Swallowing God

A Hindu spoke this comment:  “I know Christians. They are the people who swallow God.”  **

 

I sat in the quiet of my front living room in the early morning hours. The clocks all ticking. The sunlight beginning to fall out on the worn hardwood floor. I am up this morning early even though I had the chance to sleep in beside my husband. But I woke with a restlessness, an anticipation for the day. I sat down to pray and read. And read the above sentence in a worn little book I found in the clearance section of a local used bookstore. (Occasionally I find treasures there.)

The people who swallow God.

This comment is an allusion to Communion. The bread and the wine. The broken bread and the poured wine. They are his body and his blood. Given to us as a gift to remember. To be reminded of what He did, of what he is doing. Of his purpose in coming. Of his calling. Of his mission.

And when we swallow down the broken and swallow down the poured we are swallowing to remember His sacrifice.

The sentence caught me off guard. I didn’t like it at first. It rubbed me wrong.

To swallow God?

What are the implications?

I sat here in this living room with all my doubts and cynicisms and chewed on this sentence for a while. Sat here with the pages of this little book and my green pen (closest one to me) and marked the pages so I wouldn’t forget. Marked that particular paragraph so I could reread the words. Marked them so they would not be like the fiction which I move over with rapidity to fill an overworked mind.  

Communion is so we don’t forget.

The breaking of bread and the pouring of wine is so we don’t forget.

So we might swallow God.

I sat here and imagined swallowing God.

And I envisioned my frail tent-body attempting to hold him—the walls of me extending and stretching.  

To swallow God and hold him in close is not the goal or purpose. To swallow him and absorb him so he might be broken and shared with others—this is the purpose.

When I swallow down God the swelling of his infinite Presence will fill and expand me. Then out of all the pores I have been trying so hard to diminish, trying so hard to make go away, pin lights of him will shoot.

Out of every pore a laser light shining. Beaming out in little narrow streams. Out of every pore of me.

I want to swallow God.

Meditate on Him. Stand in his Presence. Swallow Him down and allow him to fill me to such a capacity that I cannot hold him and my pores open.

Recently in a post on Ann Voskamp’s blog she shared a conversation with her sister. Her sister was in labor and she asked Ann to remind her of her visual for getting through the pain of labor. Of birthing. Ann tells her to imagine her body as being a sandbag with many holes and that the sand slowly seeps out…leaks out all the holes.

Ann’s visual stuck with me. For days I sat with this thought.

In order to swallow God we have to be emptied. There is not room for him if we are filled with many other things. I cannot swallow him down if I am full of other stuff.

I sat with Ann’s thought for days. I imagined myself as this leaking sandbag. The sand spilling out—the grains sliding toward the hole. And the flesh bag of me becoming flatter and flatter.

I was surprised at what leaked out—of what poured out of the holes. I realized that not only did the negative need to pour out, but even some of the positive. Things that were good that I held close—filling up my bag. All the good stuff I have collected over the years. It too needed to slide through the hole onto the ground.

At first I thought this would be a waste. Surely this sand was good for something?

Then Steve and I helped my daughter and son-in-law lay their patio.

I watched Steve and David cut holes in the sand bags and pour out the sand on the dirt. The sand piled high and the bags emptied. Then Katherine spread the sand on the dirt to create a foundation for the stone pavers. I watched her rake the sand. Pulling the straight metal edge of the rake across the sand’s surface. Then David came, sat down right on the edge of the patio and placed each paver on that very sand.

And I remembered.

God never wastes anything. Every grain of sand is accounted for.

But, I must be emptied in order to swallow God.

The holes and leaks and pores of me will provide the pathways for the sand stuff to pour from me.

When I am finally emptied, and I am not sure how long this will take, there seems to be a great deal of sand stuff in me, then I can swallow down God.

Like the broken bread and the poured wine.

And I will remember.

And there will be room for Him. But this frail tent-body won’t be able to hold him and he will pour out of the pores of me.

 Are we the people who swallow God?

Do we have room to swallow Him?

Is there space in these sand-bag bodies? To hold the very Presence of God?

When we chew the bread and drink the wine of Communion do we have room to swallow it down? To allow God to swell in us?

I am too full.

Over the next while I am asking God to leak the sand out of me. To break me open and let the sand slide right out. Poured out on the ground. Then he can take it and use it however he wants. For whatever purpose.

And when I am emptied, then He will have room to fill me with himself. I am praying for him to allow me to swallow him down.

I want to swallow God and then open my pores wide open—like windows to sunlight.

  

**(This comment was said to Ed Farrell, page 37 in Robert Benson’s book Living Prayer.)

Square Pegs and Puzzle Pieces

At the end of May my graduating high school class had their 30^th year reunion. I didn’t go; I was celebrating a wonderful young man’s college graduation.

I did, however, look at the photos for days. I looked to see if I could recognize the 1984 faces in the now forty-something faces. Most I could. Deep down you can’t change bone structure and eye squints and laugh lines. Or light behind the eyes.

It was very bittersweet for me.

Some of the people in the photos changed my life. They invested in me when I was still the wayward girl from the basement days. They prayed for me when I didn’t know Jesus and didn’t really give a flip. And their investment weighed in on the fact that I am here now writing.

Some of the people I didn’t know at all. Perhaps I knew their names when we were in school. Perhaps, we passed each other in the hall ways. Or perhaps we knew each other and avoided each other. We all know how high school is. And there were a couple of groups I longed to be a part of, but never managed it at all.

Until the last decade of my life I have always struggled with belonging. You know, the proverbial square peg to be fitted into a round hole—partly because of my own choices. Partly because of things I had no control or choice in at all.

I lacked an innate sense of belonging. I wanted so much to have the assurance that yes, this is where I fit. I am the puzzle piece  that belongs here.

As I looked through the 1984 Reunion photo albums I felt that odd sense of square-peggedness again. Sadness crept into my spirit; this deep longing.

We are wired for the eternal. We are mapped for community and belonging. It is an innate need.

Earlier this week I had breakfast on my porch with a new friend. During our two hour conversation there were many things said, prayed and hoped.

One thread of our conversation remained with me long after breakfast was over.

We discussed identity.

Who are we?

Who defines us?

What roots us?

Whose voice will rise above the din and chaos? Or the silence?

Because it matters. Who we believe we are determines everything about us.

Everything.

And for a brief period this week I seemed to have amnesia.

I looked at the photographs and wondered had I attended the reunion would I have had a place? Would I have fit anywhere? I scolded myself at first because I felt that I was regressing in my growth and having a little woe-is-me party. Yet, this was not true at all.

God used it to remind me of who I am lest I forget.

On the porch sitting around a little round table with Frank’s donuts and the birds singing and the breeze blowing God reminded me who I am. As I was attempting to remind someone else the Spirit spoke the words right back to me. 

This is what the LORD says… "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.

Fear not.

I often fear I am going to forget who I am. In so many ways.

Fear not the LORD says. Tamera, don’t be afraid. I won’t let you forget who you are. I have redeemed you. I bought you back from that black place you used to abide. I ransomed you, paid a high price for you because I love you. Tamera, I have summoned you. I have called you. I have called you by name. What is that name? You Are Mine. That is your name.

Your name is You Are Mine.

I no longer have to be concerned with where I belong. Or where the edges and curves and corners of my puzzle piece fit.

My belonging is in Him.

No one can take that from me. Or modify it. Or reverse it. Or negate it.

That odd sense of square-peggedness dissipated.

Evaporated.

The reality and truth of God’s word swallowed it right up.

Everything we do is determined by who we believe we are.


(Please take a little over three minutes to listen to this song by Jason Gray. This has been the sound track in my spirit this week.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rooster Will Crow

God’s word says we are often like someone who looks in a mirror—we see the person there. We look and assess, but then when we walk away we immediately forget what we saw.

How often have I looked into the mirror of God’s word with what I think are epiphanies and revelations only to turn around and forget all I just read. I forget what I just studied. I forget what the Word of God says even after reading it over and over.

I get frustrated. As many times as I have studied Paul’s letter to the Ephesians I should have it memorized. Seriously. Memorized.

But I don’t.

And I forget what it says.

Until the Spirit reminds me. Until that Word becomes pertinent. Until it is needed to speak to my circumstance. My situation. My predicament. My crisis. My heart.

I think of Peter who spent 24/7 with Jesus for three years.  Yet he forgot.

He assured Jesus he would die for him. Would follow him anywhere. Peter meant it at the time. Thought his words were truth. Thought his words were the reality. But Jesus looked at him and spoke in sorrow.

Peter, before the rooster crows you will deny me three times.

Incredulity crossed the weathered face of Peter. His eyes locked with Jesus and he waited for the familiar twinkle indicating a joke was coming; he waited for the punch line. But the punch line didn’t come. Jesus’ words were not in jest. He wasn’t teasing. And Peter couldn’t shake it off. He mumbled and muttered he would never be the one to do such. He had been through everything with Jesus.

Like a man looking in a mirror Peter turned away (Jesus asked him to pray, remember?). The events of the night began to unfold. Fiercely intense.

Peter forgot the rooster.

He forgot much of Jesus’ teaching that night. Turn the other cheek among them.  In the midst of his sword slicing off Malchus’ ear he forgot so much of what Jesus taught.

Somehow Peter followed Jesus. Made it to the outer courtyard. Close enough to have a line of vision to the interactions happening with Jesus.

But he forgot the rooster.

You are not one of his disciples are you? Don’t you wonder what the tone was considering how quickly Peter spouted back in defense?   

And Peter forgot. Forgot Jesus’ warning.

Aren’t you one of his disciples?

And Peter forgot. Forgot who Jesus told him he was. Forgot that he was a rock, albeit a small one, but a rock nonetheless.

Didn’t I see you with him in the olive grove?

And Peter forgot. Forgot that the kingdom had come. Forgot all the words he had proclaimed. HE forgot.

The rooster crowed.

The last faint strains of the early morning crowing pierced through Peter’s flesh. Daggered his heart. Collapsed the air from his lungs.

Even before the rooster’s beak closed and his wings folded Peter remembered.

He remembered Jesus’ words. Remembered the warning:  the enemy had asked to sift Peter like wheat.

The ash from the fire floated up on the warm currents of air, but Peter saw it only as chaff flying.

And he wept.

Peter ran out of the courtyard, bent.

Broken.

This great burly, hard-core fisherman wept until his tears were spent. Depression threatened.

Darkness loomed.

The enemy hovered.

But the Holy Spirit, who is the counselor and reminder of all truth, came to Peter.

The Holy Spirit enabled him to remember something else he forgot.

He remembered Jesus’ divine conjunction BUT.

But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.

Peter remembered.

I thought my apostle crush would be John, but no, it is Peter.  Precious Peter.

Like him I forget God’s word. I forget Jesus says the rooster will crow.

Surely not I say. Certainly, Jesus, you jest.

Tamera, Tamera. Satan has asked to sift you like wheat.

In the midst of that horrible revelation I could forget. Have forgotten. But like my brother Peter, the Holy Spirit comes to me and reminds me of God’s truth.

The Spirit reminds me that Jesus stated very clearly, but I have prayed for you, Tamera.

Jesus has prayed for me. That my faith would not fail. That I would turn back. And then I would strengthen my sisters.

Friends, perhaps you have forgotten. Forgotten the Word. Forgotten the warnings. Maybe you feel like you are being sifted like wheat. You could be frustrated with yourself because you study and pray, and study and pray some more but you just can’t seem to remember or internalize.

Today, I want you to remember: Jesus has prayed for you. He has prayed for your faith not to fail. He has prayed for you to turn back. And then when you do he has given you a mission: strengthen those around you.

Don’t panic if or when the rooster crows.

I would prefer to not EVER hear the rooster, but let’s be honest here. We are frail and fragile humans.

The rooster will crow.

The Holy Spirit will remind and counsel.

The question is will we be like Peter and remember and believe what Jesus said?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Immeasurably More: Pantries and Perspectives

Seven.

Seven years.

There’s a pattern in my life that swivels and often bends around seven year increments. Awareness dawned during a Beth Moore bible study which encouraged the reader to mark and map out your life in increments. When I did this I realized there was a distinct pattern.

Every seven years some rather significant things occur.

Guess what? This seems to be a seventh year.

It’s the middle of May and I am just now recognizing this pattern. You would think I would recognize it immediately now, but no. No, Tamera fails to see until she is situated right in the middle and wondering why in the world she is so dizzy.

The last major changes happened in 2007. The changes of that year rippled far and wide and deep. In 2007 I got divorced, my second daughter moved out of the house, got a third dog, started walking three miles a day six days a week, broke my ankle and wrist resulting in surgery and I missed six weeks of work.

My perspective changed.

Ephesians tells us God will do immeasurably more than we ask or imagine; Paul wasn’t kidding or exaggerating. Paul was and is speaking the truth.

In the course of the events and circumstances of 2007 God forever changed my perspective. He changed my angle and viewpoint. The circumstances shifted me. Staggered me. But Almighty God shifted my balance and kept me from falling too many times to count or recall.  

It’s 2014.

My balance has been off all year. I couldn’t seem to steady myself in place—like a child standing on one leg too long. My Bible study time fell off into oblivion. Deep reading disappeared. Reading and studying long passages of Scripture dropped away into nothingness. Winter suffocated me and left me with a claustrophobia I hadn’t experienced in years. Spiritually I lived out of my pantry and the shelves were depleted. What remained was edible, but as a friend suggested there wasn’t anything that could be put together to create a real meal. I seemed to be the stereotypical camper eating pork and beans right out of the can with a plastic spoon. Focus seemed futile. Spiritually I was a quintessential case of ADD. The only thing that remained consistent and steady and solid and fruitful was prayer.

In recent weeks as the earth has rotated and shifted its axis in Kentucky’s favor I have felt a shift in me. As the sap rose in the trees and buds formed and leaves and grass greened I wakened. I came slowly out of a long slumber—wakened out of a hundred years of Sleeping Beauty sleep, but I certainly didn’t feel like any Beauty; I only felt the prick of the spindle.

2014

My perspective needs some adjustments. My viewpoint needs to be pivoted. My angle needs to be shifted.

Every morning now I put on my walking shoes and Henry (that third dog I mentioned) and I go out for a walk. We haven’t hit three miles yet, but we have done one and a half. I sit behind the wheel of a new vehicle (A Mother’s Day gift of sorts)—it’s higher off the road and completely changes my perspective.

Walking with Henry

New View

 

These are physical changes wrought in the last week.

During these walks behind and beside Henry I am praying differently. I pray for myself which I realize I rarely ever do. And when I drive I am looking at the road from a different angle and while I do I am making a spiritual grocery list for my pantry. I love Old Mother Hubbard, but I want the pantry full again.

This is the seventh year.

And He will do more than I ask or imagine. Immeasurably more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Little Women

My Little Women: Abby, Anna, Katherine and Olivia

I remember my first Mother’s Day. My first child was only hours old. The nurses made pink construction paper tulips with Happy Mother’s Day written in faded magic marker ink. They taped this homemade flower to the glass bassinet where my daughter slept (I still have it).

I spent my first Mother’s Day in the haze, wonder, euphoria and weariness of birth. After twelve hours of Pitocin exacting labor I thought the hardest part was over, and I also believed I had reached the pinnacle.

How naïve.

Three more times I repeated this extraordinary wonder. Four times I looked into these little faces and wondered who these little people would become, what would they do and what they would look like.

Each time there was a moment when I held them in the quiet—when the nurses pushed that little bed into my room and it was just them and me. I held them. My fingers traced the downy line of their hair and the swivel of their tiny ears. I stared at the outline of their perfect little mouths memorizing every curve. They looked at me with those dark eyes so deep and eternal and I came undone.

I couldn’t get enough of them (still can’t).

I remember fear rising up through the center of me. This quelling, frightful feeling pushed up through my throat. I’d swallow it down trying to identify it as I did. Why fear? Why this metallic taste in my mouth? Why this shadow in the happiest times of my life?

Somewhere in the depths of me I knew I’d fail with these four little girls. I’d disappoint them, let them down or simply not do something right that would cause a deficient. I feared inadequacy. I knew the mistakes were inevitable, but I didn’t want to make any. Any at all.

Do any of us?

I have fought that battle for twenty-six years now.

I have failed many times. I was not wrong in my assessment of my abilities. I was not mistaken that my efforts would be inadequate.

Mothering is not for cowards. Or the weak. Or the fearful. Or the timid. Mothering is not a hobby or part-time pastime.

Recently someone observed that when you have children you wear your heart outside your body.

I agree. Yes, you wear your heart outside, but this heart is not stationary. No, it moves around and away. And the strands of this muscle are stretched and torn.

I made too many mistakes in my mothering. Far too many. I look back and there are things I would do differently. Situations I would have chilled more. Circumstances I should have unsheathed my mama-bear claws quicker. Events I should have understood were far more pivotal than I realized. Conditions I should have asked for help in my inadequacy.

But.

In spite of me these girls are now beautiful women grown.

Extraordinarily so.

Miraculously so.

God knew this mother’s heart. He heard the cries I whispered over them in the hospital and over the years when I held them close and rocked them to sleep. He heard the urgent pleas in the deepest places for his grace to make up for my lack. For his grace to fill in the gaps. To fill up the deficits.

Today I look at them with the same kind of wonder and awe as I did when they were born. Often I shake my head at the loveliness of them.

They all come home often. They come in and hug me and kiss me.

And I bless them for this gift.

In spite of my failings and mistakes they still come home. They still come back.

And this grace, this beautiful grace is so reflective of the grace of God.  

Today I thank my four daughters for making me a mother. It is because of them I get to celebrate this day.

I stand in this sacred place because of them.

Thank you, my little women.

Thank you.

Happy Mother’s Day!

 

 

Sore Knees, Scary Phonecalls and Sad Goodbyes

We have had ten days of interesting (life here is rarely anything but…).

What has contributed to this interesting?

My Steve hurt his knee playing softball; he hit the ball, turned cockeyed and headed toward first base. In the short jaunt to first base he realized his knee wasn’t right. But he continued in the game, and according to others finished two awesome plays.  

I sat with my grandson in the doctor’s office as they wheeled my Steve back for x-rays of said knee. Elijah’s little face grimaced with worry as they wheeled Gran’pa away. X-rays came back clear, and it has just been a steady daily process toward healing.

Last weekend I received a call while at work that there was an emergency. Everyone is okay; I’m okay she said to me in a shaky voice. I begin to shake too—all my insides suddenly going to jelly. An accident. She assured me she was not hurt. I wasn’t convinced. I wanted to see her for myself. I did. I used every mother sense I have to assess her state of being. She is stiff and sore and stressed. But she is alive. And beautiful. And carless—the vehicle, all crumpled and crunched metal, is immovable in the driveway. The latter can be remedied.

A couple of nights ago in the late of the evening, right before it was time to go to sleep, I slipped out of the bed and tiptoed downstairs.

I knew it was time to say goodbye to a longtime friend. I wanted to be alone in my goodbyes with no one watching or hearing. I wanted to be quiet and solitary in my grief. I eased down beside her, put my face up next to hers and sobbed. Tears, hot and gushing, ran down my face. I ran my fingers across her stout body. And she looked at me with sad knowing eyes and licked my face. I put my head down on her broad chest and wept more.

Zoe has been in our family since she was three and a half weeks old. According to some she was the ugliest dog in a large litter of boxer puppies that the mother abandoned.  The girls and I wanted a puppy to join our Molly. We brought all the puppies to our front porch, put them in the middle of our circle and weaned them out one by one by behavior. We narrowed it down to three puppies, put the others back in the box and began the choosing process. The girls picked Zoe. A white-faced Little Rascals looking dog. My two oldest daughters took turns feeding her through the night, waking every four hours to fill her tiny little tummy. Zoe would curl around their necks, and when she got big enough to tip the box over they crate trained her.

She became our friend. Early on we realized she liked to sneak out of the gate and run through the neighborhood. The girls would run after her furious and scolding and yet scared to death we would not find her. In the course of one of her runs a van clipped her back leg as she skittered across the road. The van’s tire ripped the pad of her paw and her spirit of running. When I broke my ankle and wrist I spent my time divided between a wheelchair and a loveseat. Zoe would come to the loveseat, lift the upper part of her body and lay down beside me. As close as she could get. Back legs still on the floor. She remained in that position for very long periods of time just to be beside me.

She put up with us getting a third dog. Ever so patient with him as he learned his place. There were many fights and blood shed over dog food bowls and rawhide bones. Zoe usually came out of the fight the most wounded. It broke my heart.

In the last six months her health and condition deteriorated rapidly. Zoe can barely walk unaided now, for the last month she has been on her rug rarely moving unless necessity forced her to do so. Even this morning she is curled in a tight ball—and Henry, the third dog, is as close to her as he can possibly get.

On Tuesday I made a very hard call to our vet—a friend of the family who has been taking care of our dogs since their arrivals. Two years ago he helped us say goodbye to our Molly. Today he will help us say goodbye to our Zoe girl.

Years ago before Molly I never understood the grieving. But now I do.

Yesterday someone very wise and kind told me to not be afraid to grieve for my friend—this sentient being who has made me laugh, protected me and comforted me on too many occasions to count. Today when we say goodbye to her I will bless God for twelve years of good friendship. All good gifts come from the Father. ALL good gifts. Zoe’s name means life. And through her God gave my girls and me a great deal of good life. I thank him. I praise him.

Yesterday in the rain My Steve, my Katherine and my David dug her place beside Molly in our backyard. 

Later we will bring this faithful friend back home.

Perhaps you will pray for us?

 

Zoe

 

Elijah and Zoe

Judah, Anna, Elijah and Zoe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Immeasurably More: Grace

(This is a long post. Of course, what other kind does Tamera write? There's also a video at the end. Please, please take time to listen.)

I’ve shared before about grace, but today let’s pull all the stops.

I have a friend who reads my blog; I am honored by his reading. He is not my typical reader. He does not blog-hop or surf. He came across my blog in a roundabout manner through a third party I have yet to meet. Mike reads my words, and for this I am astounded. Seriously. Mike gently fusses at me. He says I bare my soul too much. Playfully he questioned my husband about the laundry, underwear and all, I hang out on my line here at The Chambered Nautilus. This morning I want to warn Mike that there’s going to be a lot of laundry on this line.

In Romans (I am far more in love with Romans now than years ago) Paul laments the fact that he does what he DOES NOT WANT TO DO, but doesn’t DO WHAT HE WANTS TO DO.

Angst saturates Paul’s words. There’s a spilling transparency that floors me. This man is the Apostle to the Gentiles (in reality: us) because Jesus called him, he visited the third heaven, he stood before governors and kings and emperors, he preached the gospel in places I can only dream of, he started the early churches and he wrote the bulk of the New Testament.

Yet, here he is in a moment so transparent, so achingly poignant, and so deeply raw that suddenly I am his sister. I, a woman living two millennia after him understand his struggle. Why?

Because I struggle the same.

I do what I don’t want to do.

I don’t do what I do want to do.

And I weep because of both.

This past weekend I fought a battle I didn’t think I was going to win. The whole battle was in my head—the closed space of my spirit. A horribly fierce tug of war: Tamera was on one end of the rope, and Tamera was on the other end.  And just like Paul we pulled back and forth. Straining and heaving.

The struggle? Far too personal to truly write here, blazoned for all the world to see. But…

In this tug of war struggle I thought about Michal. Perhaps you know her. Maybe you have met her. She was Saul’s daughter. She was King David’s first wife, long before he was ever king. She was the daughter of royalty. The beautiful daughter of the first king of Israel. And she loved David.

Until.

Until events happened. Until circumstances unfolded. Until life played out, and it played out in a way she didn’t expect, didn’t anticipate and most certainly didn’t want. In the midst of this life her love for David grew cold. It waxed hard. Her love brittled. Bitterness grew. An ugly, ugly root.

In this tug of war struggle I thought about the parable of The Prodigal Son. These thoughts were different. Usually I play the role of the prodigal boy—gone hay seed wild and away. But this week I looked into the eyes of the elder brother—this first born son. The one who stayed. The one who continued to work for the Father. The one who obeyed. The one who didn’t bring ridicule to the father’s name. Life played out for this Elder Brother. Perhaps it played out as he thought it would…

Until.

Until the younger brother returned. Until his younger brother—the wayward, squandering rebel—returned. With this return the older brother’s life changed. He didn’t change with it. And a bitter root grew.

Two scenes play out before me.

Ecstatically David danced before the Ark of the Presence. Disrobed. Abandoned. Given over. Caught up in worship. Dancing before the Lord.

From the slit of a window in a tower Michal watched. A headdress covered part of her face. She did not lean against the sill of the window to peer out. She stood, ramrod stiff, at the aperture. Contempt etched in her countenance. Her stature declared judgment. Bitterness and anger brewed. Self-righteousness rose in her.

Why?

She wanted to be where David was. Or she believed she should have at least been with him.

Once the Ark arrived David moved to the palace to bless his family. After being before the Lord—can we do anything but bless? Michal met him, but the greeting was not cordial. Instead, sarcasm and judgment and bitterness spewed in David’s face. Michal spat venom.

Michal was a recipient of grace, but she did not give it. Michal did not understand grace: the unmerited favor of God. Too long she felt entitled. Too long she depended on her status as the king’s daughter and David’s wife. She didn’t understand she needed grace. Therefore, neither did she extend it. Because deep down she was jealous. She was envious of what David had. Of what David had become. And resentment filled her.

Resentment and grace cannot maintain the same space.

Another scene.

The younger brother, the prodigal, returns home. Humbled. Disrobed. Ruined.

We know the story. His father watched for him. The father ran to meet him while the boy was still far away. The father brought him home. Restored him. Lifted him. Reinstated him. Robed him. Sandaled him. Ringed him.

The servants slaughtered the fattened calf, and the frenzied preparations keyed the Elder Brother into awareness of his younger brother’s return. He stood afar off. Elder Brother watched the scene of welcome before him. His back held ramrod stiff. His prayer shawl’s tassels draped over his shoulders. And bile, green and bitter, rose up in his throat as he watched his father slide the family signet ring on his brother’s grimy finger. His father stooped and brushed the road filth from his brother’s feet and then slid on a sandal. The older brother grimaced and turned away. Contempt carved in his face. His retreating figure declared judgment. Bitterness and anger brewed. Self-righteousness rose in him.

The father gathered his family to celebrate, and he found his beloved Eldest Son far from the festivities. But the meeting was not cordial. The Eldest Brother spat accusations in his father’s face. He pointed out all the failings and sins of his brother and he reminded his father of his successes and faithfulness. To his duty and obedience. He was envious of the Younger Brother. He turned and walked away. He did not join the celebration because he felt slighted. He believed he had been robbed. He wallowed in his entitlement. And resentment filled him.

Resentment and grace cannot maintain the same space.

Michal and Elder Brother believed David and Prodigal Brother were going to rob or take from them what in reality could not be taken.

Many times I have been David and the Prodigal Brother.  

Sadly, I have been and sometimes continue to be Michal and the Elder Brother.

Resentment and grace cannot maintain or abide in the same space.

Resentment cancels out gratitude.

Resentment chokes the passageway of grace. Narrows it down so the flow of grace is but a trickle. Not because God’s grace has been altered, but because we pinch off the flow.

Michal and the Elder Brother narrowed the flow of grace. They did not understand that when they narrowed the portal of grace to others it became narrowed to them (for the measure you use will be used with you). All the grace given to David and the Prodigal Brother would have overflowed to them. And they missed it. Were blind to it because of their resentment.

Michal and Elder Brother believed they were entitled. Because of who they were and the positions they held they thought they deserved more.  I am sure there were moments when they knew the good to do, but didn’t do it. They knew what they shouldn’t do and did it anyway. Deep down they felt wretched.

Just like Paul. Just like me. Just like you.

What is so painfully sad to me is that Elder Brother’s narrative ends here. We tell the story of the Prodigal Son, but the Elder Brother is mentioned only in passing. Only with negativity.

Michal’s epitaph?

She was barren. No children. None.

These thoughts sobered me. Do I want to be remembered for negativity and resentment? Do I want to be barren, fruitless, the rest of my days? All because I do not understand or extend grace?

Oh, what wretched people we are. Who will rescue us from these bodies of death?

Paul tells us.

Thanks be to God! We will be saved through Jesus Christ.

Through grace.  

God’s beautiful, salvaging grace.

In spite of the times I have been wretched like Michal and Elder Brother God’s grace continues to be funneled to me as an open geyser—a fountain shooting upward and falling down in broad and wide arcs.  Spraying my face wet. Showering the length of me soaked.

What Michal and Elder Brother didn’t know or recognize is that grace finds us. His grace finds us.

David came looking for Michal and the father came looking for Elder Son.

Has grace come looking for you?

Have you welcomed grace or scorned grace?

Are you David or Michal? Are you Prodigal Brother or Elder Brother?

Doesn’t matter. Read that again. Doesn't matter.

Regardless of whether you are Michal, David, Elder Brother or Prodigal Brother God’s grace will find you.

Bank on it. Depend on it. Bet your life on it.

He will extend immeasurably more grace, more unmerited favor, than we could possibly ask or imagine.

Grace. God’s grace. Such grace.

 

 

Immeasurably More: Basement Choices

When I was seventeen God called me out of darkness and into his marvelous light. Literally and figuratively.

17 year old Tamera



17 year old Tamera

 

During my first semester as a freshman in college I was accepted on the university’s speech team. I love to communicate and it seemed like a perfect fit. The speech team was the epitome of academic coolness and arrogant know-it-allness. We thought we were tigers with the world by the tail. At the time I thought it grand that I, as a freshman, was among them. Often I wrote and presented speeches about subjects I knew little to nothing about or I had to memorize a dramatic monologue and be believable. More often than not I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I pretended.

Some events of your life roll away—forgotten and dismissed only to be remembered if there is a serious jogging of the memory. But one event connected with this season and group became the crossroad of my life. One night in the middle of a typical party night (college age drama, attempting to look cool and discussing the philosophical facets of life) in one of the speech team member’s basements I heard the voice of God.  

At fourteen I made a commitment to be a Christian, but sometime afterward I took several wrong turns and just kept walking. And walking. Destruction was the road name. The wrong turns took me to some precarious places. Light faded behind me. Darkness descended. I groped my way along the road fumbling and faltering. But I was far too full of myself and far too arrogant to acknowledge the dark. Dark? Are you kidding me? I was living the dream: attending college early, a member of a nationally recognized and regarded speech team and dating a young man who just happened to be the son of the dean of my college major (who would later dump me for a beautiful blonde female member of the team named Charlie*). But at the time I really believed the odds were in my favor.

Little did I know many people were praying for me. Praying for light to penetrate the darkness in and around me. Little did I know God’s favor and light would prove to be far more potent than the darkness in which I abided.

In that basement that night I became acutely aware of the darkness. We participated in activities often equated with freedom—freedom from authority and rules. We thrived on doing our own thing regardless of what anyone else thought (really?) People sprawled everywhere. Legs hanging and dangling over the arms of easy chairs and broken couches. Slit-eyed nineteen and twenty-something year olds nursed long warm beers. Eighties hard rock music filtered in from someplace. I remember running wild and loud out in a field beyond the house. In the mayhem I hurt my ankle in a rabbit hole and someone piggy-backed me back to the house. And there we all sat.

For the first time in my life I felt the press of darkness. I felt suffocated. Hemmed in. Closed off. Suddenly clarity birthed in me. I remember actually feeling it and looking around to see if anyone else reacted. I knew this clarity certainly didn’t originate in my head. (Now, let me make something abundantly clear—I wasn’t drunk or high. Those activities I avoided vehemently for reasons that belong in another post. So, I wasn’t hearing voices that could be attributed to substances we will not name.)

I heard the voice of God. He must not have spoken audibly—no one else responded.

Tamera, come out of the darkness. I want you to walk out of this darkness.

The word of God says that sheep recognize the voice of their shepherd.

That night I not only heard, but I recognized the voice of God.

He walked me out of that basement. I don’t remember even leaving. I don’t even remember the time span of the events which would follow. I don’t remember quitting the speech team, but I did.

I do remember my life changing. I remember my life being altered. Very little was the same after that night—even today thirty-one years later

God called me out of the darkness into his marvelous light.

Calling me out of darkness would have been enough. But God never stops with just enough. It is his nature to be generous. To be lavish. To be extravagant.

I Peter 2:9 says, “But you are a chosen, A royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God's own possession, so that you may proclaim the goodness of Him who has called you out of darkness into His marvelous light…”

That night not only did God call me OUT of something, but INTO something. That night he called me into the light. That night God forged my identity. In the darkness I learned who I was. In the light I learned who God was and who he called me to be. He called me out and set me apart for his purposes.

He called me so I might proclaim his goodness. He called me so I might testify to his faithfulness. He called me so I might speak of his holiness. And he called me that I might declare the healing of his grace.

To his people.

How is this immeasurably more?

I was a lost child. Lost. Lost. Lost. A child with no identity is prey for the enemy. A woman without a healthy sense of self often becomes road kill. The road I traversed proved horribly dangerous, and I lost pieces of myself all along the way. Sometimes I gave valuable pieces away hoping I would get something, anything, in return. I rarely did. Just more emptiness. Just more black holes. Every decision I made led to death certainly not life. This is not an exaggeration. There are many forms of death before the final one.

That night in Dewayne’s* basement God set before me the choice of life or death. Darkness or Light.

Deuteronomy 30:19b-20a says, “…I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the LORD your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him. For the LORD is your life…”

That night I chose life. I chose blessings. I chose light.

Since that basement choice I have made mistakes. I have repeatedly sinned. I have chosen poorly. I have made faulty decisions. But God has held me through them all. Carried me through them. Sheltered me through them. Guarded me through them. Protected me through them. Redeemed me through them.

Because that night I chose Him (He actually chose me first.)

My immeasurably more?

I chose life. His life.

And my children live. They live.

This year on my 48^th birthday my children gathered to celebrate me—I was humbled. I looked around the table at each face, each precious face, and I was utterly undone.  

 

My incredible family!

 

And all I could whisper under my breath was thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thirty-one years ago God called me. He spoke my name. My real name. And he called me out of darkness into his marvelous light.

Please read that again. Because he will call you out of your darkness. He will call you to choose life or death.

Please choose life. Life in him.

Choose.

My immeasurably more?

That night God knew. He knew who would live if I surrendered to him. He knew Anna, Katherine, Olivia, Abby, David, Elijah and Judah would live (and there will be more).

My children live because my God called me out of darkness into his marvelous light.

I will proclaim his goodness. I see it in the faces of my children. I see in the faces of my grandchildren.

Immeasurably more than I ever thought to ask or imagine.

Ever.

 

Judah, Anna and Tamera

Judah

Olivia and Nolan

Abby Taylor

Elijah, Katherine and Tamera



Elijah and my wonderful son-in-love: David

Nolan and my Olivia

My Anna

Elijah and my wonderful Katherine

Oh, these three!

Abby and Nathan

My beautiful boys!

Katherine and Elijah

My curious Elijah.

My Judah-boy.