Breaking Chex...

It was definitely not the most sanitary snack I've ever had.

We were sitting heavy after a long day. There was a lot of whining. A lot of poop. A long walk outside when I should of worn a coat but was too tired to put my own on after getting theirs. This week involved two people on antibiotics and plans for a trip to Michigan moved up a day because of a megastorm. Nuff said.

Now, Elisa was half eating and half playing air hockey with her Rice Chex. She offered me some. Bite. Half to mama. Bite, bite. Half to mama. Break and share, sticky fingers aiming for my mouth and giggling when they met their mark. Breaking "bread." 

This is my Body, broken for you. 

I weary-walk through the story for her: Jesus said whenever we break bread to remember Him. He took bread and broke it and gave it to his friends and told them to remember. 

I crush a piece of cereal. He let his body be broken just like this to be punished for the bad things we have done. 

For all of this. So I can sit here with this eternal being stuffed into an 18 pound body. So I can share the good news that all my mess is made right before God with a person sitting in a booster seat. 

Suddenly, I have gone and told it on the mountain to myself. Suddenly, I am a communicant with Rice Chex Eucharist. Suddenly, I am Peter with my eyes opened after walking Emmaus. 

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:30-32, NIV)

In breaking "bread" with my daughter, in taking in eucharist and breathing out eucharisteo for his breaking, I suddenly recognized Jesus in my midst. I have missed him. 

It's easy to do. He's hard to recognize with those two front teeth and sweet smile like her daddy, even harder with purple lips from angry breath-holding in the midst of the messy mundane. 

But he's been there.

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’" (Matthew 25:37-39, NIV)

Who else but a baby is hungry, thirsty, a stranger welcomed, naked, and sick? 

Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ (v. 40)

Isn't that the crux of the Advent story? That an entire nation missed the Messiah because he came disguised as a helpless infant?

I have missed serving him in mine. I have forgotten the wonder of a Savior coming like the sticky child at my kitchen table. 

                             

I know this Advent season's crush in a whole new way this year. I know yours is probably as breathless as mine. You might be grieving this season. Ground down by circumstances. Gasping for hope while you gift wrap. 

Don't miss Him.

He might be sitting in your kitchen, your classroom, your car, your broken-limbed family tree, the dark after the lights on the tree are out for the night. 

He came. He was broken. He's revealed when we remember. 

Be one who sees. 

Advent Poetry

We're half-way to Advent and tomorrow the joy (candle) comes in the morning!

I thought I'd share a piece I began a few years ago and just finished. It really is meant to be spoken and would be best with several voices, but I hope you enjoy it.

As Patrick and I have contemplated the longing and waiting of the Advent season this year, I think it's important to remember the long story of rescue that began in Genesis, that was missing Someone for so long, that Jesus broke into at Bethlehem. I think it's beautiful the way God wove it together and just sought to trace it's threads.

Advent

I.

Cold dirt, hot blood streams.

Abdicated brother’s keeper

keeps secret deeds done in darkness,

(The bite was small, but, oh, how the venom spreads)

wanders now, weary.

II.

Cold dirt, hot blood streams.

Worn nomadic desert father

sees seeds sown in womb of night skies.

The cut is deep but shows now the promise stands:

Centuries. Standing.

III.

Cold dirt, hot blood streams.

Consecrated nation's leader

lays hands, knife on hair, flesh.

The law hot thirsts but death cleans their scarlet hands,

until tomorrow.

IV.

Cold dirt, hot blood streams.

Desecrated-Zion’s poet

breathes this yet: dawn in death’s land.

The Man will mourn, but somehow His wounds will heal–

Exiles scream, Servant!

V.

Cold dirt, hot blood streams.

Long-awaited Word Incarnate

writhes helpless. All our hope fleshed.

The weight will crush, but hush now, the virgin sways,

Ransom rocked, finally

sleeping. 

Dishwasher Whispers

So this morning I pulled this out of my dishwasher:

This and about half a load of "clean" bowls, cups, and plates that were covered in stuck on quinoa, oatmeal, and flakes of leftover split pea soup. Kind of makes you want a 15+ year old, washed-out teal interior "Hotpoint" dishwasher, doesn't it?

It was about all I could take this morning. The munchkin has a major cold and didn't want to be put down. We had a stack of dishes from yesterday's small group dinner, and Patrick's grandparents were stopping by in a half hour on their way down to Powhattan. We had been up late. There may or may not have been arguing involved.

I tried singing: "Why should I feel discouraged..." Didn't work. Tried being thankful for having a dishwasher when our Iraqi friend up the street yesterday told me how she used to cook and clean for her husband's family of 12 people without one. Didn't work.

Finally, I sighed. God, I'm tired and am doing work that I counted on being done. It's not fair I have to clean up what is supposed to have been cleaned. 

That's when I heard God whispered, Beloved, that's how I feel sometimes. 

My soul quieted. While I know God's grace is immeasurably more than mine, that he has unending patience with us as we learn, that he is committed to see his good work in us completed, I knew these past few days, I have grieved his redeeming Father-heart.

I'm supposed to have been cleaned. 

I chose a long time ago to try and think like he thinks (i.e. repent!) and live like he lived (i.e. believe the good news). I've trusted that he cleaned up the mess of a heart I was unable to fix with perfection.

However, this week, He has found me with stuck on bits of anger, flakes of pride and cynicism, leftover hurt and bitterness.

Instead of a vessel clean and ready to be used when He needs me, I've had to be washed, again and again by his grace and by the grace of others whom I've hurt.

As I put away the final dishes, I needed a quick fix to keep my sweet stuffy girl occupied, so I grabbed for an apple and started peeling. This is what I found:

It was too close after the dishwasher revelation to be a coincidence. I flashed back to the passage I had read  in the Message (Luke 3) yesterday during my quiet time: 

"John, Zachariah’s son, [was] out in the desert at the time, received a message from God. He went all through the country around the Jordan River preaching a baptism of life-change leading to forgiveness of sins...It’s your life that must change, not your skin... God can make children from stones if he wants. What counts is your life. Is it green and blossoming?"

Or, as it's written in the New International Version, "Produce fruit in keeping with repentance." 

Dishes that have been washed should be clean, ready for service, hospitality, the receiving and giving of nourishment. 

Fruit that is beautifully formed from a healthy tree should be ready to be served, to nourish. 

In other words, what comes out of my life should be a reflection of the identity I've been given. 

If it's true that I'm washed, then why do my words drip with criticism, my actions crust over with impatience? 

If it's true that I've changed to align my life with the one who gave His life on the tree, then why is the fruit of my heart riddled with wormy resentment? 

So here are the questions I'm left with this weekend: 

In what ways does my life reflect the washing I've received? 

What still lingers that shouldn't be part of a life cleaned and ready for use that needs to be washed again in God's grace? 

In what ways does the fruit of my life reflect the health of my heart? 

What do I need to repent of, agree with God about, so that the fruit of my life can be sweet to those who receive it? 

May this November find us all more like clean, ready vessels, more like harvests spilled over at thanksgiving feasts...

Eyeing Egypt...

Sometimes treasures glimmer where you least expect them.

Like in the middle of the thickness of my Bible, the canyon of the prophets that we usually prefer to peek into from the safe rims, stories we heard in Sunday school on one side, Jesus and his grace on the other. There's some disturbing stuff down there: a man making a campfire over human excrement, the ones speaking God's words knee deep in mud or sawed in half, God saying his light-of-the-world people are living like they're in red-light districts.

There's also this gem of a story, one I'm not sure I've ever read before. Or if I did, I mistook the gleam of an emerald for the glint of a candy wrapper, discarded, no more use for us today.

It begins in Jeremiah 40, right after Hurricane Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon toppled Jerusalem, leaving bodies and a burning heap of a city in his wake. Jeremiah chooses to stay with the handful of people who were too poor to be taken in the exile and those who came out of hiding to join those left. They're under the care of Gedaliah, a sympathetic governor put in place by the invaders.

All is going well until Gedaliah ignores rumors of an assassination threat and is killed by Ishmael, a man of royal blood and ruthless ambition. Ishmael slaughters some more of the remnant and takes them to a nearby country.

In steps Johanan, leader of the army, rushing in to the cheers of the prisoners by the pool at Gibeon. He takes them back from Ishamel and they decide to go to Egypt. They're hoping to avoid any retaliation from the Babylonians for the murder of Governor Gedaliah. Before they go, they stop and ask Jeremiah the prophet what God thinks of their decision.

Here's what they say: "Whether we like it or not, we’ll do it. We’ll obey whatever our God tells us. Yes, count on us. We’ll do it.” (Jeremiah 42:5-6 MSG)

So Jeremiah, tells them this good news: "If you are ready to stick it out in this land, I will build you up and not drag you down, I will plant you and not pull you up like a weed. I feel deep compassion on account of the doom I have visited on you. You don’t have to fear the king of Babylon. Your fears are for nothing. I’m on your side, ready to save and deliver you from anything he might do. I’ll pour mercy on you. What’s more, he will show you mercy! He’ll let you come back to your very own land."

But, as if he's watching the resistance pass like a thundercloud across Johanan's face, he adds this: "But do not say, ‘We’re not staying around this place,’ refusing to obey the command of your God and saying instead, ‘No! We’re off to Egypt, where things are peaceful—no wars, no attacking armies, plenty of food. We’re going to live there.’ If what’s left of Judah is headed down that road, then listen to God’s Message. This is what God-of-the-Angel-Armies says: ‘If you have determined to go to Egypt and make that your home, then the very wars you fear will catch up with you in Egypt and the starvation you dread will track you down in Egypt. You’ll die there! Every last one of you who is determined to go to Egypt and make it your home will either be killed, starve, or get sick and die. No survivors, not one! No one will escape the doom that I’ll bring upon you."

And the terrible thing? They still decide to GO. They tell Jeremiah that he's a liar. That's he's in league with the invaders. God couldn't possibly be calling them to STAY. And so they leave and are destroyed amidst the very sands they thought meant safety. 

How many times do I choose Egypt? 

How many times do we, God's people, turn from an offer to be planted because we're not ready to stick it out? 

How many times do we choose the promise of peace and prosperity over the places of God's messy mercy? 

What if the places where God wants to show us his salvation, his deliverance, his mercy, are the very same places of vulnerability, of uncertainty, of rubble needing restoration and places where we're not in control?

Because what if what we fear will catch up with us, what we dread will track us down, and what we hope to escape find us in the times that we flee?

We might not be killed or starved, get sick or die, not like the remnant turning their backs on rubble. But might we find to our horror that:

We run from relationships that seem too painful to repair, only to find bitterness and loneliness seep slowly into the walls of our hearts.

We avoid situations that make us feel uncomfortable or vulnerable, only to find our souls slowly dying from meaninglessness and wasted chances to live fully present lives.

We run from brokenness in our homes, in our neighborhoods, in our workplaces, in the Body, only to find the pain we sought to avoid is waiting where we chose to wander. 

What if life is found in the very places we deem, "unfit to live?"

I don't know where your ruined Jerusalem lies. I don't know what Egypt beckons you with mirages of uncomplicated peace.

But I do know God promises much for those of us who choose to "stick it out" in places of impossibilities, apparent desolation, and tears.

He is on our side, ready to save and deliver, compassionate, hope of our freedom from fear.

May we trust him enough to remain in the rubble.

May we trust that he'll plant something beautiful HERE. 

It So Happened...

"It so happened..."

The words caught my eye this morning like a glint in the grass on a sunny day. "It so happened..." Flippant, really. Casual. Like the person telling the story was holding a cup of coffee and looking over his shoulder at the action in the street. Nothing remarkable here.

And that's what made it remarkable to me.

I was reading this passage from Luke 1:8-12 in the Message:

"It so happened that as Zachariah was carrying out his priestly duties before God, working the shift assigned to his regiment, it came his one turn in life to enter the sanctuary of God and burn incense. The congregation was gathered and praying outside the Temple at the hour of the incense offering. Unannounced, an angel of God appeared just to the right of the altar of incense."

"It so happened" started the rhythm as I read. "It so happened...carrying out his duties...working the shift assigned..."
If this were a movie, there would be no blockbuster beginning. When an angel of God appears and tells Zachariah that he will be a part of heralding the in-breaking of God's kingdom on earth, what is he doing? 
His job. The duties given to him. The shift assigned to him. It just so happened...
At the precipice of the Messiah exploding into the human experience, Elizabeth and Zachariah are living their lives together, honorably, carefully, obediently, and NORMALLY.


I had just read of Zachariah and his wife, Elizabeth, in the paragraph above it: " Together they lived honorably before God, careful in keeping to the ways of the commandments and enjoying a clear conscience before God" (Luke 1:5-7, MSG). 

That gives hope to us mamas who's floors look like this:

Those of us with bruised knees and babies with fevers and oatmeal on the floor...again. Those of us working behind computers or behind fast-food counters or behind pulpits. Those of us bending over student's shoulders, or lawnmowers, or elderly loved ones.

The beauty of the stage being set for Jesus to arrive on earth is that the kingdom of God can break in when we are doing the duties, assignments, and daily life given to us, whether it be mundane or headline-making. God, it seems, is oblivious to counters that look like this:

and prone to start his greatest stories in the hearts of those living quiet, faithful lives and enjoying a clear conscience before Him. 

The second thing that caught my heart's attention was Zachariah's job on the day he found out he'd be padre to THE Prophet. He was burning incense. 

The New Testament has wisps of this incense wafting through its pages: 

"Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God." (Ephesians 5:1-2, NIV)

"...The gifts you sent. They are a fragrant offering, an acceptable sacrifice, pleasing to God." (Philippians 4:18, NIV)

"For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing" (2 Corinthians 2:15). 

Our lives, our quiet lives of obedience to Jesus, service to those around us, faithfulness in sacrifice and in love, are our incense offering to God. 

If we keep offering our ordinary selves, we might find ourselves like Zachariah, with a message from Heaven in the midst of our mundane, glory right beside us where we never expected it to appear. 

May more whispers of a coming kingdom come where we find ourselves, "it so happens," to be. May we be faithful, ordinary "wide-eyed in wonder and belief" (Luke 11:33, MSG).  

On Pinholes and Feasts...

I've been a woman walking with eyes burned gray these past few days. 

You see, I've been staring at the sun. 

When I'm hurting or bored or tired senseless, I begin gazing. At first, it always seems harmless. Looking backward, processing emotions, naming frustrations, pinpointing causes for the anger or restlessness or sadness I feel.

 Like the sun, these reflections are helpful: they shed light on places I still need healing, illuminate losses I've yet to process with Jesus, bring why and how I'm feeling into sharper focus so those I love can better help me. 

However, when they are all that fill my view, the burning begins. The flash can be beautiful, mesmerizing even, but all of the sudden, when I look at my life, there's the black dot afterimage that mars the beauty right in front of me. 

That black dot tells me I've looked too long and deep back and inside and everywhere except at the One person and his thousand gifts. 

I've struggled this week with perspective:

The sticky floors have seemed like mire. The air conditioner like a train's rush as I tried to sneak some peace on a back porch that is decidedly not like this country-girl's home. The past like a table of medals for each way I've been wounded or lost something in the fight.

I was so entranced by the shimmering shards of each sacrifice I'VE made that I didn't notice my hands bleeding from constantly pouring them between my hands.

I am not supposed to keep holding them.

I'm supposed to give them up, stand back slack-jawed at the mosaic I've GAINED by His marvelous grace.

This morning Elisa and I had a quiet morning as daddy had a meeting early, one of the many reasons I cried angry the night before. I spread her toys out on top of her bed so I could keep lying down until it was at least light out. As I watched her sweet profile, He whispered these words: for the joy set before Him. 

I remembered the rest of the verse: For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame... (Hebrews 12:2 NIV). 

If Jesus had focused on the cross, on the sacrifice only, on the pain and confusion and loss and disappointment, would he have been able to complete his mission? What did he hang onto when life was excruciatingly hard? The joy set before him. 

I know there are probably commentaries and translators and all that jazz that would tell you exactly what "set before" means but this morning, looking at our smorgasbord of toys, I couldn't help but think of a feast. 

If I focus on the cross I'm called to bear, the sacrifice only, on the pain and confusion and loss and disappointment, I will go blind every time. If I focus on the nourishment of his love, the decadent array of beauty and delight and sweetness he's given me, especially in this face right here: 

I can endure any drudgery or sacrifice by His side. 

It's like looking at the sun through a pinhole projector (remember those from elementary school eclipse days?) If you looked at how the sun filtered through the pinhole in the cardboard box, you could view it without your eyes being damaged, watch it in it's burning without being burned yourself. 

If I view my past, my current to-do list, my sacrifices for my God and my family through the holes in His wrists, the joy I have in being loved and sacrificed for, I can view them without damaging myself or those I love. 

God wrapped up this story beautifully for me at breakfast. Elisa and I were eating oatmeal at the table with the radio on in the living room. In our bedroom, the alarm clock went off, another radio station blaring. 

From two rooms these two songs: In one room, "rumor has it. Rumor has it. Rumor has it" (Adelle) In our room, "...come to me when you're weary, and I'll give you hope when you're hurting, I'll give you rest from your burden" (from Jamie Grace's "Come to Me"). The two songs dueled for my attention.

There lies my choice: the whisper, the rumor that Eve heard that God was not enough and was holding back on her and the promise of the Savior that he will help us endure all things for the love-feast joy of his hope, presence, and rest. 

We finished our literal oatmeal feast to this: 

"Because my heart

Sometimes can wanderAnd my faithat times can strayBut I knowThat when I fix my eyes on YouThat I will always remainSafe in the shadows of Your
Grace..." (Building 429, "Grace That is Greater.")

On Feeding Ourselves...

I think I finally figured out why teachers and parents and pastors and people trying to disciple others are tempted to just do things for the people they love. It's easier and more comfortable and cleaner and doesn't "waste" time or energy or resources.

Let's face it...when people are trying to learn how to feed themselves it sometimes looks like this:

It might even look like this:

But the truth I'm learning is that people've gotta learn. We can't stay babies forever...or keep others that way. Life is not sanitary. Clean up is inevitable. Practice means mistakes and mess. Letting others learn may mean their face and our hands get dirty.

But lest we forget:  there is joy when we let go of control...for everyone involved.

At least until mommy has to aspirate prunes from someone's nose :)

Fixing...

It's when you fall asleep like this:

after whirring wheels fix your face

where it faced mine for blocks,

that I know less of fixing it all,

more of fixing our eyes on

the loved All who'll lead us, loved,

home.

On Trails and Towers

Elisa, 

I was convinced this day would be a disaster. I had mumbled and grumbled out of the driveway that I sure hoped the trail was covered so you wouldn't bake in the sun while I wallowed in guilt. We didn't know exact directions. I had read something about a 40 minutes to the tower, and now that I thought about it, that was an eternity. Why didn't your daddy think about these things? It took a winding river of a road and a face of a black bear until I could relax. 

Sometimes, I crush the life out of things because I believe the tight fist of control can save. I've bought the lie that if you plan well enough, you'll never have mistakes, whether or not you can learn from them. It is fear masquerading as provision, protection. 

May you never inherit your mother's white knuckles. You'll miss so much if you do. 

You'll never see mountain laurel if you stop at loose rock steps. 

  

You'll miss flame-bursts of columbine if you step back from bees.

You won't even reach towers if you stop where the trail slants.

And it'll take faith in worn steps to see views like these:

You're the reason I want to keep climbing what scares me.

You're teaching me how to live wide-handedly. May you plan only to be amazed and delighted. And rest knowing He's good, good wherever he leads.

Love,
Your Mama

Happy Half Birthday, Elisa!

So, taking some inspiration from this chica here, I decided to write you a letter, Elisa, to celebrate your 6 month birthday (I can hardly believe it).

Elisa,

So, you and me, chiquita banana, we've been doing this family thing for a whole half a year now. I can't believe that this little bundle

 is now this big girl so full of life.

It has not been easy for us, no ma'am. I will not pretend like it was.

You've had a hard time eating and sleeping and gaining weight, a lot of tummy trouble, a lot of cries that made me cry and crash down to my knees. Being a mommy has made me realize how much I need grace like air to breathe. Your desire for things the way you want them (i.e. sleeping only on our chests for the first three weeks of your life) has made the rule follower in me learn that little people don't follow them.

Yet, you have made me richer in more ways than I can count.

You have taught me patience, gentleness, and wonder.

You have taught me to laugh at myself, to sing, to not take things so seriously, to go slow and laugh with delight when another person walks into the room.

 

You are my greatest gift.

Let me tell you a little about you.

Today at your check up, you were 13 pounds, 12 ounces (10th percentile), 25 inches long (50th percentile), with a head circumference of 17 inches (75th percentile). I always worry if you're big enough. The pediatrician says, "somebody has to be the 10th percentile!" May you be like Shakespeare wrote, "Though she be but little, she is fierce."

Fierce is a great word for you. You're intense. Alert. Focused. Smart.

You're incredibly aware of your surroundings: especially of people, especially of me. You're a social butterfly  who is vibrant and outgoing. I've met more people in our neighborhood in these last six months than we have in the past three years.

You make me laugh.

These past few weeks you've exploded with new tricks.

You can suck your toes.

You can hold yourself up at your favorite toy, the activity table.

You can scoot on your back, turn over on your belly to sleep, and sit up! All this week!

You know what you love. You love when we sing or dance or shake and shimmy. Your favorite song is "My God is So Big, So Strong and So Mighty, There's Nothing My God Cannot Do" (don't forget it!).

You love being outside and trying to eat grass and clover :)

You love to eat, especially pears and avocado.

You can entertain yourself with your Very Hungry Caterpillar book for a long, long time.

You love your daddy and stories and waking up between us.

You're our treasure. Elisa, baby girl, you are making us more and more like Jesus. We're learning to see the world, see people through eyes of wonder and pleasure and delight and love. We're learning that our to-do lists aren't as urgent as your need to try to eat the shamrock plant or sing another round of a silly song in Spanish. We're learning to love you, love people, for who they are and not how much love they can offer back.

Yours is our favorite face to see.

Happy 6 month birthday, honey bunches of oats, our best girl. We love you.

Love, Mommy 

The Good Girl and Gospel of Veggie Chips

True statement: these days, little orange stickers give me more than a little high. Around here little orange stickers can only mean one thing: Sharp Shopper. For those of you unfortunate enough to live in a place with no grocery-outlet-of-wonder, Sharp Shopper is a place where you can find organic cereal for ninety-nine cents, mango fruit chillers you didn't know even existed, bags of surplus Starbucks coffee --all for the small price of having to sort through jars that are six months expired and weird items like cotton candy sauce.

This week, I scored a major orange sticker deal:

That's right folks. Your computer isn't broken, your eyesight isn't failing you, you are looking at a 2 for 1 sticker on a bag of these bad boys right here:

Mrs. May's all natural crispy veggie chips, retail price $4.64 and not.even.expired. I think I bought six bags. I lined them up when I got home and felt like I robbed a bank. I am the deal BOSS. Take a look at my fitty cent chips (great deals bring out my inner rap-star).

All week long I talked about these chips. I may have opened my pantry and shown them to you. I may have given you a bag. I read the ingredients to several unsuspecting friends and told people on the phone so they too could be rollin' in vacuum-fried goodness (I didn't even know that was a real thing).

One day, closing my pantry door, it hit me hard. When is the last time I have been this excited about the good news of Jesus? 

The King of the Universe comes down, sacrifices himself for me, makes things right between God and me, and covers me in his righteousness, and I preach the Gospel of veggie chips? Really?

As I've been reflecting on why this is, here's what's struck me: I don't talk about the good news because it isn't news. Not if you're already a good girl.

If I'm being pretty honest, most days I think I'm pretty awesome. I mean, I have a couple of sponsor kids; I remember people's birthdays; I'm a pretty darn good cook. Heck, I even recycle. I've even written to teens in jail so I could feel a little better about that Matthew 25 part where the sheep who get in visited the least of these in prison.

Sure, I lose my cool, waste my time, turn up my nose, and turn my back, but it isn't really my fault. I'm just tired or usually, reacting to whatever sin you're unfortunate to have still hanging around your life.

You see, when you think you're a good girl, a good person, the news that a Savior had to come and save us from our sick, sinful selves feels distant, inconsequential, like a radio blurb of a plane crash of the coast of Bahrain. Veggie chips, how hard it is to be a mom, the latest movie I liked, the way I was slighted or taken for granted, these become my gospel because they feel more newsworthy. They are more relevant because there's so little need for Jesus in my life.

It's like flashing a smile, thinking Wow, I look amazing, with a huge piece of spinach in your teeth. Only a billion times, cosmically worse.

Isaiah 64:6 tells me that "All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away."

In the original language, "filthy rags" meant menstrual rags. Nasty. 

Or this story, from Zechariah 3: 

 "Then he showed me Joshua the high priest standing before the angel of the Lord, and Satan standing at his right side to accuse him. The Lord said to Satan, “The Lord rebuke you, Satan! The Lord, who has chosen Jerusalem, rebuke you! Is not this man a burning stick snatched from the fire?" Now Joshua was dressed in filthy clothes as he stood before the angel. The angel said to those who were standing before him, “Take off his filthy clothes.”

Joshua was the high priest, only-hope representative of an entire nation. He was in the holy of holies, the most sacred place in the temple. He would have done a purification ritual in front of crowds to even get there. 

In the original language, "filthy clothes" meant excrement. Nasty. 

If I am to maintain that I am a good girl, I'm going to have to do some Thomas-Jefferson-style Bible reading and cut out the verses I just read. Sorry to be graphic here, but I'm a mom and God already went there: God is comparing the most wonderful things I can do, the state of the holiest person a nation knew to bloody cloths and poop-smeared robes. If that is who I am at the core of my being, then Jesus drawing near becomes the most precious and beautiful news I have ever heard or can ever tell. 

A Savior is only on your lips if you realize how dirty and desperate is your heart.

The Bible is full of those who did realize: a woman who was forgiven much pouring perfume because she was loved. The sick and blind and lame who followed Jesus because they knew there was God-power flowing through nerves and sinews that no one else would touch. The sin sick who knew they needed a doctor. These could not keep quiet. 

And neither will I.

All week long I want to talk about how I deserved punishment and got the chance to be God's forgiven daughter instead. 

I want to open the door to my heart and say, "Come and see." I struggle with pride and wanting to be worshiped, but Jesus, who had every right to be worshiped, is helping me to be gentle and to serve my family and friends. 

I want to give you the details of how I used to be blood-boiling angry but how Jesus, who had every right to be angry chose to breathe forgiveness through clotted blood. He is teaching me to see others through eyes of compassion. 

I want to read the ingredients of this sin-ridden heart to my unsuspecting friends so they will know that the only thing good in me is Jesus. 

I want to tell you on the phone how Jesus the King became nothing, paid the debt for our mistakes and wrong motives and malicious hearts so that we could be rollin' in the goodness of a God who is passionately pursuing people who in no-way deserve it. 

Come on over and let me tell you the news that Love Has Come. I might even have some veggie chips on hand to share.