Chronicles of Grace

A Grain at a Time

2012-02-28T12:03:00.000-08:00

It's looking into his baby blues that I really feel the scales fall and my eyes begin to see.

He studies me from the other side of his bottle, all eyelashes and dimples and the milk dripping down.
I can see he wants to connect. Wants something more than just to fill his belly.
I want something more, too . . . more than what I've lived today.
A deep soul-sigh and I am regretful.

Regretful of the way I've lived the past twenty-four of these miracles, these individual hours that make up a life.
My eyes have been closed. Glazed over with scales. Shut out from the connections that make this life worth living.

Oh, I've gone through the motions well enough.
Changed diapers, spread peanut butter thick onto bread, trudged through Wal-Mart, held fast to little hands crossing the street . . . played the part consistently all day long.

But how is it possible to do all the right things on the outside . . . and miss the heart -- not really be present for any of it?

My baby has dirt between his roly, round fingers.  And I consider the many and varied sources of such grime:  The cement floor of the church building where he crawled, chasing after shiny steel water bottles and other tempting trinkets. The spiky, sharp, grass in the front yard -- remnant of green growth -- he sat on it for the first time, gingerly combing it through. Fist-fulls of Cheerios and sweet potatoes that didn't quite make it into his mouth.
Quite a story these dirty hands have to tell . . . mile after mile behind them.

So many and varied are all our hours . . . more stories than a lifetime could tell.
Grains of sand passed through the hourglass.

And me? These feet -- this heart -- gets dirty with travel, too.
I twirl a lock of his golden angel hair between my fingers and think about how sometimes my nerves wear thin and anger unloads on whoever happens by. How I become blinded to my desperate need for God by comfort and cookies and callouses. So much crooked still. So much pull in the alignment of my heart, pulling ever toward self.
And the scales cover my eyes. . . disconnected.

His chubby hands are no more dirty than my divided heart . . . so double-minded.  Because it is the singleness of eye that fills the whole body -- indeed, the whole life -- with light, taking those scales off. Doubt, always a shadow, has no place in a life like that. Hearing, yes, attending to only One Voice.

So I slow . . . touching the fingers, meeting the eyes, connecting the heart. Waking to wonder.
The full weight of my attention slows time's raging river. I hold one grain.

And I begin to feel the vision return. I begin to return . . . this life, always a returning.

Cloud, shadow and mist fly away. Doubt is thrown out on his ear again, and the many voices of double-mindedness still before the One who always calms the tempest.
The crooked set straight.

Slowing and touching His fingers as I feel the chubbiness of baby skin . . . meeting His gaze of mercy as I look into those baby blues . . . connecting with the Heart that is all love.
This love that conquers.

I feel washed from the dirt of travel. Somehow gaining eternity through being still in time. Finding the God who calls Himself "I AM" here, in this singular grain of sand slipping through the hourglass . . . just. being. here.

Because the One beyond all time comes to visit those who do not rush through the present, but hang on to every moment . . . seeing it for the gift it was intended to be. One grain at a time.

My eyes become un-scaled, healed on the way, as I return . . . again and again.

"Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength." (Isa. 30:15 NLT)

Tails of Fire

2012-02-26T20:05:00.000-08:00

Sitting at the kitchen table last night, Jason was telling the children a story.

A story about foxes.

Samson used foxes to carry his fire for the fields of the Philistines.

He tied their tails together around a lit torch and sent them out.

Just the same, in a home, the devil wants to use the tail of our heart . . . our words . . . to carry his fire.

Especially when there are two who both yeild their "tails" to be tied.

They can reallly cause upheaval.

Casual joking can become offensive and a not-very-well-thought-out comment can become a breach in the spirit.

On the other hand, being too sensitive and reactions of immaturity are both culprits, too.

These "fires" cause unrest in the home . . . they divide brothers and sisters.

Peace shatters and leaves nothing but a mess of sharpness in its place.

Indeed, life and death is in the power of the tongue.

"Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body." (James 3:5-6)

May we experience the tongue of the wise that brings healing, like a fountain of grace on our fire.

As the "words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart" is pleasing in God's eyes, we'll overflow with this grace for grace.

As part of living in thanks-giving, I am counting blessings here on Mondays.

If you want to add your current list, just drop me a note in the comment box

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~ daffodils on the table remind me to "bring beauty in"

~ a selfless husband who sends me on a walk, and gets the kids ready for church himself!!

~ bringing loved ones on stretchers for Jesus to touch (in prayer) . . . and in the process, coming closer to Him myself

~ walking up unfinished stairs (quite frightening!) shows me how glad I am for many things I don't see or understand, but that are not for me to see or understand, just to trust.

~ choosing to live looking in living eyes instead of fixated on a computer screen.

~ that by sharing our fallings down, and then finding the strength to rise, we most often are truly a source of en-courage-ment to others.

Better Than Fair

2012-02-24T19:15:00.001-08:00

God has a way of loving us and blessing us that is so much better than fair.

Think of the ways God has blessed us that transcend what we deserve. Every good thing that has ever come to us is a gift of God's grace.

If you and I could ever stop being self-centered long enough to be honest, we would have to say that we are not entitled to any good thing. We have no right to demand anything. And the last thing we really want is for God to just be fair with us.

What we want and what we need is grace, the love that is better than fair.

And grace is exactly what we ultimately receive from the God who is better than fair, even when life is less than fair.

(Charles Poole)

Of Earthquakes and How to Never Be Shaken

2012-02-21T20:14:00.000-08:00

Today the earth was moved . . . and so was I.

My friends were shaken awake at 4 a.m., the bed underneath jolted and their bleary eyes opened to uncertainty.

Because what do you count on when the earth beneath you is trembling? . . . where is sure footing and a place to stand safe?

I hear this news and I feel something akin to panic. Not so much because I fear more earthquakes, but because of the many fault-lines I know exist in me.

Some unfinished trusting . . . lots of incomplete confidence. These "weak places" seem to outnumber the "strong" ones on a day like today.

The thing about earthquakes? They happen because of change. Yes, I look it up and read that the shaking ground is caused by an abrupt shift of rock, causing a fracture along an already weakened area that we call a fault-line. These faults become dangerous because of the shift.
Change reveals the weakness.

And here it is: I know I stand on such un-secure places sometimes, too.

So I try to escape the gnawing fear, the sense of something foreboding, by digging through seeds.

It's almost that time of year again and the kids help sort through the packets. Cucumber, sugar-snap peas, and corn kernels slip through their fingers and clutter the floor.

My son is reading words from the sweet corn envelope out loud, droning on in the background of activity, and I am bent over, sweeping up what has fallen through chubby fingers, when I hear the seed company's slogan through his lips,

"Seeds you can count on."

Ugh, there it is again. The questions chase me down . . .

What can you really count on? Seeds? Planted in the shakeable earth?

These seeds that can't even keep themselves up, but fall on my floor and need me -- little, weak me -- to come return them to a better place?

And I wonder where can I stand on the day when even the earth moves? Where am I safe?

I've tried so many places . . . so many things that promised *security.*

They look like jobs that fall through and buds that fail to open. They are phone calls never returned and relational rifts that still rub. Diamond rings get returned and all bets are off.

Hopes deferred like this can make the heart sick.

Some have been big hopes, and some so small; but these are things that I have trusted to hold me up . . . until another one falls.

Yes, shakeable, too. Slipped right through my fingers . . .

Early spring daffodils are singing and bobbing their yellow heads on the way to piano lessons. Rain clouds darken the sky and the strong, warm breeze promises a coming storm.

Just rain, though. Days of snow seem to be passsed for now.

I am reminded of change for us, too. How the passing seasons give little warning before we are plunged into another . . .

Just this week, the news came of jobs eliminated and possible unemployment . . . it's still a bit fresh. Still up in the air. Still . . . well, really, anything but still.

This is my earthquake. My wind of change blowing. Tectonic plates grinding and revealing those fault-lines. Weakness. Things always slipping through the weak fingers.

But there's this man.

I've read about him . . . and I want to be him.

"Blessed is the man who fears the Lord . . . surely he will never be shaken . . . he will have no fear of bad news;

his heart is steadfast." (Psalm 112:1, 6, 7)

He fears . . . but is not shaken . . . heart is steadfast . . .?

Wait a minute, how do these walk hand in hand? Fear and steadfast -- in the same man???

Perhaps it is because of WHO he fears . . . "he fears the Lord" . . . that he doesn't fear the bad news?

Could it really be that this is the fear that displaces all others???
The fear of God, not a quaking or trembling, but a recognition, a respecting, a reverence.

Living before the face of God; fully convinced that all my shakings are in His full view.
And that nothing shakes so hard that His hand can't hold me fast.

This is the only solid ground. Unshakeable.

This is the hope never deferred, a longing fulfilled and so sweet to the soul.

This is how to never be shaken . . . because nothing slips through His fingers.

"We are not ultimately grateful that we are still holding our blessings. We are grateful that we are held by God even when the blessings are slipping through our fingers." (Craig Barnes)

"And everything that could be shaken was shaken and all that remains is all I ever really had . . ." (Rich Mullins)

Reflections

2012-02-19T21:39:00.000-08:00

We were reading out of a school book the other day and came across this little poem.

I copied it and hung it in the bathroom next to the mirror,

because it's the kind of poem that makes you look at yourself.

If You Were Busy Being Kind

If you were busy being kind,
Before you knew it you would find
You’d soon forget to think ’twas true
That someone was unkind to you.

If you were busy being glad
And cheering people who seem sad,
Although your heart might ache a bit,
You’d soon forget to notice it.

If you were busy being good,
And doing just the best you could,
You’d not have time to blame some man
Who’s doing just the best he can.

If you were busy being true
To what you know you ought to do,
You’d be so busy you’d forget
The blunders of the folks you’ve met.

If you were busy being right,
You’d find yourself too busy quite
To criticize your brother long,
Because he’s busy being wrong.

-R. Foreman

"Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good." (Rom. 12:21)

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Seeing Through

2012-02-17T19:45:00.000-08:00

My kids come home from a party with a gift.

It's a set of markers, a few printed pictures, a sheet or two of stickers.

Nice, but not really unusual or tremendously exciting.

So now, a few days later, they dig it out from in between seats in the van and bring it in.

Heads bent over art, they are absorbed for several minutes.

Then they look up to show me their roses, all red and pink; and dinosaurs with ferocious, gaping red mouths.

The ocean scene sports green jellyfish, starfish, and blue dolphins jumping at their play.

And it all looks beautiful, if not a bit *boring* . . .

until we find the glasses.

That little unimpressive plastic package?

The one that contains those flimsy, unstylish glasses?

Someone opens it.

All of a sudden the roses are growing out of the page, the dinosaurs are trying to bite me, and the dolphins leap into the air!

The mundane coloring has instantly become enchanted, sponsored by the use of 3D glasses.

As they discover it for themselves, everyone is vying for a marker and the glasses.

I step back and think how I could use a pair of glasses like that to view life sometimes.

To see through the thin veneer of what we call daily life -- common stuff, ya know? -- into the real potential it holds.

It's not "just" markers and paper . . . wearing these glasses, I could see how real reality launches off the paper into eternity.

To close my eyes to what encumbers me of the ordinary, so I can use the ordinary as a vehicle to experience the One behind it all.

Because just as we almost missed the glasses, so do I daily run the risk of missing it.

For "without the lens of His Word, the world warps . . ." (Ann Voskamp) and I am created for more than time can hold.

Inside the Fence

2012-02-15T09:35:00.000-08:00

His fingers lovingly design the bounds for each of us.
We find our greatest freedom in the celebration of our fences.

Whether it is the needs of toddlers causing an early exit or the weakness of the physical body closing the door of opportunity, it all is from the Gentle Shepherd.

He is available to us just as much in the still of the "no" as in the thrill of the "yes."
And the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places (Psalm 16:6), because when He is my Shepherd, I shall not want.

"Thank Me for the conditions that are requiring you to be still.

Do not spoil these quiet hours by wishing them away, waiting impatiently to be active again. Some of the greatest works in My kingdom have been done from sick beds and prison cells. Instead of resenting the limitations of a weakened body, search for My way in the midst of these very circumstances. Limitations can be liberating when your strongest desire is living close to Me.

Quietness and trust enhance your awareness of My Presence with you. Do not despise these simple ways of serving Me. Althought you feel cut off from the activity of the world, your quiet trust makes a powerful statement in spiritual realms. My strength and power show themselves most effective in weakness."

(Sarah Young, Jesus Calling)

Like a master gardener strips away unnecessary growth from a plant, so that the greatest fruit can be gathered, our Husbandman prunes us through the times we have to say "no" or "I can't."
That all things unnecessary and hindering may fall away . . . that One thing may remain.

One thing so simple, yet so essential: "Without Me, you can do nothing." (John 15:5)

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Wisdom is Heard

2012-02-14T08:38:00.000-08:00

It's bedtime.

The little ones, in sleepers that zip from foot to neck, are brushing their teeth.

My oldest daughter comes to me with a question.

An inquiry into the subject of "wisdom."

"How can wisdom be a good thing and a bad thing at the same time?" she doesn't beat around the bush and her 8-year-old questions are not to be taken lightly -- the intensity of her gaze makes that perfectly clear.

My arms are full from digging that "certain" blanket out from under the dollhouse for the 4-year-old and hugging the 5-year-old (again), so I ask the oldest daughter to wait for just a moment.

As if somehow, in that moment, I will find myself filled with more answers and less incompetency than I feel right now.

I give hugs and tuck blankets around little bodies.

Then out to the conversation to experience the subject at hand . . . because didn't He say He gives this very thing to all without finding fault?

So I choose to place my hand in His, instead of grabbing my self-confidence or the desire to maintain my "place" as teacher over her.

And I begin to really learn.

For what is the place of "gaining wisdom" in a Kingdom that is all about being a child?

Aren't spiritual secrets hidden from the "wise and learned" and revealed to babes?

In the first chapter of James, we learn that if anyone lacks wisdom, he can ask God (thereby acknowledging his need) and he will receive -- whether he is "worthy" or not. So wisdom is gained not by careful study or natural intelligence, but by asking.

When we ask, we must expect an answer -- and be ready to receive one when it comes. If you asked me for the answer to a question, and I gave it to you, you might or might not receive it. In order to receive my answer you would have to be listening. And sometimes I think that is where I lack with God. I forget that part of receiving involves listening.

But it's right there before me in black and white. "Everyone should be quick to listen . . . " (James 1:19), as if the way to receive this wisdom I lack is in what Jesus said over and over, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear." Sure, there must be an active faith involved, but just as necessary is a willingness to listen.

Perhaps the wisest among us are not those with the most education, the sharpest minds, or the astute theological dissertations.

Perhaps true wisdom is on the lowest shelf. Able to be attained by scholar or child, alike.

The wisdom given to a listening ear.

This is not wisdom to be "acheived", but wisdom accessible by surrender.

Humility, the key to unlock the mystery of wisdom.

"I need it, and without You, I don't have it" turns the locked door into easy access.

It used to intimidate me when people used that word, "wisdom", because I thought I had to work harder or study more to ever have it.

But the Lord gives it to all without finding fault! (James 1:5)

No need to be intimidated, only to acknowledge my lack, come to my Father (who is Wisdom), and listen closely to His every word.

Not to try harder . . . but to open my ears.

"Trust God from the bottom of your heart; don't try to figure out everything on your own.

Listen for God's voice in everything you do, everywhere you go;
he's the one who will keep you on track.
(Proverbs 3:5-6 the Message)

Of Pink and Blue

2012-02-10T13:34:00.000-08:00

Crayolas are dumped all over the dining room table, and I learn a lesson of the pinks and the blues.

It is painted by a loving Hand on the canvas of my life, through the mouths of a seven-year-old and a five-year-old.

The seven-year-old boy is reading a Bible lesson out loud for the two girls, four and five.

He traces under the words with a pencil as he reads. Its cold, gray, exact line divides the story and makes it easy for the girls to follow.

Lines, they divide.

The sisters haven't yet learned to read as well as he, but they will learn more quickly if he underlines the words as he speaks them.

This is the way he thinks, so logical, so calculated, so graphite.

But his sister doesn't like it and she cries out, "No! Use crayon instead -- it looks so much prettier that way!"

Her reasoning is not simply logical, it's decorative. Beauty, the precedent over practical.

She pushes midnight blue, magenta, and macaroni-and-cheese orange onto the page, smudging the lines.

He looks at her blankly -- didn't even see that one coming.

Then his eyes register something akin to defense.

He objects to her color. Says he prefers the pencil.

It's neater, cleaner . . . more familiar.

She is offended, taking personally the rejection and comes to me with a pout.

We turn and face these differences together.

Crayon or pencil . . . art or accounting . . . girl or boy.

As I help to mend this tear, I see that they are both right.

It is not better to use one or the other, simply a matter of preference.

Together, we judge it wise to let the boy underline in graphite. But not to let the lines divide, the girl can go over the light pencil with her expressive crayolas once he is done.

Satisfied, they turn back to the Bible story.

But I am stuck there. Looking in the mirror.

This has been the dance of my marriage at times.

His preference for the graphite, I have judged as inferior to the beauty of my colors.

I have forgotten that just as my son's intention was to love his sisters in reading to them, my husband's advances are also born out of love, although they are marked with the graphite I find so appalling.

Lines that divide.

What can I do but learn from my own spoken words here? Let him use his graphite, looking beyond the manner and the means to the intention . . . the heart.

And then trace it over with my colors . . . taking it through the bath of grace. Translating it into my pink mother tongue.

Receiving his overtures as they were intended, just learning what it means to color outside the lines.

To Be Courageous

2012-02-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

Gazing through a finger-smudged window, the thickness of the fog outside mirrors my own spirit.

It is the cloud of discouragement.

I turn introspective, looking within and seeing so much awry . . . so many reasons to languish in despondency.

The cloud that envelopes my driveway leaves little room for clarity, too.

Can't see much farther than me.

I imagine my soul like a great body of water, tumultuous.

Churning and throbbing. Waves breaking and threatening.

Doubts falling like sheets of rain, and fears surging like foaming unrest.

Confusion reigns here, and discouragement's hands start to pull me under.

Until I remember another storm . . .

And I grab for the Scripture like a life-line tossed my way.

Mark, sixth chapter.

A crazy night after an exhausting day -- and frail humanity was at the mercy of the wind and waves.

I relate to the fears, the doubts, the "un-courage" of these 12 men, tossed about.

"Un-courage" is really what discouragement amounts to, isn't it?

Losing courage in the face of the fight?

Jesus knew their need, heard their cry before it was uttered.

His first words to them still me, too:

"Take courage, it is I." (Mark 6:50)

It dawns slowly, like shafts of sunlight penetrating the thick, choking fog -- He is in chaos of the wind and waves as much as in the 'peace be still'. His hand directed the storm just as much as it directs the calm. He is Lord over all -- the only real reason for courage.

And maybe He said "it is I" because they didn't recognize Him . . . ?

Ouch, that one just hits home.

I can point fingers at them because they recognized Him as miracle-worker on land, in the daytime. When crowds with hunger pains surround, they know who He is; when children with demons are brought, their confidence waxes great; when a word heals a servant near-death, they recognize Him. But not in the storm.

How could they doubt? To restrict His reach to one and not see Him in the other . . . ?

But wait. The finger points back at me.

How often I have missed Him because He comes in ways I didn't expect, under circumstances I never would have thought. Even just this week ~ long hours and weary bodies, tired in more ways than one, a bit short on temper and dry on grace . . . I recognize that as a failure.

But not an opportunity.

Opportunity to see Him walk on water and I file it under the tab marked "unmet need." Or "I lack." Or "I lost."

Yes, I don't recognize Him either . . . I need this statement to replace all my failures, all my "neediness" and "lack":

"Take courage, it is I."

That even my loss (and my being a loser) ends in gain when I can see it as designed perfectly from His loving hand for the purpose of my coming to the end of myself.

Just for this . . . to be conquered.

Light is slicing through now, and I realize I can see more than me.

But He was here all along.

***At first Jacob thought he was wrestling with a mere man, but he had not wrestled long before he discovered that the man was an angel and a little later, this angel assumed the proportions of the Prince of the Angels and, before the conflict ended, he found it was God Himself. . .

God comes to us in disguise, and seeks to conquer us at unexpected points and in unexpected ways, wrestling with us in the humble armor of some petty circumstance or person, hiding His infinite majesty under such ordinary cheap apparel that we never dream it is God till we are conquered and the mist falls from our vision, and, like Jacob, we are amazed to find ourselves "face to face with God." ***

(George D. Watson)

Enjoy Me

2012-02-05T19:33:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had to force your kids to eat their favorite desert?

How ridiculous is this:

"C'mon, just three more bites of that awful chocolate ice cream, honey . . . then you'll be all done!" ????

Of course not!

They've tasted it before, and they know it is good. More than likely, you'll have to keep them away from having seconds!

Walking by the Spirit is so similar. How ridiculous is it to talk like we must "force" ourselves to live in the light of his presence!

Revealing this attitude is just evidence that we have not really seen how sweet it is to partake of eternal life willingly

. . . tasting to see how good He is, and not being able to stay away!

"So Jesus said again, 'I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you cannot have eternal life within you.' " (John 6:53 NLT)

One commentator (Bullinger) describes the term "eating and drinking" as synonymous with "enjoyment."

That perhaps Jesus was saying, in effect, "Enjoy Me and you will experience eternal life."

Trying hard, making rules, living under law can produce some results for a while.

But lasting fruit only comes from a heart fully in love with the One who is Life.

"You never have to say to one whose heart is wholly set upon God: 'You must give up this and give up that.'

Leave such a one with the Lord, and you will find those those things go." (T. Austin Sparks)

Jesus lived the fullest, most joyful life in perfect communion and fellowship with God.

He gives witness to this very concept by this summary of His life, "I delight to do Thy will, O my God."

No one twisted His arm or told Him to try harder.

He enjoyed doing God's good, pleasing and perfect will; and it is our highest joy and greatest pleasure to live that way -- what we were made for!

Just these two words He spoke

changed my life,

"Enjoy Me."

What a burden I thought I was to carry --

a crucifix, as did He.

Love once said to me, "I know a song,

would you like to hear it?"

And laughter came from every brick in the street

and from every pore

in the sky,

After a night of prayer, He

changed my life when

He sang,

"Enjoy Me."

(Teresa of Avila)

Don't Miss It!

2012-02-03T20:07:00.000-08:00

Because really, none of us knows how long we have.
Remember that a pail with a pinhole loses as much as the pail pushed right over.
A whole life can be lost in minutes wasted… in the small moments missed. (Ann Voskamp)

Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom. (Psalm 90:12)

Uttering the Precious

2012-02-01T05:42:00.000-08:00

"If you utter what is precious, and not what is worthless, you shall be as My mouth." (Jer 15:19 ESV)

How do we utter what is precious? Where do we get such thoughts?

First, we must realize that their source is not ourselves.

Uttering preciousness only happens as we find our place at the feet of Jesus;
listening to the Spirit, who takes what is God's and makes it known to us. (John 16:14)

God's thoughts are not our thoughts and His ways are not our ways. His thoughts are precious. "How precious to me are your thoughts, O God . . . " (Ps. 139:17)

When we choose His thoughts regarding our present situation or our present company, He gives to us His heart for that person or incident.

The things that proceed from the mouth (and the heart) of God to a listening ear are never critical or unjust, never rooted in selfishness or personal ambition.

They are only pure. All love.

If a judgment is needed, it is never a judgment without mercy.

Remember, Jesus is a high priest who is able to sympathize with our weakness, having once been all in every way that we are.

Our sympathies should never be lacking with one another, since we, too, know what it is to groan in the imperfection of the body.

And what is the effect of such grace ministered to our spirits?

One evidence of His thoughts of good overcoming our natural thoughts of evil is in the communication that comes from our mouth.

"Make the tree good and its fruit will be good," (Matt. 12:33) and the fruit of our lips will be sweet when the tree of our heart has received God's higher thoughts.

Indeed, this receiving from His mouth is the only way we can utter what is precious instead of what is worthless.

Then this verse becomes less of something lofty and becomes more of a description of what is already going on within the heart:

"Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion,

that it may give grace to those who hear." (Eph. 4:29 ESV)

It's not a striving or a straining to speak grace, because we've been receiving it.
And we fill to overflowing.

Words that minister grace draw the hearers nearer to God -- His express purpose in making us His spokesmen.

When we speak and minister thus, many will turn to us for a drink from the sweet fountain of life flowing from our lips.

And herein lies a danger.

What will be our reaction when men turn to us? Will we accept praise of men, making no effort to obtain the praise that comes from God (Matt. 5:44)? Will we let pleasing man creep into our motives, and forfeit the position of servant of God (Gal.1:10)?

The rest of Jeremiah 15:19 says, "They shall turn to you, but you shall not turn to them."

And this is done not only once. No, in fact, it must be a continual posture of the heart.

To minister grace to men, yes. To love them with the love which has been received, yes.

But to turn to them, to seek their approval, to look to receive from them only something God can give . . . this is idolatry.

Fallen human nature pulls toward its own glory.

It seeks its own.

And even when we have ministered grace from the overflow of what has been received, there is still a propensity to lay hold on it as from ourselves.

Embezzling glory. Stepping into the place of God.

But even this tendency to want to "climb" from our place at His feet does not intimidate God.

And the same weapon that is mighty for pulling down strongholds of lust or fear or despising holds power, too, in the fight against human pride.

"Those who walk in pride, He is able to humble" (Daniel 4:37) and this is where His gift of weakness enters.

We come face to face with our frailty. We are utterly aware of our lack. This is the eventual place our human pride takes us, by His mercy.

Because what better place can there be? For right around the corner from the discovery of our impotence lies His strength.
It is only the humble who are capable of receiving grace, and He shows us our weakness to help us remember who we really are . . . dependant.

He is just waiting for our weakness to be so manifest that we will have none of our own power any more.
No more of our own glory.

And Jesus has put His Spirit in our hearts. The tug within that returns to God the glory He so deserves and paves the way for us to live in unbroken fellowship with Him.

Because we have listened to the Voice and gladly take our rightful place . . .
At. His. Feet.

How to See

2012-01-30T19:26:00.000-08:00

(Blinded by praise of men, brightness of stars flashing in my eyes, I need to come back to the One who gives sight to the blind. And this is the song He sings over me.)

"Live before Me alone.
Walk past the ladders they put before you.
Don't try to climb high on the list of man's glory.

'Be content with obscurity.' (Col.3:4 MSG)
I am in the obscurity. Away from the gaze of flashing cameras and autograph pens.
Whether these are real or just in your imagination.
I am not in them.

The praise of man is as addictive and toxic as heroin.
It spoils you for the life of being to My glory.
The purity of a life for One.

Remember how it was in Psalm 73, when understanding the ways of other men was a wearisome task?
How the first sip of a high from this wine seemed good, but now the coming down off of the addiction is so empty?
Vanity.
Occupation with others brings only discontent and confusion.
A life enveloped in smoke.
It clouds like smoke in the eyes.
And scorches like smoke in the lungs.

But to be occupied with Me . . . . !
Oh, the fragrance of sweet rain on cherry blossoms in Spring!
Such renewal! Such refreshing!
This is where you thrive."

On my face, I feel the smoke lifting.
I give up trying to understand or impress the ones I am only called to love.
I choose, instead, to say with the Psalmist,
"But as for me, it is good to be near God." (Psalm 73:28)

I don't know what's good for anyone else.
Not even going there.
But I know what's good for me.
And that is where I drink, I live, I breathe . . . I see.

"Be okay with not being liked: life’s about altars not applause.
And be okay with not being seen or heard. It’ll let you hear and see better." (Ann Voskamp)

Broken at the Strongest Point

2012-01-27T21:16:00.000-08:00

"And He must break us down at the very point where we are strongest, where our energy is lodged, be that in head or hand or heart, be that in our mind or management or money, be that in our education or prejudice or desires or affections, in whatever point of our being we may fancy we are the best, in whatever locality there is stored up the most of self, there is where the finger of God must put the knife, there is where the last resistance must expire in order that the Holy Spirit may unite us with Himself . . .

Not only must God break down the sins of a sinner in order to convert him, but in those who are truly regenerated He must break down their wisdom, learning, prudence, their churchly training and prejudice, their narrow-mindedness, their knowledge, their righteousness. It takes the Lord just about as long to break down a Christian man’s righteousness as to break down a sinner’s unrighteousness."

(George D.Watson)

“God, ungrip my hands so that I can hold onto Yours.”

(Stephanie Spencer)

Moving Stones

2012-01-25T12:51:00.000-08:00

Cuddled up with fever-warmed children on their bed, I read aloud.

We snuggle and shift as one large mass -- just me, my little ones, and their blankets.
I could be getting things done instead . . . but I give that thought a mental kick out the door and open the book.

And what I read on this peaceful Wednesday morning in January moves me.

It warms me through.

Because I know that Voice and I hear His message.

The story begins with a king. A king who loved his people. (Always a good way for a story to start . . . )

He would not settle with a selfish people, but this king expends himself in his desire to see them become loving, kind, generous, and thoughtful.

And he does it by the use of a stone.

One evening, the king secretly places a large stone in the very center of the main road of the city.

Its position is easily seen from the king's window, so he watches the travelers passing by it the next day.

The farmer, coming with his wagon load of vegetables to sell, curses the stone and the person who put it there, and drives around it.

The merchants, a group of six, complain aloud to each other about the placement of the stone and how it disrupts their convenience, and walk around it.

The cheerful, singing workman, head held high, doesn't even notice the stone until he has tripped over it and fallen on the road. He gets up, but has lost his song.

One by one, the townspeople all experience the difficulty of the offending stone. But no one wants to set down his own bags and packages.

No one lifts a finger to move it.

The king, seeing the character of his people revealed by this circumstance, calls a meeting in the center of the road.

The farmer, the merchants, and the workman all come with an axe to grind. Their hope is that the king will make thorough inquiry until he discovers the guilty party in the placement of this very inconvenient rock. They talk of revenge and of the possible consequences for such a malefactor, once he is found out.

But, to their surprise, the king begins his address by reprimanding them.

He tells them that he has been watching as they have tripped over the stone, driven around the stone, and complained about the stone.

And that he was waiting to see if anyone would remove the stone. Which no one did.

Upon saying, the king reached down and rolled the stone over. Under it, in a hole, lay a box of gold coins.

Attached to the box was a note that the king's own hand had written, "FOR HIM WHO MOVES THE STONE."

"I, your king, put the stone here."

His words strike something deep in my heart.

They transcend this simple story.

They speak to me of a real King who also lays stones in my path on purpose.

And the stones in my path take many forms.

Sometimes it's sick children. Like today.

Will I lay down my productivity and read to a house full of fever-warm bodies?

. . . because they are really more than bodies, aren't they?

Sometimes it's an offending brother or sister in Christ.

A person who seems to always be a source of stumbling for me.

Will I let go of my desire to be "right" or to "feel affinity" and love them anyway?

Even when they seem offensive? Even when they seem to chafe? Even when my seed of love seems to fall into the ground and die . . . ?

Sometimes it's a need of another person that comes at an inconvenient time, but that only I can fill.

How my will does rise up to take care of my own burdens and leave theirs in the road!

How often I would leave Jesus in jail without a visitor, hungry with no lunch, and thirsty as a desert-traveler!

Many forms . . . one Source.

These "stones" are opportunities to lay down my will, my comfort, my convenience.

To bear up the burden that is not mine, and that I did not place there, so that I can learn the lesson my King intended.

To die so I can really live.

God places these "stones" in my selfish way on purpose . . . and His purpose is always love.

"See, I lay a stone in Zion . . . turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross [stone?] and follow Me." (Isa.28:16; Matt.16:24 NLT)

God of the Hills and the Valleys

2012-01-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

My Bible fell open on a Sunday.
The same day that the 5-year-old would get sick in the hallway, just outside the bathroom.
Right before church. And my plans for the day would fall, too. Fall apart.

All dressed up and no place to go, I spread peanut butter on my toast and played nurse for my sick daughter as I meditated on the one verse that had jumped off the page at me when the Bible fell open.

Because the Syrians have said, “The LORD is a god of the hills but he is not a god of the valleys,” therefore I will give all this great multitude into your hand, and you shall know that I am the LORD.
(1 Kings 20:28)

Was God the God of this day of interrupted plans? He was . . . and He is.
Is His arm shortened by my inability? Is His plan thwarted by the boundary lines I find around me?
. . . Is He not the Ruler of ALL?

My need, then, is to realize the truth of what I had read from Sarah Young's Jesus Calling,
"Instead of running away from these challenges, embrace them, eager to gain all the blessings [He] has hidden in the difficulties. . . Don't waste energy regretting the way things are or thinking about what might have been. Start at the present moment -- accepting things exactly as they are -- and search for [His] way in the midst of those circumstances."

Now I see. I find Him in the place where I fall apart.
And so a Sunday is surrendered.

Today is Monday.
I wake up tired. And feel the darkness of pre-dawn in winter.
It seems a valley-day.

But He's God in the bright sushine on the hills . . . and in the dark shadows of the valley.
If He's God of Sunday, finding His presence in the assembly (or in the surrender of staying home) . . . then He's also God of Monday, finding His presence unlimited by the mundane.

And my husband slips me a note with just a few words. But they pack a punch.
God is a God of Mondays. And of every other day, too. . . The Syrians were wrong.

Because I am limited. I have boundaries.
These fences set in place by Loving Hands.
And even though I cannot be in a Sunday and a Monday . . . a hill and a valley . . . a hope realized and a hope deferred . . . all at the same time -- HE can. And He is.

Perhaps when things fall open, and I fall apart, it's a chance to worship the One who shows me my limitations. So that all my falling can be broken by the Everlasting Arms.

And I can say with Jacob, "Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew it not." (Gen 28:16)

"Is He the God of the hills of the higher spiritual interests of His children and is He not the God of the valleys of their hourly troubles? . . . The difference between the ruling of a kingdom and the guidance of your Sunday school class may seem great to you, but it is almost invisible to God, to whom the nations are as a drop in a bucket! As you feel you could trust Him with great troubles, so be sure that you rely upon Him as to the minor ones. . . Truly He is the God of the hills, but He is the God of the valleys, too." (C.H. Spurgeon)

Big Arms

2012-01-21T07:40:00.000-08:00

Our God is a BIG Daddy.

He has room in His arms for both the infant and the older child.

He loves and values them both.

Not long ago, my kids were looking at old pictures. There was a photo of Aletheia at Patience's age.

I said, "Look, guys, here's Sissy when she was five."

PJ said, "Sissy wasn't ever five!"

I said, "Yes, PJ, in fact, everyone who is older now was, at one point, five years old."

Five years old is a good age.

And so is two. And ten. And eight.

God has a maturing process for each of us that involves every age.

Not that we shouldn't press on to perfection, no matter our "age", but that we should accept others at the point where they are NOW, remembering that we, too, were once at that place; or perhaps that we will find ourselves in that place someday.

Much the same as what Paul said to the Philippians, "Therefore, those of us who are mature should think this way. And if you think differently about anything, God will show you how to think." (3:15)

We can speak and teach and exhort each other till we're blue in the face, but we can't really ever *make* anyone understand or internalize what we're saying, no matter how true it is.

This comes only by the touch of God.
So we pray to speak His words and trust that He is using the things He gives us to say, but we must always foster freedom and allow, as Paul, for those who think differently to be at that "age" until God shows them how to think differently.

It's love that believes all things, even unseen, for each other.

Richard Wurmbrand relays the story of coloring with his seven-year-old granddaughter.

She watched me drawing men's faces. My drawing is worse than poor. She said earnestly, "Grandpa, you are sinning. God made men to be beautiful. In your drawing, you are making them ugly."

. . . Then I realized how often I have labelled people bad whom God loves and who are appreciated in His sight.
"Therefore, accept each other just as Christ has accepted you so that God will be given glory." (Romans 15:7 NLT)

Ultimately, our trust is in our Father's BIG arms.

He can hold us all equally, no matter what "age" we are at presently.

He that started this good work in you and me will be faithful to complete it. Where I don't yet think as I should, He is able to teach me. Where I don't yet love as I should, He is able to instruct me in that, too.

His arms are just that BIG.

Eye of the Beholder

2012-01-17T19:02:00.000-08:00

(Please understand something before you read. This post is not intended to be "postmodern" in any way. My purpose here is to bring out the beauty of beholding the events of my life as art . . . in view of Absolute Truth, not opposed to it. Truth is not up for interpretation. Art, on the other hand, is.)

Life is art.

I have forgotten this and lived like it is math.

There are only two options in math: right or wrong.

And I have judged my life strictly. Miserly.

I have held God accountable when the option He chooses is wrong in my estimation.

But in art, there are many options.

The same piece can be described as subtle, hinting, broken, hopeful, calming, and let the adjectives roll on because art is interpreted.

It is not confined to right or wrong; good or evil; black or white . . . because it is art.

Beauty and interpretation belong to the eye of the beholder.

God is the Ultimate Artist.

And what does an artist do? An artist of any kind has something inside that he wants to let out.

Vulnerability and insecurity cannot put a lid on his desire to give it. He's so full, He has no choice . . . out it flows.

A growing, a release, a longing fulfilled -- all in the simple act of giving it.

And God has a million billion ways that He communicates through His art, the life He gives us everyday . . . if we will behold it.

It's easy to see the art when a shaft of light falls lovely on wooden floors, or we hear the whistle of the turbulent wind through the chimney on a wintery evening. A child's long, black eyelashes, wet with tears; the smell of fresh baked bread; the feel of a warm bath on a cold, quiet night.

But what about the other colors He paints with?
Can we see that the less "ideal" things in life are art, too?

Sometimes I miss His subtle hues of love and His stunning staccato of joy because I have judged it like math . . . wrong. Or right.

But not communication. Not art.

A perfect example in my inbox.

A friend shoots me an email this week about the art she can see:

"Coming into the trailer the other day, I noticed that there was mud on the outside.

When I looked a little closer I saw that the mud was actually handprints of the people who helped get the trailer ready for us to live in it."

My mind reels back.

Back to that Saturday in the wind.

The day when my husband and many men from our small fellowship worked a 12-hour day in slippery, slimy, sloshy mud to get that trailer set up.

Back to the hard work, and sweat, and sore muscles . . .

and the love that went into that day.

Those muddy handprints were art. They communicated a message to my friend. They told her she is loved.

But how often have I wanted to wash away such prints . . . judged them as mess instead of beauty?

And missed the message.

The message of a Lover's Heart.

I have failed to see these things as poetry or music -- the language of all lovers -- because I am examining it.

Judging it. Hacking it apart with my logic.

His Lover's Heart still gives (He can be nothing else), and I nit-pick the details.

He offers Himself (because that is what love does), and I scrub.

Trading the rising crescendos for the clicking calculator.

Missing it.

“Poets don’t go mad; but chess-players do.

Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. . . .

The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head.
And it is his head that splits.” (G.K. Chesterson)

I have suffered from such head-splitting.

Because it won't fit. All the knowledge, all the arguements, all the understanding.

We are too limited. Too little.
The cure for these headaches must be embracing that smallness.

And I thank God He lets me come to the end of my cold, hardened, calculating self.

Because it is cold there.

And it is lonely.

I realize there's more to God than knowing facts about Him.

There's beholding Him . . . worshipping Him for the art He writes across my life.

That somehow in the instructing, the analyzing, the comprehension of things spiritual, something important can be missed.

Maybe I have been so interested in understanding my relationship with God, trying to figure it all out, squeeze it into my little brain, that I have ceased to actually relate to Him!

The warmth, the softness, the life flow -- these are evidence of relationship.

This is the spontaneity of love . . . not critiquing, just beholding art.

. . . And He Brings Me Flowers

2012-01-15T15:11:00.000-08:00

Only a few short months has she been gone.
He's 82, and only known 10 years composite in his lifetime without her.
It still stings, when he remembers.
I see the tears standing, unspilled.

His life is finding a new season.
A new beginning without her.
Redefinition of his identity.

There's a soberness . . . a deep thoughtfulness in him.
Even through the laughter and merriment of great-grandchildren, the searching is there.
The hunger . . .
I watch it over the course of a 5 day visit.

He joins the throngs of old men, up at dawn.
When I emerge from my bedroom, I see him reading.
A book about the purpose of life.

We converse little with words, but I see him thinking.
Words, not always the best messengers anyway.

He takes his jacket and goes outside for a walk.
I'm busy with the children, but my mind is with him.

When he returns, he comes in slow.
He looks up at me shy . . . almost timid.
And then thrusts out a wrinkled, shaky hand.

The blooms he holds are beautiful.
Fall wildflowers in their prime.

A clump of yellow-petaled brown-eyed susans act as a frame around the bouquet.
A burst of purple, and some white small fray to fill in the holes.
Put together carefully, all surrounding the *queen* of the bouquet, the silky-white morning glory.

Ahh, morning glories . . .

I remember that it was these very morning glories that she had planted in the window box.
They had grown up, up. Climbing and blooming . . . in their season.

I am charmed. I am taken, actually.
Me? To have the honor of being the first person he has handed flowers since she died.

Did he travel back in time when he picked them?
Did he remember the young shaky hand that had handed a bunch of wildflowers to her so many years ago?
Did he see in each choice of flower the lesson it contains . . . ?

I see it.
It is the lesson of seasons.

Just as the beauty of the morning glory fades quickly with the progressing day, so one season yeilds to another.
And we have to learn to see beauty again . . .perhaps it looks different in this season.

But to see this we need stillness.
And this season, for him, is one of stillness.

He's searching to find the beauty here.
A deep hunger, gnawing.

I open Psalm 145 and I see this story written.
How it's the Lord who raises up those who are bowed down (v.14) . . .with cares, with age, with humility.

And that it is only from Him that we receive this food for our hungry soul (v.15) . . . but wait.

When is it given?

" . . . in due season."

This could be his season to receive from the hand of the Lord the food for which he is so hungry.
This could be the time for one generation to praise the works of God to another (v.4).

And to point the way to the Only Satisfaction for the soul -- the purpose of every life and the Beauty of all seasons -- has been given to us.

One generation pointing the way to another, so ripe . . . in season.

The lesson of the flowers he brings.

A Foothold

2012-01-14T12:29:00.000-08:00

"We are all misers when it comes to expressing appreciation.

We are quick to criticize, but very slow to appreciate.

We look at people and find so many faults in them.

That is human nature.

And that is how the Accuser, the Devil gets a foothold within us.

On the other hand,

God gets a foothold within us,

when we look at others and find something to appreciate in them." (Zac Poonen)

"So speak encouraging words to one another.
Build up hope so you'll all be together in this, no one left out, no one left behind. . . .

Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it out." (1 Thess. 5:11, 15 MSG)

Great Doing of Nothing

2012-01-12T13:11:00.001-08:00

Laziness appears as a great doing of nothing. No forward motion. No backward assessment.
No change at all.
But this great doing of nothing does not only belong to laziness.
It may also belong to obedience.

What?? How can an obedient soul be content with what has been called "the sin of doing nothing"?

There is an obedience that is rooted in profound and utter dependence on God to move.
An unwavering faith that will not be pushed into action ahead of Divine timing.
To a watching world, this can appear as laziness.

But to the one waiting, he is experiencing what it means to rise up with wings as eagles.
He is leaning on the Unseen, Everlasting Arms.
His secret source of strength to keep waiting, even when misunderstanding clouds the eyes of others, is that this is the place where he has been led. And that is enough.

" 'The Lord is my strength' to sit still. And how difficult is the attainment! Do we not often say to one another, in seasons when we are compelled to be quiet, 'If only I could do something!'
When the child is ill, and the mother stands by in comparative impotence, how severe is the test!
But to do nothing, just to sit still and wait, requires tremendous strength." (Streams in the Desert)

May we learn to look on each other with eyes of love, not assuming laziness of our brother, friend, spouse, or child without a clear understanding of the context of what appears to us as a great doing of nothing.

"There is nothing so masterly as inactivity in some things, and there is nothing so hurtful as restless working, for God has undertaken to work His sovereign will." (A.B. Simpson)

Facing Mountains

2012-01-09T14:00:00.000-08:00

It's Monday and I face mountains.
I wake up later than I'd like, more tired than I'd like.

Eyes barely open and mountains of responsibilities are already calling my name --
telling me I'm late, again . . . to call the vet and make an appointment, to send my children's homemade birthday card in the mail to their out-of-state friend, to get the laundry conquered so we can start it all over, buried, tomorrow. . . and a thousand and one other things beside.

I don't have a history of mental instability, but you won't believe that when you read this next line:
These things have voices.

That's right. I know, because they are speaking to me.
Telling me of my failure as a housekeeper, or a parent, or an organizer, or a cook . . .
The clock on the wall ticks loudly and I'm just desperate enough to talk right out loud to it.
"No, you will not rule my day. I will only go His pace. The race, after all, is not to the swift . . ."

But the onslaught doesn't let up. I still see unfinished projects looming from each corner of the room. The half-eaten bagel on the counter, just another symbol of something incomplete. Inadequate.
And I hear the voices.
Reminding me of what I "should" be. Rehearsing evidence of what I am not.

"Should" has never been a good motivator for me, and today is no different.
Adds a burden to the back as I head uphill.
The hands that already droop weary find no zest for life or energy for work in the "shoulds."

So I walk downstairs into darkness and achy arms carry laundry.
As I fill the machine, I start to hear something else.
The voice of memories -- yesterday's sermon still fresh in my ears.

And I remember that it's shadows that hold us, and shadows that bind us, and if we'd step out of the shadows unafraid, we'd find ourselves walking in the light. In fellowship with Him who is Light.

Oh, yes.
Truth enters like a flood and I'm starting to let go.
Recognizing that the fingers holding me in the shadows are none other than my own.
I must consciously choose to release.
Bring all to the Light.
I must take the step toward the Whisperer . . . Voice of Love that doesn't speak in "shoulds."

He's the One who helps me sort through the many things I could do, to find the ONE thing necessary . . . same for me as it was for Martha.
Oh, what relief! Sweet simplicity of following!
He is water to my parched soul.

This Voice I've now heard cracks the door and I open wide before the God who speaks through quiet memories . . . worshipping as the water pours in, cleansing the stains.
Fabric releasing the darkness of its dirt, too.

I start back up the stairs, one foot in front of the other.
Only one step at a time. . . that's how mountains are climbed.
Achy arms, tired feet find their strength in joy's pool . . . and I've just dived in.

Perspective

2012-01-09T05:40:00.001-08:00

"Even though I glimpse God's holiness, I am still dumb enough to forget that life is all about God and not about me at all.

It sorta goes like this . . . .

Suppose you are an extra in an upcoming movie. You will probably scrutinize that one scene where hundreds of people are milling around, just waiting for that two-fifths of a second when you can see the back of your head. Maybe your mom and your closest friend get excited about that two-fifths of a second with you . . . maybe. But no one else will realize it is you. Even if you tell them, they won't care.

Let's take it a step further. What if you rent out the theater on opening night and invite all your friends and family to come see the new movie about you? People will say, "You're an idiot! How could you think this movie is about you?"

Many Christians are even more delusional than the person I've been describing. So many of us think and live like the movie is all about us . . . "

(Francis Chan, Crazy Love)