Write What You Know ( A New Series)

This past week I started teaching again. Sixteen students enrolled in Genesis Academy’s Oral and Written Expressions course, a class designed to improve writing and speaking skills. Next week, my lesson plans inform me that the topic of the day is What Do I Write About? (Of course, I might begin by telling them that traditionally we don’t end a sentence with a preposition, but that might be a bit much for the first full-blown writing class).

This question seems to be the age-old (insert whiney here, and pretend I didn’t say it) excuse for not writing. Even those of us who blog, journal, write on napkins in restaurants, and have words pressed between two covers of a book whine and complain sometimes. Since the internet launch of my book my writing and word well went dry. The bucket descended, but it came up empty. Only a dark ring moistened the bottom rim where it plunked down in the well.  I realized it was time to remind myself of something I always tell my students: write what you know. I am not sure where I first heard this adage, but this sage advice is often attributed to the salty Mr. Mark Twain.

For weeks this question (I thought I was so far beyond it, not) poked at me. What do I write about now? After exhausting all I have written in the last seven years, how in the world do I begin again? Where, oh where do I start? For weeks, my blog hung in the blogging world—empty and void of anything new.

Sick with aches and pains and fever, I stayed home on the couch today listening to podcasts and reading. I gravitated to Mark—the immediate Gospel. This time I read the account in The Message, which lends a different feel and tone to a familiar text. This familiarity reminded me of what I try to encourage my students to embrace.

Write what you know.

In August of2007 I wrote the following:

All my Christian life I have been taught to read the Scriptures and watch what the other person is doing in an encounter with Jesus. I was encouraged to watch the person and either behave like them or don't behave like them. I should observe and note what they did in a situation with Jesus and either emulate them or dismiss them. Seems simple, right?  If I am supposed to look like Jesus...act like Jesus...be like Jesus why in the world am I watching everyone else? Why am I going to Scripture and noticing and studying others before I look at Jesus? When I started reading the gospels repeatedly, I discovered something. Watching Jesus changes your perspective. Watching others causes you to attempt to change your behavior and your actions. When you watch Jesus, your attitude and the condition of your heart is revealed. Jesus calls you to change inwardly first, and the outward behavior will be the fruit of that change. You cannot truly watch him and remain unmoved.

I am returning to what I know, returning to the familiarity and immediacy of Mark’s account of the good news of Jesus. I am returning to watch him, and I would love for you to join me.  I invite you just to sit down with me (I’ll try to keep the posts short) and with the first installment of the series posting this Friday, September 4. We will watch Jesus together. Invite others to join us. Jesus enjoys the supper table full—the more the merrier. 

Growing Room Grace

I have had so many posts half written in my head. Snatches and pieces of stories and happenings in the last month. But my mind will not completely wrap around all that is coming to fruition. And in the midst of such abundant joy, my heart still aches and breaks for the pain and hurt and brokenness manifesting among God's people. The joy of the release of my first book Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places is skimming across the surface of everything right now. Many events are planned and being prepared, but underneath, below the surface prayer is humming for the Body of Christ, for the bruised Bride.

Last night Steve, Abby, and I opened the boxes of books together.  Steve laid them all out on the table--the partial, visible fruit of seven years. It was surreal. 70,000 plus words times over an hundred books. We celebrated. We took pictures. We laughed. Then we decided to put the books all back in the boxes for safe keeping. And my husband said, "Let's pray over these before we send them out..."

During that prayer time I breathed in his grace. He filled the lungs of me all the way down. His grace. His sweet grace is given in every and all circumstances. His grace sustained me in the tight places, and now it is here in the spacious places. But for me, any place without him present is a tight place.

We prayed. Gratitude and faith and awe laced and wove our prayers. Gratitude for the provision of God, for the protection of God, for the Presence of God was uttered. And we prayed for you. For all of you who have read The Chambered Nautilus, my Facebook, and my Twitter over the years. We asked for God's blessing and favor to go forward with each of these books, those on the coffee table and those unseen and bought from other places, to each reader. We prayed for fruit that would glorify him, lift HIM to the place he belongs and deserves. Over and over we prayed for you. You. And I cried for you. All of you. I want so much for you to know the grace of God. To experience his sweet provision of growing room and the expansion of tight places.

And then all I could breathe out was praise. Worship. This bowing of the little that I am before the greatness that He is. Not because of the books on my coffee table. Not because of a dream come true. Not because of words. Not because of favorable circumstances. No, I breathed out praise because of the faithfulness of my God. He is faithful in all circumstances. Sometimes it is obscured, hidden by the pain and torment of the season. Often times it is veiled by preconceived ideas and theology. And more often than not God's faithfulness seems to be hidden in the tangled messes of our lives. But he will make growing room for you so that you might see. So that you will know.

He will reveal his faithfulness. I have prayed for you to see it.



Watch the book trailer, created by Nolan McCarty, my son-in-law, as a beautiful gift to me.

Obey and Release

In January 2014, I didn’t choose a word. (My word to stay with, abide by, listen to, and experience during the year). By March, I was still wordless. But then, God chose a word for me. And I wasn’t excited about this word at all. The adage, be sure you don’t pray for patience? Well, I know not to pray for this word either. To be patient, we must be in situations and with people who require this of us. My word for 2014-15?

Obey.

I knew what was coming. I could see it all turning around the bend—these places and spaces that would require obedience, perhaps even blind obedience. I cringed. I tried to choose my own word then. Something light and doable. Something encouraging. But no. Obedience was the word. All through the spring and the summer the Spirit led me into and through deserts and wildernesses and rivers, but they seemed fairly mild. Doable.

In October, I was asked to lead a weekend women’s retreat. The door opened. Obedience required me to walk through it despite my misgivings and feelings of inadequacy. These women are Hebrews 11 kind of women. Despite these feelings, I knew I needed and wanted to obey.

My friend and I drove out winding roads on a day when the October air was crisp, and the trees were bright with their autumn foliage. The cabin, tucked away in the hills, was roomy and quaint, the fireplace large and the dining room table even larger.

Everyone brought food to share. Oh, the food. Homemade caramel corn that melted on your tongue and left you forever reaching for more. Homemade bread, thick and crusty. Baked cheese dips and homemade mushroom soup (that made the canned ones seem like paste). I tried them all. Savoring. Enjoying.

God always invites us to a feast. My friend, Vivien, talks and teaches about the tables of God, and the feast offered at each. That weekend I sat down at the table and ate to my soul’s delight, but the Father never feeds just our souls—he feeds our spirits. Nourishes the kernel of us. The center core of us. God feeds the marrow of our bones.

We saw him that weekend, heard him in the conversations and the words shared. He touched us through others, opened us to receive the warmth and strength of his hand. And as the women encouraged and prayed and interceded for each other, we caught the scent of the fragrance of him, his Spirit moving among us. During the weekend I know I tasted of him. I chewed his Word up and swallowed down. And my throat was dry, and the Word built up in it. At times, I had to swallow hard, had to reach for a drink of water. But I chewed, and the sweetness of his Word broke open in me, and in the breaking he nourished all the thin and malnourished places in me.  Often we go too long without sitting down at his table.

Rarely, does God feed on the go. He doesn't hand out bags of fast food, pressed patties of processed meat product,  through a window as we drive by in a hurry. No, God sets the table. Prepares it. He sets down his richest of food for us. Then he issues an invitation. It’s a standing invitation. Offered and sent to us every day.

Recently my friend, Denise, and I prayed together about this invitation one morning. In August, her Community Bible Study will study the gospel of Matthew. Again and again in Matthew, Jesus offers invitations because his Father is the epitome of hospitality. God sets the table for us. Prepares the food for us, and never tells us that it is potluck or to bring your chair or your own drink.

We sat at the table of that retreat, and I broke the bread of his word to them, but only because he had broken it in me first. That group of women blessed me. They poured out words of affirmation and encouragement. Their iron words, words pressed against the blade of me, sharpened my dull places. I witnessed a woman prostrate before the Lord interceding—unashamed and poured out like a drink offering on the floor. I longed to stretch out beside her. Before him.

I left that retreat emptied, but blessed. Fed, but hungrier. Nourished, but craving more. I left with a restlessness I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Not discontent. Not dissatisfaction, but a sense that I needed to move forward. Take a step out into the unknown, down a path never traversed or navigated by me. The women blessed me with a generous monetary gift. And I sat at the table and prayed about the use of the gift and my restlessness.

“Lord, this is from your hand. Given by your daughters. I don’t want to squander or waste it. I don’t want to penny it away, with nothing to show for the spending. And what is this restlessness? What is this stirring inside of me?"

Days later, on a Friday, I sat at my computer desk writing and browsing the internet. An ad for a publisher popped up—a gorgeous ad with a stone castle and an archer poised and ready. Do you want to publish your book the tagline asked? Inwardly I’m nodded. Contact us. Instinctively I clicked on the contact tab. I filled out the application. My heart beat wildly, and my palms sweated. Here was my risk. This question this publisher posed eased the itching restlessness of my soul. I sent the information, and it disappeared, gone somewhere. I didn’t think it would ever return to me. That day I cast my bread on the waters, but I didn’t understand how quickly it would return to me.

Monday afternoon found me at my desk again. My phone rang. An unknown number. An area code I did not recognize. I answered.

Hello?

Hello, Tamera, this is Christine from WestBow Press.

I almost laughed out loud, but I thought that might be rude. I looked around to see if there were any hidden cameras, anything recording my gullibility. I felt my hope rise, swallowing up all the restlessness. All the itching faded, replaced by this tingling anticipation.

Forty minutes later I hit end call. I sat in my chair. Still. Unmoving. But the inward parts of me were alive and wild and eager. The thirty-four-year-old dream surfaced, and this time I didn’t swallow or punch it down.

After that, it was series of phone calls and contracts and instructions. Twice in the process I started to lay the project down. The enormity of the task and details overwhelmed me. Like my sweet brother, Peter, I risked and stepped out of the waves, but the tumultuous water was getting the best of me. All my old fears were clawing and climbing in the belly of me. God knew it. He was not surprised, but he had issued me an invitation to the table he had prepared for me.

In November, my first hesitation surfaced. I contemplated putting this project aside (to wait for a better day); I went to hear my friend Denise teach at CBS; it was also her birthday, and I wanted to surprise her. I sat at the table as she broke God’s word open for us. I soaked in the words of Zechariah. I chewed on them, and they broke open in me. And I prayed about the manuscript, my dream, and the fruition of it.

And then I heard my friend say, “God wants obedience, not sacrifice.”

I sat there at the table with the Lord. He had my attention.

Tamera, I am asking you to obey. There is no real option other than to follow and do what I have asked you to do. You are not to be concerned about the outcome. The outcome is not up to you. The outcome is up to me.

The waves ceased. The winds died down. And there I sat in at the table in the wilderness, God’s invitation offered to me, to join him at his table. All I had to do was obey. The provision would come from his hand. Obey. Just simply obey. Put one syllable, one word, in front of the other and release them all to him. Every single one of them. Even the typos and missed commas.

Obey and release.

God set me up. Set the table for me, even in the presence of my enemies: self-doubt and fear. And he sent me an invitation.

Take a risk.

Come join me at the table—out in the midst of the places and spaces you don’t know. Give me all your words. Release them into my hands. Let me turn them into food for others.

Like Little Children

The house was full, all our daughters (all eight, Steve’s four and my four) and most of their husbands and boyfriends arrived. Our home is too small to accommodate everyone in one room comfortably, so they spilled outside to the yard and the front porch.

Steve filled our fire pit with dry grayed wood and started the fire for s’mores; we waited for the fire to burn down to slow embers—marshmallow roasting coals. The fireflies blinked yellow blurs of light all over the yard. The vocal cicadas filled the evening with their loud voices. And my grandsons wanted me to play.

“Run, Noni, Run!” Elijah and Judah cried. Their grins wide, eyes alight, and expectancy beamed in their faces. And of course, I ran. Barefoot I circled and zig-zagged, and these little boys chased me. Their bursts of laughter only fed my energy, nourished the grandmother soul of me. Even while running I felt the joy bubble up in me.

Elijah plopped down in the grass. I asked him if he was tired, and he explained that he just needed to rest a minute. Just for a minute he clarified. I joined him, and Judah joined us. The rest didn’t last long. Little boy batteries recharge must faster than older women batteries! We were up again running through the rain grown grass. Certainly running is not an everyday event for me, but it is a freeing thing to run uninhibited and unfiltered by pretension and protocol. Finally, this almost fifty-year-old Noni had to stop. Pulling air deep into my lungs, I forced it to go all the way down.

But little boy voices shouted, “Run, Noni. Do it again.” I told the boys Noni was out of breath.

And then…

Usually and thens come to us unplanned, unpracticed, and unexpected.

Elijah came to me, tapped me on the leg, looked up at me, and said, “Noni, are you out of breath?”

“I am Elijah. Wait just a second and let me get my breath, and then I’ll run with you again.”

I wish I had the ability to stop time, to hit rewind and reverse and replay. If I did, I would watch this moment over and over again.

Elijah pressed his little hand against his mouth and then lifted that hand to me.

“Here, Noni. You can have my breath.”

He peered up at me in such serious earnestness, so generous.

Elijah offered me his breath. This little almost-three-year-old boy saw my need and put his breath in his hand and offered it up to me. I took it, took this sweet offering from his little, upturned hand. This gesture prompted Judah to offer the same.

I stood in my backyard on a warm July night, fireflies glowing, fire beginning, frogs croaking, voices blurring, and I truly lost my breath—lost it right out of my lungs. No one prompted these words or this gesture from Elijah. No one told him to do this. I watched his mother's eyes puddle, stunned and proud. His aunt's heart swelled.

Elijah wanted to help Noni, so he offered what he had. In Matthew 18:3 Jesus tells us to be like little children. Friends, if we are going to inherit the kingdom of God, we must change and become like little children.

Elijah offered his breath to me out of love and concern and the eagerness to continue to play. The sweet concern on his face caused me to be undone, to melt. Elijah’s offer prompted Judah’s offer and isn’t that the way of the kingdom of God works? Or should? Didn’t Jesus call us to offer each other our breaths when we run short? Aren’t we to share from the reserve he has provided us and offer it to others?

I stood looking into my grandson’s eyes, and his offering filled me. The pureness of it inflated my lungs and renewed my energy. I inhaled, and the new breath filled my lungs to capacity. At that moment I honestly believe I could have run a marathon. I sprinted forward and looked over my shoulder. The boys followed. I ran just ahead of them; my vision blurred by tears and my ears filled with their exploding laughter.

Two thousand years ago God knew we were running too hard, too fast, and too long. He knew we were going to be out of breath. Through Jesus he came and gave us his breath—took it right from his mouth and gave it to us, that we might inhale and live.

A Thirty-four Year Old Dream

Stories. I love narrative stories, and I have told them since I was a little girl. I never could just tell a simple story. Many of you are thinking, “She still can’t.”

When I was fifteen, I started writing freelance for our once-a-week county newspaper. My mother saved all of those articles. Each one clipped from the newspaper and folded to fit a scrapbook she kept for me (I didn’t know she did this until a few years ago). The spiral bound book is worn—tattered on the edges and pages askew. Full of memorabilia the book bulges in the middle. The faded newspapers are brown and brittle now, the creases white and fragile. I read the titles and memories flare and briefly rise. I recall the first time I saw my name printed in the by-line, surreal. I was elated.

Two of my last newspaper articles. "Run, Kate, Run" was my favorite.

When I look through this book, I am transported. I don’t’ remember much about the girl in the pages, some details are fuzzy, some evaporated in the heat of four decades of living. This scrapbook chronicles the outward girl—the measurable things, the counted and visible events: pageants, contests, and demonstrations. It houses the awards and accolades. My mother adhered these articles and certificates to the pages with scotch tape, gone brittle and yellow with the years.

With clarity and wonder, I recognize that even thirty-four years ago the words were there. Writing for the newspaper satisfied two needs in me: one for people and one for words. I loved them both. These two things mattered to me more than anything else. I didn’t know Jesus; I knew about religion, the rights and the wrongs and the rules. I hadn’t yet made a decision to become his follower. I was just a lost little girl trying to follow the passionate beat of my heart. 


Two of my Press badges from state 4-H events.
 

I didn't even remember this editor's note until writing this post. Fannin is my maiden name.

I went to college, and the writing changed. I poured all of my words into the channels of finals and research papers, always striving for the A or better. My college tests are in my mother’s scrapbook. Thin, blue, stapled, and lined booklets filled with my familiar cursive handwriting. By this time I was a believer, and my faith began to appear in my writing. This faith was yet to be refined, and I smile at my idealistic words and theology. I recognize the young girl, me, but I’m profoundly grateful she didn’t know what was coming.

Two of my blue book exams from a ministry class at Asbury University.

The summer between my junior and senior year of college I was an intern in a church outside of Boston. I arrived full of ideas to change the ministry, the world. The minister knew about my love for words, knew I loved to write. He explained that I only had two assignments to fulfil the requirements for the internship:  to get to know people in that small church, to see how God was visible in them, and write about it. I couldn’t believe it. What an assignment—everything I loved braided into one rope. People. Writing. Ministry. Recently, a precious friend emailed me the piece I wrote about her family. As I reread the story, I saw the young me sitting in a poorly lit basement hunched over a typewriter, typing and laboring to get the words and phrases right.  My friend kept this piece of my writing for thirty years.

The thirty year old writing piece.

There was a period after college when my writing fleshed out only in journaling. Page after page, journal after journal chronicling the inward shifts, upheavals, joys, births, avalanches, and valleys of my life. In them, I see the evolution of my writing. I detect the threads and patterns that would eventually lead to my style and voice.

In 2007, my life shifted. An inevitable earthquake trembled and tremored, and the landscape of my life cracked open—the geography of me and those around me forever changed. I knew I had to make sense of this time; there had to be a methodical venting of the gasses and steam released in my breaking. Once again words came to my aid. I decided to take a risk. The new forum for writers was the blog, and I opened up our antiquated desktop and navigated the setting up of a Blogspot all by myself. For seven years, this was my address, this is where I lived. Through The Chambered Nautilus Blogspot, God began to heal me, to fill in the caverns, ravines, and fissures left by the earthquakes in my life.

God is faithful. Utterly faithful. Ribboned and threaded through all those years of writing was a dream, a silent hope. I wanted to be a published author. I longed to have a publisher agree to press my words and the message of them between the front and back covers of a book. Psalm 38:9 says, "All my longings lie open before you, O Lord; my sighing is not hidden from you." All through my life, God heard my sighing. He saw my longings, bare and naked. He saw, and he heard.

Soon this dream will come true. At the end of the summer, my first book will be published. God does immeasurably more than we can ask or imagine. This fruition of a dream does not look like my young naïve self envisioned. I didn’t know earthquakes and aftershocks would birth my first book. I didn't know the depth of healing that would come in the joy, the light, and the life of the writing of it. I just wrote. I did what I am called to do: love God, love people, and love words. 

I realize now that when I was fifteen, God was already moving and leading me in my giftedness. He was teaching me to embrace what he called me to do, even when I didn't know him. God always starts before we begin. Always. He's ahead of us stretching out the path, healing and teaching us through the very gifts he gives us. 

Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places will be published by WestBow Press in late August or September. This book is a revised compilation of my blog and new material. It is seven years worth of writing. It is the story of how God healed me, pressed down all the upheavals and filled in the faults. He used my family, my friends, and the words to create growing room for me. He used his Word and my words to form in me a narrative, a testimony to his presence. And He was present. He is ever present. Always. Never forsaking.  Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places is my evidence of his grace, of how his sweet grace permeated everything.

Tying the Knot

In so many ways, it was a typical Sunday morning. Church and lunch, and a brief time of rest after both. But the day was anything but typical. We went home to change not into our Sunday afternoon napping, relaxing clothes, but into wedding clothes. On April 26th at 2 pm, I drove to our church to join the preparations for my daughter’s wedding.

There were no frenzied preparations. No last minute blunders. No jittery nerves. The atmosphere in the room was still and easy—like the slow rhythmic pace akin to the push and pull of a porch swing.  Nephews (my grandsons) were present eating lunches and snacks on folded-out chairs.

The bride-groom reveal was quiet and unassuming. I didn’t get to see it, but I heard the groom teared up when he saw his bride-to-be. When it was time the bride and the groom walked into the church and down the aisle together.

 

She held a smooth, silky white rope; he grasped a dark, rough hemp rope. They laughed as their hands turned and pulled—two knots forming to push against each other. Back to back. Shoulder to shoulder. When pulled, the knots would hold—fast. But a loop turned wrong, and her eyes flickered up to his in a trace of panic,

“That was wrong wasn’t it?” she asked.

He helped her redo, never commenting, never offering censure. They, my third daughter and her lumberjack man, tied the knot.

They tied a fisherman’s knot in the middle of their tying THE KNOT.  During their wedding, I watched them pull the ropes through the loops, and I envisioned God's grace moving through the ends and the outs. Over and across. God's mercy and grace and truth weaving the knots together--sturdy and strong against the silky smooth.

Olivia, Egyptian-like in her glimmering gold sheath, lifted her head to him. Eyes shimmering far more than her dress. Nolan, handsome and strong, gazed down drinking in the joy of her. They stood at the center of a full circle, every guest standing. We were close and near enough to hear the nuances and inflections of their voices. We leaned toward them to hear as they exchanged vows. We wanted to hear the traditional promise of fidelity of body and the commitment of exclusivity. We wanted to hear the I Do’s.

The decision and the resolve in their voices were sound, unshaken by nerves. And we, the guests,  leaned against each other—hands on backs and shoulders pressing. They exchanged their vows, words tailored and crafted for the other—intimate words, almost uncomfortably so. For a brief moment I felt I had barged in on a private conversation. But they wanted us privy. The two of these, our daughter and our son, wanted us to hear their quiet declarations.  This wedding unfolded with such ease, unrehearsed and effortless.

He attempted to speak first—the words stopped.  He began again, but the words lodged behind the trainwreck in his throat. And the lumps in our throats grew. He started three times, and then the words finally moved. He held my daughter’s gaze, and with such tenderness he promised to provide for her, to take care of her and never to make her drive a minivan. But then he said something we didn’t expect.

“We have learned that love is so much more than infatuation. It’s a choice, and I promise always to choose you.”

And we wept. Yes, we cry at weddings. Women leak, often and profuse. Those tears came from a different place than simply emotion.

We wept because we knew they understood the choosing of love. Love chooses—when life gets hard and the ropes pull, and the knots push against one another—it will be the choice made in and by love that will hold them. The knot of this choice will hold and steady Olivia and Nolan until the pressure of life’s circumstances releases.

Olivia reached for her words from me. I held out the narrow slips of paper marked and written in her round manuscript. She looked down at them and spoke. Choreographed words danced forward, soft and tranquil. Her words poured out like oil—anointing him. She too spoke of choosing, and she promised always to cook his eggs over easy.
The pastor, our friend, asked for the rings to seal what they exchanged—these covenants in the presence of witnesses, in the presence of God.

During the whole time, I watched them. Observed the glances and the looks passing through the space between them. I would notice it again later in the evening at the wedding supper. Across the space of a table, I sat diagonally from them in full view of their faces. This boy, this man I now call son, looked at my daughter like my husband looks at me. The other faces around me blurred; their voices muted as I unashamedly stared. Praise rose in my heart; prayer winged out over the heads of the others for her—for them. Lord, let her understand this “seeing”. Let her see the cherishing in this gaze, and may she feel the lavishness of its assurance always.

This gazing passed between them as they stood before us. We felt its gentle heat. The pastor looked at my new son-in-law and stated, “You may kiss your bride.”

Before their lips touched, Nolan’s hands cupped Olivia’s face, and our crying turned to laughter fueled by their radiant faces. We who stood around them knew we had witnessed something extraordinary. I glanced at the knotted ropes behind them. Laying tangled—a witness of the tying of two people, two families. Its knotted lengths now a testimony to the power of God’s enduring grace.

There will come days when the rope will put taut.

My prayer?

May they become one rope, one flesh. That with every pull and tightening of the ropes, Olivia and Nolan will be bound together more and more. Until one day their knots will mesh together—only the texture and color distinguishing the individual strands of which is which, who is who.

January Confession

December began with the very best of intentions. The first day of the Christmas season rolled around and I was already in full swing—planning and listing and projecting and enjoying.

Advent approaching.

My nativities took center stage in the home decorating. My blog writing for the month began full of sentiment and thought and adoration. There were days of writing planned. Insights to be shared. New points of view to consider. The house livened up with plump snowmen and glittery red stars and shimmering lights.

Somewhere in one of the early days of the month I realized the dulling of my spirit ran parallel with the glitter and the flash. Numbed. Deadened. Like a pencil whose lead is far too close to the wood and the writing is nothing more than scratching on the paper.

 A week in and I began to feel it—like a tree whose sap stops running because of the frigid cold. But for some reason, whatever reason I could not get warm. I couldn’t pull my spirit up out of the lethargy.

I tried to read. I heard others talk about reading the Christmas story, read Facebook posts about extraordinary Christmas encounters and experiences, but I continued down this slow spiral into this blank place. A place of fog and mist. Spiritually I could not lift my head. Writing ceased completely. Scripture reading stopped. Prayer slowed to a trickle.  

I worked right through it all. Sent out Christmas packages. Ordered special gifts. Laughed at Santa’s antics. Got caught up in the shenanigans of my grandsons’ elves. Listened to our minister deliver really good messages about the ordinary characters in the birth of Jesus. I watched a children’s Christmas play that was wonderful—the gospel message strong and relevant. I spoke about hope to a group of broken and wounded women—looking into their faces almost broke me. But I just couldn’t find my way spiritually. I kept trying to hear the voice of God and I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. The silence was far too thick. And there was this constant niggling that I was missing it all. All of it—everything. At one point I felt like I had been hit, a punch to the jaw and I tried to shake it off, but simply couldn’t.

The absence of prayer bothered me the most. Prayer for me is usually this wide and powerful river, banks overflowing, curving and meandering and crashing over in waterfalls and currents and white foam. During December it became this iced over creek—barely moving beneath the surface.  

At one point I remember being afraid. Fearful of what the silence meant. What it indicated.   

The perceived implications overwhelmed me. Paralyzed me.

Outwardly, externally so many things were good. Actually absolutely wonderful things and events and experiences happened for me during this month. Unbelievable, almost impossible things.  But inwardly and internally I was struggling. Struggling in a battle I had yet to perceive. And I was getting weary from the struggle.

No, I was exhausted.

Christmas came and I loved every minute.  

Two days after my husband and I stayed in all day. Curled up on the couch with movies and quiet and books. And I could feel a slight breaking in the ice of my spirit. The movement of water below the surface increased. Four days after Christmas I had coffee with a dear friend and in the course of our conversation the icebergs began to split. I felt them shift and float. And I began to ask God to wake me up. Five days after Christmas my husband and I declared a date day—we went off for a whole day. We had an agenda—not to do anything we really didn’t want to do. We stopped at a precious brother’s house so I could participate in his only daughter’s one year birthday video. We rummaged in antique stores, collected in craft stores and indulged in bookstores. Leisurely we ate at one of our favorite places and stopped and got coffee and hot apple cider to round out the day.

My waters ran swifter. And the rush of that water pushed back the ice, the fog began to dissipate.

And I woke up.

And my first instinct was to thrash the spiritual skin of myself to shreds.  

Tamera, you know better. How in the world did you get into this kind of predicament?  You know better than to allow yourself to get too busy during this holy and sacred season. You were too materialistic and out of focus. You were too…and my list went on and on. Far too long. Far too much. My back was black and blue from my own hand.

And the Spirit’s soft gentle whisper reprimanded me. Chastised me. Revealed the truth to me.

I didn’t forget Christmas; I forgot Sabbath. I dismissed the need for rest. For space. For quiet. For stillness. I failed to eat. To drink. Literally and spiritually. I ignored the signs and symptoms of my own body and spirit as exhaustion iced over me.

Friends, you can’t do battle when you are exhausted. Are you kidding? You don’t even have the strength to heave on your armor.

It was in the stillness of the holy season of the celebration of Jesus’ Incarnation that my own flesh began to fail. In the hush of the sacred days of Advent my spirit waned.

Frozen December.

But I know this: there were people praying for me. They were battling for me. Around me.

It is now approaching the middle of January. I have made not one single resolution. I have not chosen a word for 2015. The new year routine is still unsettled. There’s something more important happening.  

Right now, the Spirit is instructing me to be still. He is breaking up the ice. I have offered to use the pick ax, but the Spirit has stayed my hand.

I believe in grace, but because of my derailment in December I have experienced it once again. I forget. Sometimes we forget the utter profoundness of grace and that it can and does apply to us.

Friends, I know there are some of you out there who are simply and utterly and completely exhausted. You are in a battle—physically, emotionally or spiritually. Perhaps war is being waged on you in all three arenas. You are trying to salvage severed relationships. Attempting to fight disease, cancer and debilitating illnesses. Struggling to last until the next pay check. Worried about your children. Concerned about your parents. Warding off loneliness. Fighting fear. Your armor is scattered and you don’t have the wherewithal to retrace your steps to find it. Right now reading your Bible is nothing more than a rote exercise. Praying is laborious. Fellowship is tedious.

You have been cold a long, long time. The water of you frozen over in a thick layer of icy sludge. For some of you there’s very little water moving—a shallow and narrow trickle. And you are numb. You are exhausted.

I have been there and know this: I am praying for you. Be assured of this: help is on its way.  

Father, oh sweet Father.

Faithful. Good. Powerful. You know the weakness of us and how it leads to exhaustion—to the depletion of us. Father, I pray for anyone caught in the chill of this winter’s bones. I pray for those who have grown cold and numb—even the sensation of tingling limbs no longer occurring. Oh, sweet God! I am asking for you to wake them from their slumber. Chip the ice away and fill them with the warmth of your favor, with the truth of your word and the healing of your Spirit. Father, I ask that you would replenish these precious people in their exhaustion. I pray you would provide for them what they need—strength and perseverance. Lift their heads. They cannot lift their faces to you on their own. I know. They are too weary. Too tired and wounded from the battles. Father, be near them. Lend them your strength and energy in their exhaustion. Oh, Father. Wake them up. Shake them. Nudge their shoulders. Take fear away. Swallow it up for them. Give them reason to hang on through the silence. Remind them to hold tight through what seems to be an absence of your Presence. In their hurting, tired weariness come to them. Remind them that the extension of your grace is far beyond their imaginations. In the name of Jesus. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advent: The IS of God

My third grandchild will arrive sometime in early April (perhaps on my birthday?). We know what this sweet baby is because of a high-tech ultrasound administered by a skillful professional. A boy. Another grandson. With this revelation this baby moved from the neutral, generic it to the personal pronoun he. Once my daughter and son-in-law were told this news they announced this beautiful boy’s name (Grandmothers don’t have to have ultrasounds to know their grandchildren are beautiful). This child will be called Atlas. Atlas Jensen. His father named him. A strong real name meaning to carry, great strength and God is gracious. This grandmother’s interpretation of his name? He will carry the great strength of God’s grace. Suddenly this new baby became far more real.

A name is indicative of what God is doing and being in our lives. And this baby’s name carries the weight of what God has already done in his life. Early in my daughter’s pregnancy she went to her doctor’s appointment. She had several blood tests and an ultrasound and then was told there were issues. 

Her hormone levels did not rise as expected. They could not find the baby’s heartbeat. The doctors explained to her and my son-in-law that this pregnancy had a five percent chance of being viable. For almost ten days we were held in a rising panic, a sobering reality—this baby might not be. She came to me on a Friday and asked for me to pray; she asked for me to call on the prayer warriors I know. And we prayed. The clinic staff would check her levels and do another ultrasound on Monday. All through the weekend we interceded for this child. We asked for his will to be done, but this grandmother prayed for a miracle.

Monday came.

And so did our miracle. All levels rose considerably over the weekend and suddenly this baby’s heartbeat was quite evident. The medical team attributed it to a faulty diagnosis or unmeasurable levels—regardless there was an attempt to explain away their assessment, but my children were assured that this was now a viable and healthy pregnancy. Collectively we all breathed deeply. Sighed with untranslatable utterances. Hope expanded the space inside us.

God can call what is not as if it is*. God is not limited. His knowledge is not impaired. God sees the IS rather than the NOT.

I think of this sweet baby now as our Little 5%.

This affirmation was more than enough. But God Most High always does more than enough.

A couple of weeks ago my daughter went for another appointment. I waited for the affirmation that she had heard his heartbeat and all was well. I didn’t know another ultra sound was scheduled.

When the image of my grandson’s hand came to me I grasped for words, for an explanation of the infinite enormity it created within me. I couldn’t get my mind to form words on my tongue. It was just too much. His hand, the palm, extended out in this affirmation of his existence, of his presence. His little hand testified he had defied the statistics and predictions of science. A witness to the fact that there are still things that must be experienced rather than predicted or studied or proven. Atlas’ tiny hand is most likely no bigger than the flattened pad of my thumb and yet so perfect. So intricately designed. Through the haloed space of that ultra sound image I studied his splayed fingers as they were pressed against the glass of his Mama’s womb. Somewhere behind that space was a little face. I swallowed down hard as I traced the lines of his palm. In that moment I knew Atlas—this little boy who will possess great strength and be the 5% proof of the grace of God.

 

Atlas Jensen Rector

 

This image became the affirmation of the IS of Atlas for me.

Mary understood this IS of God.

While her womb was untouched and cavernous—waiting to someday hold the son of Joseph—she was told she would conceive. And before the conception she was told her baby would be a boy. Before the XX chromosome and the XY chromosome were even considered she was informed she would deliver a son. Her ultrasound wasn’t through sound waves passing through amniotic fluid, but announced and assured by the messenger of God. Gabriel appeared to Joseph in a dream, another confirmation of the first ultrasound. Mary will have a son…

Through Mary God sent the proof of his IS into the world.

Father God looked down and saw that tiny little hand pressed up against Mary’s womb. He saw his Son turn and twist in the tight confines and narrow cells of human space. God the Father traced the lines in the palm of his Son’s hands and knew someday they would be marred by scars.

One day this Baby’s hands, calloused and broad, would extend out as the affirmation of his Father’s existence, of his presence and of his favor. This Baby would be the testimony and the witness to the invisible and the unknown. To the mystery. He would reveal to God’s people that there are still things that must be experienced rather than predicted or studied or proven.

In the spring I will hold Atlas in my arms, and I will rub and kiss the creases of his little hand. I will snuggle my cheek against the ISness of him—the very presence of him.  And I will thank God.

I am waiting. Anticipating. Trusting.

My waiting for the coming of Atlas is much akin to the real Advent. Hope is affirmed in the waiting. 

God is able to call what is NOT into what IS.   

Father,

During this season I pray for those who are facing what seems like a 5% situation. Oh, Father, remind them as my friend reminded me: You are the God of small percentages. Father, I pray for those who are in circumstances that seem to be NOTS. Father, you can call any circumstance from a not to an IS. Any. Father, I pray during this season you would help us to wait and in waiting to trust you to take every situation of ours and transform them into proofs of your incredible ISness. Father, may we see in the creases of a baby’s hand your sovereignty, your design and your grace. Enable us to see the scars in your Son’s hands and know they are there because this baby of Advent became the Lamb of God.  Amen and amen.

 

 

 

*This concept based on Romans 4:17

 

 

 

 

 

Advent: Change of Plans




*****

 

Today while I was at work someone asked me about Advent. She came right up to the counter and asked boldly and without hesitation. Embarrassingly I didn’t know quite how to explain a tradition to her I only became aware of in the last five years. I felt like a student being handed a pop-quiz. I fumbled. Rambled. Stumbled.

I looked up into her face. Such earnestness in the asking. Such purity in the inquiry. She stood waiting.

Expecting. Anticipating. Trusting.

Trusting me, this on-the-journey-with-her pilgrim, to direct and guide her.  And I got a little scared. A little intimidated.

You see I planned to write about something else in this first post of the Advent season. I had another devotion partially written in my head.  But God was ahead of me. He knew my point of view wasn’t quite right yet. It didn't take him long to remedy the situation.

Tonight I saw in this young woman the very essence of Advent—she stood waiting expectedly, sincerely seeking. I couldn’t help but stare into her face—in the moment so madonna-like. She embodied Advent. She asked; she waited to receive. She anticipated; she waited with eagerness. She trusted; she waited for someone she trusted to show her the way (Oh Almighty God, help me!).

This is Advent.  

Father,

We are standing on the cusp of Christmas. On the periphery. I pray you would empower us to wait for your coming this Christmas. Father, may we embody Advent—our spirits animated with eagerness and anticipation of your Incarnation. May we expect you to come into our lives and be with us. May we wait to receive the revelations you have for us. Oh, Father! Come. Come to us. Arrive in us. Swell in us this child-like anticipation that we are going to see and experience you in this three week journey. We are trusting you to lead us. Expecting you to arrive. Amen and amen.



***** Photo credit: zengardener.com

 

 

 

Announcement!

Today.

Advent. The arrival of God With Us. Of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us. Of Jesus entering our realm.

Yes, Advent is about the coming, but it is also about the waiting: the hushed waiting of a candle being lit. The eager waiting of a child's wishes. The sad waiting of the season to be over. The bitter waiting of longings unmet. The anticipatory waiting of dreams.

My questions? In these 24 days What are we waiting on this year? Where are we waiting? When are we waiting? How are we waiting? Who are we waiting with or for? Why are waiting?

Tomorrow I begin a new Christmas Advent series here in the Chambered Nautilus:

Five W's and H.

Would love for you to join me!

Broken Teeth

A year and a half ago during a very busy week, my husband’s oldest daughter’s wedding week, I broke a tooth. It was a back molar. The inside quarter of the crown snapped right off in my mouth while I was eating chocolate chips. This will seem funnier later.

Because it didn’t hurt and it seemed to be okay I decided I could ignore it and I didn’t need to have a dentist look at it.

I told no one.

Why?

Pride? Fear? Who knows?

I just know for over a year I knew I had a broken tooth hidden in my mouth that no one else knew about or could see. But I knew about it every day of my life. When I brushed my teeth, when I rubbed my tongue across its now sharp edges and felt the broken space, the emptiness, I knew.

Briefly I thought that this might be an issue. But a month went by, three months, six months and then a year. Nothing. Just a broken, jagged tooth. I dismissed the possibility of it becoming a problem.  

Until last month.

Last week I woke up with horrible ear and jaw pain. I endured both for three days. Finally I went to the walk-in clinic. I had an ear infection. Not a flaming one, but the beginnings of one. Way too much fluid in my ear, and definitely the wrong color. So, the doctor put me on an antibiotic and said if the pain in my ear and jaw were not markedly better in two or three days then I needed to see someone else.

Sunday and Monday the pain persisted. Dose after dose of antibiotic. Does after dose of ibuprofen. I woke up Tuesday morning and the pain was far less severe. I was quite happy. All this time I had this niggling feeling that this broken tooth of mine was causing the problem.  

On Tuesday I went to school and taught. Ate lunch, and then went to work. In the next hour I thought by jaw and ear were going to explode. Stabs of pain. Pulsating and hot.

Enough was enough.

I called the dentist. Asked for an emergency appointment. They accommodated me and got me in in less than an hour and a half.  

I explained the whole ordeal. My teeth were examined. X-rays were taken. And two more tests were done.

My tooth was dead. The tooth I had worried and hidden was dead. And it was the culprit of my ear and jaw pain.

I had two options. Leave it in my mouth and do a root canal and crown or extract it.

I laughed.

One option.

Extract it.

Take it out.

The tooth that was once strong and healthy became damaged, and I failed to take care of it. Now, it was causing me pain and visible to everyone.

I’m not sure I tried to deceptively hide this; I just didn’t bother to tell anyone.

But as I lay there in the chair, being numbed with giant needles and then for thirty minutes as the dentist attempted to get this broken, dead tooth out of my mouth, I prayed. This constant litany of prayer. For me. For him.

And I shook. My whole body. The nurse later told me she could see my jaw quiver. Somewhere in the midst of the whole ordeal the dentist patted my shoulder and said, “By the way, you’re doing great.” His words barely registered.

I remember at first just thinking I wanted to be strong. Unafraid. I didn’t want to flinch or react. This had to be done. It had to be removed.

About midway through the dentist and I realized that the roots of this tooth were deep. Deep and curved.

About three-fourths of the way through he realized the tooth was going to have to be cut in half and pulled out in two pieces.

My mouth became somewhat of a war zone. He pushed and pulled and wiggled my tooth with such force that I could feel it in the other side of my jaw.

At last one root popped and came out. Then the other.

And it was done.

I was still shaking. Still praying.

He explained why it had been so hard. Because the tooth was broken it was very hard for him to get a grip and a purchase on it. Then the other half of the crown crumbled as he tried to pull it out. But it was extracted. All of it. No roots left. No roots to set up a bitter infection. He looked at the nurse and said let’s get her cleaned up.

At that point my face must have registered some serious confusion. She began to clean my face. TMI I know, but there had been blood in the fray. And shrapnel. Pieces of the tooth were on my face and chest. She was gentle and very sweet.

The dentist told me I could sit and relax.

The nurse asked me if I wanted to see the tooth. I did. Such a tiny thing. Two tiny pieces of bone. And they caused so much havoc.

They explained how to take care of the wound. Of the hole. Of the socket where the tooth had once been.

Finally I felt steady enough to walk out. To leave.

And I did.

Over the course of the next few days I would play the day and that scene over and over again. At one point I stood up to get something and I discovered my hip, knee and ankle on my right side were incredibly sore. What in the world? I sat down in the recliner to relax and watch a little TV. I crossed my right ankle over my left and then shifted my weight. That’s when my hip, knee and ankle really hurt. I looked down and realized that the recliner was much like the dentist chair. During the whole procedure I was in this exact same position. I tried so hard to handle the situation well that I tensed my whole body in a position that looked relaxed, but in reality my ankles were locked together like a dove joint. 

Somewhere in my review of the day I realized the Holy Spirit was speaking to me. I

illuminating. Exposing. Revealing.

First, I believe the enemy did a great many things to deter me and derail my focus from some very important events. He caused me to look inward to the pain. But what the enemy means for bad, our Mighty God always can show you the good.

Second, I believe my tooth was and is much like the idolatry. Originally our idols may  have been something healthy and good, but if they get damaged and then hidden? Well, then they deteriorate and decay. Then they die and they cause pain. And sometimes we can’t tell where the pain comes from. We treat other things. And the pain continues, until we find the source.

Third, when we recognize that damage has been done we need to go to God. Immediately. We are not to wait and roll our tongues over the edges and see just how sharp they are. We are not to assume that just because it seems to be causing no problems right now that it will continue not to do so in the future. That’s a very faulty and dangerous assumption.

Fourth, I believe we need to lay down our pride and this staunch stoicism of wanting to appear strong. To appear unfazed. To appear in control. To appear confident. To appear flawless.

Fifth, I believe we need to pray. Pray. Pray. And pray some more.

Sixth, it's amazing to me the tools God will use to teach us.