Hold Hands.

There is this word picture of friendship that keeps bubbling back in my mind.  Especially as I seek friendship, crave community, long for intentionality.  I've learned it the hard way, still long for it the enduring way, and wish for it the dreamer way.  But I've known it, and I know it's good.

Holding Hands.

This image takes no thought, but this life takes so much more.  I've been unraveling the metaphor for months, quite possibly a year, as I've journied through, more like juggled through, the loss of friendship, the lingering hopes of friendship, the stretching to create community, and the struggle to let hope go.

Picture this: the actual action of holding hands takes two people, takes two efforts, take two reaching out.  Away from just self, though still connected, and putting trust, energy, and risk into extending towards another.

But now picture this: only one person continually stretching, pursuing, clamoring after the hand of another, and all you have is one person extending a whole lot of energy and usually burning out with frustration, or falling on their face, feeling the puff of dust.

I've seen this happen.  I've felt this happen.  I've been this person.  On both hands.

I've been the one longing for someone to open up, longing for them gift me back, longing for their efforts my way.  I've created the atmosphere for it -- vulnerable heart, safe spaces, prayerful hours.  But I've known that soul to keep shutting down, to keep staying behind closed doors, to confine into what's safe.  To keeping their hand.  Even when they ached and needed friendship, the soul withheld out of fear, hurt, insecurity, or ignorance.  Kelly Minter remarks, "Receiving comfort requires humility and vulnerability before the Lord, open hands that say we don't know it all or have it all and need our Savior."  (All Things New Bible Study, p21).  Reaching out and receiving hands takes both people willing, both vulnerable, both extending and accepting.

And, let me be honest, I've been the person sought after too.  Badgered with options to meet, texted with extension of friendship, or retreating the circle of community.  Withholding or pulling back my hand.  Because of time and space.  Because of heart protection, head, and mindset.  For me, this is usually an intentional choice.  Something I've wrestled with and wrangled to death, for better and worse.  I'm usually coercing through the thoughts of weeding and planting with it, creating soil for fruit, and working with angst to "take captive every thought for Christ" (II Corinthians 10:5) which for me, means being around those who help me long for him and spur my mind to purity, righteousness, and joy (Phillipians 4:8-9).

Now, I recognize there are seasons for this, and seasons where it looks different.  There are seasons where one friend is holding on with great strength, while the other is faltering, but needing the clasp of support.  There are seasons when one is pulling and the other is dragging, and one is squeezing, and the other is limp. (Great examples of this are when my mom died, or when my babies were in their first year (hello Anne, Trish, Heidi, Laura, Jenny, Missy, Kate Vasey...).  I was laying in the dirt, deep in the mire, yet they stood on rocks and kept grasping and holding and encouraging me.  Giving out.  Clinging to my hand for my hope.  And the reverse has been seen too, like sitting with friends in miscarriage or marking a return to singleness, where the other has no life to offer, but needs the grit of my hand on theirs to make the painful journey.)  There are seasons, and yet there is also a commitment in the seasons still, for the long haul, which makes the season what it is -- a season -- if the commitment to the walking and holding is still cherished and cared for by both people.

There are also relationships for ministry, for giving for service on behalf of Him who served.  Solely. And that's okay too.  But we cannot label friendship what is lack-luster, we cannot label community was is lacking.  We've got to get a right viewpoint, a stronghold, on what it actually looks like to commit to community, to call it for-real friends.

Which brings me to the little phrase "walking each other home" with regards to earth and heaven and hope.  (Kaitlyn Bouchillion in Even if Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between -- As quoted in Fierce Hearted on pg 48-49)

Now that is a beautiful truth, metaphor, and image.  Especially through the viewpoint of true friendship and hands.  And it creates a filtering factor for what is considered real, true community and friendship.  Who are the ones who are next to us, with us, spuring us, encouraging us, while holding our hands, and walking home.

There is a beautiful moment, a marking of space, when two people both reach out and fold their fingers around the other.  Both extend, both receive, both meet in the middle, but join two hearts and lives together, going the same way.  And with this hand holding, there is rest, there is held, there is love, there is grace.

There is steadfast.

My friend Trish and I were rolling 65 down the highway, deep in our mulling, desperate in our longings.  Both single and wishful, alone and vulnerable.  We let thoughts of friendship unfold in  that white Malibu, both admiting our hard, holy languish for true friendship, for companionship, for someone to call our own - our "other", our "go-to", our "person."  And we both felt the exposed tenderness of letting the other know the pining, the ache in our souls, the absolute loneliness and naked feeling of being needy.  And then, with a Mary Poppins style jaunt and matter-of-fact quip, I said, "Well, what if I catch you and you catch me?  Then we're both caught!"  She perked up, as if this "ah-ha" gave renewed energy, like a bright yellow daffoldi spurning out of ground in spring, and said, "Oh yes!  If we're both chasing, what if you chase me, and I chase you, and then we don't have to chase any more, because we're both caught!"

Ah, rest!  Caught.  Secured. Labeled clearly by the other person.  To call it and be accountable to it, but loved it in, known.

For the next several years we were each other's go-to.  The drive-to-school text or call, the Crisp corner club, blue dress at midnight dance, the first-morning-engaged coffee date, the maid-of-honor/bridesmaid.  Caught.  Rested.  Companioned.

Holding Hands.

We kept the phrase of "caught" with us those years, and added the word "with" to our repetoire, to life.  To do life with each other.  To do motherhood with each other.  To read good things with each other.  To write side by side with each other.  To carry our hopes and heartaches with each other.

Holding hands can only happen in the caught, the with.  Can only happen when both people are walking the same direction, carrying the same amount of commitment, willing to carry the pressure of the burden and dance the leap of joy.  All this can only happen, at least for the long haul, in the together, the hessed. (God's term for "with" in the Old Testament, term used for Ruth with Naomi, note Kelly Minter's Ruth study."

So I work through this, I rest in this.  Always disciphering, always pursing, often over-thinking, my eden-hope of holding hands.  Sometimes it looks like parking my car at my neighbors, kids locked in carseats, and standing on her stop shedding anger and tears and heartache in exchange for her hug and words and quick courage under the neediness of tears.  Sometimes it looks like Kelly's granola on my doorstep, or a text Heidi in Montana or Trish in the mountains.  Sometimes hands cross the miles through cards, and sometimes they cross the driveway kid-sharing.

I love the way the Lord has bestowed this image for me, has given scriptures and significance in this metaphor of holding hands.  But what I love most is the resolution of life with Him, "Nevertheless I am continually with you; You have taken hold of my right hand."   (Psalm 73:23)  Amen!

Hold Fast.

I grew up equating spiritual success with "spiritual high" -- like camp and conference experiences, when the mountain is all you know and what you love and God is so colorfully exalted, with people giddy and exclaiming and bursting with joyful emotion...  Yet the years age me, the experiences awaken me, and the God of all emotion teaches me....

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I drove home quietly in the dark, heavy from Stories Night, ruminating on Jeremiah and lament and the actual tenacity and courage and strength to hold fast.

The women talked about abortion, about divorce, about death.  Lots of death.  They talked about hope and love and hardship.  About community and crying out.  About clinging to God, with bleeding fingernails gripping the cliff of faith, but that even if their faith fails and they fall, He is the Everlasting Arms that catches.

I couldn't help but land there.  On being caught by Him, in His strength, His love, His loyalty, in such immense hardship, betrayal, tragedy, or sin.  And about how maybe that is more spiritual than the mountain.  About how maybe that requires and pronounces more faith than the high.  That the low of lament might be the vulnerable nakedness that exposes the actual core of faith, or creates room for its roots to grow.

There is very little bragging, no room for pious, and all pretentiousness is slaughtered by the time one is crawling in lament, living in Jeremiah, appreciating Job.  When the heart of Psalms beats with the wounded, the miry clay is thick, but the faith that muddles through it is strengthened in the struggle.

Lament threads through those I know.  Through those I honor and adhere to.  Deep hurt, scars, pain, and loss transform the "put-together" person into an honest friend, a tearful warrior, a fierce believer.  The existence of hardship carves out soil for surety, and whittles one down to a shred where only God is secure, and even that relies on His faithfulness and promise, because the human adhering to him is weak and wearisome.

Yet the stories that gurgle out of the mud of gloom, that speak of heaven in the coffin of death, that learn to know His love in the lament, are ones that speak so powerfully, so deeply to the hearts of all the people.  Because to know, cling to, grasp, lean on, and hold fast to the God in lament, is the greatest reflection of courage and Christ the earth shall ever see.

Ruth: Relinquishing for Pearls.

She left it all.  Her family, her livelihood, her known.  Her friends from years past, her familiar streets, her language and her ways.  She clung to this new God, this one very few in her land boasted of, but figured maybe He was worth a try.  She had so much to loose, and so little to loose.  She was already childless and now without a husband.  Lost and living in grief and despair.  She strapped on her sandals, threw her satchel over the shoulder, and heaved a sigh.  Just finding the gumption to get up in her mess of confusion and grab a hand.

Naomi, now bitter Mara, was the other hand extended.  She too was bent and low, muttering bits of anger and flustered over her long robe, tripping on it across the room.  Her hair was stringy and tears had dried down her wrinkled, dirty cheeks.  How much more to weep?  How much more to loose?  Her husband, her sons, her safety.  And who was she left with?  Just two daughters-in-law and a few shingles, hardly enough to make the trip home.  And what was home anyway?  Without her men, without her heartbeats of life, what was worth going forward for anyway?

The three walked, grudgingly but trustingly, hardly a glimmer of goodness keeping their splintered and calloused feet on the dusty tracks.  Tears had broke down their cheeks for so many hours and days, none could be left to find.  Water was scarce in this dry land and their days-old bread crumbled in their cloth sacks.  Few words were exchanged between them.  Only a few stories of their buried men, and an awkward good-bye to Orpah.

Dear Ruth, her heart was shattered.  Her ways so unknown, and now she lingered nearly alone except this woman lawed her mother-in-law, who was sputtering obscenities with each step.  What lay ahead?  Who were these people she was going to?  Would they care about her?  See her?  Accept her?  Would she find a friend, a confident?  Would there be work and wages and a place for her to labor?

The settling started hard.  They got to the few shacks on the end of town and a few relatives greeted Naomi, Mara, with hugs.  But she was unresponsive.  To some she hugged in return, to others she shook her head, finding little strength to share her struggles.  Others came up with glee to greet their long-gone friend, but even with that she shuttered, unable to find the joy they knew.  They told her God was faithful, a covenant God of promise, but she hardly had hope to care.

Ruth listened, and outsider, about this God, this one who she was hearing to trust to never leave, to always be with her.  She knew him so little, but was learning to listen, to hear, to lean in to these people who believed him for so much greater.  Yet, who was she?  An outsider, a widow, a childless woman.

She spent her days in the fields, threshing and picking and gleaning and beating wheat.  Hours upon hours she lived in the labor, sun beating down over her cloak, nights spent bent around the fire.  As days unraveled to months, she started to see Mara's anger fray, started to see her allow the others in, started to see her rekindle and make friends, join in the journey to the watering hole, and barely tilt her lips to smile, and on rare occasions, find the audacity to laugh.

Their story was a long one, one of such wondering, of such wandering, of such faith.  But a story that spent countless hours of simply trusting, simply living, simply beating down the wheat on this threshing floor.

The day came when the Master of the land was seen, rugged and handsome, gloriously confident and kind, like a prince.  Ruth's heart caught in her chest, startled then scared at her own reaction.  She wasn't supposed to let her grief end, she was supposed to live in sadness or this new-found safety of the land, she wasn't supposed to - gulp - hope.

But he was there.  Regal and rich, wealth of fields and lands and workers and barns.  Gorgeous in his cloak, a bearded mane falling down from his face.  Stunning.

She didn't dare tell Naomi, Mara, for it seemed to shame the love of their dead.  It seemed to demean the earlier days.  But then Naomi noticed.  She saw Ruth's face as she shared about him, noticed the tender giggle return to her cracked lips.

A plan was hatched, for the first time in years, two women laughed, in unison.  They plotted and shimmied and pranced with strange fear and hope and all the girly impishness they remember from when they were thirteen.

Ruth lay there, heart beating wildly, the smell of him near, thick and musty.  Her own self reeking of fragrances, recklessly wafting towards him the lure of her.  Taunting him awake, uncovering his feet in the cold, willing him to take recognition of her, to notice her, to want her.

The series of days followed.  He saw her all right, and he wanted her.  Boaz was strong and stable, regarded as righteous and near royalty at the city gate.  He worked through the people and the laws, adhering to relatives and requesting her to become his.  Relishing the role of Kinsman Redeemer.

With the wedding celebrated, the fanfare and festivities commenced and simply splotches of confetti and wine cups along the roadside and floors, they lay together.  Her story now winding with his.  Her love now rebirthed in him.  Her hope now part of his faith.

He walked out the door each morning, with a hug and a smile, his grin wide and his laughter jolly,  Enormous in patience and forbearing in goodness to her.  He left with extra kisses, wishing her peace and rest  and winking as he walked to manage the workers.

Her days quickly became full, exchanging new friendships due to what Boaz's role afforded her.  She chatted with other woman of means, spent hours at the well watching running children, and lingered long at the fields, caring over the women who were her first companions, picking up the edges and left-behind wheat.

In the evening, Ruth slivered a slice of fresh bread, grain from her husbands field, warm with softness and tenderness.  She held a piece out to Naomi, now giggling with laughter, cooing with her grandson Obed in her lap.   Ruth sighed, her life renewed.  She thought back to months ago, the trail of grief and loss and the long dusty road of dirty and sorrow, familiar good-byes and foreign hello.  And then she looked again at her mother-in-law, her husband blowing kisses from the door, and her son, cheeky and squealing on a blanket on the floor.  Oh, to now trust this God who was good.  Who knew in her sorrow, His hope.  Who knew in her loss, His love.  Who knew in her good-byes, His hello.

She bit into the goodness of risen bread, bent over her son, and puckered at her husband.  Her days on the dusty road remembered, her proven obedience to His goodness secure, and her heart steadfast in His love.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I was rumbling through this story of Ruth as I lay awake praying this morning.  Her story is one I have ruminated on so many times, seasons and months each year, and I keep stumbling on more goodness her story than I can unravel each time or believe.

But today, I was thinking mostly on the letting go.  The letting go of so much, before she even stepped on that dusty path that first chapter of the book.  I was thinking of the letting go compared to my own story, blogged in condensed form here, about my Ordering the Wood for this Land of Inheritance, but having no idea what that meant at the time the journey began...  And about the truths of God's promises and His leading, that He will always be with me, but sometimes that road isn't what I wanted or expect in the moment.

My own mother-in-law, Rachel Stone, and I engage in discussion often as Christians, as women, and as adherers to the Word and His promises.  Recently, she shared a line I will grapple with until I grasp it fully in heaven, the truth of true surrender, true faith, true trust and belief:

"We hold on to plastic pop beads when God wants to give us precious pearls." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Dear Lord, give me the grace to accept both the dirty, barren road and the daily threshing floor.  And give me the thankfulness to laugh joyfully and see your goodness in the seasons of abundance.  May your mercy soften my heart to trust and see you and believe You for Your promises in both.  Amen.

Mosh Pit Of The Cross.

Picnic blanket spread.  A beautiful, spacious place.  Pretty paper plate with, of course, a pretty paper napkin.  Colorful food, fresh garden veggies and creamy cheeses, summer-tasting lemonade. Peonies and roses in a vase, tall and wide, peaches and pinks.  And the final addition: Me.  Part of the lovely, perfect, manicured space reserved for one, at this gorgeous arrangement at the foot of the cross.

It's true.  Sometimes, this is exactly how I envision it.  Singularly me, and all beautiful and articulate, a scene Pinterest-worthy and perfect, at the Cross.

But instead, it's a mosh pit at the cross. A mess of humanity, spread and squished, bloody and dirty, soiled and stained.  All clumped together, sweaty and stinky, clamoring for the foot of the cross.  His blood, dripping scarlet and wet, on the heads of the clawing.

The diversity at the foot of the cross is shocking.  Piled high with babies and elderly, brown and black, wealthy and impoverished.  The elite and the untouchables, the intellectuals and the learning disabled, the prominent and the poor in spirit.  Creations of all shapes, sizes, colors.  

All look around into the dark melty eyes of each other, seeing the sparkle in the blue or the sorrow in the brown, surprised by the fact that they are all here, all coming needy and worshipful, to the foot of the cross.

No space for picnic blankets.  No need for pretty or pious.  Just a whole lot of people, humans all equal and dictated by flesh and bone, spirit and soul, need and desperation.  For the longing hope and redemption, the dripping blood of the Savior, at the mosh pit of the cross.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* Original phrase coined by Amber Porter at Every Little Step, Church At Charlotte, November 7, 2017.

The Four Friends.

“And when he returned to Capernaum after some days, it was reported that he was at home.  And may where gathered together, so that there was no more room, not even at the door.  And he was preaching the Word to them.  And they came, bringing to him a paralytic carried by four men.  And when they could not get near him because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him, and when they had made an opening, they let down the bed on which the paralytic lay…”  Mark 2:1-4

“On one of those days, as he was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting there, who had come from every village of Galilee and Judea and from Jerusalem.  And the power of the Lord was with him to heal.  And behold, some men were bringing on a bed a man who was paralyzed, and they were seeking to bring him in and lay him before Jesus, but finding no way to bring him in, because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let him down with his bed through the tiles into the midst before Jesus…”  Luke 5:17-20

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m finding this story with fresh eyes.  With eyes that place people in the places, names on the faces.  And burning in my heart.  The kind of crushing, mama-bear ferociousness that drives me to think of the four men, the friends, and walk parallel with them.  As one of them.  Bringing my paralyzed friends to Jesus.

Their pushing, their prodding, their angry and ignited souls breaking open molded earth, baked bricks, layered clay to bring their friend to Jesus.  Their passionate pursuit of him, insane faith, crazy conviction literally leading them to look as fools, to chink away, to be embarrassed for the sake of this lame man, for the sake of Jesus.

Four gritty men.  And one feeble man.  But five fervent men.

The story, the unfolding, does require noting and knowing the Pharisees and ‘teachers of the law’.  Those who are trained and religious and stout and possibly pious, and yet learning.  Those who came to gather, to be near him, but did not understand nor apply the fullness of him in in their spaces, their places, their homes, or their hearts.  Who learnt and studied, yet questioned and thus miss the whole passion.  The whole Creator of the Creation before them.  Who could articulate, teach, and recite all of Scriptures, yet push aside the idea of flaming faith, passionate pursuit, and glorifying God in awe and worship.  Good people, intellectual people, well-read people.  

But not the people who astounded the God-Man.  Not the people who received the absolute absurdity of incredible healing.  

No, the people who caught Jesus’ eye and attention and therefore received his freedom and grace were the four friends, and their broken friend, the paralytic.

These are the ones of whom Scripture writes:

“And when Jesus saw their faith…”  Mark 2:5

He didn’t hear it.  He didn’t read it.  He didn’t learn it.  He didn’t program it.  He didn’t schedule it.  He SAW it.

He saw these four dusty men, lugging away with shoulders swinging, hammers banging,and sweat rolling down their faces.  All to chunk away at the tiles and red clay.  All to bring their friend to Jesus.

Four, likely vagabonds, doing all in their earnest, to carry their hearts and their friend, to plead for the presence of Jesus.

This is the way our hearts should bleed for Jesus.  Should claw for him.  Should carry our friends to him.

The paralytic lays there, broken and disheveled, cast off by all institutions, but embedded in the life of these friends.  For the time of his paralysis is unknown, yet may be assumed somewhat recent as these friendships were tied so significantly in a time when needy were outcast from the rest.  

So five men pushed and shoved, popped up and crawled down, rubbed raw hands against rope and wood, to get into the house, past the learned and the pious, to get to Jesus.

But the performers of the church, the knowledgable of the original way, the elite of the society, stood in the way.  Side-glancing and huddling closer.  Stifling the spaces and shushing the onlookers.  Leaning  in to learn.

Yet the friends faith would not be kindled down.  Their burning and longing not pushed aside.  Their perseverance not delayed.  

Tenacious in their actions, strengthened and not swayed. Chiseling and whacking and persisting. To climb the roof, to wear the red clay, to drag and heave their faith-filled friend.  

Shocked and angry, the Leaders of the Law gasped.  Judged.  Remarked.  Questioned. Frowned.

But these four, five, friends of fierce faith, knew the one they chased. With acute determination and severe will, they set a mission: to get to Jesus.  To see their Savior heal.

These are the friends I long to be.  The ones who let nothing stand in their way.  To bring their friend to Jesus.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Note, the end of the story, after the questioning, the unbelief, the anger…  That the healing brought this reaction:

“And immediately he rose up before them and picked up what he had been lying on and went home, glorifying God.  And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, “We have seen extraordinary things today.” Luke 5:25-26

The ending Truth is something all can rejoice in.  That after the condemnation, the crazy, the chaos, when the salvation and the healing, and the awesome of miracle took place, NOT ONE could hold back from glorifying God.  NOT ONE could keep silent from exclaiming the awesomeness of God. God is in still in the work of redeeming, God is still in the work of bringing awe, God is still in the work of offering faith and believe to ALL who will believe and receive - poor, dirty, Pharisee, teacher, and lame alike.  Now that is the power of the gospel!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

As a post-blog note, something here needs to be said on behalf of a few of my “paralytic friends”.  Because I want to find a way to keep beating down the doors, the rooftop for them.  Two friends in particular.  Both of great faith, both of such belief.  But how to get them to Jesus, to have them open to his healing, or get the “religiosity” out of their way…  One, to bring healing of body as well as mind, then to weave it into soul.  The other to bring life back to worship, to block out the mind, but give strength to the freedom and joy of the soul.  Holy Spirit, God my Father, Almighty Savior, let me be the friend who keeps pushing against pious, or intellect twisted into belief, or lies burdened on faith, and bring my friends into the presence of Jesus.

The Truck.

Today is my Dad's 60th Birthday.  There are lots of things I'd like to say about him, and so many stories I recount and remember.  I like to think of him in hat-back hot-dogging on a bot, or telling "stories from 'Nam" while smacking the dinner table, or swinging me in dance to "Rodeo" around the Sunday kitchen table...  But the story that gets retold the most, but one he knows the least of, was his best parenting moment ever... and one I will never forget.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The day was coming to a close.  Hot summer night twinkled in with fireflies and crickets chirping.  The waves slowed down to a murmur of lapping peace against the shore.  Quiet and calm, hugs to mom in her nightgown, standing at the swinging white screen door.  Work tomorrow, dad was already at home, the end of another good lake day.

I threw my backpack and purse into the side of his new, white, heavy-duty Ford truck.  Tough and strong, it towered over me, surging with strength and energy in its size.  I felt proud, cool, as my sixteen year old self started the deep, throaty, hardy roar of the engine.

Pulling the side lever, I lurched it into gear, propped up high on the new leather seat.  Darkness surrounded me, just dim lights inside the row of cottages on the other side of the street.  Stillness, calm, nightfall at the lake.

Scrape!  

The long, drawn out scratching sound slid down the side of the truck.  Like shaving off metal, it razored through the side panel, ripping and denting the doorframe along the way.   Loud and dynamic, a scream breaking through silence.  Terror.  Destroying.

I scrambled to lurch the beast out of reverse.  What had I done?!

My mom came back outside, startled and wondering, walking out the same cottage-white doorframe as moments before.  "Are you okay?"  She slippered out towards me in robe and nightgown.

It was too dark to see the damage.  Just the haunting of sound to remember something had gone a-rye.  I stood there, terrified and perplexed.  "I don't know what happen!  I must have put it in reverse and not known there was a anything there!"

But there was something there. The culprit: a titanic telephone pole, straight and stiff, a silhouette of strength and stubbornness etched in the sky.

My soul sank, embarrassed and horrified, shocked and dismayed.  His brand new glossy truck completely clawed and dented down the whole side panel, tire to tire.  White paint turned gray metal. Pride turned pain.

Dreading the conversation and confession that was to come, I sunk into the drivers seat again and roared the engine, misery on my mind as I drove the truck home to Homerich.

I walked in the garage door. Swallowing hard, I found my humbled courage to walk into his office door.  It was the front room of the house, gray architect walls and maroon thick curtains, large black leather chair, two windows facing acres of manicured lawn.  He was working quietly, sitting at the large wood desk, plans and blueprints and 10-Key clicking away.

"Dad?"  I shyly squeezed the word out, standing at the end of his desk.

He had his black ink in hand, Wever Concrete logo on papers.

"Um, Dad..."  I gulped again, finding words to say.  "I wrecked your truck."

He looked up, relaxed and calm. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but Dad, I wrecked your truck." I repeated, making sure he heard me.

"Okay. But are you okay?"  He looked up at me again, at ease and nonchalant about the whole confession.

"Yes, but I scrapped the whole thing down the side.  I hit a telephone pole.  It's pretty bad." I waited for him to respond with something more dramatic.  "I parked it in the barn."

"But your okay?" He lifted his brows and shrugged my way.

"Yes."

"Okay.  Thanks for telling me.  I'll go check it out in a bit."

And that was it.

It was nearly 10:30 at night, darkness filled the sky and I was in the midst of one of the overt mistakes of my life.  I felt horrible!  Yet watching and hearing my dads response changed and magnified his character in my mind that night.

I crept up the stairs and got dressed for bed, listening keenly for his footsteps, or his reaction, or his worry.  Nothing.  He was unfazed.  Just kept working away in the office as if nothing had happened at all.  Just caring about me, and making sure I was okay.

I laid awake in the twilight, my peach bedroom turned black with night, my attention fully awake, waiting still for his response.

A full half hour passed before I heard the sound of the backdoor open, him making way to the brick barn to survey my damage.  The darkness of my room felt sharply still, pensive to his observation.

He came back in a few minutes later.  I waited for him to approach my door and deliver his thoughts or what I owed or some sort of reaction.

Nothing.  I never heard another thing about it.  He simply walked up the stairs and crawled into his bed and the next day started like all the rest.  That was it.

That was it: clear love for me and care with concern for my heart and well-being and safety.

The treasures of this world will pass away, the things we own or care for will someday ruin or be wrecked along a telephone pole.  But this relationship that night changed forever, as I saw a character and love for me in my dad that I could never rationalize, but have been enamored and awed by ever since.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Happy 60th Birthday to the man who keeps driving trucks and Cadillacs and Corvettes and quads all in perspective.  Love you Dad.

♡ Christina Jill

Jericho: Day Six.

Six times.  Once per day.  Circle the city.  In silence.

Simple instructions.  Clear Commands.

But to a people of wandering, one has to wonder, and compare, what their voices murmured, their hearts questioned, and their confidence felt.

These are The People.  The Israelites.  The chosen nation of God.  Holy and devoted to him.  The same people who witnessed the plagues, dripped blood over doors, and crossed the Red Sea.  The same people who saw the Egyptian army drowned, ate quail and manna from heaven, and drank water from a rock.  The same people who saw Moses go up onto Mt. Sinai, were guided by the cloud and fire, and walked the Jordan on dry sand.

Their also the same people who wished to go back into slavery from exile, who grumbled for better provisions, who danced before the golden calf.

These are the children of that nation, the second generation of the Red Sea, the firstborn hearers of the oral stories, the tales of the true and old.

Their leaders have courage, strength and soul-worthy. Of the twelve, these two names forever known.  Joshua and Caleb, they directed them.  A people freshly crossed into Promised Land.

The land was theirs, the city too.  Already given, handed, conquered.  Before they strapped their sandals to walk.

"See, I have given Jericho into your hand, with its king and mighty men of color.  You shall march around the city..." [said the Lord] (Joshua 6:2)  {Notice the past tense: given - already sealed and done! And present tense: shall march - the promise was granted before the obedience!}

And here is where I stop to pause.  The story is common, told and retold.  But the message to me new, afresh.

Six times.  Six times they had to just show up.  To see Day Seven.  To view the promise.  To gain the reward.

But then I know them, I read their Torah stories, and know them in my heart.  Its hot.  Its dry.  They're hungry, they're tired.  The'yre living in tents, they're dirty, they're probably hungry.  Their children are crying, they're sick of wandering, and now this silly stunt.

I hear their grumbles, I see their rolling eye.  I feel my shoulder shrug,  I bicker in my soul.

So much of me is like them.  I know it in my soul.  Like them, I don't want to get up.  I don't want to get more dusty, more dirty.  I don't want to show up on Day Four... Five... Six.

They hear the sounds of taunting, angry people of Jericho, yelling from walls.  They listen to the striking of iron, the clanging of armor, the men inside preparing for battle. They hear the frantic hustle of women, gathering gusto for war.  They cringe at screams from children, huddled careful underneath cloaks.  They know these are the giants, mirrored Goliath-men daunting the bravest men.  Israelites feeble and frightened, questioning if fool to be marching around Jericho again.  Day Six.

They have seen miracle after marvel after milestone.  And yet...  They're the same people who wallow their weakness, who want to sit under the shade tree, who have yet to fully trust God to do Day Seven what he said he would do.

And I wonder if I would show up with my sandals on that Day Six.  Strapped and ready, trusting God in walking, in waiting, and in silence.

But only from couraging and committing to Day Six, does one get to partake in the glory of Day Seven.

Standing, marching, dirty with calloused feet.  The people start the dusty trod.  Then Joshua exclaims, "Shout!  For the Lord has given you the city!" (Joshua 6:16).

The screaming starts.  The people utterly belch out every part of their depth, yelling and trumpets and wailing in obedience, aimed at the thick city wall.  Then...

Crack...

To hear the first crackle, the first splitting rock, the first fissure in the stone!

I want to be there when Jericho falls.  I want to watch the first quake, see the first crash, and feel the first sandstone tumble, before the rupture and ruin take place.

But I only get to be part of Day Seven, if I show up for Days One, Two Three, Four, Five, and Six.  I only get to grasp the greatness of glory, if I do the hard walk of waiting in the preparation days.

I want to be there on Day Seven.  I want to see the greatness of God displayed!  I want watch the rubble so the name of God is praised.  Dear Lord, let me trust in your granted promises, with strength, courage and endurance to show up on Day Six.

Tunnel Not Tomb.

Beth Moore called it her "Season of Defeat."  This season when struggle seems more common than smiling, and striving never ceases to sabbath.  So much of my courage is swallowed up or suffocating, and living is squandered by surviving.  

For me, this Season of Defeat is overrun and overruled by medical appointments and disruptions.  Somedays, I honestly just can't make one more medical phone call or specialist visit or physical therapy appointment or ear check haul.  I have lists of medical analysis and prescriptions to try or surgery details.  Its like an ongoing cavern, deeper and deeper into a mountain of dark, questions or visits just guiding downward to more phone calls and more physicians.  The ceaseless medical need for Judah and me has whacked and confused and used so much time and energy that the whirlwind and debris is dehabilitating.  And has turned me crazy and angry, and defeated.

This season is saying No.  No. No. No.  No to almost everything, to say yes to something, but the No's bring so much hardship too.  No to Community Group, which in essence sometimes feels like No to belonging or friends or prayer buddies.  No to Women's teaching/study, which means No to using my gifts and callings and refreshment.  No to coffee with friends, no to complete sentences of conversation, no deeper friendship.  No to more preschool, no to the YMCA, no to fitting in.  No to space for breathing, listening, thinking.  There are "yes's", of course, like to home at night and being available for these little people, but it is mostly a time of lots of hard No.

So much is dusted by defeat.  Dinners are haphazard.  A desire for a schedule far from the dream.  And toys and dirty dishes overwhelm me.

I woke this morning with the day already overwhelming me with defeat.  Maria Goff calls it the opening of the Stock Market, when the kids start swarming and squealing for their needs of the day.  And its just how I feel. I know all my "thank-you's" and "blessings" and list after list of good things,  but somehow often all the chaos clouds my perspective and I feel instead, all of life frustrating and endless, with constant yanking on my time or energy or words or limbs.  

It makes me frazzled and frantic and soul depleted and dead, this Season of Defeat.  But as I rumpled out of bed in the darkness towards the little people, God spoke to me in the darkness about the difference between a tunnel and a tomb.

A tunnel is dark for a season, damp and yucky and miry.   So much pushing and stumbling and sadness and saying "No" can make it feel even longer or more lonely and more confined...

But a tomb is all those things, but with defeat stamped forever.  All the despair, all the doubt, all the dark.  Done.  

Yet a tunnel has hope and grace and mercy pouring somewhere on the other end.  Even if I cannot see it.  Even if the days loom so long and lonely and frustrating and exhausting ahead.  A tunnel has an end.  Has light.  Has life.

Dear Jesus, you speak to me through this hope, through offering life and light, and through holding my hand and calling me still, because this season of defeat is a tunnel, not a tomb.

Ordering the Wood.

For Church at Charlotte's Women's Ministry Devotional

Under the theme "Walk This Way"

“By faith Abraham, 

when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, 

obeyed and went, 

even though he did not know where he was going.” 

Hebrews 11:8

“I feel like Noah,” I swallowed, pushing the unsigned contract forward, “And this is ordering the wood.”  I exhaled across from my Principal, at the cherished Christian school where I had  fantastic, coveted teaching job. 

None of it made sense, except that “feeling”, that promise of God that I could only speak in words that my mother understood:  “I know that I know that I know.”  Knowing that it was God’s call on me to go.  So I “ordered the wood”, resigning my secure job in the middle of the country’s economic fall-out, as well as leaving my family, blinded to unspeakable tragedies to come.

But God is faithful.

After the surrender of my life in Michigan, my friend spoke Hebrews 11:8 over me, her full conviction that God had an inheritance waiting for me in North Carolina.  She had no idea what or how God would unravel his plan for me, but she embedded this Truth of Scripture into my faith and my future.

I arrived in North Carolina without knowing the house, the roommates, the income, the friendships, the church that I would eventually secure and hold onto.  All I knew, is that I was holding on to God, with my ark to the anchor of his promises.

Nine years later, I root in this land of inheritances, with visual, walking Ebeneezers of His promises about me: an incredible husband, two passionate children, a safe home, and relationships that encourage my calling in the Kingdom.  God is faithful

To this land of inheritance, I followed his promises, unknowing exactly what that beheld but trusting him by ordering the wood.

___

Dear Lord, may my heart be attuned to your spirit, secured in your promises and obedient to your call.  Let your faithfulness be my truth and my stronghold when the storms or skies don’t make sense. I know, I trust, you are faithful and an anchor for my soul.  Amen.

___

Additional Scripture

“The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen you and protect you…” II Thessalonians 3:3

“Be strong and courageous.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be discouraged.  For the Lord your God will be with you whoever you go.”  Joshua 1:9

“Build houses and settle down.  Plant gardens and eat what they produce.”  Jeremiah 29:5

On Weeping Forward [Renewed].

I found this from my old, original blog...  And it struck me with new intention, as well as reflective imaging.

Intention, because during this hard season of home with consuming little ones, I am reminded and inspired by Sandy Lawson's words that prophesied: "Christina, God is tilling up the soil of you heart right now" [old blog, October 12, 2009].  And he was!

Oh, was I weeping forward!  God churned and yanked and uprooted, and then planted and watered and spurned Mark, Camilla, and Judah, and church and friendship and home from that harsh, blackened, cracking climate where I just kept couraging and strengthening and fighting for life and joy.

And now, just last week, I think of this blog as a reflection of my dear friend Sandy, who lost JD two years ago, and is weeping forward.  With college OT/NT classes each semester, 3 life groups, countless young women she mentors, two sons and daughter-in-laws, church commitments, and coffee dates, her life is a complete investment in the soil around her.  Surely, she is weeping in grief of JD as well has incredible, horrific, health upheaval herself (6 times cancer and auto-immune disease), yet she bravely forges her energy to weep forward, for the sake of Jesus Christ and the kingdom.  Oh, what beautiful love He induces with her seeds, what Oaks have grown from her watering!  Countless people like David Johnson & David Russell  (link to his sermon Christian Hospitality) and many others without title or fame, like me have been ministered too, homed, loved, served, hugged, and whispered prayers over before, during, and after their own season as well as her own, of Weeping Forward.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 2011

Weeping Forward.

I read this phrase in my Ruth study this week, and shared it with a friend who is going through a really painful season. It stirs thoughts, as one tries to grasp what that means, and what it looks like.

Weeping forward.

Action. Movement. Hurt. Hardship. Pain. Journey. Hope.

And then today, in my study, another phrase collaborated with it: sowing tears. It comes from Psalm 126, where the psalmist writes: "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy" (v5). And again, it insinuates the same: in pain and loss and hardship and sorrow, in acknowledging all that is hurt and lost and mourned, there is still action. There is sowing.

The sowing is planting; it is moving forward. Knowing the harvest is still a season away. In this hard sport, not only do we weep, but we weep forward. Not only do we weep forward, but we sow seeds for the hope and life that is yet to come.

So, in this thought, today, if you are in a season of weeping, what are you also sowing? And, are you sowing and weeping forward? What kind of harvest do you expect to reap from that of which you sow? Seeds of goodness, love, joy, faithfulness, obedience? Or the folly of the contrary?

Or, if you are in a season of harvest, what bounty can you name and label and see, to gather now as a sign of His faithfulness during the toil of sowing? In the blessings, the abundance, does your joy acknowledge the goodness of the Lord? Are you sifting seeds from your harvest to plant when the time for sowing comes?