Fragrance

The sun steals glances through the low clouds as they roll over the mountain peaks that surround the valley where the houses stand.  I struggle for breath as I puff up a hill steeper than the one before.  And the struggling is not just in the hill.  I think of the steep walls of the valley of the soul in which I find myself, struggling for breath even here.  I think of all the carefully, prayerfully plotted steps that brought me to what I thought would be a promise land, only to find myself wandering in a wilderness.  

The cool Cape air is suddenly steeped with the strong aroma of lavender.  I come out of my thoughts and am brought back to my surroundings, eyes searching, spying purple blossoms clinging to slender shoots which decorate the gardens of the many houses along this path.  But having passed these stalks yesterday with nothing so noteworthy, the question begged why the air should now be heavy with the bloom’s distinctive scent.   

I turn the corner and find my answer.  A lawn service, with a furor erupting from equipment in hand, busily manicuring an unruly front garden.  And there before me, lying carelessly at the street’s edge, remnants of a lavender hedge that had only just been cut back.   Lacerated limbs and broken buds bleeding their rich, beautiful perfume throughout the neighborhood.

I stand, unable to move, staring.   

Taking in the scene, I watch this literal and visually unpleasant process of  pruning unfold before me:   The barrenness of once fruitful limbs, cut away until nakedness remains.  Bits of old life now littering the pavement below.  The crudeness of the cut as the crowning glory is cast down. 

I watch, a witness to this age old gardener’s method.  

But, today, there is something even more.  Something more than what can be beheld by the eyes.  

There is this powerful, all encompassing, overwhelming fragrance.

My tired lungs fill, expand.  Exhale.  Expend.  Empty.  

And then I breath once more, expanding again.  And again.   Deeply. 

I reflect on the lavender, on her scattered limbs, discarded.  No time to grieve what has been taken, thrust abruptly into her new life phase.  She is my inward image, the mirror of my desolate inner being.  .

I begin to wonder of my own struggles, bespeaking not a wilderness season after all, but one of pruning, of preparation.  A time of careful and intentional removal of things no longer necessary, things that could impede growth and hinder -even harm- a greater harvest.  

Like my counterpart, as I undergo pruning, laid bare and vulnerable before watching eyes, when I am broken and my strengths are paired back and my weaknesses revealed, it is in that moment that His grace has room to prove sufficient, and that even such a painful undertaking can bring forth beauty.

There is a unique opportunity for this divine taking-away to yield a declaration of joy in the midst of personal trial.  My brokenness, no longer a tragic misfortune that must be endured or worse, hidden, but rather my privilege to bear, my confident profession of the endless love and infinite wisdom of my God who knows me, desires me, and desires the best for me.  Like incense, this gift of vulnerability pours forth, an offering to His throne room and a fragrant balm to fellow pilgrims who, like me, may be trying to hide broken limbs to protect a delicate ego, a fragile false self; who fear being known, broken bits and all.  Even if the brokenness is a necessary part in the process of healing, growth, and abundance.  

This process.  

This wholly intolerable yet utterly indispensable process.

Marking my life.  

Enabling me move out of my self pity.  Out of my longings for old garments that no longer fit my new person. Out of my mourning for times and things past, and into a new season, full of life and promise, radiating the unmistakable aroma of one fully submitted to the trustworthy hands of The Gardener.  Evidence of one undeniably dependent upon the One in whom she is rooted.

Drawing up strength.  Drinking in life.  And slowly, but ever steadily, being resurrected to something, to someone, greater than her former glory.  Richer.  Fuller.  Fruitful.  And even more so.  Because pruning produces greater harvests, in time.

This mangled shrub does not mourn her losses.  Her seemingly injured state but an Ebenezer of her season on the journey, and a testimony of her quiet knowing that new limbs will stretch once more skyward, alive and vibrant, in a not-as-slow-as-expected fashion.  Her discreet expression of praise developing anew, as she does likewise.  

I find my feet again, in more than one way.  The path seems easier now, the load lighter.  And though I make my way homeward, the scent of lavender lingers.  I lift my own limbs, and I join in the celebration of all creation, knowing that pruning, including my own, gives way to newness of life.  A life that emits the fragrance of my Christ.

“Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance .  Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation -- an aroma redolent with life.” 2 Corinthians 2:15,  The Message

Perfection

Flying through the Longbeach Mall, little ones moving this way and that at my heals...and far beyond; Sadie wriggles on my hip, eager to join her brother and sister.  Prescription in one hand,I make my way to the grocery store to pick up a few bits I am missing in my fridge before I make my exit.  There is a momentum, moving us forward, moving us out.  As I try to make my escape my eye catches him.  It is a moment but there is so much time to assess, to judge.

He is middle-aged, a short man, hunched over his phone, speedily writing his SMS.  What is left of his hair is gelled, making it look significantly less than what he has.  His coffee colored skin is potched and weathered, making him look more aged than he aught.  He must be around my age.  He is well groomed but, despite his best efforts, seems to be left wonting.  Normally I would not even notice a man like this, would not have taken note of his lack-luster features or general unattractiveness.  But it is his shirt that has gotten my attention, that has invited my scrutinizing valuation:

"This Is What PERFECTION Looks Like"

In my millisecond assessment, I scoff.

Really?  I muse, mockingly.

And as I rush past this man, this epitome of perfection, with my drive-by critique I am immediately struct by Holy Spirit conviction:

If he were Jesus, would you think the same?

I place my 14 month old in the front of the shopping trolly, hoping she will stay seated as she proceeds to stand and attempts to scale down the cart.  My other barefoot children are running up and down isles asking for drinks and ice cream and yogurt and cupcakes and sushi.  I hold the baby, standing, with one hand and push the cart as I pick up a juice with another.  But I feel the weight of the question.

If he were Jesus... Jesus, this man I profess to love and follow and obey.  This God man I would go to the ends of the earth with and for... he was NOT beautiful by the standards of men.  Outwardly he was nothing to look at.  And the message he professed was one that offended and repulsed many: this is what perfection looks like.

I try to imagine Jesus today, wearing the teeshirt.  He is the only one worthy of making such a claim.  I try to think if my reaction would have been different, if I would have known Him for who He was.  If a momentary glance at His general appearance would have stirred me to salvation.  But I am embarrassed by the truth that is surfacing from within.

I would have passed Him by, this man with His outrageous claims.  I would have laughed, I would have mocked.  I would have called for Him to be crucified, to make good His claim that He was what He said He was.  And my aching, judging heart would have missed the whole point.  That my uncontainable God would do an unlikely thing, become flesh, Immanuel, "God with Us," and suffer insults from undeserving children like me so that He could offer an unthinkable gift of grace and demonstrate and unyielding, abounding love.  Yes, He is THAT good.

And here I am today, a modern day Pharisee caught off guard with the incredulous claim of perfection in my midst, and I judge and reject.  I feel ashamed as I wheel my circus and my juice and my eggs up to the till to check out.  I should know better, think better.  Look at me, I am a mess.    But Holy Spirit, in His kindness, does not leave me in my guilt.  I am washed over in love and His undeserved grace, rebuked gently, and reminded.  This man, Mr. Perfect, is made in the image of God Almighty.  He bears the reflection, the very image, of the Creator of All Things, the Ruler of All Things.  And while I do not know the dreams and struggles and secrets and desires of this man's heart I know that he is made in the image of his Father, my Father, who IS perfect, who IS perfection, and I think, "Yes, this is what perfection looks like."  A glimpse of perfection.

Because in every one of us, we bear His image.  We reflect a piece of His nature, His character.  Each one of us, glimpses of His perfection.  Masterpieces.  His workmanship, crafted by the beauty of His heart.   Fearfully and wonderfully made.  Even sideline SMS T-shirt man.  Even a ginger-haired mommy whose heart is more in need of a makeover than he is.

As I leave the grocer and make my way to the car, I look for him, my T-shirt prophet.  I want to see him again, so I can look on him with eyes afresh.  He is gone, but the lesson is not.  It burns within me as I pass unsuspecting customers and silently acknowledge them as I pass them, "This is what perfection looks like; THIS is what perfection looks like!"

Oh my God, teach me to look on people as you do, not outwardly in appearance but at the heart.  Spirit, thank You for Your gentle correction.  Lead me past the superficial and the physical, this place that is but a shadow, into the deep and meaningful hidden world of Your Kingdom that is real and true and lasting immemorial.   Let me not forget that we are Your very good creation, Your Image Bearers.  Thank you, Jesus, for your immeasurable, sacrificial grace that extends to the depths of my heart.  Continually lead me to the place where I am transformed by Your love, made anew.  Lead me into the ways of Your perfect love.

In the Gap

It hits me every time.

I sit on the lush, colorful cushions, sipping my peppermint tea.  The scent of coffee hangs in the air.  The chandeliers catch the light in their crystal beads.  Eager eyes take in the beauty of glass and white and silver in this elegant emporium and coffee shop.  And though I enjoy the quiet beauty and refinement of this place my mind is thousands of miles away.  I cannot reconcile the reality I am experiencing with the reality I am wrestling.  

I cannot get her out of my mind.  My heart is gripped.  

SYRIA. 

So many have already fallen victim to a regime that has no regard for servant leadership, for caring for and empowering her people.  Pride has erupted into its many hideous manifestations: hatred, ego, selfishness, power lust, control.  Lives that were known in the womb, with unique purpose and destiny, are now just ticks on the growing tally of collective death that is consuming this broken nation.

What can I do?

There is this deep desire to get on a plane and span the breadth of a continent, to immerse myself in a refugee camp and minister to the aching bodies and aching hearts that have nothing but breath in their lungs.  But right now I am a continent away with no means to get there.

It would appear that I am helpless.

But I am not.

I can stand in the gap.  I can bridge the heart of God to fallen earth.  I can be a catalyst for change, shaking the Heavenlies and waging war against strongholds and high places that oppose the rule of God the Father and the authority of His son, Jesus.  

I can intercede.

I can engage in this humble ministry of Jesus, who, standing before the Father on behalf of humanity - on behalf of me -  ceaselessly prays for God’s will to be fulfilled in each person and in the nations for the glory of the Father.   

And yet I do not.  Why is it that I find this form of “help” so much less desirable?  

I want to DO something practical.  Something hands on.  I want to look into the soul windows of the one I am helping and watch as a simple act of kindness transcends language and culture and brings hope and transformation.  Maybe one day this desire will be birthed into the fullness of reality.  But in my heart I know that God has not called me to this mission, not in Syria, not yet.  And I have been in missions long enough to know that my short term, hands on intervention, however helpful, will benefit me far more than those I desire to serve.  Of course I yearn for the satisfaction that I have done something to help the world, to carry the hope of Christ to the brokenhearted, to bring forth the Kingdom of God into the dark places of the earth.

But somewhere deep within me also lurks that same pride that has dominated and destroyed the very ones I long to help, wrestling for domination in my own heart.  It wants renown, and though I want to help I also wouldn’t mind the gratitude and praise afforded for my noble efforts.

But intercession affords me none of that.  In the secret place, covered in the shadow of the Almighty, I am the nameless laborer.  I must discipline my heart and mind to carve out time from the daily goings on of my life in order to serve, unknown but to the LORD.  And in doing so I engage with my Savior, co-laboring with Christ in His ministry of intercession day and night.  

After His very public three year ministry on earth Jesus, the King of Glory, has spent millennia engaging in His ministry of intercession.  Beyond the sight of the eyes of this world.  Day and night before the Father. 

And this is exactly what Syria needs from me.  She doesn’t need any more over-eager leaders demanding to have their way.  She needs ones with the heart of Jesus who are willing to sacrifice themselves to see her lifted up.  And if, out of this place of service with Jesus, I am released to be His hands and feet as well, I will have been equipped and richly blessed with the Father’s heart for this suffering nation and its people.  

Oh sweet Jesus, forgive me for belittling You and Your ministry.  Your humility astounds me.  It challenges me to live beyond myself.  It challenges me to live for You, to be with You where You are.  You know the needs of the nations and the peoples who dwell within them.  Holy Spirit, share the Father’s will with me that I might join You in bringing the Kingdom of Light to dark places.  Teach me to be faithful with this critically important privilege.  Forgive me for wanting to make it all about me.  Forgive me for wanting to play savior to a world that only needs You.  It’s all about You Jesus.  May Your great name be magnified among the nations and among the people of Syria.

Fearless

A rare opportunity for a date night with my husband affords us the opportunity to travel a bit lighter that we would on a usual family outing.  No diaper bag; no juice cups; no Ziploc bags filled with some kind of snack that I would later find wedged in or under the seat of the car.  In fact, this time, there is no car.

I slide the newly purchased black helmet over my head.  The protective foam still has a faint but lingering aroma of cigarette smoke and machine parts from the bike shop.  And without giving too much thought to it, lest I change my mind, I get on the motorbike.   My body tenses and my arms lock, perhaps a little too tightly around my love.   And we are off.

I am so used to my automobile, with its seatbelts and reclining seats and automatic windows and locks.  

And doors. 

But this experience is something altogether different for me.  This is terrifying.  And exhilarating.  I begin to relax.  As fear subsides, something else emerges.  This overwhelming reservoir of passion and joy breaks forth.  I feel alive.  And I LOVE it.

There is nothing that separates me from the world, nothing that encases me from the journey.  I am fully immersed, all my senses fully engaged, as I cling to my beloved.  I smell, taste, the salt air.  The wind tears over me.  Every stop, every acceleration, is magnified.  Every turn, as my entire body leans into the curve; close, closer to the ground.  A ride in my car never felt like this.

And as we cruise along Chapman’s Peak, one of the world’s most beautiful scenic drives, I come to a devastating conclusion:

I am missing it.

I am missing the adventure of the journey of my life.  I am missing clinging to my Beloved Jesus as He takes me to places and people and heights I have never been. Where once I willingly followed Him to great depths across waters and continents with a child-like excitement and implicit trust I find now I have conceded to linger in shallower waters of routine and contentment.  I have settled for self-reliance and self-preservation.  Rather that accepting the adventurous invitation of the One my heart loves, to risk daily in delirious joy, I have declined for something a little “safer.” And in the perceived safety of this meticulously crafted cocoon to protect myself, I sojourn these shadow lands certain of making my heavenly destination. 

And completely missing the journey. 

Fear’s inexhaustible exhaustion, masquerading as reserved concern or even wisdom, convinces me to play it safe.  Tirelessly wearing on me.  And it is heavy, its weight pressing greater as the years pass.  As the cost of following Christ grows more apparent.

There is so much risk.  So much that could happen.  So much that could go wrong.  What if He leads me somewhere risky?  Somewhere dangerous?  What if He asks for something more than I am willing to lay on the alter?  So much trepidation wrapped up in the realm of “what if…”

I gaze through my visor into the blue greens that thunder against these magnificent cliffs we drive, that hug the Atlantic in this cup of bay; and the arctic kissed sea that sprays up in gossamer swirls.  This terrifying joy journey takes me right to the heart of my crisis of belief:  I am afraid to trust Jesus.  I realize in my futile efforts to preserve my life, I live a little less.  And I conclude there is no joy in this kind of “what if” thinking. 

What if…

What if Christ had succumbed to His fears in the garden, abandoning the cross? 

But for love, for the joy set before Him, he endured.

What if I followed His example?

What if I truly committed to give up self, to lay down my life?  To take on the image of Christ?  To forsake how people view me that they may rightly view the true and living God who dwells within me?

What if I stopped stifling Holy Spirit and really gave Him full authority over my life?  To know His boldness?  To be a willing captive to His humility and power?

What if I were to really live without fear?

Without fear.

What if I were to really live?

True life.  Abundant life.   Life that, in its risk and sacrifice, begets new life and yields immeasurable beauty.  Life that bespeaks immeasurable love.

What if I gladly gave myself to this scandalous Savior, this glorious God Man who, knowing what it was to fear, chose joy?  Chose love.  Chose me.

Jesus, I commit myself anew to You.  I confess that, while I have accepted You as Savior, I have denied You Lordship over my life. I choose to turn from my unbelief.  I choose to trust You. Have Your way in me. I pray the only fear I embrace is the ravishing and reverent awe of who You are.  Holy Spirit, teach me to lift my eyes above my own fears and to rest them on kingdom joy, my joy in Christ, set before me.  Fill me with the richness of Your fear-casting love.

Nathan drives up to an outlook point and we watch the colors of sky and sea change as the sun dips lower.  The view is stunning.  Sitting on the stone ledge, I take in the beauty of this place tucked away below the equator.  Here, at the ends of the earth, I re-remember that the God of the journey is good and trustworthy.  That each step I take is a gift of a radical grace and fearless love expressed by the One who risked the steps of Calvary that we could walk together into eternity, and journey on.

Reflections

Another year is come.

I stare in the mirror.  I can see new places where I adorn the rhythm of life; silvery white strands replacing faded copper ones.  Smile lines etching deeper.  Faint whispers around the eyes quietly disclosing the years they have seen.  Everything seems to be settling lower these days, on this body that has traveled nations and birthed three beautiful babies. 

They change, too, those marvelous little ones, with every passing year.  Every year passing so quickly.  Too quickly.   Never enough days to drink up the deliciousness of their youth.

But this New Year, as with them all, will move tirelessly ahead.  And because of time’s unremitting haste, I am not afforded lengthy intervals to meditate; times of reflection are few and far between, or otherwise rushed and easily forgotten.  Only when the year is fresh do I pause a little longer and ask, How, Lord, would you have me to spend these precious days?

The theme of His immeasurable Love, and myself its fragile conduit, threads its way to the forefront of every day.  Year after year the weight of its indispensible beauty to reign over and in and through my life presses on my spirit.  The simplicity of its truth.  The complexity of its reality.

But recently I am captured in contemplation by Andrew Murray’s uncomplicated observation of family:

“It was God’s plan for the family with its love and training of the children to reflect the fellowship of God’s home and the love of the Father in Heaven.”

I ponder over his words.

I recall scenes from the world under my roof:  Adara clawing her bother; Caleb taking the bigger half of a cookie; Caleb’s tattling, Adara’s demanding; The constant whining... the list is endless.  Could there even be a hope that my home could mirror Heaven’s?

And yet the mandate persists, the privilege, to become this radical expression of Love: Love, whose Heaven-kissed breath made dust His image-bearer; Love, whose sacrificial breath cast redemptive hope to souls adrift.  Love, who was, and who is, and who is to come. 

My family, my home, should reflect His home.

And it begins with me.  Within me.

The awesome wonder of His glorious kingdom on earth, in me, as it is in Heaven, starts with allowing Christ to transform my innermost being.  The places I am willing to expose.  The places I have locked away.  The depths that are still unknown, even to me.  And as the healing balm of His boundless grace penetrates, Spirit to spirit, a metamorphosis of the heart takes place. 

And it’s not about perfection. 

It’s about choice.

Every single choice: every thought, every word.  Every habit, pattern, emotion.  How I rejoice.  How I bless.  How I handle my frustrations and anger.  What I do with sadness, hurt, and grief.  How I respond to conflict.  What I do when I am wrong. 

Because their eyes are on me, ever watchful.

Those arresting soul-windows of my children, soaking up the world, taking in my life.  Little likenesses of myself.  Absorbing every public and private display of who I am.  And if I am not reflecting Christ to them, then I am not loving them with the best of what I have to give.  Our home is not the refuge of joy and peace that it should be.  And we are all a little less than the people we could be.

I know I will fail.  But failure is just another opportunity for the right choice to be made.  And if an entire life can be redeemed in the simple act of choosing Christ, then there is always hope that my failing choices can be the learning moments for me to grow - and for my children to grow - in the realization of one’s desperate need for His Grace.  And His Kingdom, ever being restored in my heart, comes once more.

This year will have it’s own challenges, its own joys and sorrows.  I will flourish and I will fail.  But choice by choice there is the hope of a promise:

On earth as it is in Heaven.

I leave the mirror and smile.

It’s going to be a great year.

Holy Spirit, breathe Your life afresh in me.  Lead me the way of Jesus.  Help me to be an organic vessel of the Father’s kingdom in my home, that I might leave a lasting inheritance for my children, and for generations to come.  Let my life, made up of little choices, reflect Your love, Jesus.  Teach our family of your fellowship with the Father.  May our lives, living reflections of Your Kingdom, be the home that people are searching for: Yours.

Another Day

I let Nathan put Caleb and Adara to bed.  

I am frustrated for ending another day as the “maintenance man.”  It feels as if I maintain all day long.  

Character.  Toys.  Behavior.  Chores.   

But not really making progress in any of those areas.  

I let Sadie cry for a minute, wanting that one minute to myself as work on the puzzle occupying a portion of my bedroom floor.  I glance over its skeleton edge, the interruption of links in the right hand corner.  I think we are already missing a piece and wonder if it is a futile effort to continue.  Sadie is unrelenting and I abandon my poorly planned Me Time to feed her.

I spend my night, the time of quiet when the children are asleep and it is just me and my husband, tidying up.  I am almost on the verge of anxiety knowing that there are still little piles needing to be unpacked and sorted behind clean-looking cupboards.   

I pick up a trail of tiny pastel rubber bands that lead to a handful of sequin headbands and three santa hats.  I toss Nerf guns and styrofoam ammo, which litter the pantry entryway, into a toy basket.    I resign myself to leaving the couch disheveled, deciding not to fluff and place the pillows because by the time I make my way downstairs in the morning the two older children will have made a tent, or boat, or war trench out of them and I will find them on the floor anyway.  

I follow a succession of messes around the house.  Why don’t the children EVER clean up after themselves?  Is it too much to expect them to put their toys away?  I am weary from what feels like wasted effort running a home.  I finish up.  Nathan suggests I take a bath.  Read a magazine.  Relax.  

But I don’t want to relax.  Because if I relax I will just continue to dwell on how utterly frustrated I am with my kids, and ultimately with myself, and have the “I’ve-had-several-life-changes-all-at-once” emotional meltdown I have been anticipating for the last few months.  No, I don’t want to relax.  I want to veg.  I just want to shut off my brain and emotions for a little bit and then go to bed.  I sign on to my computer and log on to Facebook.

As I scroll down the newsfeeds I see one post and immediately I know that this is not going to be a veg session.

“I just have such a deep, deep ache for these families right now”

Post after post of prayers, condolences, and comments.  

For Sandy Hook.  

I don’t know what this is.  I don’t read the news, or even headlines, because I don’t want to know things.  Because the consequences of sin are so painful, so heart-wrenchingly unbearable sometimes that I at some point I have to shield my heart or I will be overwhelmed with hopelessness and grief.   But I go in search of this headline tonight.  Something about it is tugging at my soul.  I immediately find it.  I don’t even need to read the article.  I now know what Sandy Hook is.  And it is unbelievably tragic.  

I am ashamed at my own thoughts and behavior of the evening.  I have whined over the petty and been wholly ungrateful.  Halfway around the world there is a mother who will not have the privilege of tucking in her child tonight and have I carelessly forfeited mine.   In an instant headbands and scattered toys and cushions take their appropriate places in the order of things significant.  

Oh God, forgive me.  

Forgive me for being so focused on myself that I was blind to the gift that was today, to moments that could have been treasured instead of tiring.  Help me, Holy Spirit, to remember that the road of Love is always self sacrificing and that the gift of sacrifice is a gift of Love.  Oh how I need your Love to fill me. 

Comfort those parents who are devastated in their grief.  Heavenly Father, who better than You can understand the death of a beloved child to the brutality of sin.  May they find solace in You.

  

I don’t waste another minute.  My frustrations, my selfishness, my sour attitude, I leave them in search of something different.  Something better.

I find some tired bunting and pushpins in one of the cupboard stacks.  Downstairs, I  balance precariously on a chair, pinning the fraying flags onto the wooden beam that joins the open kitchen to the lounge.  It is not beautiful but it is inspired.  I go to the pantry and pull out the ingredients for a breakfast the children can help me make: chocolate pancakes!  Then I borrow the children’s tin of markers and write.  “Mommy loves Caleb.”  “Mommy loves Adara.”  I nearly stop there, but I know that they will ask me about Sadie and Daddy, and they would be ever so right.  So I make a message for each precious member of my family and sticky-tack all of the love notes to the wall nearest the breakfast table.  I can’t wait for the children to see.  These ridiculously simple efforts will not go unnoticed by them.  They will love them, and I will love the children loving them.  

What a wonderful way to embrace the day.

A new day. 

With so much love.

Each moment sacred.  

When they wake up they will ask why.  They will ask if it’s Christmas.  They will want to know what makes this day so special.  And I will have the honor of telling them:  Because this day is here.  And so are we.  We are awake.  We have breath.  We are a family.  We can celebrate of our family, that God chose each one of us to be in this family, and the fact that this very morning we GET to share today together.   And regardless of how we lived yesterday, regardless of how we treated each other then, we have the gift of another day, this moment right now.  Let us use it well.  Let us choose to use it with Love.

Beauty

Beauty is in the eye of they beholder. 

As I drive through the wintery scene, my eyes behold.

I am in wonder of all the color. The sky's transition from afternoon to dusk, fraught with blues and whites melting into rose and ochre. The sun behind a cloud scrim, beams escaping through hidden pockets, muted light streaming over craggy plateaus. The mountains morphing into a misty mauve as the sun begins its descent behind the horizon.

Even the dry and dormant fields are bursting with their own seasonal expressions: Long, brittle barley-colored grasses with hughes of pink line the roadside, blushing as i pass by. Khaki velds cover the landscape. Papery leaves dressed in sage and cinnamon still cling lightly to slender trees. Willows, with their long, naked tendrils, gently sway to an invisible breath. Here and there, patches of charcoal and ash, where farmers have carefully burned away the remnence of last season.

I drive by a privately owned piece of land full of zebra, wildebeest, ostrich, and small antelope.

In moments like these, when I look out into the creation of this majestic land, and behold the beauty, my heart whispers in awe:

I get to live in Africa. 

But it was not always this way.

I embarked to southern Africa six years ago with obedience in my heart and frivolous, naive impressions of Disney's "The Lion King" dancing in my mind. My introduction was anticlimactic, and my merry, sing-song fantasies were dashed once met by the dry, dead, wintery reality before me.

En route to the new home I had never seen, I was greeted by the grim remains of autumn harvests. The previous season's strong stalks of emerald, with amber tufts and golden kernels peeking out from their wrapping, were empty shells, ghosts of maize.  Sunflowers, once blazing with color, necks stretched on poles of graceful green, faces bathing in summer's sun; now hung their dull and withered heads deep into their aged and hollow chests.

Radiance replaced by winter's cold, cruel hand. 

Even the sky's blue seemed icy and uninviting.

When I gazed upon the sunflower graveyards, field after field of them, my heart became faint.

How could I survive in a land devoid of beauty and life and everything that would make my heart sing?

God, what have you called me to?

I drive on to my destination lingering on these, my earliest memories of this place. I puzzle over them, looking at the stunning landscape I am privileged to behold. Why did I despair so? Then I remember: God makes all things beautiful in His time.

But it is not the land that has changed. 

It is myself.

Over these years, something has taken place on the inside of me. The careful forming and reforming, working and reworking, under the skillful hands of the Master Potter, making pliable again a heart that was, in fact, hard and unyielding. In this, the ongoing process of softening and shaping, transforming me into the likeness of His Son, I am slowly, albeit sometimes painfully, evolving into what I was destined to become: God's masterpiece, created anew in Christ Jesus.

It is in this reformation, this metamorphosis that imparts the beauty of my Maker into my heart, that I become a thing of beauty myself.

Which then enables me, weakly but surely enough, to see the beauty in every thing. 

I smile behind the driver's wheel. 

I get to live in Africa. 

And my heart sings: behold.