Lessons

The smell of lamb shanks hangs deliciously in the air.  Nathan reads a passage to the children, one on either side of him.  Jesus is washing the feet of his disciples; their dirty, stinky, filthy feet.  The feet that no one wanted to touch.  The feet that all of the disciples were “too good” to touch.  Because after all, that was a servant’s job.

And there is Jesus, the King of Heaven and Earth, stooping down in this servant role before his friends.  Here is the Master, the Teacher; everything that He does holds great significance.  Every moment is a teachable one.  His actions, on his knees in humility, mystify each student.  This act of selfless love, so unlike any they have ever seen, is the lesson that they must learn.  That they must model.  That they must live.  Because this act, unbeknownst to the small fellowship, is just a taste, simply a prelude, to the greatest act of selfless Love the world would ever know. 

As father reads, babes listen. I fill the small basin I have procured from beneath the kitchen sink.  And I listen.  I ponder this washing of feet preceding the carrying of the cross.  I am convicted.  How can I ever claim to be ready to lay down my life if I am not yet prepared to humble my heart, to embrace the worn and aching souls that have traversed the gritty ground between birth and eternity?  

The familiar story reminds me that there is something intimately related between the washing of feet and the crucifixion:  The humility of the heart.  The willingness to go to the very depths for the sake of Love, no matter the cost.  Am I prepared to walk that road, selfless and sacrificial?  I don’t know.  I want to say yes, rashly promising to follow Jesus anywhere, in any circumstance.  But then, so did the disciples of Jesus.  Before they truly understood what it meant to follow Him.  Before they truly understood what it meant to drink from His cup.  Before, in their fear, they left Him. 

Do I even truly understand?

Maybe I do not.  Not really, not in fullness.  But even the ones who abandoned Jesus returned; returned in strength.  Still not knowing fully, but more fully willing.  I do not want to offer hasty agreements.  I want to be moved by this offering of Love, this offering the disciples finally came to understand.  Came to embrace.  Came to live out.  As Jesus lived.  I want to offer a loyal promise of a love-sick bride who, not knowing every obstacle that will challenge her declaration of commitment, presses on towards devotion and presses into the Love to whom she is promised.

I am willing.  Patient Teacher, lead me down the path of selfless love that you have laid, that you have tread.  Show me what it means to endure because of the joy set before me.  Step by step, however slowly I may move, may I always be moving towards Love, towards You. 

I do not let guilt steal the moment.  I kneel before my son and, as the passage concludes with song, I follow the example of my Teacher.  As I wash, Nathan asks Caleb, “Why did Jesus wash the feet of His friends?”

Caleb answers, “Because they were dirty.  And because He loved them.”

“And do you know why mommy is washing your feet?”

“Because she loves me.”

And though there is still much to be gained from the passage, from this beautiful demonstration of servanthood and selflessness, the most basic, the most crucial element is grasped: LOVE.

“Mommy, can I wash your feet?”

I am caught off guard.  I want to say, “No, no, you don’t have to.  This is my gift to you.”  But then I only offer half of the lesson.  And I rob him of the joy of serving the one he loves.  I think of the woman who, with her very tears, washed Jesus’ feet.  So grateful for the grace that He extended towards her.  He did not stop her from expressing the deep gratitude that was welling up and spilling over from her heart.  He received the beauty of her gift to Him. 

Tears sting my eyes.  In his heart, my son is learning.  After all these years, I am still learning.  And, together, we partake in the alive-message that transcends and transforms. 

“Yes, my boy, you can.”

Adara has her turn, eager toes wiggling with excitement.  Then Caleb instructs me to sit and he tenderly wipes the cloth over my feet.  Adara, following brother’s lead, dries.

This is what Christ modeled.  That we would not only serve with Love, but that we would guide others on the path to do the same.  That we might model and teach and pass on this gift of Love.  And as I have received the gift from generations past, I now pass it onto my children.  The foundation of their hearts holding glimpses of the Kingdom.  Their spirits learning to live lives of Love. 

And the lesson, the gift, carries on.

Sow Wide

Hot pink hope blooms outside my window.

I eye the tender zinnia.  She is not the tallest nor the healthiest I have ever seen yet, against all odds, there she stands among the weeds.  I marvel at her tenacity.

After many failed attempts to keep the dogs out of the garden, the fenced-off patch of carefully weeded and lovingly planted soil remains barren, cratered with the dogs’ late night escapades.

The children and I had spent long hours preparing the garden, trying to create the perfect environment for a fruitful harvest.  But despite every effort to fortify and protect our precious place of seedling safety, night after night our dogs would wreck havoc within the boarders of our sacred space.

Nathan would try to redirect me.  “Maybe you’re not supposed to have a garden this season.  Why don’t you focus on what God has put in front of you right now?”

Of course he was right.  I had my priorities to tend to: homeschooling our children, trying to make time to write, building relationships with the women God had put in my life...I probably did not have time to tend to a garden as well.

But I simply could not get the garden-injustice out of my mind; all this effort to bring forth beauty only to have it stolen away.  One morning, in an act of desperation, or determination, or both, I made my way to the garage.  I was a woman on a mission.

“What are you looking for, Mommy,” Caleb asked inquisitively.  The garage was not my domain, as he well knew.  

“A plastic shopping bag.”

Not just any bag.  A bag full of dried zinnia heads, full of seeds that should have been planted springs ago if not for those meddling dogs.  A bag full of promise that something might bloom the radiance of life in this broken yard.  A bag full of hibernating hope, waiting to be released to its full potential.

I handed Caleb and Adara a dried flower and kept one for myself.  I explained how each  seemingly dead flower held dozens and dozens of seeds and that each seed, if it took root, would become a flower of its own.  I carefully pulled the seeds out of my own dried blossom and watched as the children followed my lead.

“But Mommy,” Caleb asked, “what about the dogs?  Won’t they dig up where we plant the seeds?”

“Yes, they probably will.  That is why we are going to plant a lot of seeds, all over the whole yard, and we will wait and hope that maybe, just maybe, one of those seeds will grow into a bright and beautiful flower.”

And with that, we began.  We must have sown hundreds of seeds!  We laughed and danced and skipped as we scattered our tiny treasures.  In grassy areas; in a corner with hard ground; among the rocks; among the weeds; even in the hole-riddled garden; the children and I sowed everywhere!  

Rains came and went and, after careful inspection of our planting locations, only about 15 sprouts emerged, none in our “garden” plot.  But we were so excited to see the little, two-leafed greens peeking their heads out of unlikely earth we could only rejoice in the expectation of the flowers to come.  Daily we monitored the progress, fully invested in these precious few which had taken root.  

Somewhere in the process I had a revelation about sowing the priceless seeds of the Gospel of Christ.  I had spent so much of my life trying to get all the steps right, trying to create a perfect environment in which to share the love of Jesus with those who were unfamiliar with His saving grace and abundant life.  I wanted a safe, sheltered environment, one which I controlled, to dispense the seeds of greatest hope.  And in effort to protect myself in the process of evangelism, I clutched tightly to my seeds.  Most times I only showed my seeds to other Believers.  And after admiring them I would tuck them safely away for the "right time and place."

And nothing grew.

But what if, with holy abandon, I sowed freely?

What if I took this limitless supply of Grace Seeds and cast them out into all places, unlikely places, sowing wide these Seeds of Life?

What would it really cost me?

What would it cost if I continued to hold back?

Oh God, forgive me for being so tight-fisted with Your gift of Grace.  Forgive me for living under fear of how people might react.  Jesus, thank You for your bold and lavish gift to me.  Holy Spirit, help me to sow wide and sow freely that Gift which was so extravagantly given to me.  

Even now I am moved by this beautiful conviction as I count the other six hopefuls near our hope-blossom.  In my rigid and controlled efforts there was nothing.  But in an act of extravagant sowing, there are seven.  Seven!  The children and I can hardly contain our excitement.  Even Nathan cannot resist a smile as our contagious joy over a single flower touches him.

I am humbled as I look upon these seven promises, the second blossom slowly unfolding her tangerine petals for us.  I did nothing to make her, to make any of them grow.  I was simply willing to be lavish with the gift with which I was entrusted.  

God brought forth the growth.

It is always He who brings forth growth.

So long as those with the Seeds are willing planters.

And so I will keep on sowing.

Generously. 

Getting Ready

Day 8. Day 9. Day 10. Days and nights begin to merge into one another as my husband pursues the purchase of a new vehicle for our family. In another country. What began in our minds as a turn-around trip has now become a longer-than-anticipated adventure.

What is going on Lord, I ask, trying to make sense out of the delay. He is sweetly silent. But it is deeply impressed in my spirit, this notion that He is tenderly teaching me about His sovereignty. So I embrace the wait. And the lessons learned in the waiting.

At first the separation was accepted, even welcomed. Just a few days. And anyway a break does everyone good. Gives fresh perspective. Develops appreciation. Makes the heart grow fonder. However, as our plans overturned and days began to stretch sorely into weeks, something began to happen in the communication between Nathan and myself. Our practical, ho-hum text messages have turned into sappy sentimentals. Our phone calls have become gooshy messes of words of longing and heartfelt yearning to be with one another. One would think as two grown adults who have shared nearly 11 years of marriage that we could handle a little separation with a bit more composure. Instead, this incomprehensible pining has emerged in the two of us, and I find myself beginning to deeply mourn the absence of my husband and dearest friend.

So what do I find myself doing in the meantime? Home-schooling. Rearranging the house. Nurturing children. Going to Bible study. Changing a flat tire. Keeping mice out of the kitchen. Praying with friends. Keeping appointments. Playing secretary. I live out these dual roles of mother and father, husband and wife. Keeping things moving. Because with two small children, life simply does not stop. Some things end up falling away just for the sake of accomplishing the necessary. And let’s face it, who will notice if I don’t shave my legs? I just throw on some jeans and I am on my way.

Now I stand, warm Wednesday afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window while I wash dishes. The children push the neighbor’s puppies in baby doll strollers around the house. I ponder this waiting, this wearing of so many hats, this separation from the one I love. It is the uncertainty of the timing of his coming, this open-ended return that throws me. If I only I could know when Nathan would be home, I could prepare accordingly. I could set my sights on that date and get everything ready for his arrival in due time. At least, that is what I tell myself. But I don’t know when he will be here. So I wait and do nothing.

Some water splashes on my pajamas and I look down to review the damage. I am stricken by my predicament: It is mid-afternoon and I am still in my PJ’s. Glad Nathan’s not coming home right now, I think. Wouldn’t want him finding me like this!

Of course Nathan’s eyes would be for me alone, despite finding me still in night clothes, straggled hair pulled back, legs unshaved. That is one of the deep joys of love. He would be so glad to be reunited with his wife and children after such a delay that he would just revel in us being together. The rest would not matter.

I realize that I don’t actually want to be found all disheveled and simply “surviving” when my Love returns. I want to look my best, being found beautiful in his eyes, as if I had been preparing and waiting every single day in anticipation of his return.

Because my beloved husband is coming. Soon. He will come on his white steed and sweep me in his arms and I want to be ready; smelling, feeling, looking ready to be embraced by the one my heart has longed for. With a roast in the crock-pot.

I am suddenly struck by the parallel of the coming of Christ. Who knows the day or hour He will return? And rather than making excuses that I can’t prepare well since I don’t know when He is to come and finding myself unprepared, I want to be a make myself ready. I want to love well and obey His commands and make disciples and live fully that today could be the day when my Beloved, Christ Jesus, returns for His bride!

Because the Bridegroom is coming. Soon. He will come on His white steed for a bride He has been simply longing for. And I want to be ready.

My heart is awakened. Oh sweet Jesus, I want to be ready for Your return! Help me, Holy Spirit to make myself a bride prepared for the coming of her radiant Bridegroom. Help me to be vigilant in my wait, to have prepared wisely and well for that hour that is unbeknownst to me. Bring revelation on how to make this practical and real in my life, not just lofty thoughts that amount to nothing. And as I wait for You, Lord Jesus, teach me how to wait well for the husband of my youth, preparing also for his return.

Enough

2am, wide-eyed.

I reach for my glasses and put them on and lie there in the dark. This is how I have been. Equipped to see; still in the dark. I roll out of bed, stepping lightly over the little breaths and goldie locks on the mattress next to mine, careful not to wake her already restless sleep.

I switch on the light. Hanging laundry and half taught school lessons adorn the living room. Old scents and stuffiness hang in the air. Lists and lists of things I should do and things I should’ve done plague me. Condemn me. I try to stuff them deeper into the pile of mental procrastination. I put on the kettle.

Type up lessons. Clean the toilet. Fold the clothes. Sweep the floor. Write emails. Write thank-yous. Read the Bible. Point to Christ. Plan a date-night. Brush my teeth. Don’t throw up. Be grateful. Don’t be anxious. Don’t worry.

Don’t worry.

It’s the worrying –and a 4pm Coke– that has kept me up. Anxious thoughts that stalk my sleep. Where will the money come from? Where will we find a bigger place? How will we afford it? How long until the car is fixed? I pray as I sweep the floor, feeble words that barely make it from my desperate heart to my lips:

How in the world are we supposed to do what You have called us to do with what we have here, Lord? Your ways are such a mystery and right now I need a little less mystery and a little more certainty.

Because right now it feels like I am dying.

I dance, cloth underfoot, to the sound of the bottle of bleach solution squeaking as I spray. Foot wiping the strong smell across the swept floor. Trying to usher in a little clean.

I am tired of dying every day. Not the death that begets life, the Christ-like cross bearing, life-giving death. Not that one. The death that yields only more of itself, consuming until all life is gone. And I am tired of it. Because I know this road. The one that leads me to the pit of despair time and time again. The frequented path of “not enough” that brings me to death faster than anything else. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough faith. Not good enough. Not enough. Never enough.

I return to the kettle. The scents of yesterday’s trash and meals and dust mingle. I am nauseous. I pour the hot water over my green tea and fresh mint. I inhale. I sip. I find the worn place in the middle of the couch and sink in. Pause. Breathe; not too deep. I open my devotional and look for a little less worry and a little more life.

3am warrants a new day’s reading:

“As you keep your focus on Me, I form you into the one I desire you to be. Your part is to yield to My creative work in you, neither resisting it or trying to speed it up. Enjoy the tempo of a God-breathed life by letting Me set the pace. Hold my hand in childlike trust, and the way before you will open up step by step.” (January 25, Jesus Calling, p. 26)

I revel in the wonder of it.

I “know” that I must focus on Him, to yield; but all I really know is resisting. Resisting struggle. Resisting pain. Resisting quiet. Resisting discipline. Resisting perseverance. Because this self-preserving flesh of mine will fight for the life it thinks it deserves. Fight to the death for it. And I am losing. And it is killing me.

Because in the end, I end up resisting Love. I resist Love’s persistent, tenacious, tender, violent labors to bring me life, real life.

I sip my tea, hands cupped around, a bit cooler now. I turn and peer out the undressed windows, the world waiting. The early morning worries, the demands for certainty, they begin to slip away.

The certainty I seek is in Him. Him alone. I am asking the wrong questions. I am looking for the wrong answers. There is only one Answer, and it lies in this mysterious God of mine who keeps befuddling me with His lavishly poured-out, paradoxical grace and sacrificial love. That I might have life, and life in abundance.

Brisk daybreak-colored morning greets me as I crack the window. I breathe it in. Clean. Full of life. I throw the window open. I walk down the hall and quietly peel back the curtains. I open wide the morning. Next, the kitchen. Fresh. Life. It invigorates this weary, day old body, this tired, dying soul. I let the stale out.

I open my heart and let the stale out of there, too. I commit today to stop my whining. To embrace “God-breathed life.” To choose an attitude of gratitude for all He has given, rather than complain to Him for all I perceive He has withheld.

A door creaks. Little steps whisper on a clean floor.

“Mommy?”

Adara squints and rubs sleepy eyes as she stands there, hair tousled. She comes to me and climbs up into my lap and snuggles close to my warmth to escape the cool I have let in. I brush the hair from her forehead and softly kiss it and say “I love you.” She stretches a not-quite-5am-stretch.

“I love you, too.”

So I choose to begin my day here. Counting this blessing. Grateful for the bundle of love lying in my arms, and the life that is waiting for me today.

Because what I already have is more than enough.

Help

This morning I sit, window beside. Golden light streams over the mountain crest, through wispy tendrils of willow. Birds sing their morning song. Promises of what the new day can hold are before me.

And I am sour. Stale.

Having steeped in my own complaining the night before, the hardness of my heart is like a shell. I feel tight. The delight of fasting escapes me. All I can do is long for things I cannot have and complain of all I do. “Really, manna again?” I find myself longing for old things, old ways, knowing somewhere in my heart that these must pale in comparison to my God, to what He is doing. But they don’t, not right now.

Because right now He is at work in me, in this ungrateful heart, and revealing things I am not proud of, which I guess is the point. Unbelief. Complaint. Worry. Absence of trust. Lack of love. This is me. I know that there needs to be change. But it seems overwhelming. It seems impossible. It seems too hard.

The beauty of the nearness of God is not the same. It seems hidden. He is teaching me a new way. I do not like it.

So I am stalled at a crossroad.

In this early hour I turn, more out of duty than love, out of obligation than obedience, to the Word. Today it is like bitter medicine: I know it is good for me but it is hard to take.

Bright eyes peek over my computer screen.

He is eager to try out his new skills. He is full of joy, excitement.

“Mommy, see, see, see!”

Caleb collects all the elements to make himself breakfast. I have taught him carefully, and though he has not mastered it, I have released him. He can do it all by himself. Even then, cinnamon on a high shelf, to which he shimmies up cabinetry like a little monkey. He can do it all. Except to get the bowl. He asks me for help. “It’s like teamwork, Mommy.” Whoops, some sugar spills over. He starts to clear it himself and thinks twice. “Can you clean up the sugar for me? You can do it now, if you like.” I set my things aside and partner with him. He shakes a nearly empty milk container. He asks for advice and I oblige. Bowl full, he shuffles his feet slowly—inch by inch, tiny step by tiny step. “Balancing.” Making his way to the table with great care. “Can you move the laundry off the table for me please?” He sits down to partake of this morning feast, which he has prepared.

All by himself. With help.

I realize the source of my misery. I have been trying, striving. Working hard to get rid of bad habits. Wrong thoughts. Wrong ways. Trying to live rightly, holy. All by myself. And with every independent effort I am confronted with the ugly truth: I cannot do it. Not just me, not alone. This new way He is teaching me is the way of dependence. Complete dependence upon Him. “God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for Him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.”

I glimpse Him. He is near.

I ask for help.

I am tired. I am weary. I am failing. I have been trying to overcome without leaning on the Overcomer. I need You. Help me, Holy Spirit. I cannot do this without You. Teach me. Show me the way. I need You.

Sunlight streams in through the window now, warming my shoulder, highlighting a hungry mouth devouring in delight. My heart feels warmer.

I am hungry, too.

I turn back to my Bible. Pray about everything. Tell Me what you need. Thank Me. You will experience My peace, peace that guards your heart and mind. Fix your thoughts on good things, things that are pure, lovely, true. Practice what you have learned and received. Then My peace will be with you.

A way. The Way. And in this extraordinary partnership, His greatness and my great need, tiny step by tiny step, I move forward.

It is a new day. And it is going to be beautiful.

With help.

Hard Questions and A Beautiful Answer

It is an odd thing to see the path of a tornado.

Thick tree trunks mangled like broken twigs, branches naked. Piles of rubble. Houses leveled. Whole neighborhoods obliterated, while others stood eerily serene, seemingly untouched by the swirling dispenser of fate. Our family visited in late October and, after five months, Joplin, Missouri has made enormous strides in its efforts to rebuild after the catastrophic storm laid waste.

And still…

Nathan’s aunt and uncle had arranged for us to see the damage while we were in town. Our two car caravan –me with Nathan’s aunt and cousin, the other with Nathan, the kids, and Nathan’s uncle– took us though the path of the May 22^nd tornado, to the point of initial touchdown. For about half a mile on either side of the road you could see its affect, and though I knew the answer in my mind, there was a disconnect with what my eyes beheld. The ruin that lay in two parts on either side of the street was actually a whole, the result of a monstrous cyclone that roared through the city. A mile-wide wall of utter destruction.

Businesses.

Homes.

Schools.

A hospital.

Devastated.

I knew, days before we took this tour, that it would deeply affect my children, Caleb especially. I knew there would be questions and fears and discussions. And I wrestled with whether or not I should just let Nathan go while I stayed behind with the kids. But tragedy doesn’t wait until we are old enough, or when we are ready. I decided that seeing the wreckage and talking through the questions and the fears would allow a safe place for Caleb to experience sadness and grief and anxiety with someone that loved him and could help him process what he was seeing and feeling. It would expose him in a sheltered way to pain and sorrow, not to fall into despair but to bring forth compassion.

When our excursion finished I rejoined my family and, sliding into the passenger seat, came to find that Caleb had indeed been impacted by what he had seen. During the drive Caleb had asked his daddy:

“Did God make the tornado?”

Did He do it?

This all-mighty, all-powerful God who created all things, who made the animals and the trees and the people, did He do this too?

Isn’t this the question that burns within us when we witness injustice or behold destruction or confront death? Did HE do it? And if He didn’t do it then He certainly must have allowed it. My own difficult question was then unearthed from the recesses of my heart. Why God? Whatever the crisis, my flesh wants to demand from God where He was and that He be held accountable.

Nathan had answered, “I don’t presume to know whether God made the tornado or if it just formed out of the bad weather. But I know that God saved a lot of people from dying that day.”

It was true. A high school graduation was scheduled the evening the tornado hit. A week before the graduation was to take place on the campus it was decided to move the ceremony to a local community college because of the great number of people that would be in attendance. By God’s grace, the high school that would have been filled to overflowing was empty when the storm utterly destroyed it.

I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed to the back of the van where Caleb was sitting. The shadows of evening rested on him as he gazed out of the window, contemplating.

“So you saw where the tornado messed things up.”

“Yeah.”

“I heard you asked if God made the tornado.”

“Yeah. Did He?”

My mind and heart were roiling. My unbelief crashing into the very foundations of my faith: Did He make the tornado? Did He allow it? Is God good? How could a good God let bad things happen? My thoughts were swimming out of control and I was sinking beneath the weight of their hopelessness.

Yet in the raging war of belief and unbelief, in the seconds between Caleb’s question and my response, Holy Spirit ministered to me in gentleness and compassion. Where knowledge and faith collided, Grace intervened. And in the same way I had wanted to process with Caleb the tragedy we beheld through the lens of Love, so Holy Spirit wanted to do with me.

God’s Word says He is good. His Word is truth. God is not a man that He would lie. There is no darkness in Him. But because His ways are higher than my own, my finite mind grapples with even the tiniest breadth of the knowledge of God. His Sovereign Will escapes my understanding at the deepest heart level more often than not. Yet I began to realize that I was not wrestling with God and His choices. Sin. Pain. Sorrow. Death. These were not His intentions nor inventions. They came from somewhere else, someone else.

In that moment, I gave the only answer I could give honestly. And as the words spilled out of my mouth, from my heart to my son’s, the explanation God had rendered through me was doing a work in me.

“God never wanted this. He never wanted storms or tornados or sickness or death. He never wanted those bad things to happen to anybody. In fact, when God made the world, He made a perfect place with no tornados and no sickness and no death. That is what God made. That’s what He intended. Because God loved His people and He didn’t want anything bad for them, only good things. But something happened. One day a man made a bad choice. He decided he would disobey God. And even though it was only one bad choice, only one little choice, it allowed sin to come into the world. So even though that man made a bad choice, it affected every one and every thing on earth. Do you know what that man’s name was?”

“No.”

“His name was Adam.”

I could visibly see Caleb make the connection.

Oh. This was that Adam.

I watched my son begin to understand for the first time the relationship between sin and death. This abstract concept of sin —the story of a man and a woman, a snake and a fruit and a garden—became concrete. Of course I understood this truth with my head. But not with my heart. And for the first time I, too, really began to understand that the root of evil in this world is not from God at all but from the enemy of my soul, who lies and thieves, destroys and kills. Satan, who would twist truth and propagate deception so that Eve and Adam, Caleb and I and everyone would believe that God is not loving, faithful, or true, that God is not good. The Deceiver would go so far as to convince mankind that our thoughts and behaviors have no consequences. And we so far as to believe him.

It is one thing to be confronted with a single act of sin. It is quite another to recognize it’s consequences, spanning miles and even time. A tornado-devastated city. Human trafficking. War-torn nations. Broken families. Broken hearts. To see evidence of this ancient “bad choice” was a striking reminder for me:

God is not responsible for my bad choices…

…I am.

And my choices, and the choices of every one who lives or has ever lived, have consequences, lasting ones. How long ago did Adam sin and yet we all still feel the sting?

“And terrible pain came into God’s heart. His children hadn’t just broken the one rule; they had broken God’s heart. They had broken their wonderful relationship with Him. And now He knew everything else would break. God’s creation would start to unravel, come undone, and go wrong. From now on everything would die –even though it was all supposed to last forever…sin had come into God’s perfect world. And it would never leave…in another story it would all be over and that would have been THE END.

But not in this Story.

God loved His children too much to let the story end there. Even though He knew He would suffer, God had a plan—a magnificent dream…in spite of everything God would love his children –with a Never Stopping, Never Giving Up, Always and Forever Love…

God whispered a promise to Adam and Eve: “It will not always be so! I will come and rescue you! I’ll get rid of the sin and the dark and the sadness you let in here. I’m coming back for you!” And He would. One day God Himself would come.” (Pp 33-36 from The Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones)

Out of depths of love I cannot fathom, despite sin, and our constant tendency towards it, Mercy offered His redemptive gift. Though He wasn’t responsible for our actions or their results, God intervened. He humbled Himself in a garment of flesh, as a helpless babe. He walked a lonely road of truth. He came to understand our struggles, our grief, and our pain. He became a man of sorrows so that we could have the hope of joy. He bore the punishment of sin so that we could taste freedom. He suffered death so that we could live. And He overcame Satan so that we could more than overcome.

There, in the back of a minivan in Mid-West USA, in the midst of a devastated community, I was overwhelmed once again by the extravagant gift of Grace. From Eden to Joplin, indeed across our wounded world, God never abandoned us to the brokenness and hopelessness that sin wrought upon the earth.

There are things that happen that I will not understand, questions that will not be fully answered while I am here on this earth. But I know that my God is big enough to hear my frustrations and accusations, however unfounded, because at the core of my being I am not really frustrated with Him but the result of what sin has done to people. And at His core, so is God. And that is why in His goodness, in His great love, He became the remedy to sin and the answer to our desperate cry for a Savior.

Forgive me for my incomplete understanding of Your mercies. Continue to expose the lies of the enemy that I believe as truth. Reveal to me, more and more, the truth of who You are. Oh, the lengths You went to for the sake of Love! Jesus, thank you for taking on the weight of sin that there would be hope for all. You were, You are, and You forever will be our beautiful answer.

Scars

Earlier this year our family crossed hemispheres, from the southern tip of Africa to the northern part of Europe, for training in disciple making. Six weeks were spent in England and, upon our arrival, I was able to appreciate the inspiration in which authors like C.S. Lewis and Beatrix Potter were steeped. Golden morning mists. An array of blossoms adorning the grassy meadows. Rabbits with their quiet, early morning breakfasts. Deer on soundless strolls. The lush green landscape contrasted greatly from the dusty, earthen-colored land in which I live.

Although we went for vocational input, it was evident that the Lord wanted to bring refreshment to our hearts. Dry and weary, I think Nathan and I hadn’t realized the extent of our emptiness. Our training time also became a place of restoration and healing, a place to drink from streams of life from which we had not partaken in quite some time.

On one morning run, as I passed through trails of beauty, Holy Spirit led me to a tree. I observed the places where limbs had been severed. As I surveyed the tree’s scars I was contemplative of my own. I looked at the places that had been cut and broken, yet for all the disfigurement the tree stood tall and strong. It had been there for decades, perhaps a century. Season after season it continued to grow. Right up next to it I could see its marks, though if I stood back, taking in the fullness of its splendor, they were hardly visible. Still there, it was not the tree’s damaged parts that were the focus but its life. The Lord’s Spirit ministered to mine. He reminded me that though I had gone through difficulties that had injured my heart, I should not direct my gaze on the scars but on the One who heals them and brings me life. Scars are not all bad. It is by the very wounds of my Savior Christ Jesus that I am made whole. But with His crucifixion there is also resurrection. There are wounds and there is life, and though the two are intertwined, in Him who has conquered death Life will prevail.

Scars

Gnarled skin, rough and weathered

Renders a narrative of seasons gone by

Here you stand, ancient giant

Here I too, in the shadow of your presence

I linger at your imperfections

Tracing with eyes and with fingers

The irregular etchings

Betraying offences sustained

I bear scars of my own

Wounds from enemies

Wounds from friends cut deeper still

Lingering reminders of loyalties abandoned

Yet to stay so close

Examining old wounds

I see only a piece of who you are

Missing the grandeur of a picture larger

I step back to capture you

Magnificent, majestic

Full of life

Full of hope

Your roots go down deep, deep

And your massive limbs unfurled to the sky

Tell a story of generations past

With expectation of what lies ahead

Here you rise, ancient giant, here you endure

Endure I with you

And despite our scars– or because of them

We are stronger