The Wings--Day 3

Christmas Devotions


As I have considered and pondered the third December devotion, I wondered if there was any possible way I could write twenty-two more thoughts about Christmas. Who am I to think I could possibly shed a new light on this great event? There is no new light. I am called to shine the same light as those of long ago.

Mary grew greater with child; and as she did she and Joseph continued their life in Nazareth. After the whispers concerning Mary and Joseph died down, the couple blended into the fabric of the village. The tiny town was not aware of who was in their midst. Villagers living in Bethlehem were oblivious to the fact that God would enter the portal of humanity in one of their animal shelters. They had no idea that the birth of an unknown baby would change the course of history. While Jesus was entering the world Bethlehem continued to endure the overflow from the census. Bethlehem's inhabitants did not understand that they were center stage.

Today I have been thinking about the wings of the stage. What was happening that could not be seen? Where were Peter and Andrew while Jesus was being formed in Mary's womb? Were they toddlers? Was Simon Peter forever running out the door when his mother opened it? Did Andrew get tangled in his father's nets? Where were James and John? Were they thundering through their mother's kitchen? Was John even a thought in his mother's mind? Where was Mary Magdalene? Where was Martha? Stephen? And where was Paul? They were in the wings—behind the heavy curtains.

Often others ask why don't we know more about these people? Why do we only see a few brief shining moments of their lives? We must remember that they came from the wings. Their stories began there and will continue there long after they leave the stage.

God is telling his story. Whether the world understands and acknowledges the fact or not (just like Nazareth and Bethlehem) this is God Almighty's story. And we are a part of it.

Mary, Joseph, Gabriel, the shepherds, the wise men, the inn keeper, and. Herod flared hotly on center stage for a brief time. Each one is like the flaring of an ember—red hot and then absorbed in the greater fire. And in the wings God was preparing others for the next act. Life and activity and orchestration go on in the wings even while the performance is happening on the stage. Often the audience has no idea of the drama that unfolds behind the heavy curtains.

The only one who will forever remain center-stage is Jesus. Two thousand years have passed and people are still considering him. They are still watching, studying, and critiquing his performance. They are still examining his program. His story is still being told. And we are all still a part of it. Don't doubt this fact just because you are in the wings. 

Preparation and maturation happens in the wings. Joseph was righteous before God placed him on the stage. Mary was pure and believed the impossible before God made her the vessel where he formed his Son.

I want to watch the center stage of history. There are incredible people and events there to consider and behold. But I want to be very aware that God is at work in the wings. Scripture says that God sent Jesus into this world in the fullness of time. Time did not just mean center stage. God was also orchestrating the activity in the wings to fulfill every purpose he had planned.

Will my story ever be center stage? I used to long and yearn for that moment when I stepped from the wings into the light. More often now I simply want the ember of my story to become a part of the greater fire.

A Righteous Man--Day 2

Matthew 1: 18-20, 24

The Nativity Story was released a few years ago. The story that so many of us have held so precious and dear played in theaters across the country during the 2006 Christmas season. I had not been aware that Hollywood would attempt to tell the story of Jesus' birth. I watched the trailer and viewed the book release of the still photos. I was enthralled. The authenticity of the historical setting overwhelmed me. But I asked would they get it right? Will these people I hold so dear to my heart be portrayed as who they really were? In 2006 I wanted to go see this movie and I was full of anticipation and trepidation.

I was most eager to see Joseph in the film—I have thought so much about him in recent days. While reading the first chapter of Matthew I kept returning to one verse over and over. Matthew says that "Because Joseph her husband was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he has in mind to divorce her quietly ...”

Mary and Joseph were betrothed. They had taken vows. Binding vows. Mary makes a seemingly spontaneous decision to visit an older cousin in the hill country. Days turn to weeks and weeks to months. Joseph's betrothed returns from visiting Elizabeth. She comes with news for Joseph. She is with child. Joseph knows the child is not his. Decisions are imminent.

According to the law Joseph could divorce Mary. He could send her away in disgrace and shame. Actually a stoning would not have been completely frowned upon. Harsh. Yet most of his family and friends would have supported Joseph in this choice. He was the wronged one. He had the right to divorce Mary and find a more suitable wife.

But Matthew tells us that Joseph was a righteous man. And there are implications in the very fiber of that word. We expect something different from Joseph because of this description. And so we see him making a good choice. He chooses to divorce Mary quietly because he didn't want to expose her to public disgrace. This seems to be the good decision. A good plan.

God Almighty had another plan. This plan had been in place since the foundations of the world. Joseph was chosen by God, and God did not want his choice rearranged. God didn't want Joseph to make a good choice. God wanted Joseph to make the right choice. And so once again God Almighty sends a messenger with information to enable Joseph to make the right choice. And in a dream the angel says with great clarity: marry Mary.

Joseph is startled from his dream. He contemplates no longer. He obeys. In spite of her rounding abdomen Mary becomes the wife of Joseph of Nazareth. Joseph understood. This righteous man made the right choice.

A righteous man makes a godly decision. Precious Joseph made a hard choice, but it was God's choice.

Joseph didn't just appear to be a righteous man, he acted like one.

When I sat in the darkened theater and watched The Nativity Story I was hoping that somehow Hollywood would have noticed the difference in this man named Joseph. Would he be portrayed as a righteous man?

Sometimes we will be faced with a situation, and we will need to make a choice. We must stop and not be persuaded until we know God's choice. Will he send us an angel? I am not sure.

I want to be like Joseph. When faced with hard choices I want to have the courage to choose rightly. I want to have the wisdom to choose between good and godly. And that is part of the message of this holy season. God calls us beyond good decisions. He calls us to a righteousness that goes far beyond appearances.

Christmas Devotions 2011

(I wrote these devotions in 2006. I sent them to various friends via email, but thought they would be a good addition to The Chambered Nautilus blogspot.)



December 1

Luke 1:13, 19, 30

Wal-mart has a countdown—three shopping Saturdays left until Christmas. I see this sign every time I walk through the store's entrance. At first the sign annoyed and frustrated me. It represented everything I do not like about this holiday season: panic, chaos, obligatory buying, rush, pressure, and disappointment. Tonight the sign looked different. It caused me to observe, examine, and reevaluate my attitude and traditional approach to this holy season.

Did heaven count down to the revelation and birth of Jesus? Did the heavenly host eagerly anticipate the day that the Holy of Holies would step into history and become one of us? Did they have the eternal time tagged of when the Creator of the universe would stoop low and enter through the door of humanity?

I wonder if Gabriel had the calendar marked? He was summoned into the presence of God, and there he was given a message of good news. The Holy One of Heaven whispered to Gabriel to announce that God was coming. Tell them I will live among my people. And in the fullness of time Gabriel pierced through the veils of heaven to the earth with the message.

Gabriel's message is for us also. Even now the good news he was commissioned to carry extends to us. Gabriel stands before us in this holy season and says, "Don't be afraid. Your prayers have been answered. Don't be afraid, you have found favor with God. Don't be afraid any longer; God With Us is coming to you."

Today may we be pierced by his message. May it change our approach to this Christmas season. Immanuel has come and is coming. We don't have to count down the days anymore. There is no need for panic. Breathe. Slow the rush—allow time to crawl. Cast off the pressure and the disappointment the world inflates.

Friends, He has arrived! Immanuel is present among us.

This is our good news: there are no more Saturdays.

O come, 0 come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.*



*Traditional Christmas Hymn
John Mason Neale

Climbing Trees

Lately I have been too reserved in my relationship with my Father. Too preoccupied. Too busy. Too negligent. And the Spirit in all his gentleness and persistence has been nudging me.

And the urgency and frequency of the nudging has increased.

I was sitting in church almost a month ago. Dave, our minister, was talking about having a balanced life. Something caught my attention so much that I wrote it on the edge of my bulletin so I wouldn’t forget.

But I did forget. I did.

But the Spirit is persistent. When He wants you to remember, when there is something for you to glean, to learn, to store he will continually bring the concept back to the forefront until you recognize and acknowledge it.

I have been called to a relationship of abandon with the Father. A life of utter, unrestricted praise. And every time I try to be dignified, calm and sedate the Spirit shakes his head at me. He knows I don’t want to look foolish. I don’t want people to look at me and see me as a fanatic. I don’t want to be labeled.

But the Spirit is whispering. And he used a passage from Luke spoken through Dave’s mouth to remind me.

Jesus was traveling through Jericho. His reputation was moving before him like a wave undulating through the whispers of those who were inwardly hungry and wanting something more than the daily routine. People wanted to see the face of God. Jesus and his disciples, this close knit bunch, moved down that narrow highway—treacherous and dangerous. And the people heard he was coming. The heralds moved a few miles ahead of Jesus. They shouted and talked and gestured. The new prophet was coming. The man who had healed and raised people from the dead was passing by today.

Zacchaeus gleaned the tidbits of information. He was tired of the life he had been living. Tired of being a servant of the Roman rule, tired of being held in contempt by his Jewish brothers, tired of being stabbed with visual daggers, weary of the undercurrent of distrust and contempt when he came into town. He had stolen from these people and lined his own pockets with their money. Everyone recognized his name, but no one knew him. He was alone and isolated. Ostracized. He was hurting and no one knew. He was hungry and no one could hear his stomach growl.

The fervor increased the closer Jesus got. Zacchaeus knew he would never be able to get a glimpse of this man. Zacchaeus was too short. He couldn’t see over the shoulders of the crowd. If anything, Zacchaeus was pragmatic and resourceful. On the edge of the dusty road sycamore trees grew. Just a few. But the branches were strong and low.

Zacchaeus shrugged his dignity off like a dirty cloak. Left it laying on the edge in a pile. He girded his tunic and climbed the tree. He perched like a bird on the branches. He could see far down the road in either direction. And he waited.

He saw and heard everything. Inwardly he was thrilled to be high up off the ground and he was pleased with his vantage point.

The man and his group were almost to his tree. Zacchaeus leaned down just a little in order to hear the conversations as they passed. He held his breath so he could hear the slightest phrase.

“Zacchaeus!”

He didn't expect the shout and it startled him. For a moment he lost his balanced perch in his tree. Zacchaeus swiveled around and Jesus looked at him. Looked him directly in the eye.

“Zacchaeus, you come down. I am going to your house today.” There was no asking. Just a statement of fact. And Zacchaeus couldn’t pull his eyes away. They were locked with this man—this prophet who could see right through him. All the way through. “I am going to your house today, Zacchaeus. I want to eat with you.”

Zacchaeus slid down the branches of the tree. He barely noticed the rough scrape of the bark on his thighs or the scratches on his palms.

Jesus heard Zacchaeus’ stomach growl. He recognized the loneliness. He saw the guarded pain from being shunned for so many years. How long had it been since someone had been to Zacchaeus’ house to eat? How long since someone had broken bread with Zacchaeus the tax collector? Zacchaeus couldn’t remember.

Too long.

But, because he had climbed a tree, because he had left his pride in a heap at its base, because Jesus had arrived Zacchaeus experienced salvation. He had been restored. He had been redeemed from the ugly, futile way of life he had embraced.

The Spirit has been talking to me. Through my minister he reminded me that “we need to start climbing sometimes.” *

I need to find a sycamore tree and leave my cloaks of pride and reservations in a pile on the road. I need to reach up and wrap my arms around a fat tree branch and hoist myself up—shuffle and scoot. I have been too busy. I have been too preoccupied with image and perceptions. I need to abandon it all and climb a tree simply because I want to see Jesus.

My God hears my stomach growl. He sees my struggles with those around me. He knows the hurt and pain because I can’t get the relationships right. He understands why I can’t make sense of it all. He is very aware that I falter and fail.

He knows.

And he is waiting for me to climb the tree.



*David Scalf: minister

Christ Church

www.ccwky.org

Afternoon Prayer

Hear my cries this afternoon, O God, as random and jumbled as they are. 

Hear the noises of my heart that have no articulation, that have no annunciation, but just remain guttural sounds. My words trip over one another. They can’t find structure to explain the ardor coursing through me. This intensity pushes through a channel far too small for the enormity of the weight of your presence and glory.

Only you are great enough to absorb this 

Hear me, O my God. 

Oh, the glorious audacity to be able to call you mine. You are not just the Father of Abraham and Jacob.

You are not just the Lord of Peter and Paul. You are mine. 

My God. 

Hear me then. But more, let me hear you. Open and stretch the canals of my inner ear so I might hear what you are speaking to me. Talk to me and may your Spirit translate words too divine for me to comprehend.

Even at this moment the intensity overwhelms me. Do I dare to even speak it aloud?

This it is a holy unction—an anointing I don’t deserve. And yet you pour this holy lubricant on me and it seeps into who I am and transforms me.  As I inhale my nostrils flare and my eyes burn. I am in a holy place now. I haven’t moved from my seat, but I am in the midst of the sacred. I am in your presence. 

The epiphany comes not as an explosion, but as an expansion. 

Why do I forget? Why do I lose grasp of these  inevitable truths? 

I was made to praise you. I was created to worship you—to lift my hands and bend my knee. Yet I fumble with my purpose. I stagger blindly on a well-lit path. 

Pour more oil, please. 

I ask for more because there is nothing else I can do. Nothing else I truly desire. 

I need nothing else but your holy unction to cause my rusty arms to rise and my corroded knees to bend and my stiff jaw to open. 

My God. 

My beautiful, beautiful God.

Kissing the Frog

Through the years I have gathered phrases and used them repeatedly in my daily management of life. Some I remember with great detail who coined them and in what situation. Others I have only a faint and vague recollection of their source. And others I simply don’t remember at all, but they have become permanent along with their explanations of usage.


For years I have told my daughters, my friends, my students and myself to eat the frog. Translation: whatever is the hardest thing to do—do it first. If you have a plate of food in front of you and you hate one particular thing, eat it first. If you have a to do list, do the thing that requires the most time and effort and you want to do least. If you have a situation that must be handled, but are procrastinating—eat the frog.

I never thought there would be a time when that phrase wasn’t metaphorical for me. Last week our school had a fund raiser. Most of the teachers had a jar with a photograph of them taped to the side. Goofy images. The teachers made faces in their photographs that most likely (hopefully) they would never make in the classroom. Students could drop coins and bills in the jar and the teacher who accumulated the most money over the week (had to be a minimum of $25) either got a pie in the face or must kiss a frog. I was slotted to kiss the frog.

The money would be used to help fund the seniors and their trip in the spring. At mid-week the jars only had a few bills in them. We really didn’t think (with sighs of relief) that the goals were going to be met. I left school on Thursday knowing that I was quite a few dollars from the goal. I came back on Friday morning and was informed that I had to kiss the frog and my husband had to take the pie in the face during chapel later in the morning.

Now I had agreed to this. What had I been thinking? During the morning my thoughts centered on how I was going to manage kissing a real, live frog. My husband had seen the frog. A couple of others had seen the frog. I kept imagining this frog. Cold, slick and damp. Where was this frog coming from? Someone’s creek? Pond? Aquarium? I knew the best way I could handle this was to hold the frog in my left hand and pinch its lips together with my right. Perhaps I could do this with little to no squeamish noises and grimaces and not embarrass myself. I had to kiss the frog for a full three seconds. We can do anything for three seconds, right? My husband laughed at me.

That was my plan. I was following my house rule. I wasn’t going to eat the frog, but I was going to kiss it.

Of course the order of chapel did not allow for me to go first and get this task over. No, chapel was full that day with announcements, games and devotions. And then it was time.

A wonderful colleague of mine, the teacher in charge of the fundraiser, came to the front with a very large metal pot containing the frog. The size of the pot threw me off-balance. I was expecting a very small frog, not a bull frog that had to be put in a pot with a lid. I was scrambling in my head trying to determine what I would do. The students were howling. Cheering. Ecstatic energy filled the room because Mrs. R was actually about to kiss a frog. I swallowed hard.

I looked around to find my husband. I told him if I had to kiss a frog he had to promise to kiss me afterward. If I were going to participate in this crazy fiasco and touch my mouth to a fairy tale amphibian’s cold lips then he had to watch. My mind was scattered and the longer my friend prolonged this the more nervous my insides became.

She held the lid on that pot as if it took some effort. Was the frog jumping? She was smiling. I wasn’t sure I liked her smile. Finally, I said, “Find my husband and let’s get this done.”

We have chapel in the gym and all the classroom doors open into the gym, and the door at the back slowly opened. By this time I was so confused I wasn’t sure what was happening.

My friend looked at me and said, “Here’s your frog, now give him a kiss.”

Someone walked out of the room with a painted frog mask on, a green cape around his shoulders and wearing a frog prince t-shirt. My six foot three husband was my frog.

My friend and colleague had not been able to locate a frog and scrambling for an alternative this is what she and the rest of our staff concocted.

I bent over in laughter. The students were in an uproar—they felt cheated.

I reached up and pulled my frog prince’s face toward mine and kissed his great big green lips laughing wildly the whole time.

I looked at the pot. No frog.

Instead I had gotten to kiss my frog prince. How fitting.

I was ready to do the thing I wanted to do least that day. I had checked my list, looked at my plate and I was ready to eat the frog. I had been prepared to do the hardest thing.

Instead, I got a surprise.

My whole life has been like this. I have attempted to eat my frogs, to kiss them and get it over with and there has always been some kind of wonderful, unexpected surprise waiting for me. Always.

And in that moment, in front of the whole school and my colleagues and my incredible husband with his frog face now dangling, I realized on a new level how good our Father really is.

When we trust him, when we go to him in prayer and petition and ask for his help with the hard things, the absurd things, the unexplainable things, the painful things and the crazy things he honors our asking. The Father honors our asking and comes along side of us and helps us with a plan to kiss the frog.

He honors the asking.

Go. Kiss your frog.

WINNERS!

Today was the deadline for the Turning 200 give-a-way. A co-worker of mine drew three winners for me!


Janette Carver


Kim Jernigan

Christy Witt


Please let me know you have seen the announcement and I will get your gift to you.

Thank you to everyone for your kind words and encouragement.

Tamera

Turning 200 Deadline

Tomorrow

Wednesday

November 8, 2011

Tomorrow is the last day to enter the Chambered Nautilus gift box raffle.

Just send me a quick note here or on facebook if you haven't already done so.

Can't wait to see who wins. Two prizes will be given.

New post coming.

Tamera

Barbara

Last night I went to the funeral home. Reluctantly. Hesitantly. 

I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to acknowledge the finality of a passing that affected me far more deeply than I expected. 

Instead I wanted her to wag her finger and look me straight in the eye and say, “What is going on with you? Something is not right, little Missy.” 

I wanted to hear her pray. Just one more time I wanted to be present when she presented herself in the throne room. And that is certainly what she did. She was assured of who she was in the kingdom, not because of her own accomplishments or achievements, but because of Jesus’. She approached the throne room with a holy audacity that I want to experience. 

But this audacity was born not out of pride or arrogance, but from suffering. This boldness was born out of sheer desperation—an utter conviction that she had only one place to lean. And lean she did. 

Her name was Barbara. 

Years ago Barbara was in a tragic car accident. The emergency team who found her thought her to be dead before they even reached her. She lost half her face. Literally. 

She had no cosmetic reconstruction. The extent of what would have been necessary was too dangerous. And there were just too many infections. Twelve years later when I met Barbara she peered at me with one eye. And that one eye saw deeply into me; I couldn’t hide much from Barbara. She would take her hands and hold my face and make me look at her, and she would ask me questions that I had to answer, if not to her than to myself. 

Disease also plagued Barbara. And yet, she had a deep, deep sense of joy. Not the frivolity of happiness which is often transient and dependent on outward circumstances, but joy established in a stout and relentless conviction that God had a plan for her—and that it was a good plan. 

Once while Barbara was in church some younger children were snickering and jeering at her grotesque face. Furiously the mother attempted to shush the children, but Barbara turned and told the young mother to bring those children to her. She put aside her own self-consciousness and insecurities (if she even really had any at this point) and bent down to be close to the children’s faces. She began to explain exactly what had happened to her. She didn’t mince words. She didn’t exaggerate. The children never ridiculed her again.

If anyone has learned that our position in Christ is not based on any temporary, earthly thing—physical appearance, social status, academic achievements—Barbara knew. 

When you first met Barbara her face took you off guard and you would have to avert your eyes or perhaps lower your head. After you got to know her, heard her talk about Jesus and her faith, your respect for her exploded and you couldn’t do anything but look her right square in the face.  

Barbara had more vision with one eye than I do at times with both. If anyone should have suffered with the malady of tunnel vision, then she should have. She did, but Jesus was fixed at the end of her tunnel.

I still have both eyes, yet often my vision is limited, hindered or stunted because I don’t have my eyes fixed.  I allow too many relatively trivial and temporary things to impede my sight.  

The receiving line at the funeral home was long and filled with animated whisperings of stories and exchanges about Barbara.  I listened—absorbing and tucking away the tid-bits of information for a later time.

I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to lose this woman’s influence in my life. The duration of her influence had been too short. I had questions I still wanted to ask. Prayer requests I still wanted her to pray. I still wanted to be snapped by her quick wit and encouraged by her keen insight. 

I realized how selfish my train of thought was rolling. Barbara is now whole in heaven. Whole. All that the accident tragically took has been replaced. All that the ravage of disease had eaten away has been restored.

The reality of heaven belongs to Barbara now. Her faith is now sight. Everything that she preached (And preached she did! She and Paul would have made a great team.) to everyone she encountered is now an actuality. 

I walked through the receiving line, pausing only briefly before Barbara’s shell.  I didn’t linger. There was no need. Three nights ago she entered the throne room of God and I have a feeling that is where she still is.

Turning 200!

When I hit the publish tab for these words to upload this will be my 200^th post. Two hundred times I have pulled back the layers of my skin and attempted to be real. As I scroll back through the months, the years, the posts are like the transparent, opalescent skin-thin walls of my beloved nautilus shell.  

In these posts I recognize myself, and I have marked measurements of my growth and expansion. I realize this has often been a place I have been willing to look at and attempted to see myself soberly. Here in these spaces I seem to be able to identify the bits and pieces of the woman God was and is transforming. Certainly he has used this place, this virtual chambered nautilus, to enable me to have the courage to increase the size and capacity of my chambers.

In 2007 when I began this endeavor, born out of a challenge to one of my creative writing classes, I did not know who I was.  There was a time before when I thought I did. In 2007 I most assuredly did not. Five years of chronicling my journey and two hundred skin layers later I know these truths: I know who I belong to and I know he does not change; these two facts determine who I really am.  And I will continue to chronicle my journey here in this place. 

Thank you for visiting me. I have no idea how many people see, read or follow The Chambered Nautilus, but two hundred posts, for me, are worth celebrating. 

If you read this post please drop a line in the comment section (or message me on Facebook, if you read the post there). On November 9, 2011 I will compile the comments in a special drawing for two Chambered Nautilus gift boxes—gifts from me to you—and I will announce the winners in a post immediately after the drawing.  

May His face shine upon you. 

Tamera

A String of Pearls Photos

A few images of Katherine and David's day!

Being Blindfolded

Classic Beauty

JOY!

My moment with my Katherine

Katherine and her proud and blessed Momma



A String of Pearls