Recently, I've had my trust in someone compromised. In a serious, big way. I'm trying to muddle through the reality of what it means, while continute to love, and look for opportunities to rebuild what's been damaged.
Someone who is close to me, who knows the dark secrets of my heart, who knows the trials I've experienced, and who knows the tawdy, unhappy details of my testimony is planning to share this information with others. They did at least tell me they were planning to do this, and in what manner, and with whom. . .but still. I feel as though the value of my trust has been reduced to nothing. As though the trust I put into this person means LESS to them than their own freedom to share what they want to share, for whatever their reasons are.
So let's talk a bit about the value, or the worth of a person's trust. For some people, trust is easy. They've had little reason to NOT trust people. For others of us, it's a very complex, complicated process. One that requires tests, and stepping out on lots of faith. For me to trust you means that I give up the right to protect certain areas of my heart, and I allow myself to be vulnerable with you. The VALUE of that trust is not something to be made light of.
Now. . .I again enter the place of trying to understand WHY it is that the Lord requires me to trust, to be vulnerable, to be "real" with people. The experiences certainly suggest that while there are benefits to this practice, when that trust is betrayed it's an indicator that people really are inherently untrustworthy.
And so I begin . . .one foot in front of the other. . .to walk down a new path, trusting that God will heal these wounds, while creating new opportunities, safe ones, in which I can again learn to trust.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Pregnant - whoa
Last week, I sat in my doctors office as he gave me the news about my test results. I was indeed "iron deficient" but it is apparently the "self resolving" sort. It takes about nine months to resolve. Ha! I sat there on that table covered in crunchy paper and sort of looked past him as my mouth formed the words, "Whaaaat?" To my credit, I did not ask, "How did that happen?"
So here I am, 36 and pregnant. Paul is 40. My "baby" is 11, and my son will be out of high school and onto college or the military before this little one makes it to kindergarten. My life is about to RADICALLY change. . .but even in the midst of chaos, my spirit feels at peace.
That's no small thing in an of itself, peace that is. You see, we lost a baby two years ago in April. It happened suddenly, and was the precursor for six months of utter chaos and the sense that God had kind of turned His attention elsewhere. There was no peace - it was just grief and pain and loss. We survived the year, and were happy to finally put it behind us.
This time things are different and while I can't quite put my finger on WHY they're different, I simply know that they are. There is that peace - that sense that everything is ok even though really there's a lot of risk to be considered. I have medical issues that complicate a pregnancy and birth, and frankly, we're a lot older than we'd planned to be when it comes to doing diapers and middle of the night feedings. But the One who is the giver of life has all of this under control.
My doctor told me something profound as I was gathering myself last Wednesday. He said, "Life finds a way." That stuck with me - that two tiny cells, from two completely different people, could create "life" is absurd. That those same cells, in that same situation with a Creator of love could create life is wholly agreeable.
We are the people who choose life; in our spiritual beliefs, political stands, etc. We. Choose. Life. Period. And so its in making that choice that we embrace this life, for however long God sees fit to make us the parents of this baby. We are hoping and believing that's a long time, but if it's only several weeks, we still choose life. Because He chose us first. . .
So here I am, 36 and pregnant. Paul is 40. My "baby" is 11, and my son will be out of high school and onto college or the military before this little one makes it to kindergarten. My life is about to RADICALLY change. . .but even in the midst of chaos, my spirit feels at peace.
That's no small thing in an of itself, peace that is. You see, we lost a baby two years ago in April. It happened suddenly, and was the precursor for six months of utter chaos and the sense that God had kind of turned His attention elsewhere. There was no peace - it was just grief and pain and loss. We survived the year, and were happy to finally put it behind us.
This time things are different and while I can't quite put my finger on WHY they're different, I simply know that they are. There is that peace - that sense that everything is ok even though really there's a lot of risk to be considered. I have medical issues that complicate a pregnancy and birth, and frankly, we're a lot older than we'd planned to be when it comes to doing diapers and middle of the night feedings. But the One who is the giver of life has all of this under control.
My doctor told me something profound as I was gathering myself last Wednesday. He said, "Life finds a way." That stuck with me - that two tiny cells, from two completely different people, could create "life" is absurd. That those same cells, in that same situation with a Creator of love could create life is wholly agreeable.
We are the people who choose life; in our spiritual beliefs, political stands, etc. We. Choose. Life. Period. And so its in making that choice that we embrace this life, for however long God sees fit to make us the parents of this baby. We are hoping and believing that's a long time, but if it's only several weeks, we still choose life. Because He chose us first. . .
Monday, January 10, 2011
Cancer. . .
My friend has cancer.
My FRIEND has cancer. It fairly sucks and I'm incredibly pissed off about it. I am so sick of this disease and the horror it brings to the people I love. I watched my mother in law die from it, and wept with my sister b/c it stole her fertility. I don't care if you do end up "cancer free" you're never really "free" from the scars it leaves behind.
Tonight, I heard her say several times, "I knew it was going to come back." She'd had it before, the doctors operated, and she was apparently, "cancer free." I'm sorry. . .this probably isn't very "correct" but if this is a representation of "freedom" I'll pass. Thanks anyway.
Which leads me to a new vein of thought - God breathed freedom. TRUE freedom.
While she is suffering, while her body will indeed reject itself and she'll be sicker than she's ever been before, there is freedom within her spirit. She's a child of God who knows her Father's voice, and its the words He speaks to her that will give her HOPE.
I listened tonight as our Purple Sisters poured love onto her - it was spoken aloud, written in cards, drawn in pictures. It came by way of kleenex, blankets, crafted jewelry, and tears.
It will take time for the HOPE to reveal itself. In the meantime. . .we hold fast to the truth that the Giver of Hope will hold her hand, catch her tears, and bring her peace.
My FRIEND has cancer. It fairly sucks and I'm incredibly pissed off about it. I am so sick of this disease and the horror it brings to the people I love. I watched my mother in law die from it, and wept with my sister b/c it stole her fertility. I don't care if you do end up "cancer free" you're never really "free" from the scars it leaves behind.
Tonight, I heard her say several times, "I knew it was going to come back." She'd had it before, the doctors operated, and she was apparently, "cancer free." I'm sorry. . .this probably isn't very "correct" but if this is a representation of "freedom" I'll pass. Thanks anyway.
Which leads me to a new vein of thought - God breathed freedom. TRUE freedom.
While she is suffering, while her body will indeed reject itself and she'll be sicker than she's ever been before, there is freedom within her spirit. She's a child of God who knows her Father's voice, and its the words He speaks to her that will give her HOPE.
I listened tonight as our Purple Sisters poured love onto her - it was spoken aloud, written in cards, drawn in pictures. It came by way of kleenex, blankets, crafted jewelry, and tears.
It will take time for the HOPE to reveal itself. In the meantime. . .we hold fast to the truth that the Giver of Hope will hold her hand, catch her tears, and bring her peace.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I am an OUTCAST!
I have discovered an up and coming artist who I'm falling in love with. Her name is Kerrie Roberts - I know right? Stirs images of some little cutsie, blond hair in a ponytail bopping cheerleader type, right? WRONG This chick kicks butt. She jumps right out in your face, and Godsmacks you with the truth. I LOVE it.
That said, you best strap in cause I'm 'bout to get all up in your face with some serious truth. I am. . .an outcast. And I am rocking it as hard as I can. I discovered a long time ago that I am not the image of a good girl. I've never been good enough, I've never been what "they" want. I've rarely fit in, and I am definitely a weirdo. I'm an extreme Jesus Freak without a filter. If you get close, it's liable to spill on you, so if you don't want a dose of that anointing you might want to back off b/c I don't hold back, and I don't apologize.
This afternoon, I heard this marvelous song that I was certain was written about me. I just sort of sate there slack jawed, listening to the words, "I'm not good enough, I'm not what they want. But let me tell you what, I know who I am! So just throw me out, I'm not fitting in. I will stand my ground and be an outcast." As inappropriate as it may be (considering this is supposed to be a God glorifying blog) I can't help but stand up and yell, "Hell yeah baby!" I mean, seriously, its about time don't you think?
How many of us "outcasts" have struggled to confrom before finally giving up and accepting that we are exactly who He's made us to be? I was in Hot Topic the other day with my son, and when we came out I ran into someone I know through professional circles. She looked at me, didn't say hello, but said, "Holli! I thought you were a Christian? What are you doing in that place?" I turned around and looked to make sure Hot Topic hadn't turned into a den of inquity in the ten seconds since I'd walked out, and turned back and said, "What do you mean?" See, she had this idea of what a Christian, Godly woman is supposed to look. Translation; good girls don't shop at Hot Topic. Good girls don't buy their kids wrist cuffs with studs or shop the sales rack for colorful, sassy unmentionables. I told her I was pretty sure God didn't care as much about the outside of my vessel as He did about the cleanliness of the inside. (I didn't outright call her a Pharisee, but it was running through my mind.) She kind of did that self righteous, prissy, "humph" thing that good, Godly women do, and just walked off. I just shook my head.
I'm reminded constantly of the folks Jesus hung out with. Take Mary Magdalene for example. I mean, seriously. . .a woman of the night, a temptress, a harlot (let's call it what it is) a whore. And He let this dirty, outcast woman wash His feet, and then dry them with her hair. Can you say INTIMATE?? Think not? Stop and think about for a second; bent low, her face on the skin of His feet, submitted completely, weeping, and then drying Him with her hair. Wow. Later she anointed Him; again, a very intimate act. And yet the Savior of the world, God incarnate didn't shun her. He didn't tell her to go clean herself, to change anything about herself, but rather He openly embraced her, and allowed HER to minister to HIM.
Mary Magdalene - Outcast. Friend of Jesus.
Holli Stevenson - Outcast - desperate daughter of the King.
I've decided I really don't care anymore. Like me, love me, hate me, kick me to the curb. Worse things have been done to better people and if that's the best you have to offer humanity as a Christian or a "minister" then you got lots bigger problems than I do by being an outcast. It's the worth the sacrifice of popularity or fitting into a certain group to know that I'm not doing something I don't beleive in.
Consider the outcast - I think there are three groups of people. Those who are outcast, those who judge the outcast, and those who love the outcast.
Which category do you fit into?
That said, you best strap in cause I'm 'bout to get all up in your face with some serious truth. I am. . .an outcast. And I am rocking it as hard as I can. I discovered a long time ago that I am not the image of a good girl. I've never been good enough, I've never been what "they" want. I've rarely fit in, and I am definitely a weirdo. I'm an extreme Jesus Freak without a filter. If you get close, it's liable to spill on you, so if you don't want a dose of that anointing you might want to back off b/c I don't hold back, and I don't apologize.
This afternoon, I heard this marvelous song that I was certain was written about me. I just sort of sate there slack jawed, listening to the words, "I'm not good enough, I'm not what they want. But let me tell you what, I know who I am! So just throw me out, I'm not fitting in. I will stand my ground and be an outcast." As inappropriate as it may be (considering this is supposed to be a God glorifying blog) I can't help but stand up and yell, "Hell yeah baby!" I mean, seriously, its about time don't you think?
How many of us "outcasts" have struggled to confrom before finally giving up and accepting that we are exactly who He's made us to be? I was in Hot Topic the other day with my son, and when we came out I ran into someone I know through professional circles. She looked at me, didn't say hello, but said, "Holli! I thought you were a Christian? What are you doing in that place?" I turned around and looked to make sure Hot Topic hadn't turned into a den of inquity in the ten seconds since I'd walked out, and turned back and said, "What do you mean?" See, she had this idea of what a Christian, Godly woman is supposed to look. Translation; good girls don't shop at Hot Topic. Good girls don't buy their kids wrist cuffs with studs or shop the sales rack for colorful, sassy unmentionables. I told her I was pretty sure God didn't care as much about the outside of my vessel as He did about the cleanliness of the inside. (I didn't outright call her a Pharisee, but it was running through my mind.) She kind of did that self righteous, prissy, "humph" thing that good, Godly women do, and just walked off. I just shook my head.
I'm reminded constantly of the folks Jesus hung out with. Take Mary Magdalene for example. I mean, seriously. . .a woman of the night, a temptress, a harlot (let's call it what it is) a whore. And He let this dirty, outcast woman wash His feet, and then dry them with her hair. Can you say INTIMATE?? Think not? Stop and think about for a second; bent low, her face on the skin of His feet, submitted completely, weeping, and then drying Him with her hair. Wow. Later she anointed Him; again, a very intimate act. And yet the Savior of the world, God incarnate didn't shun her. He didn't tell her to go clean herself, to change anything about herself, but rather He openly embraced her, and allowed HER to minister to HIM.
Mary Magdalene - Outcast. Friend of Jesus.
Holli Stevenson - Outcast - desperate daughter of the King.
I've decided I really don't care anymore. Like me, love me, hate me, kick me to the curb. Worse things have been done to better people and if that's the best you have to offer humanity as a Christian or a "minister" then you got lots bigger problems than I do by being an outcast. It's the worth the sacrifice of popularity or fitting into a certain group to know that I'm not doing something I don't beleive in.
Consider the outcast - I think there are three groups of people. Those who are outcast, those who judge the outcast, and those who love the outcast.
Which category do you fit into?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
On Being Called
Oct, 29, 2009
Sometime back, I answered a call on my life. It was a difficult choice, let me be the first to assure you. One that required many hours on my knees, face pressed to the carpet, and ultimately claimed more tears than I could count. The choice to be obedient in the face of adversity was one of the most difficult I've made in this life. And yet, somewhere in the middle of the frustration and the anger and the disappointment, I heard that still small voice yet again. I nearly responded with, "What do You want now?" but checked myself. (Quit grinning Don.) I mean, who takes on G-O-D? So, I sat and began to listen. Less talking, less analyzing, much more listening. And God began to speak to me. . .through the people who love me, through common strangers on the street, and through beautiful signs painted across the sky that we mere humans call a sunrise.
The calling this time wasn't about something He wanted me to do, but something He wanted from me. He was requiring that next step that Peter found himself unable to take standing upon the water that night. He wanted me to close my eyes, take a chance, and take a plunge. The calling was that instead of doing FOR Him, I would simply be WITH Him.
Do you know how hard it is to be alone with yourself in the presence of God? You notice every blemish, every spot, every wrinkle. Everything that doesn't quite fit well, or is the wrong color. Those things stand up and scream, "See!!! You aren't good enough to be here! You don't belong here! Run now before you're seen!!" Your realize that you are woefully ill prepared, and yes, un-presentable. You can't begin to measure up. . .ever. You have presumed yourself something you are not. A fool in the very presence of Royalty.
How could I possibly answer this call? Give me a task, something to build, something to write, something to DO. But don't ask me to just sit and be!! And yet, that is exactly what He wanted.
And so. . .I obeyed. I sat. I listened. I uncrossed my arms and let the spots and blemishes be seen. Every wrinkle, each torrid place and broken part of me He saw and He didn't look away. My spots and blemishes, the wrinkles and the brokenness. . .He loved them too.
I've learned something in this process about being called. God doesn't call perfect people. Ever. I see Him rising up a people who have experienced life, who have been hurt and broken, and even some who have done a little breaking of their own. He draws us to this place where we wonder whether we are still within His will, all the while He is demonstrating His grace that is capable of sustaining us, and in fact restoring our faith. Grace is found in the dirty places. . .all those ugly spots and the things we'd rather not have seen. That's where Grace is found. . .b/c it's only grace that makes those places worthy of a calling. It's only grace that makes the one who possesses such sin worthy of His calling. It's grace that covers it and grace that makes it part of the journey.
The calling comes when we least expect it and rarely comes when we're ready for it. It comes in the middle of what seems like the good life, and it comes in the middle of the night bringing sleeplessness and the inability to do anything except cry out to Him for explanation. It comes with a measure of grace however, and it's the grace that sustains us through the difficult part of the process. My grandfather told me once, "The will of God will never draw you where the Grace of God cannot keep you." Granddaddy was a smart man.
In the quiet, in this place
Where I hide from You
You find me
You meet me at the breaking
And You call my name
You call to me, You cry my name
And I hear Your voice
reaching through the pain, reaching through the dark, reaching through to me
Seeing what my eyes can't, hearing the words I can't say
You call me
Out of the dark and into the dawn
You've set me
And I am free - free from everything that ties me to this sin of mine
And you find me here. .. waiting to see what You see
Waiting to hear me sing Your song
And then You call my name
The calling this time wasn't about something He wanted me to do, but something He wanted from me. He was requiring that next step that Peter found himself unable to take standing upon the water that night. He wanted me to close my eyes, take a chance, and take a plunge. The calling was that instead of doing FOR Him, I would simply be WITH Him.
Do you know how hard it is to be alone with yourself in the presence of God? You notice every blemish, every spot, every wrinkle. Everything that doesn't quite fit well, or is the wrong color. Those things stand up and scream, "See!!! You aren't good enough to be here! You don't belong here! Run now before you're seen!!" Your realize that you are woefully ill prepared, and yes, un-presentable. You can't begin to measure up. . .ever. You have presumed yourself something you are not. A fool in the very presence of Royalty.
How could I possibly answer this call? Give me a task, something to build, something to write, something to DO. But don't ask me to just sit and be!! And yet, that is exactly what He wanted.
And so. . .I obeyed. I sat. I listened. I uncrossed my arms and let the spots and blemishes be seen. Every wrinkle, each torrid place and broken part of me He saw and He didn't look away. My spots and blemishes, the wrinkles and the brokenness. . .He loved them too.
I've learned something in this process about being called. God doesn't call perfect people. Ever. I see Him rising up a people who have experienced life, who have been hurt and broken, and even some who have done a little breaking of their own. He draws us to this place where we wonder whether we are still within His will, all the while He is demonstrating His grace that is capable of sustaining us, and in fact restoring our faith. Grace is found in the dirty places. . .all those ugly spots and the things we'd rather not have seen. That's where Grace is found. . .b/c it's only grace that makes those places worthy of a calling. It's only grace that makes the one who possesses such sin worthy of His calling. It's grace that covers it and grace that makes it part of the journey.
The calling comes when we least expect it and rarely comes when we're ready for it. It comes in the middle of what seems like the good life, and it comes in the middle of the night bringing sleeplessness and the inability to do anything except cry out to Him for explanation. It comes with a measure of grace however, and it's the grace that sustains us through the difficult part of the process. My grandfather told me once, "The will of God will never draw you where the Grace of God cannot keep you." Granddaddy was a smart man.
In the quiet, in this place
Where I hide from You
You find me
You meet me at the breaking
And You call my name
You call to me, You cry my name
And I hear Your voice
reaching through the pain, reaching through the dark, reaching through to me
Seeing what my eyes can't, hearing the words I can't say
You call me
Out of the dark and into the dawn
You've set me
And I am free - free from everything that ties me to this sin of mine
And you find me here. .. waiting to see what You see
Waiting to hear me sing Your song
And then You call my name
On Being the Church
October 5, 2009
This morning, I listened to an amazing message about destiny. Or maybe, it was about the density of destiny - either way, it was a very provocative sermon and one that got me to thinking about some things.
In recent months, I've heard a variety of sermons about serving others. These have come by way of my own church and pastors and pod casts I subscribe to. It seems as though the church in general has begun to dive head first into the "share with me" movement. I think this is a beautiful thing in general, but looking at it closer to home brings grievance to my soul.
No speaking specifically of my own church, but of churches I know and have known I have to say that I find the "be vulnerable with me, share your soul with me" movement somewhat of a flawed double standard. We as the church are reaching out - into our colleges, our communities, to the poor, the orphaned, the widows. We have programs for addicts, for alkies, for the homeless, for single mothers. We feed them, change their oil, distribute school supply and Christmas charity. We meet in coffeehouses and hold a hand when they speak to us, when they share their wounded hearts. We give them rides to church and carry a supply of tissue for those moments when God touches us both. We give - our eyes, our hearts, our ears. We share the intimacy of touch and the gift of our listening. We are changing lives.
And yet, within the doors of the church, there are members who are contriving silent suicides because their souls are so empty. While we ask God to give us His eyes for the community, for the hurting. . .we are so busy seeking the wounded we miss the ones right in front of us. When did we decide that we must build a living house OUTSIDE of the church? At what point did the lost become our most compelling mission? We are so busily seeking these sheep who've never had a shepherd that we are one by one losing the lambs in our own flocks.
The Vineyard church has an amazing outreach to the community where they demonstrate God in practical ways. A cold coke or bottle of water, cleaning a toilet, a pack of gum. These are amazing ways to show the love of God to people. I'll NEVER argue that point, and I think more churches need to take a clue. But I think that we are sacrificing our own people for the hope of winning souls, and I can't imagine that's what Christ had in mind when He sent the disciples out to win the world.
Why are we so afraid of the wounds of those we worship with? What is it about our own hurts that frighten us? I heard from a friend who is a pastor that people do not seek out healing in their own church - they go to another body. I have to wonder why this is. I don't think it's b/c of trust honestly, but I believe that we are so "lost focused" we don't have time for our own, or we don't feel as though there is time for our problems. Why is it so hard for us to seek out the listening ear. . .especially when we've been the ear. Why is it so hard to reach out and touch. . .especially when we've offered our own hands. Why do we look right past the hurt in the eyes of the woman behind us when we "meet and greet" during worship? What is it we are so afraid of?
Walking the walk is the fundamental principle of this faith of ours. But, we must walk within the church as well. What we give so freely to those who are "lost" must given as freely to those we stand next to, worship with, and break bread with.
I heard my pastor speak several weeks ago about a man who took the time to sit and listen to him when he was going through some rough times in his own life. I don't know the whole story, but I didn't hear that the friend had all the answers, or even life changing advice. What I did hear in my pastors words and resonating in his voice was life giving the time was to him. The fact that the friend sat, listened, and heard his brokenness had a powerful effect on him. So much so that years later he still speaks of it.
People aren't looking for the right answers - they're looking for someone who has the time to hear their questions, their fears, their thoughts. And some of those people, they're right here in our own church. They aren't always lost, they aren't always single parents, or addicts or drunks. Sometimes, they're students, businessmen, housewives. Sometimes they're just like me and you.
In recent months, I've heard a variety of sermons about serving others. These have come by way of my own church and pastors and pod casts I subscribe to. It seems as though the church in general has begun to dive head first into the "share with me" movement. I think this is a beautiful thing in general, but looking at it closer to home brings grievance to my soul.
No speaking specifically of my own church, but of churches I know and have known I have to say that I find the "be vulnerable with me, share your soul with me" movement somewhat of a flawed double standard. We as the church are reaching out - into our colleges, our communities, to the poor, the orphaned, the widows. We have programs for addicts, for alkies, for the homeless, for single mothers. We feed them, change their oil, distribute school supply and Christmas charity. We meet in coffeehouses and hold a hand when they speak to us, when they share their wounded hearts. We give them rides to church and carry a supply of tissue for those moments when God touches us both. We give - our eyes, our hearts, our ears. We share the intimacy of touch and the gift of our listening. We are changing lives.
And yet, within the doors of the church, there are members who are contriving silent suicides because their souls are so empty. While we ask God to give us His eyes for the community, for the hurting. . .we are so busy seeking the wounded we miss the ones right in front of us. When did we decide that we must build a living house OUTSIDE of the church? At what point did the lost become our most compelling mission? We are so busily seeking these sheep who've never had a shepherd that we are one by one losing the lambs in our own flocks.
The Vineyard church has an amazing outreach to the community where they demonstrate God in practical ways. A cold coke or bottle of water, cleaning a toilet, a pack of gum. These are amazing ways to show the love of God to people. I'll NEVER argue that point, and I think more churches need to take a clue. But I think that we are sacrificing our own people for the hope of winning souls, and I can't imagine that's what Christ had in mind when He sent the disciples out to win the world.
Why are we so afraid of the wounds of those we worship with? What is it about our own hurts that frighten us? I heard from a friend who is a pastor that people do not seek out healing in their own church - they go to another body. I have to wonder why this is. I don't think it's b/c of trust honestly, but I believe that we are so "lost focused" we don't have time for our own, or we don't feel as though there is time for our problems. Why is it so hard for us to seek out the listening ear. . .especially when we've been the ear. Why is it so hard to reach out and touch. . .especially when we've offered our own hands. Why do we look right past the hurt in the eyes of the woman behind us when we "meet and greet" during worship? What is it we are so afraid of?
Walking the walk is the fundamental principle of this faith of ours. But, we must walk within the church as well. What we give so freely to those who are "lost" must given as freely to those we stand next to, worship with, and break bread with.
I heard my pastor speak several weeks ago about a man who took the time to sit and listen to him when he was going through some rough times in his own life. I don't know the whole story, but I didn't hear that the friend had all the answers, or even life changing advice. What I did hear in my pastors words and resonating in his voice was life giving the time was to him. The fact that the friend sat, listened, and heard his brokenness had a powerful effect on him. So much so that years later he still speaks of it.
People aren't looking for the right answers - they're looking for someone who has the time to hear their questions, their fears, their thoughts. And some of those people, they're right here in our own church. They aren't always lost, they aren't always single parents, or addicts or drunks. Sometimes, they're students, businessmen, housewives. Sometimes they're just like me and you.
Mothers and Sons
Feb 3, 2009
A while back my Uncle Dave sent me this beautiful little vase that is about 50 years old. By visual standards, it isn’t much to look at really. Cheap, candied glass shaped into a fluted vase with a ruffled mouth. He won it as a child at a county fair for his mother, my grandmother. He sent it to me b/c I’ve joined a sorority of the most marvelous sort - mothers of sons.
I’m married to a son who has a mother. It’s crazy in some ways, b/c I’m so fiercely protective of this man of mine. I’ve been known to give the evil eye to women who give him more than a cursory once over. I’ve defended him to his sister, and other female relatives in both our families. But his mother - well, she’s a different story altogether. This is the woman who loves the man I love as much as I do. And that puts the two of us in a sisterhood different from any other.
When Paul and I were dating, Mary and I would size one another up on a regular basis. I would think of how things were going to be once we were married, without either of our parents meddling in our lives. I imagine she was thinking the same thing, but on a different level. I would watch her with Paul’s younger siblings and swear to myself I’d be nothing like here. . .and years later I find myself speaking the very words to my own children that I heard her say to hers. As a young woman I worried about the lack of a father in Paul’s life, and how he’d learn to be a dad to our own children. I see Mary’s touch all over him as a Daddy. Even without a man in their life, she coaxed manhood from him.
As a young bride, I felt like there was a competetion b/t Mary and I. There are but two great love affairs in a man’s life. The first is that with his mother, and the second is with his wife. In my youth I imagined I would liberate Paul from being “Mama’s boy” and it took many, many years before I realized I was the one being liberated from my own foolishness. The day I held our son in my arms, I immediately understood the power of a mothers love for her son. The competition ended that day, and I took on a newfound respect for this woman who loved the boy I was perpetually in love with. I saw this amazing, cosmic and primal connection b/t Mary and Paul and he put his son in her arms.
This year we are struggling to find our way as a young couple dealing with a parents terminal illness. I have watched this man I love go from stalewart Marine who can handle anything, to a six foot tall little boy who just found out his mother is sick and he can do nothing to protect her from the enemy that is devouring her. I saw again that powerful connection b/t Mother and Son, except this time it was in a reversal of sorts.
There is a beautiful relationship b/t mothers and their sons. As the mother of an 11 year old boy, I am now fully convinced of this. As the wife of a 38 year old boy, I am even more fully convinced.
A while back my Uncle Dave sent me this beautiful little vase that is about 50 years old. By visual standards, it isn’t much to look at really. Cheap, candied glass shaped into a fluted vase with a ruffled mouth. He won it as a child at a county fair for his mother, my grandmother. He sent it to me b/c I’ve joined a sorority of the most marvelous sort - mothers of sons.
I’m married to a son who has a mother. It’s crazy in some ways, b/c I’m so fiercely protective of this man of mine. I’ve been known to give the evil eye to women who give him more than a cursory once over. I’ve defended him to his sister, and other female relatives in both our families. But his mother - well, she’s a different story altogether. This is the woman who loves the man I love as much as I do. And that puts the two of us in a sisterhood different from any other.
When Paul and I were dating, Mary and I would size one another up on a regular basis. I would think of how things were going to be once we were married, without either of our parents meddling in our lives. I imagine she was thinking the same thing, but on a different level. I would watch her with Paul’s younger siblings and swear to myself I’d be nothing like here. . .and years later I find myself speaking the very words to my own children that I heard her say to hers. As a young woman I worried about the lack of a father in Paul’s life, and how he’d learn to be a dad to our own children. I see Mary’s touch all over him as a Daddy. Even without a man in their life, she coaxed manhood from him.
As a young bride, I felt like there was a competetion b/t Mary and I. There are but two great love affairs in a man’s life. The first is that with his mother, and the second is with his wife. In my youth I imagined I would liberate Paul from being “Mama’s boy” and it took many, many years before I realized I was the one being liberated from my own foolishness. The day I held our son in my arms, I immediately understood the power of a mothers love for her son. The competition ended that day, and I took on a newfound respect for this woman who loved the boy I was perpetually in love with. I saw this amazing, cosmic and primal connection b/t Mary and Paul and he put his son in her arms.
This year we are struggling to find our way as a young couple dealing with a parents terminal illness. I have watched this man I love go from stalewart Marine who can handle anything, to a six foot tall little boy who just found out his mother is sick and he can do nothing to protect her from the enemy that is devouring her. I saw again that powerful connection b/t Mother and Son, except this time it was in a reversal of sorts.
There is a beautiful relationship b/t mothers and their sons. As the mother of an 11 year old boy, I am now fully convinced of this. As the wife of a 38 year old boy, I am even more fully convinced.
The End of the Rope
July 23, 2009
This note was inspired by the Lifehouse video, Everything.
We've all heard the expression, "I'm coming to the end of my rope!" I know I've felt that way at times, and it isn't always a good feeling. Lately though, I've had my perception about this challenged a bit.
Paul and I have certainly had our trials this year. There are days when I know that I just can't handle ONE more thing - and it's those days when God draws near to me and reminds me I'm His. And then there are the days when He gently nudges me back to the broken palces, and together we walk through the disappointments and hurt until they're made perfect in His grace yet again.
In January, we found out my mother in law was sick. It was like a sucker punch to the gut really. Her grace and her incredible faith bears the fruit of His presence within her however, and the last several months have drawn our family closer than ever. We also found out in January that we were expecting again. What was quite the surprise turned into a deep pain when we lost our little one the week before Easter. I'll never understand these things - and I've given up trying. The week after we lost our baby, we were kicked out of our church. Yes, you read that right - kicked out. Like some dark ages ridiculous theological Scarlet Letter. I kid you not. It compounded our loss, and made grieving nearly impossible for many weeks. It seemed just as we were beginning to catch our breath I got whacked with emergency surgery. It just seemed like it wasn't ending at all.
And yet. . .in the midst of all of the loss and the suffering and pain, LOVE perservered. Not the first time I've experienced this, mind you. God reached down, parted the clouds, and sent angels He knew I could recognize and receive from. They took the form of friends with gentle words, lunches with women who knew my pain, knew the words to say, and knew when to just listen. They appeared as neighbors who brought meals and a tender touch, as co workers who simply said, "I'm so sorry."
In those moments when the enemy was stacked so strongly against us, and when the rope seemed to be racing through my hands, I knew still that we weren't alone. And then, throwing down the rope, He stepped in and took upon Himself all of the accusations, all of the pain, the confusion and frustration. And He held it off of me, giving Himself for what I deserved.
I came to the end of my rope, and found there, the One who knows me so completely and yet accepts me so perfectly. The end of the rope isn't a bad thing - getting there, surrendering, reaching out CRYING OUT and grabbing hold and then letting go. . .
Bring on the end of the rope. Any day. I'll take it.
We've all heard the expression, "I'm coming to the end of my rope!" I know I've felt that way at times, and it isn't always a good feeling. Lately though, I've had my perception about this challenged a bit.
Paul and I have certainly had our trials this year. There are days when I know that I just can't handle ONE more thing - and it's those days when God draws near to me and reminds me I'm His. And then there are the days when He gently nudges me back to the broken palces, and together we walk through the disappointments and hurt until they're made perfect in His grace yet again.
In January, we found out my mother in law was sick. It was like a sucker punch to the gut really. Her grace and her incredible faith bears the fruit of His presence within her however, and the last several months have drawn our family closer than ever. We also found out in January that we were expecting again. What was quite the surprise turned into a deep pain when we lost our little one the week before Easter. I'll never understand these things - and I've given up trying. The week after we lost our baby, we were kicked out of our church. Yes, you read that right - kicked out. Like some dark ages ridiculous theological Scarlet Letter. I kid you not. It compounded our loss, and made grieving nearly impossible for many weeks. It seemed just as we were beginning to catch our breath I got whacked with emergency surgery. It just seemed like it wasn't ending at all.
And yet. . .in the midst of all of the loss and the suffering and pain, LOVE perservered. Not the first time I've experienced this, mind you. God reached down, parted the clouds, and sent angels He knew I could recognize and receive from. They took the form of friends with gentle words, lunches with women who knew my pain, knew the words to say, and knew when to just listen. They appeared as neighbors who brought meals and a tender touch, as co workers who simply said, "I'm so sorry."
In those moments when the enemy was stacked so strongly against us, and when the rope seemed to be racing through my hands, I knew still that we weren't alone. And then, throwing down the rope, He stepped in and took upon Himself all of the accusations, all of the pain, the confusion and frustration. And He held it off of me, giving Himself for what I deserved.
I came to the end of my rope, and found there, the One who knows me so completely and yet accepts me so perfectly. The end of the rope isn't a bad thing - getting there, surrendering, reaching out CRYING OUT and grabbing hold and then letting go. . .
Bring on the end of the rope. Any day. I'll take it.
He Is
August 12, 2009
Recently, while driving through south Georgia on my way to Florida, I stumbled across a pretty bad gospel radio station. Considering the alternative - country - I stuck with the twangy gospel. And was soon treated to one of the most wonderful blessings I've had in a while. The deeply drawled host introduced a segment in which Mark Shultz was talking about his new "Come Alive" album, and the process by which a new song emerged. Since I'm a music junkie, and since I LOVE Mark Shultz, I listened closely - to the point that when the station began to fade, I turned the van around and drove back until I got a better signal.
This new song - well, I think this is my new lifesong. It's the cry of my heart. . ."Father let the world just fade away, let me feel Your presence in this place. Lord I've never been so weary, how I need to know You're near me. Father just let the world fade away, till I'm on my knees, till my heart can sing. . ." How many times have we found ourselves in that place? We know we need to be on our knees, our faces, seeking Him, letting Him be our comfortor, and yet we fight it. We try to fix our problems, find solutions to the messes we got ourselves into, and all the while He's just waiting there.
And see, He's waiting there b/c . . ."He is, He was, He always will be." He's the same God we were busy praising and worshiping at the conference we attended when our spirits were high and we were feeling the blessing of being His child. The following week though, when the world comes crumbling down around us. . .He's still God. And that's the part a lot of us forget.
Last year, I moved to Cincinnati b/c God spoke to me and my family. Oh how God was speaking then, and how we were eager to follow His leading. But the perfect answer to prayer was short lived, b/c human beings got involved, and I soon found myself on the wrong side of unemployment. But in the midst, God was still the same. Earlier this year we found ourselves expecting a child and after the shock wore off, we CELEBRATED! Life. . .unexpected and amazing. . .what joy can compare to this? Oh how good how God was. And then, our lives changed in an instant when we found out our little one was no longer present with us, but with the Creator God. And still. . .God was God. He was the same God who'd taken delight in our joy, but now He grieved with us. Shortly thereafter, we lost many deep friendships, our church. We were accused, cast out, and found ourselves wondering, "Why?" Man had no answers for us, but through pain and suffering, when friends turned their backs, God remained ever present, ever loving, and still God. I praised Him when I needed His comfort; I praised Him when I was angry. I praised Him b/c He was my God, and it was for this purpose that I was created. No matter what happened, no matter how people molested the cause of Christ, God was still God.
"Father let Your Holy Spirit sing, let it calm the storm inside of me. As I stand amazed, lift my hands and say, He is, He was, He always will be. He lives, He loves, He's ALWAYS with me!"
I want this to be my song - always. No matter what happens to me, no matter where I am, no matter if His Glory is being revealed through me or whether I'm being stubborn. Let me always celebrate that God is. . .
This new song - well, I think this is my new lifesong. It's the cry of my heart. . ."Father let the world just fade away, let me feel Your presence in this place. Lord I've never been so weary, how I need to know You're near me. Father just let the world fade away, till I'm on my knees, till my heart can sing. . ." How many times have we found ourselves in that place? We know we need to be on our knees, our faces, seeking Him, letting Him be our comfortor, and yet we fight it. We try to fix our problems, find solutions to the messes we got ourselves into, and all the while He's just waiting there.
And see, He's waiting there b/c . . ."He is, He was, He always will be." He's the same God we were busy praising and worshiping at the conference we attended when our spirits were high and we were feeling the blessing of being His child. The following week though, when the world comes crumbling down around us. . .He's still God. And that's the part a lot of us forget.
Last year, I moved to Cincinnati b/c God spoke to me and my family. Oh how God was speaking then, and how we were eager to follow His leading. But the perfect answer to prayer was short lived, b/c human beings got involved, and I soon found myself on the wrong side of unemployment. But in the midst, God was still the same. Earlier this year we found ourselves expecting a child and after the shock wore off, we CELEBRATED! Life. . .unexpected and amazing. . .what joy can compare to this? Oh how good how God was. And then, our lives changed in an instant when we found out our little one was no longer present with us, but with the Creator God. And still. . .God was God. He was the same God who'd taken delight in our joy, but now He grieved with us. Shortly thereafter, we lost many deep friendships, our church. We were accused, cast out, and found ourselves wondering, "Why?" Man had no answers for us, but through pain and suffering, when friends turned their backs, God remained ever present, ever loving, and still God. I praised Him when I needed His comfort; I praised Him when I was angry. I praised Him b/c He was my God, and it was for this purpose that I was created. No matter what happened, no matter how people molested the cause of Christ, God was still God.
"Father let Your Holy Spirit sing, let it calm the storm inside of me. As I stand amazed, lift my hands and say, He is, He was, He always will be. He lives, He loves, He's ALWAYS with me!"
I want this to be my song - always. No matter what happens to me, no matter where I am, no matter if His Glory is being revealed through me or whether I'm being stubborn. Let me always celebrate that God is. . .
Katrina's Hope
August 26, 2009
This time four years ago, I was sitting comfortably in my home watching the news regarding Hurricane Katrina. I knew my heart hurt for these people, but I had no idea how drastically my own life would be impacted by one of the nations most devastating acts of nature, and subsequently, devastating neglect of our Homeland Security.
Don't get me wrong - this girl is a red blooded, combat wearing, troop defending American. But I saw things that I NEVER want to see perpetrated again in this country, by my fellow country men.
I will never get over the shock of seeing media footage of people who were caught in trees, trapped in 100+ degree attics, and children crying out for water. If the media was able to get in, why couldn't help get in? Photo's of ARC vehicles and water trucks and food source transportation can be seen. . .lined up along I 10 for miles and miles, nearly 70 miles outside of New Orleans. It broke my heart.
I began to work with the ARC in Augusta in the days following Katrina. My job specifically was to match known deaths to service members who were stationed elsewhere, and begin the contact process. We were not allowed to notify in the event of "missing." I must have fielded 1000 calls the first week from soldiers, sailors, and Marines who were looking for "Mama." One young Marine stationed in Japan broke down telling me, "You don't understand! She lived in the lower 9th and she was alone. There's no one else I can call." I hadn't the heart to tell him there wasn't much of the lower 9th left, and we weren't getting any "body" confirmations with those addresses.
About a year later I found myself in New Orleans with Mercy Response (Vineyard) and other people from all over the country. Driving into the city, we passed through several parishes. I couldn't begin to keep track of the FEMA cans (trailers) we saw, or the homes so obviously abandoned. Driving into the city, you could the valiant attempt made by some to "get on with life." We, the volunteers, heroes still in our minds, slept in a giant, patched together tent and showered in retro fitted trailers. We ate our meals in an air conditioned church, and made plans to "see the city" on our "day off." I'll never the humbling process God brought me through in those five days, or how He had imminent plans to return me to that place within a year.
The following year I was again in New Orleans - this time with a different group of people. I met a young man from NY who'd come out the year prior, and was so touched and so moved by his experiences he sold his business and lived permanently in a damp tent, out of a suitcase, and swung a hammer day in and day out. Then there was Lori, from Cincinnati, with whom I connected immediately. We toured the lower 9th one morning - silence often creeping in between us as we looked at destruction over a year away from the event itself. Standing in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, and looking up at the twisted and bent sign, we could both see clearly the wall of water that had ripped through the town center. There simply were no words to express what we were both seeing, and the little horror we could imagine was surely NOTHING compared to what the residents of this area must have experienced.
And yet, there was hope. I saw it on the face of the mailman we spent a half hour talking with and hearing his story of survival. It came across in the words of the old man who tended to the pinched arm and bruise I received when opening a table at the Dinner Mercy Response hosted every week. Turns out he was a doctor in St. Bernard parish - that is, until his entire practice along with his home was destroyed. Today, he lives in a FEMA-can and has a hot meal once a week at said dinner. I experienced it with the Sheiksnieders whose house we demo'ed the year prior, and who were now using the empty house to feed their neighbors daily. They too lived in a can, but had acquired long tables and would gather their community DAILY to break bread together, regardless of how meager or how unsubstansial. HOPE was substansial, and that's what mattered.
A young man I knew a long time ago is an amazing musician, and he wrote a song called, "There You Are" and it just encompasses my personal New Orleans experience.
There You are - holding my hand.
There You are - helping me stand.
When the night was closing in; thought I wouldn't see the light again
There You are
I went to New Orleans to be a hero - hahahahahahaaa. What I found was NOT a people who needed saving, but a people who offered their own version of salvation to those of us so presumptuous to think we were "somebody." What I learned was that I in myself am NO ONE. . .absolutely nobody. My ability to demo, to pray, to somehow "reach" these people was not so gently pushed away as God got real with me, the message coming across so clearly, "You cannot save these people darlin. I've already done that. Now if you want to help, then LISTEN and follow and be My hands, be My feet, be My ears."
Let us never forget the tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina, or the travesty of our failed response as a country.
Don't get me wrong - this girl is a red blooded, combat wearing, troop defending American. But I saw things that I NEVER want to see perpetrated again in this country, by my fellow country men.
I will never get over the shock of seeing media footage of people who were caught in trees, trapped in 100+ degree attics, and children crying out for water. If the media was able to get in, why couldn't help get in? Photo's of ARC vehicles and water trucks and food source transportation can be seen. . .lined up along I 10 for miles and miles, nearly 70 miles outside of New Orleans. It broke my heart.
I began to work with the ARC in Augusta in the days following Katrina. My job specifically was to match known deaths to service members who were stationed elsewhere, and begin the contact process. We were not allowed to notify in the event of "missing." I must have fielded 1000 calls the first week from soldiers, sailors, and Marines who were looking for "Mama." One young Marine stationed in Japan broke down telling me, "You don't understand! She lived in the lower 9th and she was alone. There's no one else I can call." I hadn't the heart to tell him there wasn't much of the lower 9th left, and we weren't getting any "body" confirmations with those addresses.
About a year later I found myself in New Orleans with Mercy Response (Vineyard) and other people from all over the country. Driving into the city, we passed through several parishes. I couldn't begin to keep track of the FEMA cans (trailers) we saw, or the homes so obviously abandoned. Driving into the city, you could the valiant attempt made by some to "get on with life." We, the volunteers, heroes still in our minds, slept in a giant, patched together tent and showered in retro fitted trailers. We ate our meals in an air conditioned church, and made plans to "see the city" on our "day off." I'll never the humbling process God brought me through in those five days, or how He had imminent plans to return me to that place within a year.
The following year I was again in New Orleans - this time with a different group of people. I met a young man from NY who'd come out the year prior, and was so touched and so moved by his experiences he sold his business and lived permanently in a damp tent, out of a suitcase, and swung a hammer day in and day out. Then there was Lori, from Cincinnati, with whom I connected immediately. We toured the lower 9th one morning - silence often creeping in between us as we looked at destruction over a year away from the event itself. Standing in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, and looking up at the twisted and bent sign, we could both see clearly the wall of water that had ripped through the town center. There simply were no words to express what we were both seeing, and the little horror we could imagine was surely NOTHING compared to what the residents of this area must have experienced.
And yet, there was hope. I saw it on the face of the mailman we spent a half hour talking with and hearing his story of survival. It came across in the words of the old man who tended to the pinched arm and bruise I received when opening a table at the Dinner Mercy Response hosted every week. Turns out he was a doctor in St. Bernard parish - that is, until his entire practice along with his home was destroyed. Today, he lives in a FEMA-can and has a hot meal once a week at said dinner. I experienced it with the Sheiksnieders whose house we demo'ed the year prior, and who were now using the empty house to feed their neighbors daily. They too lived in a can, but had acquired long tables and would gather their community DAILY to break bread together, regardless of how meager or how unsubstansial. HOPE was substansial, and that's what mattered.
A young man I knew a long time ago is an amazing musician, and he wrote a song called, "There You Are" and it just encompasses my personal New Orleans experience.
There You are - holding my hand.
There You are - helping me stand.
When the night was closing in; thought I wouldn't see the light again
There You are
I went to New Orleans to be a hero - hahahahahahaaa. What I found was NOT a people who needed saving, but a people who offered their own version of salvation to those of us so presumptuous to think we were "somebody." What I learned was that I in myself am NO ONE. . .absolutely nobody. My ability to demo, to pray, to somehow "reach" these people was not so gently pushed away as God got real with me, the message coming across so clearly, "You cannot save these people darlin. I've already done that. Now if you want to help, then LISTEN and follow and be My hands, be My feet, be My ears."
Let us never forget the tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina, or the travesty of our failed response as a country.
Let's see. . .Minnesota, Cincinnati, Atlanta, Augusta, Wisconsin, and New York represented in this pic
Mike
ONE room down. . .six to go
Reclaiming the kitchen!
Hope
Laughter. . .
Noah's Ark. . .revisited
Home Sweet Home
Neither rain nor snow nor dead of night. . .nor apparently Hurricane Katrina. ..
Worship is. . .
Recently, I attended a conference down in Columbia SC. This particular group ALWAYS gets me thinking, and usually gets me moving. Moving, that is, out of my comfort zone and into a broader scope of what it is God is calling me to. The last night we were there, I had a very unusual experience, that later I couldn't quite find the words to articulate. A friend of mine later described it perfectly, and that's been banging away in my head and my spirit ever since.
WHY is it that we worship to begin with? Some people say it's an "offering." We're giving our praise to God; seeking to please Him. I've also heard it described as an "invitation." That we use our worship to create an atmosphere that Holy Spirit is welcome in. There's different kinds of songs too - songs we sing about God, and songs we sing to God.
This all ties in with that Saturday night of worship, b/c there was a deep shift in the atmosphere around us. It was tanglible. . .literally touchable. It was the kind of worship experience a lot of Christians would be uncomfortable in. . .b/c there was a loosing of religious control. People were experiencing freedom, they were pressing in hard, and touching something that wasn't seen by the naked eye, but rather felt by the spirit.
I could feel myself moving from "singing a song" to pouring something out of the depths of my spirit man - it was more than a song, it was a love language. It was ALL I had to give to the One I'd come to worship, and there was nothing being held back. I could literally feel a presence near me (maybe within me) and it was marvelous.
The night ended, the conference over, and everyone went home. But I still struggled with what I'd experienced. Visiting a new church the following Sunday, I was grieved. The worship leaders were hardly leading - it seemed almost a suffering for them to get on the stage and bring the sacrifice of worship. Later that day, my friend shared an interesting perspective with me. He said that he'd been to churches where people sing FOR Jesus, or they sing TO Jesus, but that the MOW conference was the only place he'd ever been where the people sang WITH Jesus. I realized, he'd hit the nail on the head.
I wonder why it is that we seem to exclude Jesus from our worship? Yes, He is GOD, but He is also Jesus. I can easily see Him celebrating the festivals and worshiping His Father, and I can't help but think that He longs to join in with us as we do the same. Are we creating a welcome place for that experience? Or are we so trapped in our religious boxes that we can't concieve a Savior who yearns to worship alongside of us?
Are we ready for the joy of worship with Jesus?
WHY is it that we worship to begin with? Some people say it's an "offering." We're giving our praise to God; seeking to please Him. I've also heard it described as an "invitation." That we use our worship to create an atmosphere that Holy Spirit is welcome in. There's different kinds of songs too - songs we sing about God, and songs we sing to God.
This all ties in with that Saturday night of worship, b/c there was a deep shift in the atmosphere around us. It was tanglible. . .literally touchable. It was the kind of worship experience a lot of Christians would be uncomfortable in. . .b/c there was a loosing of religious control. People were experiencing freedom, they were pressing in hard, and touching something that wasn't seen by the naked eye, but rather felt by the spirit.
I could feel myself moving from "singing a song" to pouring something out of the depths of my spirit man - it was more than a song, it was a love language. It was ALL I had to give to the One I'd come to worship, and there was nothing being held back. I could literally feel a presence near me (maybe within me) and it was marvelous.
The night ended, the conference over, and everyone went home. But I still struggled with what I'd experienced. Visiting a new church the following Sunday, I was grieved. The worship leaders were hardly leading - it seemed almost a suffering for them to get on the stage and bring the sacrifice of worship. Later that day, my friend shared an interesting perspective with me. He said that he'd been to churches where people sing FOR Jesus, or they sing TO Jesus, but that the MOW conference was the only place he'd ever been where the people sang WITH Jesus. I realized, he'd hit the nail on the head.
I wonder why it is that we seem to exclude Jesus from our worship? Yes, He is GOD, but He is also Jesus. I can easily see Him celebrating the festivals and worshiping His Father, and I can't help but think that He longs to join in with us as we do the same. Are we creating a welcome place for that experience? Or are we so trapped in our religious boxes that we can't concieve a Savior who yearns to worship alongside of us?
Are we ready for the joy of worship with Jesus?
My Broken Hallelujah
For some time now, I've been in the process of a healing. Many of you know that last year I was cast out of my church. I was not given an opportunity to defend myself, and in fact, the decision was made just days after Paul and I lost our baby. This decision was made by our pastor (who I no longer blame) based on faulty information that had come to him by way of his own gossiping staff. Though I was wounded, at least my wounds were visable and could be accessed for healing. In some, there are far deeper, more damaging wounds that lie just beneath the surface, unseen and festering, and these are what destroys God's people.
Since that time, God has been working in me and on me regarding issues of forgiveness, and learning to find the worth that HE has determined to be within me. As a Christian, I'm not sure there's anything more damaging or a betrayal that could run deeper than having been rejected by your friends and family of faith. My heart was broken, my soul rended, and I was a mess.
And yet, that's the place where Jesus just loves to climb down into and start working.
The idea that Love Wins had become blasphemous to me - that this church used this phrase as a handle was what first attracted me. That the One who was Love would ultimately Win - what an amazing way to reach out to people. Already seeking healing in other areas of my life, I fully embraced this principal, and began to open my heart to the love that I believed God was pouring out through others. Sadly, we all learn the hard way (at least once) that while God only pours in perfect love, human beings have a way of screwing it up and using God as a battering ram against the hurting.
Some would argue that my concept of love leaves no room for truth. Quite the contrary, you cannot genuinely LOVE at all, unless you love in truth. Love is far more than an action committed from one person to another, or from one group to another. Love is choice, a way of life, a way of living out your existance with one another. It is about far more than rings, or houses, or beliefs, or agreements, or whispers behind the backs of others, or face to face confrontation. Love is what fuels the choices you make. Love is what makes Mercy a verb.
It's been a little over a year since I got my walking papers and my scarlet letters. I've thought about a lot of things in that time; about what I'd like to say to those who knowingly betrayed me. I'd like to ask them if the 30 pieces of silver was worth it. I think about the man whose actions nearly drove me to suicide, and then I quiet my soul and pray for him. I can't imagine the burdens he shoulders daily. I think about being rejected - again. And then I think about Jesus, and how nothing I've endured is unlike His own life.
I've also learned a lot about what Love is and what it is NOT.
Love never hurts. Love isn't about keeping score or being proud of yourself. Love takes no sanctuary in evil things - not in lies, not in gossip, not in secret darkness. Love can never fail - ever.
Love is a multitude of wonderful things however;
Love is opening your home - not just your house, but the privileges that come with sharing a home.
Love is opening your arms - not for quick once weekly pats on the back, but for "all the way around" types of hugs that make most church people nervous.
Love is sticking someone with a needle, and then sitting with them in the ER.
Love is logging nearly 100 hours in a car with someone without killing them.
Love is a kiss on the forehead - even if you're both adults and not married to each other
Love is sharing life - all of life.
And that kind of LOVE really does WIN.
Since that time, God has been working in me and on me regarding issues of forgiveness, and learning to find the worth that HE has determined to be within me. As a Christian, I'm not sure there's anything more damaging or a betrayal that could run deeper than having been rejected by your friends and family of faith. My heart was broken, my soul rended, and I was a mess.
And yet, that's the place where Jesus just loves to climb down into and start working.
The idea that Love Wins had become blasphemous to me - that this church used this phrase as a handle was what first attracted me. That the One who was Love would ultimately Win - what an amazing way to reach out to people. Already seeking healing in other areas of my life, I fully embraced this principal, and began to open my heart to the love that I believed God was pouring out through others. Sadly, we all learn the hard way (at least once) that while God only pours in perfect love, human beings have a way of screwing it up and using God as a battering ram against the hurting.
Some would argue that my concept of love leaves no room for truth. Quite the contrary, you cannot genuinely LOVE at all, unless you love in truth. Love is far more than an action committed from one person to another, or from one group to another. Love is choice, a way of life, a way of living out your existance with one another. It is about far more than rings, or houses, or beliefs, or agreements, or whispers behind the backs of others, or face to face confrontation. Love is what fuels the choices you make. Love is what makes Mercy a verb.
It's been a little over a year since I got my walking papers and my scarlet letters. I've thought about a lot of things in that time; about what I'd like to say to those who knowingly betrayed me. I'd like to ask them if the 30 pieces of silver was worth it. I think about the man whose actions nearly drove me to suicide, and then I quiet my soul and pray for him. I can't imagine the burdens he shoulders daily. I think about being rejected - again. And then I think about Jesus, and how nothing I've endured is unlike His own life.
I've also learned a lot about what Love is and what it is NOT.
Love never hurts. Love isn't about keeping score or being proud of yourself. Love takes no sanctuary in evil things - not in lies, not in gossip, not in secret darkness. Love can never fail - ever.
Love is a multitude of wonderful things however;
Love is opening your home - not just your house, but the privileges that come with sharing a home.
Love is opening your arms - not for quick once weekly pats on the back, but for "all the way around" types of hugs that make most church people nervous.
Love is sticking someone with a needle, and then sitting with them in the ER.
Love is logging nearly 100 hours in a car with someone without killing them.
Love is a kiss on the forehead - even if you're both adults and not married to each other
Love is sharing life - all of life.
And that kind of LOVE really does WIN.
Where's the Glue?
July 30, 2010
Been school shopping the last couple of weeks. This year, the kids are going back to private Christian school (Thank you GOD) so we've been stocking up along and along b/c there are added expenses to consider. We don't mind. . .but today, I unloaded the back of van and we spread out school supplies on the dining room table. YIKES! Talk about an abundance of goodies!
While I was making piles, I noticed I had purchased an abundance of glue sticks. I guess there's worse things to have an abundance of (thinking of when the kids brought home buggies. Ick) but we have a LOT of glue. LOL It got me to thinking about all the things in life that require some agent to "hold it together."
Consider marriage - ok, maybe we shouldnt. There's a lot of "glue" required for marriage. Paul and I will be married 16 years this year, and truth be told, it's only 16 b/c we were too poor to file for a divorce when we thought about it. Thank God for that! But there's a glue that keeps us together. Most of the time it looks like this; common interests, a genuine likability of the other, mutual respect, shared dreams, etc. But sometimes, it's really unexpected - like grief. Last year was a year FULL of grief for our family. I think though, that in our grief, we were held together. And in that, we discovered a strength unknown to us before then. A "super glue" of sorts you might say. At the end - we were left with this crazy weird bonded love that we'd never experienced before. It was like we'd been glued together, then welded, then sealed. I kind of like it.
I have these friends in my life as well - and I can see the "glue" in our lives. One friend in particular - she and I aren't exactly "close" or anything anymore. Truth be told, I couldn't really say if our friendship looks ANYTHING like what comes to mind when you think about friendship. But again. . .there's this glue that bonds us to one another. We haven't spoken aloud to one another in nearly a year, but that doesn't keep me from crying out on her behalf to Papa God every day. It doesn't keep me from grinning from ear to ear when I read about a coffee date, or a powerful worship experience. We share experiences in life that connect us - that bond us to one another.
Another set of friends are the kind that I can just be completely myself with, at all times. Wow. . there's an incredible freedom in that. How many of us really get to just be real - all the time? They accept me as i am, no matter how good the situation, or how bad. Our bond transcends typical friendship on every single level. They are as much my family as Paul is. I think the "glue" in this relationship is that realness. . .there's no assumption EVER of being anything less than who we really are with each other.
When we think about the things that connect us to others in our lives, what's the glue? What's the thing that absolutely bonds you to these people you love, you relate to, you share life with?
While I was making piles, I noticed I had purchased an abundance of glue sticks. I guess there's worse things to have an abundance of (thinking of when the kids brought home buggies. Ick) but we have a LOT of glue. LOL It got me to thinking about all the things in life that require some agent to "hold it together."
Consider marriage - ok, maybe we shouldnt. There's a lot of "glue" required for marriage. Paul and I will be married 16 years this year, and truth be told, it's only 16 b/c we were too poor to file for a divorce when we thought about it. Thank God for that! But there's a glue that keeps us together. Most of the time it looks like this; common interests, a genuine likability of the other, mutual respect, shared dreams, etc. But sometimes, it's really unexpected - like grief. Last year was a year FULL of grief for our family. I think though, that in our grief, we were held together. And in that, we discovered a strength unknown to us before then. A "super glue" of sorts you might say. At the end - we were left with this crazy weird bonded love that we'd never experienced before. It was like we'd been glued together, then welded, then sealed. I kind of like it.
I have these friends in my life as well - and I can see the "glue" in our lives. One friend in particular - she and I aren't exactly "close" or anything anymore. Truth be told, I couldn't really say if our friendship looks ANYTHING like what comes to mind when you think about friendship. But again. . .there's this glue that bonds us to one another. We haven't spoken aloud to one another in nearly a year, but that doesn't keep me from crying out on her behalf to Papa God every day. It doesn't keep me from grinning from ear to ear when I read about a coffee date, or a powerful worship experience. We share experiences in life that connect us - that bond us to one another.
Another set of friends are the kind that I can just be completely myself with, at all times. Wow. . there's an incredible freedom in that. How many of us really get to just be real - all the time? They accept me as i am, no matter how good the situation, or how bad. Our bond transcends typical friendship on every single level. They are as much my family as Paul is. I think the "glue" in this relationship is that realness. . .there's no assumption EVER of being anything less than who we really are with each other.
When we think about the things that connect us to others in our lives, what's the glue? What's the thing that absolutely bonds you to these people you love, you relate to, you share life with?
Dirty Dangerous Worship
Oct 19, 2010
Recently, I've been confronted with the question of worship and what it's "supposed" to look like. Having been raised in the Methodist church, saved in the Baptist, sanctified and spirit filled in the COG, and delivered from religious bondage by the Vineyard, I've encountered a LOT of different worship styles. While I don't think any one particular denomination or group has cornered the market on what worship is supposed to look like, I've come to understand clearly what it is NOT.
The very definition of the word worship is a surprise to most - WORSHIP is a verb. It's something you DO, but it's also something you feel. It's also a noun, because true worship is something you ARE. . .not merely a description of an action.
Worshippers are people who "display reverance or adoration, as to a diety." Ummm. . .ok. Translation - worshippers are believers who offer a sacrifice of their being through the act of reverance AND adoration, not simply one or the other. Worship can only take place in ONE form however - in truth. Jesus spoke clearly about this, saying that only those who worship in truth will know Him.
There comes a question about styles of worship, and while I do think that largely worship is up to the individual, there is one aspect in which I think there can be no compromise. We must worship the one worthy of our praise in the same manner, mindset, heart offering in which He gave Himself to us - passionately, unabashedly, unrelenting, and without reserve. John 4:24 says this, " But the hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth; for the Father is seeking such to worship Him. God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth." Not should, or ought to, and not as we feel like it, but MUST worship in spirit and in truth. Whoa.
The other night, I had the opportunity to experience worship while others seemed a bit put off by the music choice. Frankly, I didn't let it bother me much once the Lord began to speak to me. The music was edgy, raw, and rather dirty in a sense. There was no lovely melody, no sweet harmonies. It was banging, thumping, the rythyms undulating through my spirit and awakening something altogether primal within me. The thump of the drums, the panicked strumming on the strings, and the cracking realness of the vocalists took me a place far beyond the confines of our gathering room. It was in that place that He spoke to me and said, "Wanna come get dirty with Me?" Hahahaaa - we all have stories of our Jesus moments. Most of them are purely g-rated - butterflies and pink skies, meadows and mountaintops. How often does He ask us to go get dirty with Him?
So I went - He took me back to a time in Columbia when I was at MOW at the old church. Peter Steyne and Toby Trull were banging out the walls on the drums, Joe Cash was smoking his guitar, and there were more shofars than I could possibly count. There was a frantic energy as the worshipers of God began to touch heaven with their praise. . .and then it happened. It was gradual - a few of us began to feel really warm, and then noticed others sweating heavily. Within half an hour, the temperture was over 100 degrees with over a hundred bodies packed into a small space. The A/C had gone out during the hottest summer on record. But. . .NOBODY LEFT. Not a single soul left the oven like room we were all in. Rather, the pressing in took on a new life altogether, and our praise became a sacrifice like it had never been before. People were sweating, dripping; the dirt from the carpet and the stickiness from children's hands made us dirtier still. Makeup melted off, hair fell, and body odor ran rampant. . .but so did the Holy Spirit.
I joke that that was the night Danny Steyne baptised me, b/c quite literally he drenched me when he leaned over me and spoke the words of the Father's heart to me. The anointing oil of that night was the very ESSENCE of the lovers of Christ, coming out of and off our bodies.
Worship. . .like many other experiences in life. . .isn't meant to take on one persona and remain that way. There are times for "quietly sitting with hands folded" types of worship, and there is a time for "dirty, dangerous worship." I prefer the latter, but that's just me.
What I do know is that regardless of the worship style you like, what can never be compromised for our comfort is this - we must passionately pursue the heart of the One who passionately died for us. If I offer my praise b/c it's simply my responsibility, I fail to give a sacrifice. A sacrifice is something that costs me something; my pride, my dignity, my time, etc. If it costs me nothing, then it is not a sacrifice. . .and it does not reflect HIM at all.
I only want to be like Him - even if it means I have to get dirty in the dangerous places.
Monday, January 3, 2011
An Encounter with. . .
July 26, 2010
Last night, I went with some friends to a church thing. I typically don't stray far from my own stomping grounds, but this seemed (at least by the advertising) like something I'd be "into." And for the most part. . .it was.
The worship. . .ohhh the worship. Amazing. Passionate. Freeing. Wow. It was beyond wonderful. I felt parts of my spirit opening up that had been shut up for a while. While not a MOW event, it definately had a "mountain" feel to it. I kept watching. . .waiting to see who was going to break free from walls of the dam, who would be the explosion that would bring all the spirits of religion and limitations crashing down.
I wept as the woman next to me broke out of the aisle, joined by teenage boys, dancing in worship.
I watched another woman abandon herself to the music, to the worship, to her Savior. She was still in the room, but she was definitely SOMEWHERE else too.
One of my friends wasn't feeling too well. We'd all been at a picnic earlier that day, and he thought he might have a touch of food posioning. I prayed for him, laying my hands upon him, expecting healing ESPECIALLY in this place of freedom.
At the end of the service, many people were being prayed for. I moved through the crowd up front, enjoying the presence of God, wanting more still. Without going into details, I"ll say this. I was approached by a woman who directed me to the other side, and was mildly chastised for having prayed for my friend earlier, because "We don't do that here." What they don't do is allow people of one gender to pray for someone of the opposite gender.
Now, that said, let me say this. I can completely understand not being ok with a man and a woman heading off behind closed doors for some "prayer ministery." But in a room, with 400 other people, what EXACTLY do you think is going to happen that's inappropriate if a man lays his hands on a womans head and prays for her?
My God - when did we decide that these rules are somehow more appropriate than the ministry of Jesus Christ to the hurting? To those who need healing? To the ones for whom a simple touch will break down years of distrust? When did the "Jezabel" spirit run off the Holy Spirit?
And so. . .still. . .I hunger. For true freedom in Christ. For worship that has no barriers. For relationship that GENUINELY reflects Jesus. I wonder what they would have done had I wept on this man's feet, and then dried them with my hair? Would that have somehow been MORE appropriate than laying on hands and praying for him?
When. . .when. . .WHEN are we as the body going to begin to work together as a body? When do we begin to operate in the integrity of Jesus Christ and demonstrate that so that these ridiculous rules are no longer necessary? When do we answer the call. . .HIS call. . .regardless of how well it meshes with our "rules."
Freedom by its very nature is meant to be FREEING. I don't want freedom that keeps me shackled by the limitations of who I can or can't minister to. As a medic, I would help ANYONE, any time. Regardless of gender, color, sexual orientation, etc. Why is it more acceptable for me as a medic to put my hands on someone in THAT circumstance, but in the church - where lives can be saved and changed - I'm not allowed to touch a man?
Ah God. . .I'm hungry. Not for a "trailer" of Your outpouring, but for the "feature event."
Last night, I went with some friends to a church thing. I typically don't stray far from my own stomping grounds, but this seemed (at least by the advertising) like something I'd be "into." And for the most part. . .it was.
The worship. . .ohhh the worship. Amazing. Passionate. Freeing. Wow. It was beyond wonderful. I felt parts of my spirit opening up that had been shut up for a while. While not a MOW event, it definately had a "mountain" feel to it. I kept watching. . .waiting to see who was going to break free from walls of the dam, who would be the explosion that would bring all the spirits of religion and limitations crashing down.
I wept as the woman next to me broke out of the aisle, joined by teenage boys, dancing in worship.
I watched another woman abandon herself to the music, to the worship, to her Savior. She was still in the room, but she was definitely SOMEWHERE else too.
One of my friends wasn't feeling too well. We'd all been at a picnic earlier that day, and he thought he might have a touch of food posioning. I prayed for him, laying my hands upon him, expecting healing ESPECIALLY in this place of freedom.
At the end of the service, many people were being prayed for. I moved through the crowd up front, enjoying the presence of God, wanting more still. Without going into details, I"ll say this. I was approached by a woman who directed me to the other side, and was mildly chastised for having prayed for my friend earlier, because "We don't do that here." What they don't do is allow people of one gender to pray for someone of the opposite gender.
Now, that said, let me say this. I can completely understand not being ok with a man and a woman heading off behind closed doors for some "prayer ministery." But in a room, with 400 other people, what EXACTLY do you think is going to happen that's inappropriate if a man lays his hands on a womans head and prays for her?
My God - when did we decide that these rules are somehow more appropriate than the ministry of Jesus Christ to the hurting? To those who need healing? To the ones for whom a simple touch will break down years of distrust? When did the "Jezabel" spirit run off the Holy Spirit?
And so. . .still. . .I hunger. For true freedom in Christ. For worship that has no barriers. For relationship that GENUINELY reflects Jesus. I wonder what they would have done had I wept on this man's feet, and then dried them with my hair? Would that have somehow been MORE appropriate than laying on hands and praying for him?
When. . .when. . .WHEN are we as the body going to begin to work together as a body? When do we begin to operate in the integrity of Jesus Christ and demonstrate that so that these ridiculous rules are no longer necessary? When do we answer the call. . .HIS call. . .regardless of how well it meshes with our "rules."
Freedom by its very nature is meant to be FREEING. I don't want freedom that keeps me shackled by the limitations of who I can or can't minister to. As a medic, I would help ANYONE, any time. Regardless of gender, color, sexual orientation, etc. Why is it more acceptable for me as a medic to put my hands on someone in THAT circumstance, but in the church - where lives can be saved and changed - I'm not allowed to touch a man?
Ah God. . .I'm hungry. Not for a "trailer" of Your outpouring, but for the "feature event."
The Happy Human Dance
August 12, 2010
Let me introduce you to someone I hardly know. He's a quasi-famous internet guy...well, if YouTube counts anyway. Matt Harding is in many ways a "loser." A college dropout, no "real" job to speak of, lives with his girlfriend out west somewhere.
A few years ago, Matt made a video. The story goes something like this - he was traveling around the world with friends, and one of his friends suggested he do that dumb dance he does, and he'd record it. The idea took hold, and Matt was recorded doing his dance in over 70 countries. The result is a video that has swept the internet, and was noticed by Stride gum. (They later hired Matt to make a more professional video for them.) It was also noticed by average people - moms and dads, husbands and wives, everyday people who watched this guy - this BUM - doing this ridiculous dance all around the world.
And a weird thing started to happen. People began to smile. And go blind. Skin color got lost behind the laughter and stunning scenery from some of the most beautiful places in the world. We lost some of our self righteous pride, arrogance gave way to amusement. This man - this nobody - gave us permission to let down our walls, to see each other as HUMAN BEINGS.
I don't know the first thing about Matt Harding personally. I couldn't tell you if he's a believer in Jesus or Buddah or Mickey Mouse. And frankly. . .I don't care. What I do care about is the fact that he was able to depict nations and peoples and races as ONE RACE - the Human race. All in the course of FOUR MINUTES. Unbelievable. . .
A man I deeply respect once told me that he was not a Christian. It dang near broke my heart. Not because it was true, but because he had seen such a BROKEN side of the church that he couldn't find himself in any of it's teachings. He loved Jesus, served his brothers and sisters, and lived his life according to biblical principals. Yet he considered himself a humanitarian more than a Christian. When did we divide the two? At point did Jesus Christ cease to be a humanitarian? Because if I'm reading the story correctly, He was the ULTIMATE humanitarian - giving His life for another, for the hope of a future, for the promsie of life eternal. When did the blood spilled at Calvary become salvation ONLY for those deserving of it? When did God give us the right to decide who is deserving of our humanitarian efforts and who is not? When did the rules change?
My eyes welled up with tears as I watched Matt dance with pot-bellied children in Mali; when he gracefully executed dance moves with the beautiful daughters of India; when he celebrated in Chicago, IL and when he stood alone in the majesty of the green hills of Ireland. Embraced in a crowd and standing alone - this man brought a world together through the simplicity of a stupid dance. We are all human beings - created by a loving God.
All of us; black, white, Indian, African, British, Irish, Scottish, straight, gay, Buddist, Muslim, Catholic, and so on and so on. Each of us created in HIS image. He made us all so differently, but rather than embracing our uniqueness we have allowed ourselves to create elitism out of our differences. Rather than reconciliation, we war. Rather than the human race. . .we have separated and segragated ourselves into clubs and schools and countries and even churches, where we believe WE are right and everyone else is wrong.
I was so fortunate to be raised by grandparents who embraced the simplest principles of God - love your neighbor as yourself.
I bet my grandfather would have been right alongside Matt - doing his own happy dance.
A few years ago, Matt made a video. The story goes something like this - he was traveling around the world with friends, and one of his friends suggested he do that dumb dance he does, and he'd record it. The idea took hold, and Matt was recorded doing his dance in over 70 countries. The result is a video that has swept the internet, and was noticed by Stride gum. (They later hired Matt to make a more professional video for them.) It was also noticed by average people - moms and dads, husbands and wives, everyday people who watched this guy - this BUM - doing this ridiculous dance all around the world.
And a weird thing started to happen. People began to smile. And go blind. Skin color got lost behind the laughter and stunning scenery from some of the most beautiful places in the world. We lost some of our self righteous pride, arrogance gave way to amusement. This man - this nobody - gave us permission to let down our walls, to see each other as HUMAN BEINGS.
I don't know the first thing about Matt Harding personally. I couldn't tell you if he's a believer in Jesus or Buddah or Mickey Mouse. And frankly. . .I don't care. What I do care about is the fact that he was able to depict nations and peoples and races as ONE RACE - the Human race. All in the course of FOUR MINUTES. Unbelievable. . .
A man I deeply respect once told me that he was not a Christian. It dang near broke my heart. Not because it was true, but because he had seen such a BROKEN side of the church that he couldn't find himself in any of it's teachings. He loved Jesus, served his brothers and sisters, and lived his life according to biblical principals. Yet he considered himself a humanitarian more than a Christian. When did we divide the two? At point did Jesus Christ cease to be a humanitarian? Because if I'm reading the story correctly, He was the ULTIMATE humanitarian - giving His life for another, for the hope of a future, for the promsie of life eternal. When did the blood spilled at Calvary become salvation ONLY for those deserving of it? When did God give us the right to decide who is deserving of our humanitarian efforts and who is not? When did the rules change?
My eyes welled up with tears as I watched Matt dance with pot-bellied children in Mali; when he gracefully executed dance moves with the beautiful daughters of India; when he celebrated in Chicago, IL and when he stood alone in the majesty of the green hills of Ireland. Embraced in a crowd and standing alone - this man brought a world together through the simplicity of a stupid dance. We are all human beings - created by a loving God.
All of us; black, white, Indian, African, British, Irish, Scottish, straight, gay, Buddist, Muslim, Catholic, and so on and so on. Each of us created in HIS image. He made us all so differently, but rather than embracing our uniqueness we have allowed ourselves to create elitism out of our differences. Rather than reconciliation, we war. Rather than the human race. . .we have separated and segragated ourselves into clubs and schools and countries and even churches, where we believe WE are right and everyone else is wrong.
I was so fortunate to be raised by grandparents who embraced the simplest principles of God - love your neighbor as yourself.
I bet my grandfather would have been right alongside Matt - doing his own happy dance.
Relentless
Augusta 16, 2010
I think we're all familiar with the song,You wont Relent. Personally, I can't hear it without it messing me up good. Last Friday night, it was part of our worship set, and God has a special message for me about my heart belonging to Him, and His seal being upon my heart. I love it when God speaks!
But it brought me to a place of considering what it means to be relentless. Why does God pursue us relentlessly? Especially when we are less than relentless in our pursuit of Him?
It led me to another thought, one I had recently in response to a friends feverent desire to have God take away the desires of her heart. What I shared with her was that God won't take away desires that are "God breathed." There are wants, needs, desires in our lives that are wired into the very "nooma" of our being. The desire to be connected at the heart level with another human being. The desire to live abundantly. The desire to love as He loves. These are all God inspired - not something we can request He remove. To do so would removed the essence of Him in our lives - to remove these things would be to deny HIM within us, to deny His perfect love in having created those things to begin with.
You see, some of these desires are the very things that make us "in His image." It's not just about the two arms, two legs, etc. "In His image" is more about being LIKE Him than looking like Him. He desires the heart connection; He desires abundant life; He yearns to see us love another as He has loved us.
And so. . .He pursues us.
R E L E N T L E S S L Y
And relentlessly, we navigate, negotiate, plead, beg, cajole, bargin and petition. His heart hears every cry of our own. . .and relentlessly in LOVE He anchors HIS desires for us even more deeply within our hearts. Relentlessly. . .He says, "No. This MUST stay."
Relentlessly. . .He loves us.
I have been so beautifully, relentlessly pursued by a God I do not deserve. And yet He makes me worthy of love.
I think we're all familiar with the song,You wont Relent. Personally, I can't hear it without it messing me up good. Last Friday night, it was part of our worship set, and God has a special message for me about my heart belonging to Him, and His seal being upon my heart. I love it when God speaks!
But it brought me to a place of considering what it means to be relentless. Why does God pursue us relentlessly? Especially when we are less than relentless in our pursuit of Him?
It led me to another thought, one I had recently in response to a friends feverent desire to have God take away the desires of her heart. What I shared with her was that God won't take away desires that are "God breathed." There are wants, needs, desires in our lives that are wired into the very "nooma" of our being. The desire to be connected at the heart level with another human being. The desire to live abundantly. The desire to love as He loves. These are all God inspired - not something we can request He remove. To do so would removed the essence of Him in our lives - to remove these things would be to deny HIM within us, to deny His perfect love in having created those things to begin with.
You see, some of these desires are the very things that make us "in His image." It's not just about the two arms, two legs, etc. "In His image" is more about being LIKE Him than looking like Him. He desires the heart connection; He desires abundant life; He yearns to see us love another as He has loved us.
And so. . .He pursues us.
R E L E N T L E S S L Y
And relentlessly, we navigate, negotiate, plead, beg, cajole, bargin and petition. His heart hears every cry of our own. . .and relentlessly in LOVE He anchors HIS desires for us even more deeply within our hearts. Relentlessly. . .He says, "No. This MUST stay."
Relentlessly. . .He loves us.
I have been so beautifully, relentlessly pursued by a God I do not deserve. And yet He makes me worthy of love.
Adding -
In an effort to consolidate some of my "notes" from Facebook, I'm going to be adding several posts here tonight. No, I didn't write all these tonight. When I can, I'll try to include the date that they were written. A friend brought it to my attention that there are folks who aren't FB junkies who might be interested in what I've written. LOL It doesn't always travel along the Village Life thread, but it's about MY life, and often the lives of those I'm doing life with, so that qualifies it for me. If you don't like it, get over it. :-)
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