Beauty from Ashes . . . . and from other stuff, too

About a year and a half ago, in the ongoing process of working out my salvation, I made a commitment to God. My commitments are flimsy at best, but in the most authentic way possible to me in that moment, I committed to Him that I would submit to whatever He laid before me. I said, "Let it be unto me as You see fit." I prayed that He would bring glory to His name in my life by whatever means He deemed best. I wept as I prayed and admitted that I was afraid. Afraid of what kind of pain or loss He might allow me to endure in order to transform me to the image of His Son. But to the best of my ability, I meant what I said.

And now here I am. My dear friend has been diagnosed with cancer and the road stretching before her is long and hard with no promises. And I am healthy.

A fellow Bible-studier is beginning her fourth battle with cancer. Another woman just attended the second day of the criminal trial for the man who brutally murdered her only child. Another has suffered miscarriage after miscarriage. The losses are many and profound. And my cup runs over.

What if? Just what if? What if God does not choose to glorify Himself in me in the way that I envisioned? What if my road does not include cancer or the loss of my child?

I suddenly realize that there is pride in my tortured imaginings of what God might allow me to experience. There is pride in the idea of what beautiful goodness God might possibly fashion out of my patient suffering. I have once again made something about me.

I am still young (relatively speaking) and who knows what the road marked out for me will bring? But the God who brings beauty from ashes doesn't work exclusively with ashes. For now, I will learn the humility of being one who cannot say "I've been there; I know how you feel".

This will not be about me or about what I have or don't have to offer others as a result of my suffering. This will have to be about God. This will have to be me learning anew that I have nothing to offer. That is why He must become greater and I must become less. He will decide how best to glorify His name in my life.

Let it be unto me as You see fit, Lord Jesus.

Why I Love the Bible

In the book of Genesis, (Genesis 6:4 to be exact) there is a mention of some sort of persons or creatures called the Nephilim. It says they were on the earth in those days and that they fathered children with the daughters of men and were considered men of renown. And that's it. No further explanation. No commentary. No follow up. A huge dangling participle in an otherwise continuous story.

I wonder, why even bring it up? What purpose does it serve? It's an unnecessary teaser. If you're not going to tell us all about the Nephilim, why mention them at all? It's distracting; it interrupts the flow of the story. And I absolutely love it.

I love the wildness of the Word of God. The untamable quality of it. I love that I cannot predict it and I do not expect it and it is without apology. I love that it is inconvenient. I love that sometimes there are details included which I wish were left out and other times there is silence when I'm longing for more information. I love that it tells me no more or less than exactly what I need to know. I love that each word is inspired by the Living God: the words about the Nephilim as much as the words about the Ten Commandments. I love that that does not make sense to me.

I love the Bible because I would not have written it that way.

I love the Bible because I could not have thought of it.

All scripture is God-breathed. That's true and that's heavy. And I could not have thought of Him, either.

Curse

I long for the day when distance and time become irrelevant and can no longer serve as obstacles to relationship. Don't you? Our lives only allow so much; our resources are limited. I don't even mean by being poor, although, of course, lack of finances obviously factors in. But even if money were not an object. . . . EVEN if you take distance out of the equation and everyone that you ever wanted to have a relationship with lived within a block of your home. . . .even then, there is a limit to the amount of time that we have to invest. So, with enough TIME, it would finally be possible to cultivate friendships with everyone you wanted. With the cousins you grew up with but never see anymore, with the lonely aunt in the nursing home who craves visitors, with the extended family that you love to be with when you see them once every 10 years, with the dear friends who moved cross country. With enough time, the distance wouldn't matter because there would be no negative consequences of a 3-day roadtrip. You could travel anywhere because there would always be enough time to finish your errands and do your job and lavish attention on your family. And delve into relationships. To really go there, with all of them. To not have to choose who will be a best friend and who will be a good friend and who will be just an acquaintance. To not have to choose which family members you'll really know and which you'll just visit with on holidays. To really be available and invested and a deep and intricate part of each other's stories.

At the end of the day, time--or the lack of it--is the enemy. Limited time forces us to make choices; to value one relationship over another and prioritize how we spend our energy. It is part of our curse.

That is what is precious about the concept of eternity: limitless relationship. After all, no one finds eternity appealing in and of itself. If you had to spend eternity in solitary confinement, there would be no "heaven" in that. It's what eternity allows that is so desirable to us--no more goodbyes. We were not designed for farewells. Even after millennia of practice, it still rubs us the wrong way.

And so I long for that release. I long for the day when I no longer have to assess which relationships merit more attention than others. I long for the day when thoughts like, "I really wish I had the chance to know her better", are no longer a silly pipe dream, but are instead a prelude to yet another amazing friendship. I long for escape from the bondage of time.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Happy Father's Day

Trying to articulate my gratitude. . . .

1. Thank you for showing me that the Bible is worth studying.

2. Thank you for showing me that taking responsibility for my own actions is important.

3. Thank you for showing me that humor can lessen the sting of sadness.

4. Thank you for showing me that people falling down are funny, though sometimes laughter is inappropriate.

5. Thank you for showing me that the words of a song can change a person's perspective, if not their life.

6. Thank you for showing me that books are valuable.

7. Thank you for showing me that some of the things the world classifies as "Christian" and "secular" are not irreconcilable.

8. Thank you for showing me that speaking poorly of others is a greater reflection of myself than of anyone else.

9. Thank you for showing me that it's okay for a parent to ask forgiveness from their child.

10. Thank you for being the kind of dad that makes the concept of a loving Father God easy to understand.

Sleeping Dragon

There are many things that I struggle with on a daily basis, the majority of which are related to my rampant selfishness, the consistent craving to indulge my own wants and desires before those of my family and the people I'm called to love. Some days I do better than others; some days I'm more willing to obey Jesus and some days I'm not.

But I don't generally consider greed or covetousness to be one of my daily struggles. I believe my heart to be content and, oftentimes, running over with gratitude. I recognize the provision of God in our air-conditioned home and full refrigerator and paid bills and I do not feel envious when we drive by houses larger and more luxurious than our own.

Shopping is, for us, something we do only when necessary; it is not a hobby or a diversion. As a result, I rarely go to the mall or any other store that doesn't sell groceries or drug store items. Window shopping seems senseless and holds no appeal for me. I do not want what I do not have if I do not know about it.

I do enjoy shopping for clothes when the money is there. I usually receive at least one or two gift cards for each birthday or Christmas that passes and I love the anticipation of being able to spend money on clothes minus the nagging guilt that invariably accompanies frivolous spending. But I have begun to notice something about my content and grateful heart: it changes.

I can go to the store, gift cards in tow, with a predetermined amount of money available to spend. An amount, mind you, that is a complete gift---unearned, unbudgeted, unexpected. Yet, as I am shopping and visualizing and trying on, all the while doing the necessary math in my head, I unfailingly discover that the amount I have to spend is simply not enough. It is not enough to buy all the things I want. Not enough to satisfy the greed that has now been kindled in my heart. And now my heart is not grateful nor content. It is frustrated and resentful and tired of not being able to buy what I want when I want. Sick and tired of having to shop the thrift stores and the sale racks and not being able to buy a whole outfit at the same time. And I realize that covetousness is not absent from my heart; it is simply dormant. It is the sleeping dragon whose existence was thought to be a myth because he is rarely awakened.

Don't misunderstand. . . . I still welcome gift cards. And I will still buy more clothes as the years (and the sizes) go by. But I am more aware of the evil subtleties within my own heart, this heart that is deceitful above all things. I know that I must be prepared to fight the greed that springs to life with the slightest provocation and the lies that fester and multiply with the smallest encouragement. A sleeping dragon is not a tame dragon and must be treated accordingly.

A Bedwetter's Parable

I was a chronic bedwetter as a child, until about 8 or 9 years old. It was a burden for my mother, I'm sure, as it was long before the advent of pull-ups and other "overnight underwear" for children who had long since been out of diapers. And it was certainly inconvenient when I was invited to a friend's for a sleepover. Otherwise, it was just a fact of life. I would wake up most mornings in a wet bed, although, as long as I lay quite still, it wasn't very noticeable. I dreaded the wet, uncomfortable minutes between the time that I actually threw back the blankets and felt the cold air rush in and the moment when I would be ultimately stripped of all wet clothes and in the warm shower, feeling clean and cozy again. It was a short little span of time that was the bridge between the two situations, but it often took an even longer amount of time to prepare myself mentally for the exodus. I would lay still and wait, inwardly rallying for the dash to the bathroom and cringing in anticipation.

During this same time in my life, I had developed a disproportionate fear of the end of the world, of Jesus' second coming. I would overhear adults discussing global events and muttering about the "last days" and the "end times" and all of these things were synonymous for me with tribulation and persecution and nuclear war. The mini-series "The Day After" ran on television and the Russians attacked in the movie "Red Dawn". It was near the end of the Cold War--although we didn't know at the time it was near the end--and it seemed likely to me that we would meet our demise when the Russians lobbed their atomic bombs over to North America. And if I didn't die because of the fire and radiation and population explosion of cockroaches, then I was sure to be put to the test when I was tortured for believing in Jesus. And besides all that, I wanted to grow up. I wanted to have a boyfriend and then a husband and to be a mommy and to talk with other grown-ups about things like mortgages and deductibles and taxes. I didn't want Jesus to come back, not yet.

And it was during this period of my life--during routine bedwetting and fear of nuclear war--that God gave me a parable.

I can remember the idea as it popped into my brain. I remember becoming suddenly aware as I lay unnaturally still in my urine-soaked sheets that this was just like me in the world. The world was yucky--not somewhere you wanted to be. But if you were still enough and didn't think about where you were or what was around you, it felt safe and warm. It was even just possible to almost convince yourself that it wasn't actually yucky after all. As long as you didn't think about it, or breathe in too deeply, or move. The shower--the warm, cleansing shower that was just on the other side of that door--was like heaven. Once you were there, you'd never, ever want to get back into the wet bed. The wet bed was just a bad memory. It felt so good to be clean. And there was just that bridge of time spanning the distance between the two things--between the wet bed and the warm shower. There was just the dreaded, cold, mad dash to get from the one to the other. I knew that my fear was irrational. . . .that the shower was always better in the end and always worth the effort and the discomfort to get there. My fears didn't magically disappear. But God had spoken truth to my heart and I knew that whether it was always obvious to me or not, our fallen world was a pee-soaked bed and what Jesus would bring would be infinitely better.

God gave me a parable. He was willing to use the limited life experience of a 7-year-old girl to communicate comfort and truth in a way that she would intimately understand. And it has emphasized for me the ordinariness that is common to all of the parables that we find in the gospels. I don't believe that lost sheep and vineyard workers and evil tenants and wet beds are among the customary vocabulary used in the hallways of heaven to describe the mysteries of the kingdom of God, but it seems that is immaterial to the Author of Truth. He continues to meet us where we are in the hope that we will follow where He leads. He is worth leaving the wet bed and running headlong for the shower.

Lukewarm T-shirt

I have a confession: I have an aversion to contemporary Christian music. I've realized at this point that it's ill-founded, but I have yet to overcome it. Maybe it was just the type of "Christian" music that I was exposed to at an early age, but I've routinely found it to be of an inferior quality to "secular" music.

The reason for the quotation marks? I continue to have difficulty comprehending how music or books or clothing can be classified as Christian or otherwise. I understand a Christian to be a follower of Christ, which I am, as the result of my predestined, free will decision all wrapped up in the love and foreknowledge and sovereignty of God. (Tee hee! I am a 5-point Cal-Minianist!) However, a song or a book or a t-shirt cannot possibly be a follower of Christ or of anyone else. (Seriously, a Christian t-shirt? Does that mean that my clothing which takes no scriptural stand whatsoever is lukewarm and will be spit out of His mouth?) It is disconcerting to witness how this kind of labeling has cheapened the name of "Christian" and rendered it so much less significant than it was when the residents of Antioch first decided to apply it to those crazy, joyful Christ followers roaming through town and bearing the evidence of the grace of God.

And I suppose I even take issue with the meaning that those who use the labels "Christian music" or "Christian book" are attempting to convey. I assume it is considered to be Christian because it references God or the Bible or something specifically associated with Christianity. Shouldn't it need to be, first and foremost, excellent? Isn't God the most artistic, musical, profound and articulate Creative Genius that the world has ever known? Wouldn't anything that is even remotely associated with His Name require excellence above all else? It is irrational to me that some of the most classic and beautiful and enduring works of art of all time are considered "secular" while a shoddy, inferior novel could be considered "Christian" simply because the protagonist in the story happens to be a girl who loves Jesus. And I cannot grasp how a poorly composed piece of music praises God, regardless of what the lyrics might say. What is and is not excellent is, of course, subjective. That's why I prefer that the label be left out of it entirely.

So, it comes back to my ill-founded aversion to "Christian" music. I know, logically, that there are a multitude of gifted musicians and songwriters whose work I would surely enjoy if I gave it a chance. But I suppose I've encountered enough of the lousier samplings to leave me disinclined to turn on a "Christian" radio station and just hope for the best. When I hear an excellent song that moves me and affirms the life within me and makes me want to dance, I find myself spontaneously and unwittingly praising God, regardless of the religious affiliation of the band. All things that are excellent point to the Creator, no matter what their intent; it cannot be otherwise.

Debt Free

There is a financial radio program that I sometimes have a chance to listen to in the car by a guy named Dave Ramsey. I've read a few of his books and gone through a class designed by him and I wholeheartedly agree with his financial principles, however difficult it can be to implement them. He is anti-debt. If you decide to follow his plan, one of the first things you will find yourself doing is paying off all debt, except for your home mortgage. . . . although paying off the mortgage does come later. He also does an excellent job of changing your mind about debt, so that you want to be free of it as much as he does.

By far, one of my favorite parts of his show is when he features the debt-free callers. Every so often, he sets aside a portion of his time on the air to take calls from those people who have been diligently following his financial principles and have finally reached the point of being debt-free. He asks them how much debt they have paid off, how long it took, and what lengths they went to to reach their goal--taking additional jobs, selling cars or furniture and the like. After they answer all those questions, he gives them their big chance, the opportunity they've been waiting for since they started paying down their bills however many months or years before: the chance to scream at the top of their lungs on national radio, "I'M DEBT FREEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!".

Every time, without fail, I tear up. I always think that I'm used to it now and it won't affect me the same way it did at first, but I'm wrong. I tear up EVERY time. The joy and the freedom in their voices as they exult in their release from bondage moves me EVERY time. It's like remembering afresh what that financial burden really does feel like, since after a while in this debt-entrenched culture, we're mostly numb to it. And then it's imagining what it will feel like someday, when the burden is finally lifted. It's beautiful and honorable and powerful each and EVERY time. I look forward to the day when I can make that phone call.

It occurred to me that, if the radio show existed for a different sort of emancipation, I would make a call. You see, even though we are still paying for the equity line on our house, I do know what it feels like to be released from bondage. I have been set free--in the most unadulterated sense of the word. The only difference is that I didn't work to have my burden lifted. Someone else lifted it for me. Someone else who is also anti-debt, who also changed my mind. Someone else paid the penalty for all my poor choices, for my toxic preoccupation with myself, and all the hideous, hurtful things I have said and done. Someone else offset my enormous debt with an astonishing bail-out plan that I did not earn and do not deserve. And I have no hope of repaying it. But I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it. And longing to show anyone else who is burdened with debt that they also can be set free. I will throw my head back and scream at the top of my lungs with a voice full of unbridled joy and wild abandon, "I AM DEBT FREEEEEEEEEE!!!"

Someday My Prince Will Come

Little girls love the idea of being a princess. It's not wholly unappealing to big girls, either, when we're honest. Before I knew that I was expected to be indignant about the idea of waiting for my prince to come, I had a collection of my own fantasies that involved being adored and rescued and carried off by my true love on his invariably white steed. Somewhere along the way, those sweet girlish dreams were discolored with the misapplied stains of individualism and feminism. I would not squander my time waiting for a prince who could not possibly exist, mistakenly believing that I had no greater purpose than that! Silly, outdated fairy tales from an era long gone. . . .before we knew that womyn were strong and complete in themselves and that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

And if I were to pin all my hopes for a happily ever after on the arrival of a Prince Charming who is just as fallen and weak as I am, then it would, in fact, be prudent to let go of my juvenile daydreams.

But what if the old stories were not ever meant to set us up for disappointment in this life, but instead, to point us to the next?

As a grown woman, I find now that it is all true! I have been adored and rescued, and one fine day I will be carried off. . . .by my valiant Prince on a white horse, no less! He loves me with an everlasting love and, inconceivably, has been in love with me since before I was willing to give Him the time of day! He rescued me from the stony grip of death and did so with no less than the sacrifice of His own life. But His love for me is so vital and exorbitant and, frankly, improbable that it literally toppled the natural order of the universe and conquered death itself! He lives again! He has promised that He will return for me, as a rider on a white horse, with the armies of heaven following close behind. His eyes will be like blazing fire and on His head there will be many crowns.

It turns out that my Prince does exist after all and that my whole purpose was indeed to find my happily ever after with Him, despite the misguided attempts to discourage me. It's not surprising to discover that my childhood longings were closer to the heart of truth than my grown-up theology has ever been.

Long Live God

When I was about 19 years old, I bought the soundtrack for the musical Godspell. The songs are catchy and packed with Scripture. . . . for me, it was the less controversial and more wholesome counterpart to the Jesus Christ Superstar rock opera that I was avidly listening to at that time.

(Don't get me wrong. . . I really love the JC Superstar music. Even though it's not an entirely accurate representation of the gospel story, it throws out a few kickers that really worked me over and made me look at the life of Jesus again in all its troubling and bewildering complexity. And it does that while rhyming. . . . impressive, Mr. Tim Rice. But nobody protests or hands out tracts outside of a Godspell performance, as they did with Superstar.)

Anyway, Godspell has great music too. In the Finale song, which is played during the scene of Jesus' crucifixion, there is a line which is repeated again and again that says, "Long Live God". When I first heard it, I thought it sounded ridiculous. Long Live God? Yeah, He will live long--eternally--but what a silly thing to say. My dad happened to hear me and he made a wise and quiet remark about "man's feeble attempts to give praise to God". That has always stayed with me. Not only did it change my opinion about that particular song (now one of my favorites from the show), but it changed my opinion about all of the lofty praise songs and hymns that we sing in churches across America. Isn't that how all of our praise must sound to Universe Maker God? We can't possibly have the words or the music to actually express what or who He is. Our language is wholly insufficient; our instruments are hopelessly inadequate. The verses which we deem the most magnificent can surely sound like nothing more than "Long Live God" to Him who receives the joyful praise of ten thousand times ten thousand angels. I do not doubt that our efforts to acknowledge Him are impossibly thin and frail. But I do believe that we, nevertheless, bring joy to His heart as we bless His name. What mother doesn't smile at the barely intelligible declaration of love from her child? What bridegroom wouldn't relish the adoring praise of his bride? Our Lord is well aware of all the gross inadequacies of our fallen existence, but our weak and broken attempts to honor Him are never in vain.

Until the day that we have the words. . . . Long Live God!

First Things First

Wow! Let me begin by saying that I have in no way started this blog because I feel that my thoughts carry special weight or significance. . . . I mean, to anyone other than me and Jesus. I started this blog because writing helps me to clarify my thoughts, to think through things with more intention and purpose than when I am simply muttering to myself in the shower. And I started this blog because I desperately need an incentive to walk through that process: to force myself to read and reflect and ponder and finally, write. Otherwise, it is entirely feasible that I could while away my remaining years (or hours) on a multitude of things that show themselves dim and insubstantial in the light of eternity. Well, not really, because God loves me too much to allow that and He would surely intervene. . . but in the meantime, He has led me to this avenue and I will follow it.