Don't Play Church

With fear and trepidation Steve and I joined another couple to lead a small group of young adults. I do not say that lightly. The four of us realized there was a deep need and gap for the 18-26 year olds at our church. We kept hoping someone would step into that spot and fill it.

There were conversations and meetings to determine if it could be something our church could do. A young woman started the fire burning in me, and we then met with our pastor. The idea was shelved for a little while because we were still unsure of who was going to lead this group.

Be careful. If God makes you aware of a need there’s a good chance you are going to be the one he asks to invest and/or fulfil that need.

Guess what?

The Young Adult group started. And who was leading it? You got it. The Mohrs and the Rehnborgs.

We advertised. We would meet on Sunday nights in the Mohrs home. We wondered if anyone would show. What in the world were we doing? We were flying blind and by the seat of our pants. I’m serious we didn’t have a clue what we were doing. And the four of us met weekly at our local Mexican restaurant and often would stay past closing because we were so engrossed in the planning and praying for this group. We talked about fairy tales and children’s stories. We talked about how to reach a generation that we didn’t understand and certainly didn’t understand us.

But we moved forward. God just kept waving us forward. Every excuse we conjured, every weakness we employed He kept saying there’s a need. This group is being lost between the cracks. Do this. I will supply everything you need.

The first night came. My hands were sweating. My mind was blank. We prayed. And prayed. And we prayed some more. We knew if God were not present; if he did not come and intervene this whole endeavor would be lost.

But they came. More than we ever dreamed. And we looked around the room and thought God, God what are you doing? Who are we to be in the middle of this?

Then we had another meeting. And another. More young adults came. I don’t think it was what any one of them were expecting. And this certainly wasn’t what we expected.

God was doing a new thing. In us. In them. How do I know this?

At one point someone in the group boldly talked about the church. About people our age. They talked about how unhappy we always are. About how we are all about rules and regulations. And that we are judgmental.

And that’s when it happened. God knows what he is doing. God does call us to minister to others, but in that ministering we, too, will be changed. Jeff, one of the leaders, looked at these young men and women. I watched him scan the room, look at the faces.

He took a deep breath and he apologized.

He apologized for our generation (40-50+). He apologized that we had let them down. That we had not offered them something better. That we had made church about doctrine, dogma and discipline. We had made the Good News of the Gospel into a heavy weight. One that is too heavy and a constricting.

I wish you could have seen their faces. I wish video had been running unseen and undetected. We were all stunned. Even the leader who spoke the words. The three other leaders were hit full force with the truth of his words. And as we watched the students’ faces we knew. We knew that this apology had struck a very deep nerve. I watched their faces. Breath held. Tears sliding. Prayers whispering.

The room was silent. Slack-jawed. Then one young woman spoke up and out. She looked at him and then at the four of us and said No one has ever said anything like that to us before. No one has ever apologized. Ever.

And my heart broke into little pieces.

No, we haven’t.

That apology and response started a dialogue that hasn’t stopped. Questions like what is church? What should it be? What shouldn’t it be? What does the Body of Christ really look like? What is essential? Not only were the students asking these questions but the four of us have been asking them ever since.

That night’s meeting set the pace and the path for this group. Attendance has grown and waned. There have been nights that have been phenomenal and nights that were off.

But many of them keep coming back.

This group amazes me. I love people, but I have a particular fondness for this age group. They are on the cusp of so many things. They are at the edge moving both out and in. They still have an intrepidness and a lack of inhibition that is beautiful to see. They are becoming men and women—the ones who will lead and shape the future.

I’ve watched this group. They are a church. They are the called-out ones of Jesus. Never have I seen such a diverse group of people in my life. And that’s the honest truth.

They are trying to find faith. They are looking for purpose. They are hungry for something, someone, who is real. They don’t like pretension. They don’t like fake. They don’t like self-righteousness. They can be a somewhat arrogant. They can be a little apathetic. They can be a slightly argumentative. But aren’t we all?

But generosity? Taking care of the least of these? More than once I have watched this group take care of someone. Three instances come to my mind.

A young couple who are part of the group had to deal with a catastrophic health issue. It was a horrible situation. We sent the group out one night. Told them to put together a care package for the couple. They split into two groups, assigned duties and left. They came back and poured their bounty on the floor. And we, the leaders, sat up. We paid attention because of their thoughtfulness and generosity.  They packed that gift package with gift cards for gas, for groceries and for local restaurants. They picked out movies and little things just to make the couple feel better. Then they delivered it, and the group sang This Little Light of Mine and prayed with them. And the couple cried.

The second time they blew us away we had another young couple who were in financial bind. This group pulled their resources together and handed the couple over $300 to offset the crisis.

The third time one of the guys of our group had to work. He tried and tried to get his shift changed so he could come to group. He didn’t want to miss, but no one wanted his shift. His day had been horrible—the nightmare day in the food-waiting tables industry: people—hateful and stingy and demanding. The group decided the best thing we could do was pack up and head out to Cracker Barrel. So we did. When we got there one of the girls in our group went to the hostess and explained we needed a table for twelve and we wanted Nathan’s section. We were standing where Nathan could not see us, but a few of us could see him. When the hostess told him (an hour before he was to get off) he had a twelve-topper table his face dropped. Then hostess explained he had been specifically requested.

Wait a minute. What was the name they gave?

The hostess told him and he realized it was us. And his face broke into a smile.

They led us to our table. Nathan followed beaming. And we were beaming. This is what the Body of Christ does! When someone is having a bad day, when things are just not going right we come and be like Jesus.

That night I watched this group of young adults lay out a tip that was outrageous. Extravagant.

And our precious waiter was stunned. He who had had a bad day, who hadn’t reacted as he thought he should have, felt the blessing and favor of God. And his coworkers got to watch him transform and asked who we were. He told them.

How thrilled we leaders were to be associated with this group—that we got to sit at the edge of them and watch God work. We were privileged to see what the Body does when it is following in the footsteps of Jesus.

Now, is doctrine important? Yes. But doctrine without love, without action is just a harness that attaches us to the yoke. We watched these kids put a cloak of flesh on doctrine’s shoulders.

Jesus said love your neighbor as yourself. He said give and it will be given to you—pressed down, shaken together and running over. He said you will reap what you sow.

These young adults fleshed out the Gospel.

This is truly the good news of the Gospel:  Jesus loves us. He cares for us. And he calls us to live a life worthy of his calling.

And we do that not by playing church but by being the church.

 

Part of our Group at Cracker Barrel--Nathan is standing.

 

 

Nanny and Olivia--Love Does

I will never forget that Sunday morning. Ever.

Never will I forget.

The text came early that morning as I was getting ready for church. In the middle of straightening my hair my phone dingled indicating I received a text. I opened it. Read it and reread it.  

The text was from Olivia. Requesting something of me—her mother.

I took a deep breath. Mostly as a prayer. Mostly as a fortification.

For the past several months Olivia filled her days caring for Nanny—

Nanny, actually Nancy Louder, was the grandmother of one of our dearest friends and our minister, Dave Scalf. We called her Nanny, and I’m not sure we ever asked for permission to call her Nanny; the name just came naturally.

Hospice informed Dave and Amy Nanny was moving into her last hours. Grieving they began the round-the-clock vigil. They asked Olivia to sit with Nanny during church; she asked me to come and sit with her during this time. That’s when I took the deep breaths.

Abby went with me.

I could tell you all about Nanny. I could tell you she was a strong-willed, feisty and a sharp-tongued woman. I could tell you she had a twinkle in her eye and witty comment on her lips. I could tell you that she wanted to know what was going on, wanted to know the ins and outs and the comings and goings. (Some would say she was nosy). I could tell you she had a soft spot for Dave and an even softer one for her great grandchildren. She did.

I drove to the house. I tapped on the front door. We let ourselves in and tiptoed down the stairs.

I walked down into the hush of Nanny’s basement. I heard Nanny’s labored breathing before I even turned the corner. And I prayed. Just breaths.

The breath prayers fortified me. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been prepared.

Nanny lay tucked in a hospital bed. Blankets layered. The TV rolled and voices were an undercurrent hum. Lights were low, windows shaded to keep the light from glaring on Nanny’s face.

I couldn’t really see Nanny at first. Olivia stood by her bedside with her back to us—her dark hair brushing her shoulders and her sweater hanging softly down her back. I could see the blue glove on her hand. And the edge of her boots brushing her calf. She turned to us.

And her face.

Her sweet and beautiful face tore a hole right through the fabric of my heart. This mother’s heart broke to see the quiet sorrow in Olivia’s face. Can pain be beautiful? Can it shadow the eyes and line the face and create beauty instead of ugliness?

Yes.

Yes, it can.

I saw it that day. Saw what the pain of compassion can do. Saw what the power of empathy can do. Saw what love does.

That brief moment I saw God’s face in Olivia’s.

The face Jesus must have worn when he reached out and touched the leper, when he turned and raised the widow of Nain’s son, when he chased the demons away and when he held Martha’s hand at Lazarus’ tomb.

In that brief moment I saw Olivia’s face transfigured.

She turned away from me back to Nanny.

I stood then transfixed by Nanny’s sweet face slack in a sleep I had never known. Her once stout and strong body was brittle and bony. Her flesh now almost gone, consumed by years of living. Worn away by time and love and pain and sorrow and joy.

And I watched my daughter, this Olivia of mine, minister in a way I have never seen anyone minister.

She swabbed Nanny’s mouth with water using a blue sponge sucker. I kept thinking and wondering how the sponge could be soft enough for the thin skin of Nanny’s lips and mouth? But Olivia’s touch was light and gentle washing away the residue of hard breaths and thick saliva too hard to swallow. Over and over she did this gesture. She would toss one sponge sucker only to get another.

Olivia moved through these motions like a shadow, so very careful to not disturb Nanny. Every movement was slow and efficient—choreographed. Timed. Rhythmic. Graceful.

She lifted Nanny’s body, turning and situating. Olivia lifted feet and slid on fuzzy socks, sliding them over ninety-six years of callouses and heels that were hard and crusty. But she held those feet easy, cupped them in the young skin of her own hands and Abby asked her why the socks?

Olivia explained, “Because Nanny’s feet get cold, and she doesn’t like for them to be cold. And I don’t like that her heels are getting bruised from all the rubbing against the bed and the pillows.”  

The tears puddled in my eyes. I knew they were going to spill over and run down on my face. I didn’t think I could stop them. But I did because I so wanted to see what God was doing in this place.

Olivia finished with her morning routine with Nanny. Then she took the blankets off one by one and refolded them and laid them over Nanny. One after another. I started to ask why so many blankets, but I knew the answer. Then Olivia rearranged the blankets on the rail of the hospital bed put there for extra padding for Nanny. She cleaned up all the papers and towels and clothes.

Then she sat down with us.

We watched YouTube videos of crazy comedians and laughed. We talked and teased each other.

I kept thinking Nanny was going to snap at us and tell us we were disturbing her sleep, but she didn’t. And I kept looking over at her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Listening to the air move in and out of her lungs. And I prayed. Prayed for Nanny. Prayed for Dave and Amy. Prayed for the six children who lived in this house with Nanny.

I kept thinking about Dave, the shepherd, teaching about Jesus a few miles away. Teaching about what Love Does. Knowing that he could be there because Olivia was here doing what love does.

I’m sure Nanny taught many people to do many things in her lifetime. I’m sure she scolded and realigned and corrected. I’m sure she was an example of living through hard things with dignity and independence.

But perhaps, the greatest teaching moment of Nanny’s long life came at the very end—when she couldn’t talk, and couldn’t instruct and couldn’t do for herself.

That Sunday morning I watched the dance of a lifetime. Two unlikely people paired together. One young. One old. One strong. One weak. One robust. One frail. One beginning. One ending.

Nanny and Olivia

 

Nanny and Olivia showed me the raw and gritty reality of love does.

I looked at the clock and knew it was time for me to go. I had been reluctant to come, but now I was far more reluctant to go.

I stood and walked over to Nanny’s bed. And in that moment I wanted to be like Olivia. I wanted to emulate the compassion she offered. I took Nanny’s hand. It was warm. I wrapped her fingers in mine; I held them.

Then I prayed. Out loud. Hoping she could hear. Hoping somehow she knew how God was using her to teach me. I didn’t want to let go of her hand. I didn’t want to walk away.

Olivia hugged me and whispered, “Thanks, Mama.”

Thanks, Mama?

Her gratefulness tore another little place in my heart.

I should have thanked Nanny and her.

And I do.

And I thank God.

In memory of Nancy Louder--Nanny. Love you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peculiar Situations—Bras, Horses and Cats

The continuing story…

Seven years ago God used a ridiculously peculiar situation to change me.  

During that summer my daughters and I went to visit my dad. He raises and rides horses like they were part of his DNA. We enjoyed riding around the path of the farm—endless circles because our equestrian skills were not stellar. (The girls can ride—I think they were holding back for me.) After a few circuitous routes we came back to the barn. I decided I didn’t want to ride anymore, so I decided to turn my horse over to someone else. While my cousin held the reins of the horse I attempted to dismount.  I use the word attempt purposely because when I threw my leg over the horse I leaned too far onto the saddle horn.

This would have been fine except once again a said undergarment’s underwire got caught around the saddle horn. As I descended, the undergarment remained with the saddle. And everyone in my vicinity caught a glimpse of me no one should ever see in the light of day. For a brief moment (which seemed to go on forever) I hung suspended—draped over the horse’s side—trying to decide what to do.  Mortified I tried to untangle and unhook myself. No one else knew what to do either. So, they left me to my own devices. One of my daughters turned so that she hid most of me from view. I managed to get loose and dropped to the ground. Quickly I shuffled and wiggled to try and salvage the situation. Blood moved hot up my neck and into my face.  I thought I would cry right there; but, my daughters were watching me.

I turned and walked the long trek to the house.

It took a long time to repair the damage—to my undergarment and to me. Safety pins were involved and some serious self-talk and prayer.

During that one hundred foot walk to the house and the time cloistered in the bathroom God did a miracle. Seriously. I knew I had two choices: this embarrassing incident could ruin my day and I could remain in the house hiding for the rest of the time far away from anyone who was privy to the whole scene (which was too many to count) or I could laugh and just take it in stride. I could laugh and admit that I was nothing more than a forty-something year old woman who just had a really embarrassing, but quite funny, accident. I stood there in that bathroom and turned around and looked in the mirror.

There were no tell-tale signs of my debacle: my face no longer beamed fiery red, my skin cooled to the touch again, my mascara remained where it belonged and said undergarment was back in place and fully functional. No lasting damage.  I looked at that woman in the mirror and grinned. Straightened my shoulders. Turned around. Took a deep breath. Went back outside.

My daughters never did say, but I always wondered if they considered me crazy or wanted to cheer for me when I appeared back in the crowded barn lot.   

God enabled me to release so many things that day. He used an incredibly embarrassing situation to free me—from the unhealthy desire to appear dignified, from the fear of being far too exposed and from the fear of being rejected because of that exposure. God used this peculiar situation to liberate me from the fetters and confines of my own social construct. To free me from allowing embarrassment to rob me of the confidence God had been building in me for quite a while.

I went back outside.

Some of the guests laughed, but this time I laughed with them.

Recently I landed in another peculiar situation. I am a magnet, a true north, for these fiascos. This one involved texting and prayer. Occasionally when I am driving I decide I need to pray for someone. I pull out my phone and dictate to Google Speak. It then translates my words into a text. This was a brilliant discovery for me. I can’t text nearly as fast as I can talk (I can’t hardly do anything as fast as I talk). Well, Google Speak has a very difficult time translating my voice and my words. There have been many stories of the autocorrect feature of texting causing some very questionable texts. My Google Speak and I have not been immune to this malady.

I prayed for a precious friend the other day. She is navigating some really rough waters right now and she was on my mind. I prayed for her using Google Speak and then hit send. Later, we were talking and she said she really got a laugh while reading my last prayer. This caused some internal concern and worry. Certainly I had not intentionally been funny. She told me to reread it.

When I did I thought I would simply cover my face, crawl in the deepest hole I could find and not emerge until everyone had forgotten me. I asked God to give something to this friend, but Google Speak’s translation caused my heart rate to soar. The wording in the prayer text said (and yes, I quote), Please give her herpes. HERPES.

I thought I would just die of the heat of embarrassment. She assured me she understood it was autocorrect and it had caused her to laugh out loud. Did I learn my lesson? No. I sent a Google Speak message to my husband during church letting him know where I was. I explained I would be there at this place waiting for the Scalfs. When my husband read the text it said, waiting for the cats. I am not overly fond of cats, so I think at first he was quite confused. Then he realized what I actually said. He laughed. Of course he did.

Finally, I laughed. Really laughed. And the embarrassment slid off my back like water off an otter (I am very tired of the cliché: water off a duck’s back.)

I think God was laughing too.  

Dictionary.com defines embarrass[ed] as: to cause confusion and shame to; make uncomfortably self-conscious.

 

I decided to share these peculiar situations because they are now funny. Humorous. Somewhat absurd. But at the time they were anything but. At the time they were painfully uncomfortable.

There are a few other peculiar situations in my life that would make these seem quite tame. And at the time I wondered if I should share any of them. Did they have any intrinsic value other than they were stories that given time and distance were just a little funny? Is that the limit of their value or purpose?

These situations were fairly benign, not one of them left any permanent damage or scars, but the ones left untold did.

In each situation I fought and struggled with the embarrassment of being duped, of being exposed, of appearing less than dignified and of making mistakes. Every situation made me feel self-conscious. I felt inadequate. Sometimes I felt just plain stupid. Often times even shamed. All of these contributed to my weak self-esteem and lack of personal respect.

In the garden Adam and Eve battled much of the same. While they were hiding during the cool of the day they understood that they had been duped. They realized they were now exposed, and they pinned together fig leaves to cover their exposure. Adam and Eve felt far more than mere embarrassment; they experienced shame.

But God.

But God came into the garden and covered their shame.

And God came into my garden and covered my shame.

Over and over and over.

My peculiar situations are not over. I am quite sure I will land in another one sooner rather than later. The question is not if, but when. Perhaps even today.

And every time it happens I have a choice.

It is my choice how I handle these peculiar situations.

I choose whether to laugh or to hide.

If I hide I rob myself of the comfort and provision of the Father. If I hide I must construct my own coverings. If I hide I must find a way to absorb the shame and embarrassment.

If I laugh I reveal my hiding place. If I laugh I can come to the Father and say look at what I have done again. If I laugh I release the bottled up fear of exposure and the weight of shame. To Him.

Today, please don’t hide. Regardless of what your peculiar situation is or might be please do not hide.

The momentary anguish of being exposed and embarrassed before God will be swallowed up in his grace and goodness. The uncomfortable self-consciousness will be dissipated in the wake of his loving-kindness. The dread and weight of shame will be dissolved through the extension and power of his forgiveness.

Choose today to laugh. To reveal your hiding place.

Take it from me—it is far, far better to laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peculiar Situations--Boyfriends and Bras

(This is a two-part series. Tomorrow’s is titled Bras, Horses and Cats. Please bear with me. God is teaching me and sometimes it takes some time and effort to connect the dots.)

Peculiar situations seem to be a penchant of mine. Perhaps, the Lord is just trying to teach me to laugh at myself, to not take myself so seriously or just to keep life in perspective. I’m not completely sure of his lessons or his methodology. Not because I don’t trust him; I’m just not sure I trust myself to respond appropriately. I tend to lean toward making a fool of myself—of course that would imply I am not a fool in the first place.

My youngest daughter coined a phrase for me. We were riding in the car listening to the Disney Pandora station. Both of us were loudly singing every song we knew and even some we didn’t. She commented that it was a very peculiar situation for a mom to be in a car with her eighteen year old daughter engaged in this activity. (I think my husband thought so too.)

And then I realized something. For thirty-some years God has been using peculiar situations to teach me. I am a slow learner.

I accounted for one of these:  my car trunk debacle during the past Christmas season—that was just one peculiar situation in a long line of many.

I’ll share a few others in a two part series.

I have not used names in order to protect the innocent. (I'm chuckling right now.)

 

When I was fourteen and in the eighth grade I was going steady with a really cool guy—he was ever so handsome (he had a full beard as a freshman in high school). I never could quite understand how I managed to be dating him. Certainly the adjective cool could not have been applied to me, but somehow we were an item. It was just too good to be true.

It was too good to be true.

A couple of months into our relationship I heard an undercurrent buzz: he was cheating on me with one of the color guard girls. I was just a lowly clarinet player, nothing nearly as glamorous as the color guard.

Now, with thirty-some years of experience behind me I think everyone wanted me to hear the rumors. Are you kidding? HE probably wanted me to hear the rumors. The rumors alluded to the location and time of my boyfriend and this girl’s clandestine meeting place. Somehow I drummed up enough courage to go see for myself. Sure enough. There they were—locked in a very intimate embrace (holding hands and leaning into one another). Others saw me coming and alerted them, but it was apparent they were prepared for my appearance. Many students watched me walk into this awkward situation. Some snickered and pointed. Some averted their eyes. Some walked away. Needless to say, that cool boyfriend and I broke up that day. Brokenhearted and embarrassed I realized I had not only been dumped, but duped. I’m not sure which I disliked more.

Fast forward several years. I’m married now and in labor (prime place to be in a peculiar situation) with my first child. I engaged in quite an adamant argument with ALL the medical staff who were assisting this birth about the removal of a particular undergarment I wore. I informed them I was not removing it. They informed me I had to comply. The situation escalated. Finally, I looked at the head nurse and informed her that if something dire went wrong (she told me of all possible scenarios) that she had my permission to cut the garment right off of me and throw it in the trash. I most surely could replace it if need be.

Pitocin-induced labor is NOT a time to argue with a laboring mother. They shook their heads. Threw up their hands. And they complied. I came out of that delivery room with said undergarment intact. Surely there were other things I should have been concerned with. Certainly there were things far more pressing happening in that given moment, but I didn’t want to deal with embarrassment on top of all the other indignities. I know. I know there will be other mothers who will read this and think I was crazy and not agree. This, they say, was the last thing on their mind or not on their mind at all. But it was mine. Being exposed embarrassed me. Being in an awkward situation and exposed was very hard to deal with and this was my way of controlling it as best as I could.

 

To be continued...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Release Lesson--I Should Have Known

I should have known. Yes, I should have.

As soon as I embraced my word for 2014 the Spirit began to teach. God wastes no time.

My word is RELEASE. And this word has taken on many flavors and nuances. Even in these first twenty-three days of the New Year. Three weeks and God has already been at work.

Earlier this week I found myself in a situation that challenged my commitment to allow God to work this word out in my life.

I made a hard phone call. One I really didn’t want to make. This phone call required a great deal of energy. A lot of swallowing of pride. Of hurt. I dialed the number and the person didn’t answer. I dialed their second number and I was informed they weren’t at home. I found myself breathing easier. Another day. Another day I would gird up my loins and do what needed to be done.

But.

Oh, you know what is coming, don’t you? Well, I’m glad you saw it coming because I didn’t.

Five minutes after I made that phone call, the sigh of relief wasn’t fully exhaled, I pulled into the parking lot of our grocery store. I needed to get a few items for dinner, just a rush trip—in and out. I drove down the main artery of the traffic flow (I always park on the same side, in the same row. I have trouble finding my car. Don’t laugh), and I look up.

There in the parking lot is the very person I tried to call.

Right there in front of me. Walking to their car.

My breath left me.

Really, Lord. Really? Are you serious?

I think I heard him laughing.

And the battle began. Fear welled up inside me. Panic constricted my throat.  

I pulled into a parking spot, put my car in park and looked back through my rear view mirror. Obviously God wanted me to talk to this person. But I wasn’t cleaned up. I hadn’t showered yet. I looked pretty rough. And it is one thing to talk to a person on the phone and another to talk to them in person. I sat there waffling and battling.

And I began to pray. Right out loud. He’s sitting right there with me. So, I just opened my mouth and started asking questions.

What do you want me to do, Lord?

You know the answer, Tamera.

How am I going to do that, Lord?

You know the answer, Tamera.

Do you have a different answer, Lord?

You know the right thing to do, Tamera. Do it.

I turned the car off. Opened the car door. Grabbed my purse and put one foot in front of the other. And I walked over to their car—quickening my pace because they would soon drive away. And the entire time I am praying. Out loud. In the parking lot. I am an incredibly animated person, so my head was bobbing and my hands were conducting. I’m sure others heard me or saw my mouth moving frantically and thought I was crazy. Talking to myself and answering.

But God did a beautiful thing. When He calls you to do the right thing he will give you everything you need. Everything.

In the moments between my car and theirs I prayed for grace. I prayed for release of fear and what they would think of me. What they might say to me. Or what they might not say.

It was the very right thing to do. The conversation was good. A very small space of healing occurred and I would have missed it if I hadn’t obeyed. I would have missed watching God pour out grace and keep his promise if I had ignored what he was doing. He went a long, long way to orchestrate this meeting for me. The person lives over fifty miles away. Did you catch that? Read it again. Fifty miles.

It could have been better. I could have said more. Perhaps, next time I will. But in that moment he helped me release fear and resistance and awkwardness. He gave me words. He gave me a gentleness and a compassion that was so needed. He helped me to do the right thing.

Today you may be asking God what he wants you to do. Maybe you need to make a phone call. Write a note. An email. A text. Maybe you need to go see someone.

And you are asking: Lord, what do you want me to do?

He is saying to you: You know the answer.

You know the right thing. Do it.

Intentional Release

Yesterday I engaged an inward battle that I am so weary of fighting.

I was battling me.

I am my own worst enemy. The devil most likely laughs, chuckles and chortles on Monday mornings. His glee? He is convinced he has beaten me with the same old strategies and schemes. He just seems to rotate them, make them look random and new.

He knows my weaknesses and seems to be able to calculate how to cause me to remain in the gyre of far too introspective thinking.

The enemy possesses a twisted sense of patience. He knows if he simply waits long enough I will tie myself up in my own self-pitying knots. He holds his pestilent little minions back and waits until my own naysaying thoughts begin to trip me. Once they start then he sends in his horde. His millennia of experience with human nature has taught him we will hang ourselves. He does not wage full war for then we would come fully awake. We would be alert and aware of what he is doing. Full war is not the daily strategy with Believers. Just persistence.

Yesterday the battle was not fierce just persistent.

My haphazard morning reading was Psalm 24. Oh, glorious psalm. One of my very favorites. I stayed on the words be lifted up you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. I looked around my house. Laundry piled in mountains waiting to be folded. Dishes balanced precariously in the sink. Blankets puddled at the end of the couches.  Kitchen counters littered with last night’s dishes, the morning’s breakfast and the afternoon’s lunch (seems that all we do is eat). The garbage bag leaked on the way out the door. Something spilled on the couch.

Twenty library books are due, but I haven’t even started them. There’s a devotional I began with fervor in September because I just knew it was the right one. The finish date would have been Christmas Day, but it lays in the floor with the cover bent back and the pages rounding, and I haven’t written in it since the third day of December. A book a dear friend highly recommended still sits on the shelf and dust has started to collect along with this obligatory feeling of I should have read that a month ago. My journal remains empty (though I really can’t complain about that because most of my words come here now).

And I want the King of glory to come in? Are you kidding? I wouldn’t want my friends, best friends, to come into this mess. And the real thought, the root of it all, is that my inside domain—the interior house is just as messy or more. I don’t think I will share the state of the interior of the house.

Then I realize I keep asking myself Tamera, a brand new year has arrived. What are you going to do? What are you planning? What are you…

Everyone, and I do mean pretty much everyone, is talking about the New Year. Fresh goals. Strong resolutions. Solid plans. There’s discussion of revolutionary diets and reading plans and memorization projects.

I am in the middle of it all just looking around in bewilderment.  Someone said to me I can’t even keep my house clean I’m such a failure. I thought if that constitutes failure then I have whatever is below an F on the grading scale. Even more? I think if people saw the messes inside of me, the ugliness that glares at me in my reflection in the mirror, that would be true failure.

 And there it is.

There’s the truth in a small noisy pail—clattering around like rocks: if people saw the mess.

We worry about what people see rather than what people know. People seeing the mess implies they will assess the mess and we will fall completely short.

Early Monday morning I began the comparison and the caring way too much what others think game (see, the enemy just has to wait. I hang myself).

The ferociousness of these two frames of mind is subtle; they are like water. Water erodes whatever it touches if given time. We talk about living parallel lives with others, and when we say that we are comparing and assessing the parallel lines of achievement and success and accomplishment. And someone is coming up short. And we wash away a little more of the banks of ourselves and others.

Comparison implies we are never good enough. When we compare there are only two roads we can trod:

One—we are superior, more advanced; more whatever than what or who we are being compared to or

Two—we are inferior, less advanced; less whatever than what or who we are being compared to.

Comparison is always, always a lose-lose situation.

Always.

Comparison sets us up to fail. When we set all these goals, plans and diets often we are setting ourselves up for failure. Should we not even bother then? NO! We need goals. We need something set in front of us to compel us onward, to propel us forward.

But what happens in February when our steam and motivation is gone? When we are tired of eating salads or trying to create good habits or attempting to swallow down the Word of God in chunks (even small ones) and they lodge in our throat?  What do we do with the feelings and thoughts we have when we look around and assess that everyone else is doing so much better than we are? What happens in March when, once again, we have failed?

And that pitiful litany of thought and questions made me understand my word for 2014.

RELEASE.

I want to be released.

And I want to release.

I want to release comparison. I want to release the endless fear of others’ assessment of me.

I want God to release me from the captivity of my own making—the snares of my own contrivances.

I want release from the battle against myself.

I want to release myself to live, and to live abundantly.

Passionately.

Intentionally.

Intentional Release.

Willed, designed and purposed escape and freedom from these weights that hinder me.

I want release from my often warped way of thinking, release from my tainted philosophies and crooked trains of thought. I want my thoughts taken captive ONLY by Christ—for every argument (my own, others’ and the enemy’s) to be demolished. I want anything in my interior pattern and structure of thinking (therefore, behaving) that sets itself against God’s truth to be demolished.

God does not set us up to fail. He sets us up to be conformed to the image and likeness of Jesus. From glory to glory. In increments.

My word for the year?

Release.

(Thank you, Christy. Three of us know what a role you played in the particular choice of this word.)

Cornerstone

Sunday was an odd kind of day. I had my own plans and I was determined to carry them through—I was going to stay home from church, fix a birthday lunch for my son-in-law, piddle and putter, all at a leisurely pace. The storm was coming. We had been warned of treacherously low temperatures, high winds and snow accumulation. In the middle of my piddling and puttering I was going to brave the grocery store lines and get goodies (notice I didn’t say necessities) for my family.

But God had other plans.

I have been telling him for a long time that I prefer his plans over mine. I want them implemented in my life. I want to be obedient to whatever he asks. Period. Well, let me tell you our God takes people at their word. I had my little plans all mapped and nicely arranged and then I got a text. This new-fangled way of communication is a little inconvenient at times. My minister texted to let me know about a couple of situations at church that morning. Hard situations. Tight places that people were going to have to squeeze into and share. He wanted to make sure I would pray and come love on some people.

The tightly tied knots I created in my morning plans began to loosen. I began to pray. I didn’t need to. Now, let me explain that. I (we) always need to pray, but there are times we already know the answers. We know deep in the center of us what God’s word says and what his Holy Spirit is prompting us to do. Sometimes we use the I’m going to pray about it card to stall. Yes, we do. If we say we’re going to pray then it sounds spiritual. It sounds like we are seeking the will of the Lord. And isn’t that what all good Christians should seek? Yes, it is. However, as soon as I finished reading the text I knew what the Holy Spirit was saying to me.

Remember how often Jesus attempted to disappear for some much needed rest or leisure time (yes, I believe he did have some of this at times.) and the crowds would find him, people would follow him? And what did Jesus do? He set aside his plans and turned and ministered to the people. Now, who am I to think that if it is God’s desire for me to be conformed to the likeness of his Son that it would be any different for me?

But it was my choice whether I set aside my will or not. The Father will not make, coerce or manipulate me to do so. I had a choice Sunday morning. I could stay or I could go. I did not need to pray for direction though. It had already been given to me.

I went.

And God and I had a running dialogue the entire time. I stood at the church’s entry along with Dave, our minister (husband of Amy), and greeted several people. One woman came through the doors with her parents and children. I wrapped my arms around her. The Spirit whispered, this is why you are here. Love on this sweet woman. Love her in and because of me. Just wrap your arms around her and hold her tight.

This beautiful woman is wounded. Something dear to her has been broken and betrayed. In a place that is supposed to be sacred and holy, in a place that is supposed to be safe and protected, in a place that is supposed to be a joy and pleasure trust has been decimated. Destroyed. And she is left walking around with shrapnel in her spirit. And she is trying to find a place of refuge, a place where the center of gravity is low to the ground, a place where she can breathe.

Certainly I was not the only person who could have hugged her. Who could have prayed for her. No. But I received the blessings of that privilege. I witnessed the Spirit of God transform her during the service. In the seventy-five minutes of what we call church I saw the Spirit of God move.

And I almost missed it.

Not necessarily because I was going to do something wrong. Not because I had made incredibly selfish plans. No, because I almost didn’t allow God’s plans to be mine.

During that church time I experienced one of the sweetest times in the Presence of the Lord I have had in a very long time.

The beautiful wounded woman sat not far from me. And I watched as our sweet God erased fear from this woman’s face. I saw her body language move from being tight and closed and defensive to being open and secure.

One of the reasons?

Two young women sang. Two sweet girls stood in front of our Body with no instruments, with no background or accompaniment cds. With only their voices they sang a song we needed to hear. Their pure voices rang in the sanctuary, fit perfectly together in harmony, fit wonderfully together with conviction. They were so nervous. Their little hands shook. But they sang anyway. Their voices grew bolder as they sang. And I know the smile on my face was so big they probably could only see a sea of teeth from where they stood—I looked over at my daughter and the same grin creased her face (she prays for these young girls a lot). 

Jessica Neal and Alyssa Wade--what voices! What wonder!

And then I looked at my beautiful friend. She wiped tears away, but gone was the crushing fear. Gone was the constricting angst. Gone was the riveting anxiety. Even if only briefly. In the moment it was gone. 

When these young girls finished. I shouted. How could I not?

I witnessed the hand of God move. I saw his Spirit transform. I beheld his glory.

At the end of the service our praise team led us in the very same song the young girls sang. Whether this was planned in advance I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. We sang the words.  

I knew my friend had found an anthem.  In her brokenness, in her woundedness she found peace because the Spirit reminded her Jesus is the cornerstone. And through the storms he will not be moved. He is an anchor that cannot be shifted.  

I close my eyes and hear the sweet girls’ voices echoing this truth in my spirit. I can still see the wash of peace He poured out on my friend.

Thank God for rearranged plans. Thank God that he cares for the wounded. Thank God that He speaks through the voices of young girls with shaky hands.

Christ alone.

Cornerstone.     

                                                               

Cornerstone--Hillsong

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly trust in Jesus name

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly trust in Jesus name

When Darkness seems to hide His face
I rest on His unchanging grace
In every high and stormy gale
My anchor holds within the veil
My anchor holds within the veil

Christ alone
Christ alone; cornerstone
Weak made strong; in the Savior’s love
Through the storm, He is Lord
Lord of all

When He shall come with trumpet sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found;
Dressed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless stand before the throne.

Chambered Nautilus Readers--this invitation is for you! Have missed many of you. Where's Helen and Piper?

Seventy Palms

Then they came to Elim, where there were twelve springs and seventy palm trees, and they camped there near the water.

Exodus 15:27

The great company of Israelites tramped across a dry path through the Red Sea. Even the soles of their sandals were dry—no mud because God’s breath dried even the sludge of their highway. Safely on the far bank this great company watched the mighty army of Egypt collapse as the weight of the water fell. They watched as the rent water veil now closed.

But they forgot.

They entered the desert and the heat waves began to undulate and rise before them. Their tongues grew dry and stuck to the roofs of their mouths, and their bellies growled and rumbled in hunger. Listen, when people get hungry they forget. And the filters and curbs that usually provide barriers between the thoughts in their minds and the audible words on their tongues disintegrate.  They forget everything except the instinctual and habitual need to assuage that hunger (Ask Esau. Also, hunger is not limited to food. No. It includes addictions and obsessions).

The once enslaved men, women and children arrived at the waters of Marah—bitter waters. Waters reflecting their attitudes and perspectives. In the midst of great blessing and the miraculous the attitudes of their hearts turned bitter. Complaints and ingratitude seeped out—poisonous just like the waters they encountered. Bitter waters. Waters that would burn their throats when swallowed. Waters that would make their stomachs cramp and their muscles seize.

Undrinkable water. For beast or man.

And they forgot. It seems every last one of them forgot.

Forgotten was the power of this God who had just brought them out of Egypt on the tails of plagues and wonders never before seen. Brought them out of Egypt despite the resistance of the stubborn Pharaoh. Brought them out of Egypt rich—treasures handed to them on silver platters.

But they forgot. They did not remember that if this God could do all this then surely he could take care of bitter water. Surely he could provide the very necessity of life.

God did provide. He told Moses to do the ridiculous. He instructed Moses to throw wood into the water. The wood was not magical. It was obedience that pleased God; the obedience of one man aided a nation. God cleansed the water for the Israelites so they might drink—so their thirst might be quenched.

Then God tested them.

God said, if you will listen to me and do right, if you will pay attention to me and abide by my commands then disease will not plague you as it did the Egyptians. Because you see, I am the God who heals. I am Jehovah-rapha. 

Often we want the benefits, but we don’t want the responsibility. We want the healing, but we don’t want the accountability.

God always heals. Healing is part of the provision of his character. In his provision there is always a measure of healing.

Then the Israelites traveled. That great multitude crawled and inched across the blistering sands of that peninsula. From high above the birds of prey flew, circling.  The hyenas waited in the shade, resting. The lions lay among the desert shrubs, slumbering.   

Little did the Israelites know.

And they arrived at Elim.

Seventy palms and twelve wells. A place of luscious abundance. A place of lavish grace.

They arrived at the place God had prepared for them.

Even back in Marah when they wailed and whined God knew their route would take them through Elim. When they spit the bitter waters out in a spew of fury and complaint against Moses and the great I AM God knew Elim lay nestled like a jewel in the rolling sand dunes. When they accused Him of the inexcusable: saving them only that they might die, he knew Elim had been prepared. When they acted like entitled snots demanding and exacting what they thought they needed, God already had Elim ready.

Seventy palms. Seventy—a sacred number to the Jewish nation. Seventy members of Jacob’s family traveled to Egypt.  Seventy elders joined Moses on the mountain to eat with God. Seventy.

There need be no fear of the sun’s harsh glare for they would rest in the shade of seventy palms.

There need be no worry for lack of water for they would drink from one of the twelve wells. Sweet water. A well for every tribe. Enough. There would be no concern about the depletion of water. No worry and bickering about rationing.

This was a prepared place of abundance.

Scripture tells us they stayed there for a while. How long? We do not know. But long enough.

God’s provision.

It is always perfect. Always right. Always timely. Always abundant. Always complete.

Sometimes we are held up on the banks of Marah. Bitter waters are in our cup. And we are choking the foul stuff down our already raw throats. And complaints slather our tongue. And whining and grumbling coats our hearts. And the dregs catch in our teeth.

Sometimes we are camped on these shores, but Elim is on the route ahead. Somewhere down the road, across the desert, across the dunes seventy palms and twelve wells have been prepared for us.

The waters may be bitter now. The sun may be glaring hot. But we need to trust the character of God.

He has seventy palms and twelve wells waiting for us.