This little light of mine...

Maybe it is the student of literature or the writer in me, but I like themes. When I'm at loss with a piece of writing, my own or someone else's, the first place I go is theme. If I can nail that down, I have a place to begin figuring out everything else. I just ask: What's the point? And so it is with life.

After much prayer and consideration, I have arrived at my theme word for 2013: Shine. I have been hearing and seeing this word everywhere the last few weeks. It has been there in scripture, in music, in conversation, and once, in yoga class.

So there it is. My word for 2013: Shine. It is what I long for most. To shine light in to the dark places. To radiate truth. And love. To walk in this world in a way that illuminates the path for someone else. To radiate joy. To be nothing more than a reflection of the One who made the light.

 

 

Gut-check

Some days don't turn out the way you think they will when you first begin them. I went to the doctor on Thursday for something I was mildly concerned about, but definitely not something to be overly worried about. During the course of the examination, the gears shifted and the conversation went from "I'm not worried about what's going on with your pain, but I'm very concerned about what's going on here."

The here was my abdominal aortic artery and the lighthearted, joking doctor became very serious and started talking about the emergency room and aneurysms. I continued to lightheartedly joke with him and the resident, but as I drove home to meet my husband to make the trip to the ER, it didn't seem that funny. Surreal? Yes. Absurd? Yes. Funny? Not really.

Given my mother's history of having two aneurysms,  I think I have always lived with a fear or awareness that I could hear that word in regards to my body one day. Actually hearing it hit a little too close for comfort. I guess you could say I had a little bit of a gut-check moment that afternoon.

I used to be the kind of person who said things like "I wouldn't mind if the Lord took me right now." There have even been dark, dark times when I tried to wish my life away. Times I was willing to roll the dice with flippant disregard for my own beating heart. I didn't feel that way Thursday. And honestly, it made me want to fall back in love with life again. To live in wonder. To walk in Truth. To be quiet and still, and to laugh long and deeply. To hug and be hugged. To love in way that leaves nothing to question.  To engage life the way God intended it to be engaged--by keeping a heavenly perspective on this earthly walk. Abandoned, but with great care.

To be honest, I don't even know exactly what all that is supposed to look like. Emergency over, Friday found me doing normal Friday stuff. And while my life didn't look very differently from any other Friday, I feel that, in a way, my spirit had already started planning. God spoke beautiful words into my heart this weekend. Separate events all themed in a way that let's me know God was there in the midst of the gut-check and He heard my heart. 

His response was to show me "what is good...To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." (Micah 6:8). I desire more than ever for my life to look like my heart. And my heart to look like His.

I am not a hippie.

I am not a hippie. I wear makeup. And deodorant. I shave my legs and consider myself a Moderate. I am not a hippie. I tell you this because I have been hearing it a lot lately. I have also been called cute, simple, nerd, and dork in conversation with people whom I know actually love me and whom I'm pretty sure, meant those labels as compliments.

I love nature. This is no secret. I like digging in the dirt, the smell of the earth, and the sounds of creation waking up, as well as going to sleep. I regularly stand in awe of the fact that I can plant a seed and with some care and attention, not much later eat of its fruit. That amazes me. I will always rejoice over the first green bud poking through the brown soil, the first bloom of a plant, the kamakaze dive of a hummingbird overhead, and the first hint of a new season. I suggest you do the same.

My ideal home is small with land for a bigger garden and some chickens. And I wouldn't mind if that house was in a tree.  And of course, near water. None of this makes me a hippie. I'm a consumer who is trying to consume less.  I was meant to be a good steward, not an anomaly.

I recently spent a week preaching the virtues of connection--to God, man, and nature. It made me realize I still have a long way to go. But I believe we are on the right path (pardon the pun) when we seek to live a little more the way we were intended to live. Giving more than we take. I want to do more to subdue the Earth, not consume it. Maybe we wouldn't have to create "experiences" to try to connect with God, if we understood a little bit better that He is there if we will just be still and quiet and not so hard to impress. He is there. We just have to turn off the television.

Currents

The view from my kayak

A lot can happen in a matter of a day's time. On Sunday, my husband and I decided to take out the kayaks and  head for the river. We spent a few hours mostly letting ourselves be carried by the current of the rain swollen Colorado River. We didn't have to work hard to make our way down river and it was nice to just let ourselves be carried, giving us a chance to direct our gaze to nature. And boy, did she show off. The spring rains provided a lush, deep green landscape full of life. We witnessed turtle after turtle lazily slide off their logs, plopping noisily into the water below them. A pair of baby Teal paddling along the edge of the bank.   Butterfly after butterfly floating effortlessly across the water. We watched a fat Blue Cat rise to the surface, disappearing as quietly as he appeared. And there was the profusion of Morning Glories, cascading down from the very top of a tree, as if a living altar had sprung from the river bank to climb toward Heaven. All of this made me quiet, stilled my soul. I did my best to breathe it all in and exhale thankfulness, trying not to think about the following day. Thankful for an afternoon just to be carried.

Monday's view

Then Monday came. Full of insurance questions and talk of radioactive materials, decay, damage. Risk management. Waiting in admitting. Waiting for a room. Waiting for doctors. Waiting, waiting, waiting. With each step of the process, our anxiety grew. We joked with each other to cover our frustration and fear. I had only to stretch to feel the slight ache in my shoulders, reminding me of the previous day that seemed so far away.   And when I left the hospital without my husband, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and cried. Leaving him there to be cared for when that had been my job was harder than I thought. What if they get his diet wrong? What if he has a reaction? What if he is scared? Lonely? What if this treatment doesn't work? Yesterday's gentle current was gone and I was being caught up in the rush of uncertainty. But I stopped myself before I could be swept away by the swiftness of the unknown. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply and exhaled thankfulness once again, thinking about our previous day. A gift from a gracious God. Remembering the beautiful blooms of the Morning glories, I was thankful that if we choose to do so, we can carry our altars everywhere. Even when we have to drive away.

Open Hands

It is a funny thing, perspective. Sometimes all it takes is a subtle shift and all of a sudden, the world looks very different than it did just moments before. Yesterday was not exactly an easy day. I was feeling the stress of waiting for the results of a medical test before my dear husband even started it. And when he walked out into the waiting room, I knew it had hit him too.

The ride home alternated between him trying to find the words to express what he was feeling, me trying to find the words to encourage him when I didn't feel so encouraged myself, and silence. Lots of silence. And in a twist of really bad timing, on a day when I was doing the very best I could at showing up, I received a pretty ugly text from a hurting person who wanted to hurt someone else. Bullseye.

Those words cut straight through all of the surface courage I had managed to muster that morning and hit me at the core of what I suspected might be true: Nothing I do is good enough. I am not good enough. Those feelings sat there like a heavy rock on my chest. And then I did the thing I knew I needed to do. I reached out to someone I knew would speak truth and healing to my heart. She listened and she reminded me of the things I knew, but had forgotten in that moment. Sick people--people with addiction and the brokenness that goes with it--can't love people. It isn't in their skill set. And as much as we could use their love--especially when we are hurting--we just can't expect it. They are doing what they can with what they have. I listened for several minutes to these words that spoke the truth of people I love who can't love me back. And I listened to her speak my truth. I am hurting, but I am loved. And it is a deep, deep love filled with grace and mercy.

 You can't be reminded of that kind of love and stay the same. That love--the words of God on the lips of a person who has let themselves be changed by that love, changed me. It helped me unfurl my fists. And that rock that had been sitting on my chest, so heavy and suffocating, began to move. I learned once again rocks can be moved and our wounds healed when we pray with our hands open.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep"

The following are excerpts from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young:

"Waves of adversity are washing over you, and you feel tempted to give up. As your circumstances consume more and more of your attention, you are losing sight of me. " February 27


"Don't look for affirmation in the wrong places: your own evaluations, or those of other people. The only source of real affirmation is My unconditional Love." February 28


"You are on the right path. Listen more to Me, and less to your doubts. I am leading you along the way I designed just for you. Therefore, it is a lonely way, humanly speaking." February 29


I am realizing more and more that I have a need for a daily devotional not just as a catalyst to dig into the Word, but also as a catalyst to look inward. I need to see the things within myself that I don't want to see so I can deal with the things that need to be dealt with. The last three days of my devotional have done just that. They have spoken to my desire to just give up (not even knowing what that looks like), feelings of inadequacy, and a loneliness that is just as palpable in a room full of people as it is when I lie awake in the middle of the night.

I'm guessing this is what one gets when they offer up their own ease and comfort for forty days. Why would we expect any less when we willingly walk into the wilderness? And I guess there is no other way to comprehend God's longing for our hearts to be only His, than to have all we want stripped away--even for a short time. I know God doesn't want me to be afraid, lonely, unseen, or inadequate. But maybe I need to feel those feelings when I look to humans or circumstances to fill a need they can't possibly fill. And maybe that is the wilderness journey I have to offer these next few weeks: the willingness to walk down a dark path, alone in order to know without a doubt that Someone goes before me to make the way.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep. --Robert Frost

Easy doesn't do it any more

I have had a lot of conversations about Lent the last few days.  When I left the Catholic Church, the rebellious child in me rejoiced in not feeling obligated to observe Lent. I rejoiced in knowing that my salvation was secure and there was nothing I had to do to keep it that way. There were no longer any religious hoops for me to jump through. And I liked it that way. Then I grew up.

Suddenly my understanding of what it means to be a Christian--to seek to be Christ-like--changed dramatically.  I realized that if I internalized the Gospel so that my everyday life could begin to look like Christ, then I had some eternal obligations that were much greater than those any man or religious institution could impose upon me. The nonconformist in me doesn't have to conform. She has to be transformed. That is so much harder.

Maybe this is why, as an adult, Lent speaks to my heart. The intentionality of sacrifice. A set time in which the giving up aligns with the giving in. A time in which we can work out for ourselves in tangible ways the concept of sacrifice. A concept that goes against my human nature. My humanity seeks the easy. So this year, that is my focus for Lent. I will forsake the easy in my walking around life. I will stop defaulting to the easy outs in my life--foods, conversations, excuses. I will stop looking for corners to cut. In these forty days, I will seek to tear down my little altars to little gods I often unknowingly constructed, so that my life itself becomes a living altar to a Christ who stepped down off the cross to live in me.

This year, I sacrifice the easy. 

Look down

 In an effort to cultivate gratitude, I have been making a conscious effort to see and appreciate the little things more than ever. There is holiness in the everyday and I am looking for it. I spent a little time outside on Saturday afternoon and I remembered that to see the miraculous in nature, we often have to bend down and look closely. It is there in the tender buds of the Crepe Myrtle. In the first yellow trumpet of a Carolina Jessamine. The tightly furled fingers of a fern waiting for the right time to unfurl and stretch long and wide. The miraculous is there in the Redbuds that blossom right on time. Their time, not mine. And isn't that the real truth here? There are miracles all around us but we miss them if we expect them only in our time and when we forget to look down. F.B. Meyer speaks this truth:

“I used to think that God's gifts were on shelves one above the other and that the taller we grew in Christian character, the more easily we should reach them. I find now that God's gifts are on shelves one beneath the other and that is not a question of growing taller, but of stooping lower and that we have to go down, always down to get His best gifts.”

"Who am I that You are mindful of me?"

"Then the LORD will create over all of Mount Zion and over those who assemble there a cloud of smoke by day and a glow of flaming fire by night; over everything the glory will be a canopy. It will be a shelter and shade from the heat of the day, and a refuge and hiding place from the storm and rain." Isaiah 4:5-6

Almost every run in my short history of running has started on this street in the picture. It is my safe place. My warm up lasts the length of this street and whether I am anticipating a great run or a difficult one, whether I start out carefree or budened, it is my favorite place to begin. In the heat, the canopy of old oak and pecan trees offers me dappled light and respite from the sun. In the rain, it is a giant, old umbrella of sorts, only letting through a fraction of the storm raining down on me.

And isn't that what it is like to sit under the protection of a Savior? I think I finally understood this idea for the first time last week. As I started down Avenue J, I voiced in my head my thankfulness for the shade. And out of nowhere, I was suddenly struck by this scripture from Isaiah that I couldn't even completely remember.  I was completely humbled to truly understand for the first time what it means to sit in the shelter of God. I have always thought of God as holding me in the midst of storms. I could wrap my head around that thought. I could accept that I would have to bear everything that rained down on me, but at least I could do it if I was being held. It had never occured to me that what I actually experience is just a fraction of the storm. I am protected because I sit under the canopy of God's Glory.

I used to think I had to protect myself, that God had too many other people to protect. And just as dangerously, I thought the enemy wouldn't bother to mess with me because I wasn't worth messing with. I am humbled by the thought that I am worthy of both attack and protection. I have been attacked in the last couple of years in very specific ways. Ways that played on my fear of violence, ways that dragged up hurts I thought were healed, ways that made me feel vulnerable and unsafe, ways that played on my fear of loss and the unknown. But worst of all, ways that made me feel like I had to bear it all alone.

But I am realizing more and more that I am being protected in ways that are making me no longer lean on my understanding. Ways that are making me redefine security. Ways that are making me grateful for the present and vulnerable in the way God wants me to be vulnerable. Ways that are forcing me to rise up when I want to hide. Ways that give me courage and strength and humility. Ways that make me sit in awe and speak with hope. Ways that make me seek refuge. Ways that remind me daily that His ways are not my ways. And for that, I thank God.

The Narrow Space

This blog comes to you today from the narrow space between a rock and a hard place. At least, it feels like that is where we are. My goal for the next month is to not grow bitter about this place. I won't complain about how dark and cold it feels, but I will make an effort to scoot into the light. You guys may need to remind me to scoot over sometimes and let you sit down. I will try to remember that you will be the ones who bring the light with you.

So I will sit here and hold my husband's hand. And I will know that God crouches there beside us in the narrow space. And He brings His friends.

The Waiting Place

This month, in celebration of Advent, our Sunday morning conversations have revolved around the theme of waiting. So far, specifically, what it means to wait with hope and wait with peace. It is a sticky subject, this idea of waiting.

These past two Sundays have brought forth memories of specific moments in my life when I have had no choice but to wait. And "the waiting places" as Dr. Seuss calls them, are not always happy places. I know what it feels like to wait with hope when my brokenness tells me I should be hopeless. I know what it feels like to sit very, very quietly when circumstances scream chaos. I'm not saying these were my finest moments, moments that prove me to be the woman God calls me to be. I'm just saying I kept breathing. And somehow found people and moments in which I could find great beauty. And I held faith in a God who was keeping me alive for something I couldn't quite see yet.

I had a conversation with some students tonight about why my husband and I don't have children. I've learned that conversation is just a natural occurence when people are trying to get to know me--us. Tonight, it went much differently than it often does with adults. These young people sought to understand--the process of how I got to where I am today--sharing hope and peace with them--after reconciling myself to the fact that I would not be a mother. Hear me say: They simply sought to understand.

I wish I had a dollar for everytime an adult thought I misjudged the meaning of hope when we were unsuccessfully enduring surgery, treatment, physical sickness, debt beyond our capacity to pay without damaging our financial future, and heartache and disappointment beyond our capacity to share verbally outside the privacy of our home. Enduring those things and being sad, scared, and confused, yet still moving forward was nothing if not an act of hope. Prayerfully deciding to stop subjecting ourselves to those same things was not an act of hopelessness, although many people said they were sorry we gave up hope. There are people still saying that. I choose to think of it as a tremendously hopeful act. It was an act of hope with a heavenly perspective. When we stopped waiting to see what the next month would hold, we started waiting to see how God was going to heal our hearts. That is a faith healing of the miraculous sort and I find that it many ways, it is still happening. But while I wait, I do so with hope, and by sharing peace, I am receiving it, as well.

You see, I know what it means to wait. I have known season after season of waiting. Weeks that seemed like months, months that seemed like years, and years that seemed like one long, painful, unending present. I have waiting down to an artform. But tonight, I knew that without learning to wait with hope, I would not have been standing there among beautiful young people who are learning what it means to live a faith that is so new for them. A faith that will be challenged. A faith that at some point will teach them about waiting with hope and peace. A faith that can be damaged when someone tells them the wrong story about their own hope. I told them a little bit about my story and then later, while waiting at a redlight, I thanked God for keeping me alive.

Rootedness

I know I haven't blogged much lately, not that there hasn't been much to say. There has been a lot to say, but sometimes I know I need to do less commenting and more listening. This has been one of those seasons. I just needed to be quiet and listen to the people around me who were and are still hurting. To God whom I needed desperately to hear. And to that voice that I normally hear so clearly--the inner one that speaks truth to herself, the cheerleader, the peacemaker. The very one that had grown very, very silent. 

Photo courtesy of Megan Findley.
Blurriness courtesy of a moving boat.


Sometimes silence is a good thing for me, but sometimes it can be dangerous. Sometimes, I stop talking not out of a need for clarity and solitude, and more as a self-imposed isolation.  There is a fine line and I don't always know when I am crossing it. So here I am, purposely speaking to keep that line at a distance.

Which brings me to that tree in the picture. The blurry picture that can in no way be attributed to Megan's poor photography skills. She is a gifted photographer, but boats move and pictures get blurred. We found this tree precariously perched on the bank of the Colorado River. It hadn't grown that way, but storms and the very nature of the river had done their best to take the ground from beneath this pecan tree.

I was amazed that it hung on so well, still growing. But I marveled even more so in the view it afforded us. It isn't often we get to see above and below at the same time. A literal cross section of that which represents life itself. And it got me thinking, if only people could be seen this way. We would be so much easier to love because we could see all of each other. We could see how deep our roots truly go. How far we are reaching out and down to hang on. But also how little we may actually have to hold on with. We could see what is thriving, as well as what is dying. We would know what to offer each other. And having no way to hide, we would reach out to that which is offered.

There is something to be said for having nothing to hide. But perhaps there is more to consider in the why we hide. Maybe we need to take more chances and lay ourselves bare like this tree. Maybe then, the why that infects us, killing us slowly beneath the surface, could be healed.  Then growing deep, digging into the fertile ground, we could find ourselves flourishing and understanding, finally, what it truly means to be rooted in Love.

What if?

I ask a lot of questions. I always have, and hopefully always will. Lately, those questions have all begun with What if...  I like What if...questions. I believe any kind of change, whether personal or global, takes root in someone asking What if...

Here are a few of my mine:

What if I acted like I truly believe God saved me and set me apart through His Son, Jesus Christ?

What if I acted like I truly believe He does not give me a spirit of fear?

What if I acted like I truly believe love never fails?

What if I acted like I truly believe I am empowered by the Holy Spirit Who dwells inside of me?

What if I acted like I truly believe to die is to truly live?

These are questions I've been asking of myself lately. They are hard questions only because I find my actions are not always a true reflection of my beliefs. And if I call myself a Christian, but my words and actions don't accurately portray something of the character of Christ, then I need to do more than ask questions, I need to start living some answers. Saying I'm forgiven just isn't enough for me anymore. Living like I am is a good start.

Understanding or lack thereof.

I have not been able to stop thinking today about how much my understanding of God has changed. Don't get me wrong here, I don't actually understand Him one bit.  In fact, the more my faith grows, the more mysterious He becomes. But I am learning more and more to appreciate the mystery.

What I also keep thinking about is this: He never changed. But I did. The more I stop trying to bully my way through ministry, relationships, and life in general, the more I see Him at work in those very areas of my life. When I give myself over to be used by God rather than trying to use God to get my own way, the more evident it becomes to me that He has been at work all along, I was just working against Him because I wasn't allowing myself to be used by Him.

He is a great big God and I pray I will never presume to understand Him, but will always seek to obey Him.

So I guess my question for you is: How has your understanding of God changed lately?

All Things New

This morning I watched the sunrise. I just don't take the time to do this enough. To truly watch the day blossom right before my eyes. I watched this daily miracle unfold through the windshield of my car as I made my way through early morning traffic in Houston. I was on my way to pray with a friend and then wait as many other loved ones did today in hospitals everywhere for whatever is broken to be fixed. For another kind of miracle.

I couldn't help but be even more appreciative of the miracle of a beautiful sunrise as I praised God for the miracle of life, for the beauty of my friend, for her courage, for her new beginning.  I found myself overwhelmed by just how much God loves us, each one of us. I was reminded once again that He trusts us to each other's care. He gives us to each other to love.

Alexis is easy to love. She has a great big heart--that now has a little generator to keep it on track. It is a heart full of love for the least of these. For sick children. For the broken and broken hearted. For family and friends she loves like family. I'm incredibly thankful God gave her to me to love and I thanked Him for her all day today. I'm sure I will think of this day the next time I watch the sunrise. And I will remember the miracle of the promise God holds for us: He makes all things new. Everyday. We just have to pay attention.