Postcard Challenge #9: Empty Lot

My newest postcard was full of delicious possibility words: "immense," "repurpose," "transform," "help the planet."

Kathleen's words were to think of "a space that you would change if you could. Dream it...then pray it..."

My mind immediately started racing even though my body felt weary. Where should I begin? A community garden for Harris Gardens, a low-income housing project in our city? A community center for kids in our neighborhood? An orphanage in a dusty place far away? The thoughts felt heavy instead of what they were supposed to be, an exercise in hope. 

There was a time when I would have pulled out the 64 box of Crayola crayons and drawn you a diagram complete with zoning considerations and possible fundraising avenues. There will probably be a time soon when the box could come out again. But you know what I'm learning? 

Now is not that season. 

I'm taking part in a discipleship group called a Huddle (more on this and on Mike Breen's team here), and we've been going through questions and simple images that help us learn to live life like Jesus did. 

This week's image was called the "Semi-Circle." Here's my version: 

This image shows life the way God intended it, a pendulum swing from resting to working, from abiding to fruitfulness. As we begin to move toward fruitfulness we grow, as we return to rest after fruitful work, we are pruned back until we abide once more. 

Over and over in the Bible, the same pattern emerges. Created humans are told to be fruitful but first get a day off with the rest of creation. Jesus begins a sweeping ministry, but not before spending six weeks with the Spirit in the desert. Jesus' command to bear much fruit, but not until we remain in him. 

"Work from rest, not rest from work."-Mike Breen

And our question: How are we experiencing rest? 

The way that Huddle works is that we are to report back after two weeks on observations, reflections, ways we've heard God prompting us and what we're going to do about it. Slowing down enough to pay attention to what God has for us. 

And for me, God has a season. 

My pendulum is swinging to the left, pruning, often painful, is moving me to abide, so I can one day be fruitful. 

It was everywhere this week, a call to embrace a season of pruning that leads to abiding.

A call to abide in my spirit, trusting God to do the work of redemption I often try to force myself: 

From my reading in Galatians this week:"The person who lives in right relationship with God does it by embracing what God arranges for her. Doing things for God is the opposite of entering to what God does for you. Habakuk had it right, 'The person who believes God, is set right by God-- and that's the real life.'" (3:11-12,MSG)

And, "Does the God who lavishly provides you with his own presence, His Holy Spirit working things in your life you could never do for yourselves, does he do these things because of your strenuous moral striving or because you trust him to do them in you? (3:5-6, MSG)

"The one who plants in response to God letting His spirit do the growth work in her harvests a crop of real, eternal life." (6:7, MSG)

A call to abide in my schedule, trusting that this season is God-given and good, with limits I haven't always let be what they are.  

A wise counselor, listening to me explain my anxious thoughts, exhausted arguments gently suggests that there are seasons in life and that I haven't allowed the seasons to change. I'm still striving to do what I did before rings and diapers, what I could do one day when there are school buses or college dorms. 

I have been fighting the vineyard shears, wanting to pluck heavy clusters of grape globes instead of picking cheerios off the floor. I have been fighting the pruning that will lead to the rest I so desperately need. 

Pruning looks a whole lot like feeding ice cream to soothe new molars and telling Bible stories in the car together instead of reading them because she can't sit still and Daddy's late for work.

Pruning looks like having a heart to heart conversation with a friend on our couch with the drifting smell of a diaper waiting to be sprayed out instead of some Sumatran delicious something from Starbucks (don't worry, no picture of this one!).

Pruning looks like serving Sharp Shopper hot chocolate and leftover dessert from Sunday dinner to two kids doing homework when I want to have a community center with art and English classes. 

This picture reminds me of an I Spy book.
Can you spy the spoon? The sock? The half-eaten cracker? 

Pruning looks like relearning how to live in the thick cocoon of Christ's sufficiency when I want to forge forward in ministry. 

And so, my empty lot might look something like this: 

A fallow field soaking up a stream. Vines abiding in their season. 

Last year, we drove through Crosskeys' Vineyard near our house and were amazed to see what looked like scrawny branches, two arms entwined with a neighbors. We'd never seen pruned vines before and to be honest, it was not impressive. 

And that is exactly what I dream my life will look like, at least for now. 

Mike Breen puts it like this: 

"We need to learn when it is our pruning time. This seems unproductive at first glance. After all, aren't we supposed to be pressing forth with all of our energy to do the work of the kingdom? In a word, no. We are supposed to pattern our lives after that of Jesus. It is not our energy and determination that impresses God, it is our living in the manner he made us that will produce the fruit he intends for us to bear. Pruning is not automatic for the branch. Left to its own plans, it would continue to grow, increasing in size but decreasing in strength, endurance, and health until it would be unable to hold the fruit it was intended to bear." (Building a Discipling Culture, pg.93)

The postcard called me to imagine this empty space into something that will help the planet. I believe I have, despite the lack of grandeur and zoning considerations.  

The secret's in the pendulum swing. As I allow the pruning, learn to abide, I'll be able to move into more fruitfulness than I could imagine in this season of piles of trimmed leaves. My vines are looking kind of bare but watch out. 

Spring is coming. One day there will be grapes. 

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. 

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. 

Nesting...

I think I could use a flannel board this year for Christmas.

Now, while my Sunday school teachers didn't use them, I've seen the little flannel scenes with movable flannel characters being used to teach Bible stories without the flash of video and cartoon characters. They're actually pretty neat, even if Jesus has to have his hands out the same way in every story.

If I get my New Testament flannel board, I'm going straight for Luke 10. I'm going to rip Martha out of her kitchen and hot glue her right next to Mary, sitting and listening at the feet of Jesus. Maybe if I frame it, I could finally remember.

Yesterday at my appointment, my fluid levels were even lower than last week. We have been preparing for a planned c-section next week Thursday, but the midwife told me that they would repeat my fluid check this Thursday, with a possibility that if they looked low, they'd just move the whole she-bang up. 

With all the waiting, this sounded fine to me. Fine, that is, until I thought about our chores. After having my family visit for Thanksgiving, we've had something going on every evening. With bed-rest, I can't accomplish much during the day, so we had planned on doing our cleaning on this Thursday night. As in the Thursday night that could possibly kick-off a four-day hospital stay and an entirely new life with a baby.

Last night, I started to panic.

What about the vacuuming? The counters are all messy! I need to mail out that package. Our floors haven't been mopped in weeks! 

Unfortunately, I could play Martha on screen any day. My anxiety often leads to what our librarian at Skyline calls being "snarky" (grumpy, testy, critical). It's not enough to be stressed, I need to point it at someone. Usually, it's my unsuspecting husband who has been gracious upon gracious to me. 

I found myself complaining and blaming, asking like Martha "Lord, don’t you care that my [husband] has left me to do the work by myself? Tell [him] to help me!”(Luke 10:40 NIV).

Obviously, this doesn't lead to very productive conversations, so I eventually went to the bathroom to cool off. There, I felt God whispering to me, "you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one..." (Luke 10:41-42). 

I felt my angry spirit sink. How easily I lose perspective! These could be the last few days we get to be "just the two of us." The time I wasted breathing hot criticism could have been used connecting, praying, dreaming. The many things I was worried about stole and bled the joy right out us. 

My newborn will care less if the tub is scrubbed or the sink completely free of dishes. She will be affected, however, if her parents have lost their unity, their love, and their respect for each other. She will be affected if her mama doesn't pray because she's too busy lamenting late library books. Nesting happens, yes. But it will be a rough bed if the mother has ripped and torn down branches in its making. 

This morning, I started spinning the idea out into more and more areas of my life.

One day, whether He takes me home or takes us all home, I will stand before Jesus.  (Never before have I understood the idea of Advent, remembering Jesus' first long-awaited coming and reflecting on his second, as much as waiting for our own baby to come.) He will want my "house" in order, yes. Just like we've tried to keep our house tidy in case the baby comes early, he wants my heart clean from sin and ready to receive him.

However, I think he could care less about the state of my floors. He won't want to hear about my crock-pot meals were pin-worthy. I don't even think he'll want to hear about all the books I read about him or all the acts of kindness I did as a nice Christian girl.

When I stand before Jesus, I think he'll want most for me to have focused on the few things needed, the one thing of being in his presence, soaking in his love. 

I don't want to forget this. When I am raising my daughter, I want to remember her heart toward Jesus is more important than the number of awards she wins. When I am serving the poor, I want to remember that being with the people Jesus loves the most is more important than how effective the program or my service might be. When I am looking over the worth of my day, I want to remember that the moments I spent as a beloved child in God's presence weigh far more than the times I can say I was organized or productive or well-balanced. 

Maybe you need a flannel board for Christmas this year, too. I pray that in the midst of the stress, the preparations, the expectations, you can sit down with your glue gun and stick that Martha in you right down. Don't be like me and be worried and upset about many things. In the end, only the time we spend at his feet really matters. That won't be taken away. 

Supernatural...

I don't have a lot on my mind today, so I'll keep it short (I think).

My sister sent me a bunch of hilarious bibs she made for our little one. Here is one of my favorites:

Since it appears we'll soon be hosting Super Baby, I thought I'd share some recent thoughts on what is actually supernatural.

We're fascinated as humans by supernatural abilities. From The Incredibles all the way to The Avengers, we can't get enough of average people who suddenly can save the world with their flying, future-seeing, shape-changing, brick-breaking-strength skills.

The same seems to be true for Christians. We are drawn to those who seem super-holy, super-courageous, super-self-sacrificing, super-wise, etc... We wish (at least I do sometimes) that we could have the flashier gifts, more steady discipline, less cracks in our super-faith armor.

It's not a new obsession either... Paul addressed the early church this way:

"But it’s obvious by now, isn’t it, that Christ’s church is a complete Body and not a gigantic, unidimensional Part? It’s not all Apostle, not all Prophet, not all Miracle Worker, not all Healer, not all Prayer in Tongues, not all Interpreter of Tongues. And yet some of you keep competing for so-called “important” parts.

But now I want to lay out a far better way for you." -End of 1 Corinthians 12 (Message)

So it seems like we're not called to compete to have more of the supernatural gifts in the Body of Christ. So what then?

God has been gently whispering to me lately that "supernatural" means exactly that, "Above, Beyond the Natural."

What's natural?

For me, it seems to be fear. Fear has been my autopilot mode since I was small. And to be honest, isn't fear natural in a world with nuclear bombs, hurricanes, serial killers, job loss, and dividing cells that eat away life? Fear is a huge money maker, decision driver. It's what causes us to shop for insurance, vote in certain ways, avoid deep relationships, stop opening our homes to strangers.

I realized today that choosing to lay down fear is a supernatural act. Fall seems an apt name for this season. It seems like a huge leap for me into an abyss of uncertainty. But if I choose trust over fear, I am doing something more profound than leaping buildings in a single bound. I am testifying that there is a God. A God who enables me to go beyond what I'm naturally programmed to be.

I don't know what "natural" tendency you struggle with: selfishness, ambition, materialism, protecting a strong or religious appearance, striving, rebellion, resentment... I do know that whenever we choose to go against, above the ways humans have been since we got broken and busted, we are standing in defiance against evil, quietly defeating it with a greater power than any light-saber. 

We can't do it on our own, but that doesn't mean we are not powerful. No, we have this promise:

^" I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." -Galatians 2:20

We've got a secret. We're not who we appear today. When we call on Jesus, he lives through us. And because of that, ordinary acts of love, courage, and forgiveness are supernatural. Just make sure your cape is on correctly :)

New(er) Poetry

Hello, friends, I haven't been inspired today in any particular direction, so I thought I'd share some of my more recent poems. I'll have to think how/when to post earlier work. I continue to find great joy in writing this way...I recently read that poems take us out of time for a little bit, much like the few hushed, warm days after a baby is born. What a lovely picture!

What Is It?

These shallow breaths are not

milk and honey I'd hoped for,

praying strength to spread

cream cheese on toast

what I'd planned.

Yet these rapid heartbeats burn

wisps of incense

in a place I am finding

is holy.

The smoke from your cloud today

singes my throat but this

manna strange somehow still

fills me.

                     -Winter 2012

Metamorphi–

This cocoon closes

bloody. I can't tell

what flows thick 

from these knuckles

banged senseless and

what seeps 

from your womb-walls,

hot-cradling me. 

                     -Spring 2012

I Have No Poems About Jesus

I realize this paging through my pittance of black pixels

strewn across white pages in hope

that some will take root.

I read of redemption, communion, the kingdom;

there is Moses, my father; no Rabbi in sight.

The New Jerusalem seems safer,

stained glass and sand sufficient.

No need to touch nail holes,

struggle to name the One

who offers flesh as food,

who tells me I must hate

the one who bore me

but who lets whores

kiss his feet before

he dies.

I have no place to lay His head.

I touch the hem of His garment for healing.

To get closer means His smell might

mingle with mine.

                                 -Summer 2012

  

The Pursuit of Happiness...

You know you are bored when you start watching documentaries you've never heard of. For fun. While knitting. Confession aside, while searching for something to help keep my sanity (and a pretty nifty scarf I'm making) going, I stumbled on the documentary Happiness Is (2009). 

To be honest, it wasn't the most inspiring or coherent piece of work I'd ever seen, but it was an intriguing premise. The filmaker, after leaving a career in the fashion photography world, decided to do a project exploring the third of Jefferson's "trinity of values:" the pursuit of happiness. Life and liberty are pretty self-explanatory, but what do people believe about our "right" to be happy in America?

Like many people in the film, I've recited the words many times but have never understood what they meant. What is it that we are supposed to be after anyway? Does it line up with what I know about the world? About God? 

The movie shared several interesting facts. One was on the entymology of the word itself. Happiness, it explained, comes from the word hap, which means chance or fortune. In other words, we are supposed to be pursuing what comes down to luck. Circumstances. The roll of the dice. Things falling into place so that we suddenly have what we want. 

They also explained that this idea of "favor" or "good circumstances=good life" has been and is manipulated over and over again for economic gain.

The most interesting story was that of Alfred P. Sloan, the CEO of General Motors at the time when the Model T was hugely popular. Up until his arrival on the scene, Ford Motor Co. had been operating on the assumption that you would buy an automobile and that it would last you for decades. Sloan's success came when he capitalized on the circumstantial nature of happiness. He began marketing a new model of car each year in order to make people unhappy with the car they already owned. His plan was brilliant, and he became a major competitor to Ford. 

So what does this all mean for us, I thought. As a follower of Jesus, does happiness fit in with the life I am called to lead? 

I've come to the decision that happiness, the kind that is tied to luck, tied to new purchases and the latest must-have invention is devoid of meaning. That was easy. What was harder for me to realize is that the pursuit of conditions conducive to happiness is also an empty path, one I often find myself wandering. 

Whether my husband is perfect, my house is clean, my dinner is beautiful, my health is superb,  I am called to choose joy and thanksgiving and living like Jesus instead of chasing happiness. 

I am called to the pursuit of holiness, the state of being set apart for sacred use by a powerful God. My goal should be to be more like Jesus, more a part of the loving and healing of others -- goals that may or may not involve happiness at the time.  Patrick and I joke about this whenever he acts out his role as godly husband and calls me out on a choice I shouldn't be making or an attitude I shouldn't be entertaining. I'll say, "Good thing you're called to make me holy, not happy." Happiness is not my end goal.

I feel like I got a better understand of the whole issue today when I searched, "happiness" in the Bible. I wanted to see if it was there at all, and if it was, how were to relate to it.  There were only six references. Only two places explained how we get happiness. 

The first was in Ecclesiastes: "To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness..." (Ecclesiastes 2:26). 

The second was in Matthew, "Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness!’" (Matthew 25:21/23). 

It seems like pursuing happiness is none of my concern (Sorry, Jefferson).My concern needs to be pleasing God (holiness) and being faithful with the tasks, talents, relationships, and responsibilties he has given me now. He will give happiness and invite me to share in His. May He give you happiness, dear friends, as you pursue His (and that of His beautiful people) today.  

(picture by By Camdiluv ♥ from Concepción, CHILE (Colours) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)

Born Again...

According to all the baby books and sites, our baby's hearing has gotten stronger and stronger these last few weeks. She can now hear us having conversations or listening to music. For a while now, we've been working on this assumption and incorporating bedtime stories into our nightly routine. We've worked our way through The Jesus Storybook Bible and are now on to some serious Dr. Seuss. It's Patrick's chance to connect with the baby, and let's be honest, I still love a good read-aloud before going to sleep.

I believe our baby girl can hear Patrick's voice because she stirs whenever he gets close enough, even if she's  been still for a while. However, one night, I started thinking about if she could make out the individual words.

I doubt it. Surrounded by the sounds of my stomach, the warm sea she's floating in, and the muffled walls of her world, she can't make out Patrick saying, "Your daddy loves you. Your mama loves you. But Jesus loves  you most of all." He declares her precious, but she won't be able to hear it clearly until she is born. That night, I finally understood Jesus' conversation with Nicodemus.

I had never really gotten the whole "born again" thing either, and always felt like Jesus had been a little tough on the guy. Besides, the words "born again" have gotten a pretty bad rap over the years as they can conjure up Bible thumping or naiive people running around shouting, "Hallelujah!" Why would Jesus choose this image?

Here's the whole conversation (I like The Message's version):

"There was a man of the Pharisee sect, Nicodemus, a prominent leader among the Jews. Late one night he visited Jesus and said, “Rabbi, we all know you’re a teacher straight from God. No one could do all the God-pointing, God-revealing acts you do if God weren’t in on it.”

³ Jesus said, “You’re absolutely right. Take it from me: Unless a person is born from above, it’s not possible to see what I’m pointing to—to God’s kingdom.”

⁴ “How can anyone,” said Nicodemus, “be born who has already been born and grown up? You can’t re-enter your mother’s womb and be born again. What are you saying with this ‘born-from-above’ talk?”

^5-6 Jesus said, “You’re not listening. Let me say it again. Unless a person submits to this original creation—the ‘wind-hovering-over-the-water’ creation, the invisible moving the visible, a baptism into a new life—it’s not possible to enter God’s kingdom. When you look at a baby, it’s just that: a body you can look at and touch. But the person who takes shape within is formed by something you can’t see and touch—the Spirit—and becomes a living spirit.

^7-8 “So don’t be so surprised when I tell you that you have to be ‘born from above’—out of this world, so to speak. You know well enough how the wind blows this way and that. You hear it rustling through the trees, but you have no idea where it comes from or where it’s headed next. That’s the way it is with everyone ‘born from above’ by the wind of God, the Spirit of God.” (Emphasis mine)

We can speak words of love over our child every day. They can move her, stir something in her she doesn't understand. However, until she is born, she can never fully understand the love we are inviting her into. 

What if God is caressing the arched womb of this world, whispering, shouting, and crooning his love over us? We're promised, "He will take great delight in you;  in his love he will no longer rebuke you,  but will rejoice over you with singing" (Zephaniah 3:17). He is declaring us precious, but unless we believe Jesus when he says he's the only way to God, unless we accept his offer of love and forgiveness, we will never accurately hear his voice. 

Our baby might not understand that there is only one way out. Only one way to fully enter into life. She might be hesitant to leave the safety of her known world. But, Oh, when she does, she will be fully embraced by our words, our arms, and our community. God's children are the same way. If you have never fully accepted this whole Jesus thing, I get it. It's a scary passage into the unknown. But, Oh, when you do, you are then fully embraced by God's words, his arms, his community. You will be able to hear the words of love he has spoken over you for so long. 

If you know Jesus, if you are moving forward in relationship with him, birth doesn't stop our stories. We're called to "grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ." (Ephesians 4:15). 

As we grow, the words of this song have always been beautiful to me: 

Those without status,

those who are nothing,

You have made royal,

gifted with rights,

chosen as partners,

midwives of justice,

birthing new systems,

lighting new lights.

                 -from "Fresh as the Morning" by Shirley Erena Murray. © 1996 Hope Publishing Co. 

Our function as that body is not to be judges, not to be exclusive caretakers of our own, but to be midwives. Those who help others to be born and thereby, to hear. May we take this beautiful calling seriously, until the day when every tribe and tongue can hear the song of the Lamb who has been singing all along. 

Mr. Rogers Had It Right

Yesterday, my friend threw up all around our neighbor J.'s taxi cab.

Granted, my friend is 18 months old and was very upset about being left with a babysitter (me :)), but the whole situation got me thinking about the people who live on my street. As we left the "scene of the crime," I kept thinking how I knew whose taxi cab it was, and how I cared if it would bother him. Now, I know that doesn't sound too profound, but it has taken me over two years to get to this place. God has been teaching me that our presence in this neighborhood matters far more than I realize.  For a teacher, I can be a pretty slow learner.

Here are some other facts I know about J.: he is from New York; he has a tattoo of the Virgin on his arm and some pretty massive gold rings; he has one working Cadillac and three resting on rims in the back because "Caddies never die." It's not much, but it's a start. Here's how I learned even this much.

I had been working on the computer all day and had just learned to knit, so I was switching back and forth between a screen and two slippery sticks. Thrilling. I was bored enough to start knitting again when I felt like God was whispering, This is not what I have for you right now. Grumpy at not having any better ideas myself, I asked in my head, Well, can I at least walk to the mailbox? Would that be okay with you?! Ignoring my attitude, I felt like God gave me the thumbs up, so I slipped into the heat. On the way back from the mailbox, I noticed my two neighbors J. and P. chatting in P.'s driveway. They invited me into the conversation and what followed was a gift.

We spent the next twenty minutes as an unlikely trio in the hot July sun. We talked about interstates and my grandfather's GM days. We talked about truck driving and Detroit and the school system in town. We talked about our baby and their jobs. I listened as P., a man I had thought of with distaste (we've a few suspicions he sells things a little stronger than Girl Scout cookies :) ), share how he has "hopes for this city." We entered into each others' stories. This, this entering into the stories of my neighbors, is something beautiful, something biblical, and something worth devoting the rest of my life to.

I think one of the reasons why Jesus is hard to find in our neighborhoods is because we go about sharing him so differently than he shared himself. I have avoided neighbors who smoke or drink or yell too much. I have hoped neighbors would find Jesus so they wouldn't smoke or drink or yell so much. I have made mercenary friendships where I've seen conversion as the main goal of our relationships. I  have felt like a benefactor of goodness. It's a good thing we moved in or who knows where they would be. Jesus was not like this!

Jesus shared wine and bread and heated conversation. He sat and got down to some deep heart issues while people did their daily tasks, like drawing water. He told stories of enemies paying for medical and hotel costs for someone banged up by a rough neighborhood crowd, of one house in heaven with many rooms instead of a million mansions with manicured lawns. He let people host him, touch him, banter with him, cry with him.   He entered into the stories of those around him and in doing so, revealed the Father's heart. It is the same for me. Since it is no longer I who lives but Christ in me, when I give and take from my neighbors, Jesus will be shared as a matter of course. No sophisticated outreach or system will transform my neighborhood. A few potlucks just might.

Donald Miller shares in his book Blue Like Jazz about a time when he heard another author, Brennan Manning, speak about Zaccheus. Manning had shared that the anger of an entire town did nothing to change Zaccheus' exploiting his neighbors and selling out to the empire that was oppressing his people. Jesus came and ate with him, and Zaccheus paid back everyone he had ever cheated.

This week, may we all be a little less like rugged individuals and a little more like Mr. Rogers. The kingdom could come in some small, powerful ways as a result.

Covering

I wonder if doctors hate Web MD. I thought of this on a walk after an appointment today with my rheumatologist (a very encouraging appointment, by the way). I'm sure people come into to doctors and specialists all the time saying, "Well, according to Web MD, I have ____. It says I should ask you to prescribe ____. Are you sure you don't want to check again?" As if these men and women who have spent years training to do their jobs need us, need me to self-diagnose and come up with a suitable treatment plan.

While I completely support advocating for one's health, I know that I can waste a lot of time worrying that I have to figure out what's wrong. It is not my job. Doctors in a way, provide a type of covering for things I don't understand. I need to trust that they've heard from experts and are caring for me.

As time-consuming as second-guessing a doctor's every decision can be, God revealed to me this weekend that I often spend even more hours agonizing over lifestyle questions that are really not my job to answer. You see, God has given me a covering, in the form of the man I wake up next to each morning.

I've spent days and days trying to discern what to do about tough issues: how should we be budgeting our money and time? Do we need to give more out of our discretionary income? What is a Christian response to environmental concerns? Yikes, big questions to roll around all day. I have felt the urge to decide what I believe about each thing, and then tell Patrick when I did or what we need to do.

I didn't verbalize it until Sunday night, but I was living this way: There are times when I do not believe the Holy Spirit can speak to my husband. Equally as insiduous, there are times when I don't believe my husband listens as well, is as sensitive to his leading as I am. In living this way, I am forfeiting the covering that could be mine.

Ephesians 5 (NIV) says this,  ^"Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless." 

Just as Jesus made his Bride holy, Patrick, as my husband, is responsible for the holiness of myself and of our family. 

I know this idea sounds backward. When I first expressed it to Patrick on Sunday night, I laughed and said, "I feel like this sounds Amish or something." (Nothing against the Amish...it simply felt like more of a traditional family structure than I'd ever considered before). I have known many women (myself included) that have felt the pressure to be the spiritual leader in their homes. They listen to the sermon, read the article, ponder a question while cooking dinner, and frantically try to get their husbands to go along.

I think this is for a variety of reasons. Some men have neglected the call to be the primary discipler in the home. Some women  (like me) have had a hard time believing their husbands can hear from the Lord and are making the right choices.

I asked God the same question, "But what if Patrick gets it wrong? What if he isn't as generous or disciplined or (fill in the blank) as we are supposed to be? I need to keep figuring things out for us!"

God answered the question through my friend Carol. A wise woman in our church, she had encouraged me to rest under Patrick's guidance when I was really stressed about if we were giving enough. God would hold him accountable for the leadership and decisions he made, she told me. My job was to follow him in trust, allow him to be my covering.

Now, I don't believe that God wants me to blindly follow or never express my opinions. His Spirit does speak to me in different ways because of different giftings I have. However, I can lose the anxiety over figuring everything out. I can bring it to Patrick, and he can decide what our family should do (whoo what a decision to trust this is!).

One final reservation I had about the idea of covering was how it would make Patrick feel. Would he feel overwhelmed by the prospect of being held accountable for listening to God's voice, ensuring our family was following Jesus, and pointing out flaws in my thinking? Was it too much? When I asked him this, the exact opposite was true. My position of trust gave him incredible confidence. He said he felt encouraged to step up and really do his job to lead. There seemed to be joy on both our parts that came from taking our parts, the parts God intended.

And there I've gone again...writing far to much for far too long. My ideas seem to take quite a few paragraphs to flesh out. However, writing them encourages me to put names to what God is doing, lest I forget. I hope in writing I encourage you, too. Rest in the covering provided to you, and be amazed at how beautifully God's design really works. Good night!