.
But we must call ugliness what it is.
Our Resurrection God recognizes this in his followers. He sees the sneers and smirks of contempt long before we do. He sees them as they begin inside. For me not to read a passage (especially the narratives of Jesus’ last week here) because I already knew them is a sin. And that sin is pride. Let me call it what it is.
But He didn’t deal with me harshly. Never does.
He asked me to go to the place of the greatest familiarity. Go back to the Gospels.
That was six years ago.
Six years ago I fell in love with Jesus. This is familiar phraseology—the best I can do to explain my relationship with Jesus. And it is a far-cry from the reality, but it’s close.
Six years ago I began to re-read the Gospels from a different perspective. I read and studied those four books simply to watch Jesus.
I watched him. I followed him through the crowds like an orphaned waif. I shadowed him through villages and followed behind him on the dusty roads. I saw him reach his hand out to a leper. I witnessed him raising a little girl from the dead. I listened as he gently chastised Martha. And I shrunk behind walls when he faced the Pharisees, the religious leaders, and called them white-washed tombs. I cried when he comforted the Widow of Nain. I hurt for him when his friend, Lazarus, died. I saw him show mercy so many times. He withheld condemnation when everyone else held rocks in their hands. He ate with people who were despised.
I saw him laugh and joke. I marveled at his teaching ability. I heard his encouragement to his disciples. I listened when he explained something to them for the fourth time and they still didn’t get what he was saying or doing. I witnessed him doing things that were beyond my comprehension—events I still do not fully understand. Apparently Peter, James and John didn’t either. I was nearby when he took the bread and fish and looked up and spoke with his father. I was in the crowd when the woman scooted under my feet and touched the dusty hem of his garment. I watched him make mud-pies and write in the dirt. I took a step back when he rebuked Peter. I saw him pick up a child and put her on his shoulders.
I fell in love with this man, Jesus. How could I not? How could I watch him and not love him?
But you see, he loved me first.
And I saw it on his face.
He was on his way to Jerusalem. He was navigating the treacherous Jericho road. So many told him not to go. He was warned. There was a bounty on his head. Cunningly the traps were being set and strategically the snares were being placed to entangle and indict him. They were waiting for him. And the ones around and with him were discouraging him—advising him to lay low, fly under the radar until the heat cooled.
But Jesus’ face was set. Like flint. He would not be deterred in this final journey. This was what he was sent here to do. To go to Jerusalem and die. He knew the details. Every single one. He knew the itinerary of this trip. He knew how it would end, and he went anyway. Love compelled him. He went because somewhere on that Jericho road he saw the shadow of me.
And the shadow of you.
And he set his face towards Jerusalem.
Don’t miss this.
He saw us.
Don’t dismiss this reality because of familiarity.
Jesus set his face because of me.
Because of you.
Luke 9:51; Isaiah 50:7
Somewhere along the next twenty-two years ago he became very familiar. And I took liberties and made assumptions. One of the ways this attitude manifested was I wouldn't read certain passages in Scripture because I already knew them. I knew the words written there. Again, familiarity bred contempt. I didn’t want to call it that. I didn’t want to put such an ugly name on it.
But we must call ugliness what it is.
Our Resurrection God recognizes this in his followers. He sees the sneers and smirks of contempt long before we do. He sees them as they begin inside. For me not to read a passage (especially the narratives of Jesus’ last week here) because I already knew them is a sin. And that sin is pride. Let me call it what it is.
But He didn’t deal with me harshly. Never does.
He asked me to go to the place of the greatest familiarity. Go back to the Gospels.
That was six years ago.
Six years ago I fell in love with Jesus. This is familiar phraseology—the best I can do to explain my relationship with Jesus. And it is a far-cry from the reality, but it’s close.
Six years ago I began to re-read the Gospels from a different perspective. I read and studied those four books simply to watch Jesus.
I watched him. I followed him through the crowds like an orphaned waif. I shadowed him through villages and followed behind him on the dusty roads. I saw him reach his hand out to a leper. I witnessed him raising a little girl from the dead. I listened as he gently chastised Martha. And I shrunk behind walls when he faced the Pharisees, the religious leaders, and called them white-washed tombs. I cried when he comforted the Widow of Nain. I hurt for him when his friend, Lazarus, died. I saw him show mercy so many times. He withheld condemnation when everyone else held rocks in their hands. He ate with people who were despised.
I saw him laugh and joke. I marveled at his teaching ability. I heard his encouragement to his disciples. I listened when he explained something to them for the fourth time and they still didn’t get what he was saying or doing. I witnessed him doing things that were beyond my comprehension—events I still do not fully understand. Apparently Peter, James and John didn’t either. I was nearby when he took the bread and fish and looked up and spoke with his father. I was in the crowd when the woman scooted under my feet and touched the dusty hem of his garment. I watched him make mud-pies and write in the dirt. I took a step back when he rebuked Peter. I saw him pick up a child and put her on his shoulders.
I fell in love with this man, Jesus. How could I not? How could I watch him and not love him?
But you see, he loved me first.
And I saw it on his face.
He was on his way to Jerusalem. He was navigating the treacherous Jericho road. So many told him not to go. He was warned. There was a bounty on his head. Cunningly the traps were being set and strategically the snares were being placed to entangle and indict him. They were waiting for him. And the ones around and with him were discouraging him—advising him to lay low, fly under the radar until the heat cooled.
But Jesus’ face was set. Like flint. He would not be deterred in this final journey. This was what he was sent here to do. To go to Jerusalem and die. He knew the details. Every single one. He knew the itinerary of this trip. He knew how it would end, and he went anyway. Love compelled him. He went because somewhere on that Jericho road he saw the shadow of me.
And the shadow of you.
And he set his face towards Jerusalem.
Don’t miss this.
He saw us.
Don’t dismiss this reality because of familiarity.
Jesus set his face because of me.
Because of you.
Luke 9:51; Isaiah 50:7
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Fourteen Days--1
This has been a long winter. A season of stretched-out grayness and cold barrenness.
I know. I know. We need the winter. We need the rest and the dormancy. Our world needs to lay fallow for a season. Winter is a time of latent life that is invisible to the casual observer. Or the light-deprived—like me.
I am not sure how many times I have whispered to myself, “This too shall pass. Yes, Tamera, it will. This too shall pass.”
I was beginning to wonder.
But one morning I woke up and looked out my kitchen window and the grass in the yard was green. There were buds on the trees. The tulips and daffodils were pushing up through the dead grass.
The sun started to shine.
And I could feel my sap running. I came awake.
I have been resurrected from my winter slumber.
Two weeks from today Christ-followers will celebrate the most essential tenet of our faith. Without the fact of the Resurrection our faith would be null and void. Without this event—this coming to life, rising up from the grave and casting off the shackles of death event— we would lose the very life blood of who we are.
I have no interest in remaining in the darkness of burial. I have no desire to be left in a perpetual Friday or Saturday of that weekend event. I am a Sunday kind of girl. I want to live like it is Sunday!
For the next fourteen days I am going to share some thoughts with you about what we call Easter.
These thoughts will be nothing new and most likely written about and discussed a hundred times before. Most likely someone has or will communicate them far better that I. Solomon, in all his wisdom, says there is nothing new under the sun. I am not striving or looking for originality. I am looking for the Spirit to take something that has become far too familiar and make it fresh.
We tend to overlook, ignore or scorn the familiar. We grow weary of it. We say we have been there, done that. Heard that, seen that. Oh, but that is why God’s Word is living and active. It is not simply words on a page—no, we interact with the Word of God, because every time we approach it we are coming from a slightly different slope or angle. Every time we encounter the Word there is an opportunity for the Spirit to teach us.
I am not sure how many times I have read the last chapters of the gospels. I could not count how many messages I have heard about the last week of Jesus’ life. I do know this: I have become far too familiar. And the truth is: sometimes familiarity breeds contempt.
I am asking the God of the Resurrection to enable me to see the last chapters of the gospels in a new light. I am asking that in the next fourteen days to be changed.
Transformed.
Recently a dear friend of mine told me she preferred the butterfly as a symbol of her faith. I had to think about that for a while. At first it seemed far too clichéd to me. Ahhhh, too familiar. And because of its familiarity I almost dismissed it.
Today I was walking on our walking trail with my husband. The wind was blowing, the grasses were moving, my hair was whipping and the sun was shining. No clouds in the sky. No scent of rain in the air. Just heat and light. How could it get any better?
I was talking—thirty words to every two steps it seemed.
And the day got better.
Swooping, gliding, floating and fluttering across the grass, clover and dandelions was a butterfly. It flew ahead of me on the trail—hovering and dancing. A yellow butterfly.
A yellow butterfly.
Months ago an ugly caterpillar had fed its greediness full—and cocooned itself in a tight ball and went dormant. Waiting. Suspended all through the long, dark winter. One day it woke up and the cocoon was too tight. The creature began to push through the membrane that had been its protection. And it emerged.
Transformed.
And the symbol I had considered a bit cliché and far too familiar was new. In that moment on the walking trail God took something old, over-used and worn and made it new.
I came fully awake.
Would you join me in this fourteen day journey? Fourteen days of looking at the familiar and asking our Resurrection God to please show us something new.
Something fresh.
Are you awake yet?
I know. I know. We need the winter. We need the rest and the dormancy. Our world needs to lay fallow for a season. Winter is a time of latent life that is invisible to the casual observer. Or the light-deprived—like me.
I am not sure how many times I have whispered to myself, “This too shall pass. Yes, Tamera, it will. This too shall pass.”
I was beginning to wonder.
But one morning I woke up and looked out my kitchen window and the grass in the yard was green. There were buds on the trees. The tulips and daffodils were pushing up through the dead grass.
The sun started to shine.
And I could feel my sap running. I came awake.
I have been resurrected from my winter slumber.
Two weeks from today Christ-followers will celebrate the most essential tenet of our faith. Without the fact of the Resurrection our faith would be null and void. Without this event—this coming to life, rising up from the grave and casting off the shackles of death event— we would lose the very life blood of who we are.
I have no interest in remaining in the darkness of burial. I have no desire to be left in a perpetual Friday or Saturday of that weekend event. I am a Sunday kind of girl. I want to live like it is Sunday!
For the next fourteen days I am going to share some thoughts with you about what we call Easter.
These thoughts will be nothing new and most likely written about and discussed a hundred times before. Most likely someone has or will communicate them far better that I. Solomon, in all his wisdom, says there is nothing new under the sun. I am not striving or looking for originality. I am looking for the Spirit to take something that has become far too familiar and make it fresh.
We tend to overlook, ignore or scorn the familiar. We grow weary of it. We say we have been there, done that. Heard that, seen that. Oh, but that is why God’s Word is living and active. It is not simply words on a page—no, we interact with the Word of God, because every time we approach it we are coming from a slightly different slope or angle. Every time we encounter the Word there is an opportunity for the Spirit to teach us.
I am not sure how many times I have read the last chapters of the gospels. I could not count how many messages I have heard about the last week of Jesus’ life. I do know this: I have become far too familiar. And the truth is: sometimes familiarity breeds contempt.
I am asking the God of the Resurrection to enable me to see the last chapters of the gospels in a new light. I am asking that in the next fourteen days to be changed.
Transformed.
Recently a dear friend of mine told me she preferred the butterfly as a symbol of her faith. I had to think about that for a while. At first it seemed far too clichéd to me. Ahhhh, too familiar. And because of its familiarity I almost dismissed it.
Today I was walking on our walking trail with my husband. The wind was blowing, the grasses were moving, my hair was whipping and the sun was shining. No clouds in the sky. No scent of rain in the air. Just heat and light. How could it get any better?
I was talking—thirty words to every two steps it seemed.
And the day got better.
Swooping, gliding, floating and fluttering across the grass, clover and dandelions was a butterfly. It flew ahead of me on the trail—hovering and dancing. A yellow butterfly.
A yellow butterfly.
Months ago an ugly caterpillar had fed its greediness full—and cocooned itself in a tight ball and went dormant. Waiting. Suspended all through the long, dark winter. One day it woke up and the cocoon was too tight. The creature began to push through the membrane that had been its protection. And it emerged.
Transformed.
And the symbol I had considered a bit cliché and far too familiar was new. In that moment on the walking trail God took something old, over-used and worn and made it new.
I came fully awake.
Would you join me in this fourteen day journey? Fourteen days of looking at the familiar and asking our Resurrection God to please show us something new.
Something fresh.
Are you awake yet?
Saturday, April 9, 2011
15 Year Old Teachers
I have been revisiting my blog. I have been rethinking this chambered nautilus space. I have grown too comfortable here.
In 2007 when I started The Chambered Nautilus: Deep calls to Deep this was a giant leap for me into the unknown and the uncomfortable. I created the blog because I was teaching a creative writing class and I challenged the students to get out of their comfort zone—start a blog, submit something for publication. My philosophy in teaching is that I do not give assignments or challenges I will not engage or do. I took my own challenge and this blog was birthed. It has been a place of solace for me.
I was mesmerized by this chambered mystery, but I hadn’t thought a great deal about my blog or its map legend too much since its inception. Recently I started to feel cramped again. I hadn’t stretched to full length in a long while. I realized I was staying in a close, tight space—a little afraid, reluctant to push outward.
Fearful of taking another risk
Suddenly, once again this symbol began to appear—vying for my attention. Reminding me of what God has done and is doing in me. A good friend, an incredibly thoughtful friend, gave me a birthday bag the week before my birthday. It was filled with special things, most of them centered on the chambered nautilus. And this wasn’t the first time she had showered me with gifts emblazoned with my symbol.
Finally it dawned on me. Was I missing something? Was the sweet Spirit of God whispering to me and I was not hearing because it was all too familiar?
A couple of weeks ago I assigned my public speaking class a high school version of show and tell. It was an improv of sorts with minimal preparation. As I stated my philosophy in teaching is that I don’t and won’t give the students an assignment that I am unwilling to do myself. In keeping with this philosophy I brought in my beautiful chambered nautilus to share. Most of the group had never seen or heard of this ancient creature or their incrementally beautiful shell.
I hadn’t shared about my map legend in a long time and it felt good to tell the story again. I did wonder, however, how many of the students had really even listened, let alone were interested.
My birthday was April 1st. I had an incredible day. Family, friends, students, teachers and coworkers were so wonderful and filled my day with so many incredible wishes and thoughts and sentiments. One gift, however, surprised and stunned me. I didn’t expect a gift from this person, and I certainly didn’t expect what he gave. One of my freshmen public speaking students came to me during my planning period and handed me a folded piece of paper. In his quiet, unassuming way he said, “This is for you.”
I opened the paper. At the top he had drawn three stars and Happy Birthday!!! His scratchy handwriting filled the space from top to bottom. I started to read. I finished and read again. And again.
God speaks. God speaks regardless.
And he teaches 45 year old teachers through 15 year old students.
Here is what he wrote. I asked for his permission to print and share this with you—my chambered nautilus readers.
I am a nautilus shell
Tiny, vulnerable and wiry
I am stuck between the light and the dark of the ocean.
I long for the light, but the dark is always pulling.
I am unwilling to grow
I am afraid of my vulnerability
I am trapped in my own shell.
I need room to grow, to expand my chambers,
To grow though means to become vulnerable
To become vulnerable means I could be hurt.
I am looking for a sign, signal—something saying it’s
Time for me to grow.
I am a fully grown nautilus shell.
I am no longer afraid of my vulnerability.
I am no longer trapped in my shell.
I am no longer unwilling to grow.
I’ve heard the signal.
It came like a whisper in the wind—
Calm, shy, fleeting.
My shell is grown.
My sign found.
I am in the light of God.
Ben Schanding
In 2007 when I started The Chambered Nautilus: Deep calls to Deep this was a giant leap for me into the unknown and the uncomfortable. I created the blog because I was teaching a creative writing class and I challenged the students to get out of their comfort zone—start a blog, submit something for publication. My philosophy in teaching is that I do not give assignments or challenges I will not engage or do. I took my own challenge and this blog was birthed. It has been a place of solace for me.
I was mesmerized by this chambered mystery, but I hadn’t thought a great deal about my blog or its map legend too much since its inception. Recently I started to feel cramped again. I hadn’t stretched to full length in a long while. I realized I was staying in a close, tight space—a little afraid, reluctant to push outward.
Fearful of taking another risk
Suddenly, once again this symbol began to appear—vying for my attention. Reminding me of what God has done and is doing in me. A good friend, an incredibly thoughtful friend, gave me a birthday bag the week before my birthday. It was filled with special things, most of them centered on the chambered nautilus. And this wasn’t the first time she had showered me with gifts emblazoned with my symbol.
Finally it dawned on me. Was I missing something? Was the sweet Spirit of God whispering to me and I was not hearing because it was all too familiar?
A couple of weeks ago I assigned my public speaking class a high school version of show and tell. It was an improv of sorts with minimal preparation. As I stated my philosophy in teaching is that I don’t and won’t give the students an assignment that I am unwilling to do myself. In keeping with this philosophy I brought in my beautiful chambered nautilus to share. Most of the group had never seen or heard of this ancient creature or their incrementally beautiful shell.
I hadn’t shared about my map legend in a long time and it felt good to tell the story again. I did wonder, however, how many of the students had really even listened, let alone were interested.
My birthday was April 1st. I had an incredible day. Family, friends, students, teachers and coworkers were so wonderful and filled my day with so many incredible wishes and thoughts and sentiments. One gift, however, surprised and stunned me. I didn’t expect a gift from this person, and I certainly didn’t expect what he gave. One of my freshmen public speaking students came to me during my planning period and handed me a folded piece of paper. In his quiet, unassuming way he said, “This is for you.”
I opened the paper. At the top he had drawn three stars and Happy Birthday!!! His scratchy handwriting filled the space from top to bottom. I started to read. I finished and read again. And again.
God speaks. God speaks regardless.
And he teaches 45 year old teachers through 15 year old students.
Here is what he wrote. I asked for his permission to print and share this with you—my chambered nautilus readers.
I am a nautilus shell
Tiny, vulnerable and wiry
I am stuck between the light and the dark of the ocean.
I long for the light, but the dark is always pulling.
I am unwilling to grow
I am afraid of my vulnerability
I am trapped in my own shell.
I need room to grow, to expand my chambers,
To grow though means to become vulnerable
To become vulnerable means I could be hurt.
I am looking for a sign, signal—something saying it’s
Time for me to grow.
I am a fully grown nautilus shell.
I am no longer afraid of my vulnerability.
I am no longer trapped in my shell.
I am no longer unwilling to grow.
I’ve heard the signal.
It came like a whisper in the wind—
Calm, shy, fleeting.
My shell is grown.
My sign found.
I am in the light of God.
Ben Schanding
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Bolivian Beads
They were lovely beads—a double strand of dark red, off white and matte black irregular- shaped beads. My daughter brought them back from Bolivia to her younger sister as a gift and memento of her time there.
They matched my sweater, and I was wearing them. I regret doing so. I wish I had decided on something else, picked another necklace or scarf from my own collection, but I didn’t. Sometime in the course of the day the clasp had turned to the front. I stood in the kitchen and was turning the necklace back around my neck.
The shorter strand snapped between my fingers. The breaking happened before I even realized—so fast, so unexpected. The beads dropped to the floor so quickly I didn’t even catch one. I managed to grasp the strand and stop the unstringing midway, but I looked down and all around my feet the beads rolled. I gasped.
I had broken the Bolivian beads. They had traveled thousands of miles intact. They had been worn many times before, but I was the one who broke them.
I grabbed a measuring cup and started to kneel to retrieve them, but my husband was already bent picking up tiny black beads with his enormous fingers and placing them in the cup of his hand.
I stood, unmoving, still astonished that this had happened so quickly. In the middle of all this I still held the broken strand of beads. Finally, I handed him the cup and he began to fill it. We moved a cabinet in order to locate the stray beads. When we managed to find them all, I laid the broken strand in a shallow pottery dish on the counter and sighed.
A week later I was on the walking track at school. For thirty minutes every day I walk around in circles. I would much rather walk outside, but the long winter has prohibited that option. I do enjoy hearing snippets and snatches of instructions and lessons as I go by the open classrooms. Usually I walk with a book—reading as I go. The reading makes the time move faster and allows me to do something I love while doing something I don’t necessarily enjoy. The students think I’m funny. Several of them will wave at me. Some have even put things in my path to see if I notice. A trash can. A desk. I just move them and continue on my way.
Some of my deepest thinking happens in this cyclical routine. As my heart rate moves up, so does the awareness of my spirit.
And the Spirit spoke. Clear, pristine directions. This is what I want you to do, Tamera. But I had no pen, no paper, no means of recording what He was speaking into me. This fact didn’t matter. When he wants you to remember, you will. And when he wants you to make connections he will help you connect the dots. That day I was walking and I remembered the beads on the counter. The broken strand. The loose beads. As I turned the rounded corners I replayed the scenario in my head—a short clip I could fast forward and rewind and pause.
Something hard and sad occurred in my life a few weeks before the time of the beads. I regret that eventful night. I wish I had made other choices. I wish different choices were made. It was a night of unexpected and quick brokenness. The whole situation was like a fragile string that couldn’t handle the pulling and tension, and it snapped. Actually my strand snapped that night. I had felt my own fragility and watched as the beads dropped to the floor out of my reach and beyond my control. I wasn’t even able to hold to the strand to keep it from totally unstringing.
I stood gasping.
And I am still collecting scattered beads. I can’t seem to locate all of them.
But (God’s beautiful divine conjunction. Praise him!) as I walked that circle, one foot in front of the other, he spoke his peace to me. His solid peace moved to the most remote and broken parts of me.
Deep parts, deep places.
He whispered to me that he knew where all the beads were and he was quite good at restringing broken strands. Even if the beads remained missing he could and would create a new pattern if I put the string and the beads in his hands. If I trusted him with the process and the pattern.
At first, I looked for the right words, the right posture, the right attitude to fix and repair the situation myself, but I simply don’t have that capability. I can’t repair what is broken—especially not what is broken in me.
Several years ago the brokenness would have driven me to despair and depression. A few years ago I would have pummeled myself until I was spiritually and emotionally bloody. What good is that? What benefit does that have in my life and in the kingdom?
As I walked around that elliptical track, one foot in front of the other, I raised my head and closed my book. And I made a hard choice. I chose to hand over the beads and the broken string. I chose to follow his instructions.
Those beautiful, lovely beads and the fragile, broken string are in his hands now.
His hands are capable; they are skilled.
I trust him to the restringing.
They matched my sweater, and I was wearing them. I regret doing so. I wish I had decided on something else, picked another necklace or scarf from my own collection, but I didn’t. Sometime in the course of the day the clasp had turned to the front. I stood in the kitchen and was turning the necklace back around my neck.
The shorter strand snapped between my fingers. The breaking happened before I even realized—so fast, so unexpected. The beads dropped to the floor so quickly I didn’t even catch one. I managed to grasp the strand and stop the unstringing midway, but I looked down and all around my feet the beads rolled. I gasped.
I had broken the Bolivian beads. They had traveled thousands of miles intact. They had been worn many times before, but I was the one who broke them.
I grabbed a measuring cup and started to kneel to retrieve them, but my husband was already bent picking up tiny black beads with his enormous fingers and placing them in the cup of his hand.
I stood, unmoving, still astonished that this had happened so quickly. In the middle of all this I still held the broken strand of beads. Finally, I handed him the cup and he began to fill it. We moved a cabinet in order to locate the stray beads. When we managed to find them all, I laid the broken strand in a shallow pottery dish on the counter and sighed.
A week later I was on the walking track at school. For thirty minutes every day I walk around in circles. I would much rather walk outside, but the long winter has prohibited that option. I do enjoy hearing snippets and snatches of instructions and lessons as I go by the open classrooms. Usually I walk with a book—reading as I go. The reading makes the time move faster and allows me to do something I love while doing something I don’t necessarily enjoy. The students think I’m funny. Several of them will wave at me. Some have even put things in my path to see if I notice. A trash can. A desk. I just move them and continue on my way.
Some of my deepest thinking happens in this cyclical routine. As my heart rate moves up, so does the awareness of my spirit.
And the Spirit spoke. Clear, pristine directions. This is what I want you to do, Tamera. But I had no pen, no paper, no means of recording what He was speaking into me. This fact didn’t matter. When he wants you to remember, you will. And when he wants you to make connections he will help you connect the dots. That day I was walking and I remembered the beads on the counter. The broken strand. The loose beads. As I turned the rounded corners I replayed the scenario in my head—a short clip I could fast forward and rewind and pause.
Something hard and sad occurred in my life a few weeks before the time of the beads. I regret that eventful night. I wish I had made other choices. I wish different choices were made. It was a night of unexpected and quick brokenness. The whole situation was like a fragile string that couldn’t handle the pulling and tension, and it snapped. Actually my strand snapped that night. I had felt my own fragility and watched as the beads dropped to the floor out of my reach and beyond my control. I wasn’t even able to hold to the strand to keep it from totally unstringing.
I stood gasping.
And I am still collecting scattered beads. I can’t seem to locate all of them.
But (God’s beautiful divine conjunction. Praise him!) as I walked that circle, one foot in front of the other, he spoke his peace to me. His solid peace moved to the most remote and broken parts of me.
Deep parts, deep places.
He whispered to me that he knew where all the beads were and he was quite good at restringing broken strands. Even if the beads remained missing he could and would create a new pattern if I put the string and the beads in his hands. If I trusted him with the process and the pattern.
At first, I looked for the right words, the right posture, the right attitude to fix and repair the situation myself, but I simply don’t have that capability. I can’t repair what is broken—especially not what is broken in me.
Several years ago the brokenness would have driven me to despair and depression. A few years ago I would have pummeled myself until I was spiritually and emotionally bloody. What good is that? What benefit does that have in my life and in the kingdom?
As I walked around that elliptical track, one foot in front of the other, I raised my head and closed my book. And I made a hard choice. I chose to hand over the beads and the broken string. I chose to follow his instructions.
Those beautiful, lovely beads and the fragile, broken string are in his hands now.
His hands are capable; they are skilled.
I trust him to the restringing.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Storm Breathing
Spring Break.
I long and yearn to be at the edge of the ocean smelling the brine in the air and hearing the waves break on the shore. Watching the seagulls swoop and glide. I want to feel the grit of sand in my toes and relish the sun on my face. I want to breathe deep. Deep breathing that allows the breath to go all the way to bottom of my lungs.
I have to ask: can I only breathe deep at the ocean? Is it the salt on the air and the sound and noise and the sheen of the sun that produces this euphoria? Is it the burn on my skin and the slap of the ocean waves on my calves? Or is it the endless and soothing roll of the water wetting the sand and darkening it on the edges? What is it about the ocean? Can I only breathe deeply there?
At the ocean my restlessness gets absorbed. Schedules are relaxed. The question is what do we want to do rather than what do we have to do. Inwardly our bodies become tuned to the rhythm of the vast sea.
But I can’t go there now. Circumstances just aren’t in order. I am, however, realizing God is asking me to breathe deeply anyway.
I have been breathing these shallow breaths for too long. Functional and adequate breaths, but not the ones which move all the way down until my lungs are expanded and inflated. Shallow breathing does not get held, but expelled quickly in order to take the next one. God wants me to stop and hold my breath. Hold my breath until—I can release it slowly.
A measured exhale.
I have been concerned about Spring Break. The Theory of Relativity strikes true in this short week. I have been concerned my shallow breathing will jeopardize the next seven days.
Slowing down your breathing is not an easy task. Our lives demand us to do otherwise. Our heart rates stay high, and we seem to remain in a constant state of motion.
Newton stated an object will remain in motion until acted upon by an outside force.
The Spirit has been wooing me all day long. He is the outside force acting on my frenzied motion. Certainly I had enough plans to fill my whole day. My husband sensed I had too much on my mind—I started to make my lists—he could feel my restlessness.
I wanted sunshine today. Wanted the sun to come out full force—loud and brilliant. Instead I was given rain and a thunderstorm.
I was put in the middle of a thunderstorm.
A storm brings a stillness of its own. I went out on the porch and watched the rain come down in slate gray sheets—pushed sideways by the ferocity of the wind.
Even now thunder rumbles and vibrates across the sky. A sky, ten shades of gray, is hanging low and heavy. The house is quiet and subdued in shadows. The lights seem far too artificial and glaring. Intently I listen. The rain rolls off the porch roof and pours from the gutter spouts. Thunder comes again mumbling and grumbling.
Earlier I stood at the back door and then stepped out onto the deck. I crossed my arms and pulled them tight against my chest and closed my eyes. And I opened them slowly and watched the ominous clouds hover and then roll across the sky. I turned and saw the leaves flip and flutter and the tops of the trees sway. Lightning was somewhere I just couldn’t see it.
I can’t go to the ocean this week. God knew this. And I asked for sunshine.
Instead he provided a storm, and allowed me to be right in the middle. He knew which one I needed first.
Our front door stands open. As I inhale I can smell the rain. I can feel the coolness of the air floating through the house. And there is no brine, but there is something.
A calm. A stillness. A rhythm.
Restlessness absorbed.
I breathe deep. And I hold it.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Everything that has breath, praise the Lord!
I long and yearn to be at the edge of the ocean smelling the brine in the air and hearing the waves break on the shore. Watching the seagulls swoop and glide. I want to feel the grit of sand in my toes and relish the sun on my face. I want to breathe deep. Deep breathing that allows the breath to go all the way to bottom of my lungs.
I have to ask: can I only breathe deep at the ocean? Is it the salt on the air and the sound and noise and the sheen of the sun that produces this euphoria? Is it the burn on my skin and the slap of the ocean waves on my calves? Or is it the endless and soothing roll of the water wetting the sand and darkening it on the edges? What is it about the ocean? Can I only breathe deeply there?
At the ocean my restlessness gets absorbed. Schedules are relaxed. The question is what do we want to do rather than what do we have to do. Inwardly our bodies become tuned to the rhythm of the vast sea.
But I can’t go there now. Circumstances just aren’t in order. I am, however, realizing God is asking me to breathe deeply anyway.
I have been breathing these shallow breaths for too long. Functional and adequate breaths, but not the ones which move all the way down until my lungs are expanded and inflated. Shallow breathing does not get held, but expelled quickly in order to take the next one. God wants me to stop and hold my breath. Hold my breath until—I can release it slowly.
A measured exhale.
I have been concerned about Spring Break. The Theory of Relativity strikes true in this short week. I have been concerned my shallow breathing will jeopardize the next seven days.
Slowing down your breathing is not an easy task. Our lives demand us to do otherwise. Our heart rates stay high, and we seem to remain in a constant state of motion.
Newton stated an object will remain in motion until acted upon by an outside force.
The Spirit has been wooing me all day long. He is the outside force acting on my frenzied motion. Certainly I had enough plans to fill my whole day. My husband sensed I had too much on my mind—I started to make my lists—he could feel my restlessness.
I wanted sunshine today. Wanted the sun to come out full force—loud and brilliant. Instead I was given rain and a thunderstorm.
I was put in the middle of a thunderstorm.
A storm brings a stillness of its own. I went out on the porch and watched the rain come down in slate gray sheets—pushed sideways by the ferocity of the wind.
Even now thunder rumbles and vibrates across the sky. A sky, ten shades of gray, is hanging low and heavy. The house is quiet and subdued in shadows. The lights seem far too artificial and glaring. Intently I listen. The rain rolls off the porch roof and pours from the gutter spouts. Thunder comes again mumbling and grumbling.
Earlier I stood at the back door and then stepped out onto the deck. I crossed my arms and pulled them tight against my chest and closed my eyes. And I opened them slowly and watched the ominous clouds hover and then roll across the sky. I turned and saw the leaves flip and flutter and the tops of the trees sway. Lightning was somewhere I just couldn’t see it.
I can’t go to the ocean this week. God knew this. And I asked for sunshine.
Instead he provided a storm, and allowed me to be right in the middle. He knew which one I needed first.
Our front door stands open. As I inhale I can smell the rain. I can feel the coolness of the air floating through the house. And there is no brine, but there is something.
A calm. A stillness. A rhythm.
Restlessness absorbed.
I breathe deep. And I hold it.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Everything that has breath, praise the Lord!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Bless Today
Last year I wrote 21 Things on this daughter’s birthday. Yes, today is my second daughter’s 22nd birthday and I have thought about her all day long.
I woke in the early hours of the morning. The upstairs was dark and quiet and shadows fell across the hall floor from the bathroom light. The dogs shuffled in their crates hoping I would let them out early so they could race to their food bowls. This morning I passed them. I walked down the dark stairs running my hand along the wall to feel my way. I always have to guide myself early in the morning. My ankle isn’t too pleased about alternating steps when I first rise, so the wall gives me a little more confidence.
I moved to my computer left on the coffee table overnight; I wanted to log on Facebook to wish my daughter her first happy birthday of the day. I didn’t get that honor; I forget that her generation is up way past the hour of midnight, and her page was peppered with wishes. I sent my wishes via message and then started my day.
And all day she has been laced into my thoughts—memories and vignettes of this now woman. A woman—grown. But she was my baby once. A tiny thing with snow white hair and vividly blue eyes and skin a shade just above alabaster. From the beginning she made her presence known to the world. I didn’t have to announce she had arrived. And this morning I thought about how I swaddled her and held her close to me right up next to the curve of my neck. For a few minutes I hold her there in my memory—remembering the sweet baby scent of her, recalling the steel independence of her, reminiscing the limitless compassion of her and reveling in the blessing of her.
These are not just memories of her.
When I feel my compassion flagging and moving to weary she will tell me a story of a little boy downtown and her passion fans to flame something in me I have misplaced.
My own independence has often been pocked with weak spots and lack of grit, but I have been challenged watching her take on the world that is hers with a bold fierceness.
There are days when I have whispered prayers requesting something, anything, to reveal His presence to me, something to remind me he’s near and he hears. Some days his answer has been a call or message from this daughter of mine. And the blessing of her is nourishing and rich.
I will walk back up those stairs tonight, back through the shadowy hall. I will lie down to sleep, but before I do I will bless my God for today.
I will thank him for the gift he sent.
I will thank him for her.
I woke in the early hours of the morning. The upstairs was dark and quiet and shadows fell across the hall floor from the bathroom light. The dogs shuffled in their crates hoping I would let them out early so they could race to their food bowls. This morning I passed them. I walked down the dark stairs running my hand along the wall to feel my way. I always have to guide myself early in the morning. My ankle isn’t too pleased about alternating steps when I first rise, so the wall gives me a little more confidence.
I moved to my computer left on the coffee table overnight; I wanted to log on Facebook to wish my daughter her first happy birthday of the day. I didn’t get that honor; I forget that her generation is up way past the hour of midnight, and her page was peppered with wishes. I sent my wishes via message and then started my day.
And all day she has been laced into my thoughts—memories and vignettes of this now woman. A woman—grown. But she was my baby once. A tiny thing with snow white hair and vividly blue eyes and skin a shade just above alabaster. From the beginning she made her presence known to the world. I didn’t have to announce she had arrived. And this morning I thought about how I swaddled her and held her close to me right up next to the curve of my neck. For a few minutes I hold her there in my memory—remembering the sweet baby scent of her, recalling the steel independence of her, reminiscing the limitless compassion of her and reveling in the blessing of her.
These are not just memories of her.
When I feel my compassion flagging and moving to weary she will tell me a story of a little boy downtown and her passion fans to flame something in me I have misplaced.
My own independence has often been pocked with weak spots and lack of grit, but I have been challenged watching her take on the world that is hers with a bold fierceness.
There are days when I have whispered prayers requesting something, anything, to reveal His presence to me, something to remind me he’s near and he hears. Some days his answer has been a call or message from this daughter of mine. And the blessing of her is nourishing and rich.
I will walk back up those stairs tonight, back through the shadowy hall. I will lie down to sleep, but before I do I will bless my God for today.
I will thank him for the gift he sent.
I will thank him for her.
Friday, February 25, 2011
On Pause
I witnessed something incredible this week.
I teach a public speaking class at a local private school. Needless to say this is not a favorite among my students. This class should have a warning label: Can cause hives, sweating and the jitters. On the first day of class one of my students asked if he could transfer out the next day. I laughed and told him no and that I knew his mama.
Several times a week the students have to participate in improvisation exercises. They have to speak (yes, in front of the class) on a random topic for a predetermined length of time—usually two minutes. To me two minutes is not a very long time, but to my students it seems like fifteen.
My daughter hates public speaking, and she is one of my students. She hates being in front of a crowd and looking into the sea of faces. She hates trying to think on the spot. She hates being watched and observed. Exaggerating I am not. Hitting the time mark in the improvisation exercises has been a true struggle for her. Usually she is at least a minute under the time requirement.
The class is a mix of several freshman, one sophomore and three seniors. My daughter is the one sophomore. And it was her turn. Often I will throw a twist into the format. The twist this week was I decided when they had to speak, but they got to choose the fellow classmate who would pick the topic.
Carefully my daughter assessed who she would choose. She chose well. Her fellow student asked her to talk about why she disliked public speaking so much. I laughed quietly. This was a topic she understood. She had quite a bit of personal experience with this subject.
My daughter started well. She was in control of her voice and her body movements. Her eye contact was strong. Her voice was well modulated. Thinking she was going to reach her time I began to cheer inwardly for her. Suddenly like a fan that had been unplugged she wound down. She looked at me and stated that she was finished. I told her she could sit down, but she would have to try again the next day.
That’s when it happened.
And it happened so quickly I almost didn’t catch it.
From the back of the room one of the boys raised up the phone they were using to time the improvisations. Several boys began to talk at once.
“No, wait she’s just on pause. “
“Go ahead, Abby. Finish.”
“You can do this. You got this. You were just on pause. ”
The whole room began to encourage and cheer for my daughter.
“C’mon, you can do this. Try.”
Turning back to Abby I saw she hadn’t moved far from her spot. I nodded, and she took a deep breath and began again.
The boys took the stopwatch off pause.
This time she finished. Actually she went over the required time.
And the class burst into applause.
I will never forget that moment and the look on my daughter’s face.
She will never forget that day.
Because that day we witnessed an incredible illustration of the Kingdom of God fleshed out.
Sometimes we just can’t reach the required mark. We are too afraid. Too tired. Too embarrassed. Too overwhelmed by the task. Too intimidated by the sea of faces before us. We start well. We move forward. And then, suddenly, we hit a wall. We are stuck, and we just decide we are done. That’s all we have.
I hope when this happens to us (notice I say when, not if) we have a cheering section putting us on pause. Just a moment so we can catch our breaths, gather our thoughts and garner our composure.
I hope when this happens to someone else we remember to encourage and cheer.
I hope we remember to offer a pause—even if it is just a brief one.
And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Hebrews 10: 24 (NIV)
I teach a public speaking class at a local private school. Needless to say this is not a favorite among my students. This class should have a warning label: Can cause hives, sweating and the jitters. On the first day of class one of my students asked if he could transfer out the next day. I laughed and told him no and that I knew his mama.
Several times a week the students have to participate in improvisation exercises. They have to speak (yes, in front of the class) on a random topic for a predetermined length of time—usually two minutes. To me two minutes is not a very long time, but to my students it seems like fifteen.
My daughter hates public speaking, and she is one of my students. She hates being in front of a crowd and looking into the sea of faces. She hates trying to think on the spot. She hates being watched and observed. Exaggerating I am not. Hitting the time mark in the improvisation exercises has been a true struggle for her. Usually she is at least a minute under the time requirement.
The class is a mix of several freshman, one sophomore and three seniors. My daughter is the one sophomore. And it was her turn. Often I will throw a twist into the format. The twist this week was I decided when they had to speak, but they got to choose the fellow classmate who would pick the topic.
Carefully my daughter assessed who she would choose. She chose well. Her fellow student asked her to talk about why she disliked public speaking so much. I laughed quietly. This was a topic she understood. She had quite a bit of personal experience with this subject.
My daughter started well. She was in control of her voice and her body movements. Her eye contact was strong. Her voice was well modulated. Thinking she was going to reach her time I began to cheer inwardly for her. Suddenly like a fan that had been unplugged she wound down. She looked at me and stated that she was finished. I told her she could sit down, but she would have to try again the next day.
That’s when it happened.
And it happened so quickly I almost didn’t catch it.
From the back of the room one of the boys raised up the phone they were using to time the improvisations. Several boys began to talk at once.
“No, wait she’s just on pause. “
“Go ahead, Abby. Finish.”
“You can do this. You got this. You were just on pause. ”
The whole room began to encourage and cheer for my daughter.
“C’mon, you can do this. Try.”
Turning back to Abby I saw she hadn’t moved far from her spot. I nodded, and she took a deep breath and began again.
The boys took the stopwatch off pause.
This time she finished. Actually she went over the required time.
And the class burst into applause.
I will never forget that moment and the look on my daughter’s face.
She will never forget that day.
Because that day we witnessed an incredible illustration of the Kingdom of God fleshed out.
Sometimes we just can’t reach the required mark. We are too afraid. Too tired. Too embarrassed. Too overwhelmed by the task. Too intimidated by the sea of faces before us. We start well. We move forward. And then, suddenly, we hit a wall. We are stuck, and we just decide we are done. That’s all we have.
I hope when this happens to us (notice I say when, not if) we have a cheering section putting us on pause. Just a moment so we can catch our breaths, gather our thoughts and garner our composure.
I hope when this happens to someone else we remember to encourage and cheer.
I hope we remember to offer a pause—even if it is just a brief one.
And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Hebrews 10: 24 (NIV)
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