Confession

I hear confession is good for the soul.  Well, I have something to confess.  I have not been writing.  That's pretty obvious.  It's been a good three months since I visited my own blog.  But I have something else to confess.  The reason is fear.  I've been afraid.  I've been afraid of what others might think.  Not others as in people I know.  But others who work at the place where I've applied for a new job.  I was afraid that my writing could keep me from getting a position that I wanted and my family needed.  But that's not the worst of it.  I've not been writing because I was afraid that my writing didn't matter anymore.  I've not been writing because I was afraid that I didn't matter anymore.  That the place from which I write is no longer valid because it comes from a place of ministry in me, and it sure looks like ministry is over in my life.  And it is so hard to believe that God can open up doors for me to live out of that sacred place that He put in me, in just the way I need to live out of it.  Oh Lord Jesus!  Why did you make me sucn and odd person?  Why am I the way I am?  Why can't I just go pastor some church and be done with it?  Why couldn't you have made me a wonderfully round peg that matches all the round ministry holes?

But there is a bigger fear.  It's the fear that if I don't write that sacred place within me will die.  I don't know if I can live with myself if I allow that to happen.  And so I'm stuck in this hard, hard place.  I so want to connect to the deeply passionate, spiritual, and pastoral places within.  But to do that I have to also live in the frustration of not knowing if there will ever be a place of ministry that I can fill. 

Not everything has been out of the book of mid-life crisis 101.  In many ways I have a deep and profound joy.  I feel like I've found myself.  I love being home.  I love being more present and available to my family.  I love being a mommy and not having to choose between my own children and the needs of a flock in my pastoral care. I love being a wife and blessing my husband.  I love being home.  I love it.  It is where I feel most alive and most at peace.  I believe I have found there my most important work, my most important legacy.  When I die I will be so thankful for this time, this opportunity, this availability, this vocation.  In many ways this time is the ministry that means the most to me, even though it is so very costly.

So this is the day I face my fears.  I don't know what the future holds.  I just know that I not done yet.  I still have words left in me that I need to express.  Mostly so I can find my way through this hard time.  I need to know that the minister within is still alive.  I need her.  And I believe my children and husband need her too.  And maybe, just maybe, someday she will be needed in the Body of Christ again too.

Wow, I get it--

It's hard being a parent.  Here is the part I struggle with:  setting limits, allowing consequences to in fact follow from poor choices, and not allowing the frustration of the moment to cloud vision of my heart.  Sometimes I wonder if God struggles too as He relates to us.  As I read the stories from the Bible, especially in the Old Testament, I see God continually showing His people the right way to live.  And then I see them continually making poor choices.  The one that gets me is the story of Amaziah, a king of Judah who scripture says, "He did what was right in the sight of the Lord, yet not with a true heart" (II Chronicles 25:2).  God helped him gain an amazing victory over his enemies in battle.  But instead of turning to God with a heart full of reverence and gratitude, he falls away, way far away!  Scripture records just how badly Amaziah responded to God's help:

Now after Amaziah came from the slaughter of the Edomites, he brought the gods of the people of Seir, set them up as his gods, and worshiped them, making offerings to them.  The LORD was angry with Amaziah and sent to him a prophet, who said to him, "Why have you resorted to a people's gods who could not deliver their own people from your hand?"  But as he was speaking the king said to him, "Have we made you a royal counselor?  Stop!  Why should you be put to death?"  So the prophet stopped, but said, "I know that God has determined to destroy you, because you have done this and have not listened to my advice."  II Chronicles 25:14-16

Now that is definitely a parental low moment.  When I take the time to read how blatantly the people of God acted like anything but the people of God, I understand why God had to take such drastic measures to get their attention.  The Exile makes perfect sense in that context.  It was a particularly long (70 years worth) time out.  God removed His people to Babylon, taking them away from their beloved Promised Land so that they could understand the heart of the Promiser better.  I get it.

It's still hard to live it.  As a parent there are times when I have to do the hard thing.  Sometimes the only way to a child's heart is to remove the promised land so that he can truly see the heart of the promiser.  Last night we had one such moment.  Our middle son, who is usually the one who is quickest to obey, has been having some issues lately.  Instead of doing what we ask, he has been responding with an adamant "No!"  Then he tells us how he is going to do things instead.  We have struggled with how to respond.  But we know that if we don't respond we do him a greater disservice in the long run.  Last night we were going to see a Christmas program that Tim's sister and brother-in-law were performing in at their church.  We asked Isaiah several times to put on his church clothes from the morning.  The tee-shirt and shorts he had on were hardly appropriate for a rainy December night.  Each time his response was "No!"  Finally Tim said, "We'll have to let him think he's gonna have to stay here."  (Please note, we knew all along he wouldn't stay at home.  He just needed time to understand that his choices have consequences.)  So we all got into the car while Tim explained to Isaiah that he was going to have to stay at home since he wouldn't get ready to go.  There were many tears and protests.  Tim went in to talk to Isaiah while I got into the car.  What awaited me there took my breath away.

Noah, our oldest, sat in the back seat, his hands folded in supplication, tears streaming down his face.  He looked at me with pleading eyes and begged, "Please don't make Isaiah stay home by himself, please don't make Isaiah stay home."  My heart melted at the sight of my oldest son pleading for his brother; this child, who would at any given moment torment his younger brother for whatever small infraction, was begging me to extend mercy.  As I took Noah in my arms, I explained that we would not leave Isaiah, but that he needed to learn there are consequences to the choices he makes.  Noah settled down, and we had a little talk about wise choices and poor choices.  Pretty soon Isaiah joined us, dressed and ready to go.

The whole episode moved me in ways that are hard to articulate.  I just know that Noah's pleas for Isaiah touched something deep within me.  It made me think of the miracle of Christmas, a Savior's heart, and a Father's mercy.  The words to the second stanza of the beloved carol "What Child Is This" say it best:

Why lies he in such mean estate, where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear:  For sinners here, the silent Word is pleading:
Nails, spear, shall pierce Him through, the Cross be borne, for me for you:
Hail, hail the Word made flesh, the Babe, the Son of Mary!


This is Christ the King, the One whom shepherds guarded and about whom the angels would sing.  This is the One who left the splendor of heaven to join us in our broken, imperfect world so that He could show us a better way, so that He could put Himself in our place, doing for us what we could never do for ourselves.  Jesus pleaded with His Father for us.  From the heart.  With His whole self.  Joining us in our humanity, bearing in His broken body the full consequence of our sin, and ultimately rising again so that His power could be made perfect in our weakness. When it was impossible for us to overcome sin on our own, He overcame it for us, and extends to us the gift of living in His love and victory if we will only accept it.

No wonder God loves Jesus so much.  I can't imagine what it was like for God watching Jesus willingly enter into the dregs of human sin and suffering for us, so that we could be free and forgiven.  I just know what it did to my heart to see Noah intercede for his brother.  The sweetness of that gift is so beautiful.  I am grateful for it.  It shows me how beautiful is the gift of Christmas, how astonishing the gift of Easter, how amazing God's gift of redeeming Grace.

Operation Christmas Child

This is a picture of my family while we were at church packing our two shoe boxes for Operation Christmas Child.  It was a powerful day for me.  We spent time as a family going to different stations where we focused on a separate theme.  At the first station we learned how a child receiving a shoebox might live.  Our boys got to go inside a grass hut that the youth had made.  Our youth director encouraged them to find a place to lay down inside the small dwelling, along with the ten other children inside.  They got to see how vastly different living conditions are from our own.  We also learned how these simple boxes filled with small gifts for a boy or girl can have a big impact.  The stories our youth pastor told showed how God connected the right box with the right child.  Of course God would know which box held what.  Of course God would know which child would desperately need the contents of a particular box for reasons that are singular and unique only to him or her.  Like the boy who loved to garden and received a box with gardening gloves inside.  Or the girl who had to walk several miles to school barefoot, who received a box with shoes, the exact size that she needed. 

At the second station we actually got to pack our boxes.  The boys loved doing this.  While our little one ran around the room, the other two carefully placed our items in the boxes provided. All I could think of as we put those boxes together was, "Oh God, please let our boxes be the miracle some child needs."  I wanted to be able to do so much more.  But it touched me to know that the little we are able to do could be such a big deal to a child I've never met.

At the third station we made an Advent wreath.  After attaching and fluffing the greenery, all our little wreath needed were the candles.  My favorite part of Christmas is the lighting of the Advent wreath.  That night when we went to bed I told the boys about celebrating Advent when I was a campus minister.  Since the semester would end before Advent had even really started, we would do all the readings, all the songs, all the candle lightings in one night.  It was my favorite service of the whole school year.  I'm looking forward to sharing this special tradition with my sons, creating anticipation as Christmas grows nearer, deepening our understanding of what it means to wait for the Savior to come.

When we packed our shoe boxes, we got to include a coloring sheet that shared information about us with the child who will receive the box.  Noah worked diligently to complete each page front and back.  Later my husband asked if I had seen what he wrote about Jesus.  I said no.  He told me that Noah wrote "Jesus helps us through hard times."  I got choked up.  Yes, Jesus does help us through hard times.  And this season has had its challenges.  I just so thankful that my son is learning what a difference God's Son makes in our lives. 

On Friday we spent time as a family making a list of what we are thankful for.  The boys did so good naming things that are significant to them. What was particularly poignant to me was how well Noah remembered what we learned about children who live in grass huts.  When we finished the list as a family, he took the paper and pen and went through our house by himself, writing down the things he was thankful for, noticing the blessings we have as Americans like running water, electricity, and beds to sleep on.

We learned at church yesterday that 93 shoe boxes were filled and sent out.  It seems that Operation Christmas Child was a success.  That's 93 more children in the world who will receive a tangible sign of God's love, 93 more children who will hear the Gospel of Jesus Christ, 93 more children who will get a chance to learn that Jesus helps us through hard times.  And I am grateful for the small way that my family got to participate in this ministry.  Yet I am also aware that there is another divinely inspired operation happening right under my nose.  In the ordinary course of our lives, the daily stuff that doesn't seem important or noteworthy, we have the opportunity to teach our boys what it means to be a Christmas child each day.  My prayer is that Tim and I will have the wisdom, the guts, and the insight to be able to do that.  I'm thankful God is already working on that too.

Thankful

Every Thanksgiving my Mom's side of the family gathers in Texas for a reunion.  I try to go every year that I can.  Usually the only thing that prevents me is having a baby.  Our baby having days are behind us now.  Yet for some reason I had the strongest sense that we were supposed to stay home this year.  I don't understand why.  The last time I had this strong of a feeling was the last Thanksgiving my Grandfather was alive.  And I missed it.  But it was also the season that God answered our prayers and allowed us to conceive Noah, our oldest son.  We had been unable to have children for three years.  And then God blessed us. 

So here I am in Kentucky, praying for safe travel for my parents as they go West.  I am puzzled, yet peaceful.  I know this is where we are supposed to be. 

I love how traditions weave memory and personal history into our lives, reminding us who we are, the stuff we are made of, the places we come from.  I don't necessarily have a bunch of traditions, but I do have stories, and they do the same thing for me.  One of my favorite Thanksgiving stories is from the first Thanksgiving Tim and I spent in Fort Myers, Florida when I was working as an Associate Pastor at a church down there.  I was heartsick for Kentucky and Tennessee.  For the life of me I couldn't figure out why God would bring me to a place without hills, trees (sorry my Florida friends; I didn't think palm trees counted at the time), and seasons.  We were alone on the holiday dedicated especially to family.  We were still growing into the understanding that we could be enough family with only the two of us.  Homesick and hot, we decided to go to the beach, just because we could.  As Tim and I walked on the sand, listening to the gentle splash of waves, the wind blowing in our hair, I told him I needed to start a new tradition just for us.  Something I could hold onto that would make Thanksgiving special again, and make my heart a little less lonely.  I told him about an elderly neighbor from my childhood who would fry refrigerated biscuits in oil, drain them and cover them with sugar.  By the time we dusted the sand off our bare feet and loaded towels and sunscreen back in the car I had him convinced.  We stopped at the 7-11 on the way home and bought refrigerated biscuits dough.

Of course reality rarely matches memory.  Especially for someone who knows nothing about frying anything in oil.  I got the oil too hot.  While the doughnuts looked nice and evenly brown on the outside, they weren't so done on the inside.  The first bite Tim took was the last as our new tradition went in the trash as quickly as the raw biscuit dough did.  Fourteen years later Tim still likes to have a little fun reminding me.

Tonight I'm thinking of that memory fondly.  Because I find myself in the same place again.  I am here, home,  wistful for the company of family there.  I trust God has His reasons. And I feel oddly at peace about being here.  Like this is the right place for us.  I also feel contently nestled in the family that feeds my soul each day--three sweet boys that keep me smiling and a husband who is truly my beloved. 

Tonight while Tim went to a men's ministry event at our church, the boys and I stayed home.  Noah asked if we could watch the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving video and eat popcorn.  I gave in.  I thought it would be something special we could do on our Mommy's night in.  I smiled as Snoopy served Peppermint Pattie popcorn for Thanksgiving dinner.  My three stair-step boys sat on a blanket in front of our TV eating their own bowls of popcorn, laughing because Peppermint Pattie kept calling Charlie Brown "Chuck."  I sat there feeling thankful for the peaceful, precious moment, thankful that the popcorn had been cooked just right.  Snatching a piece  from Noah's bowl I told him how special this memory was for me.  He asked me when I had ever done this before.  I said I hadn't ever done it before, that the memory was being made right in that moment.  

Tonight I am thankful. I can't help but compare this Thanksgiving to that other one so long ago.  During that time, and the years that followed, so much within me was just chaos and turmoil.  I just didn't know yet how rich and wonderful the life I was living would turn out to be.  I had no idea the woman I would become or the joy my future children would bring.  I couldn't even imagine how precious and important the relationship with my husband would grow, or how powerfully our bond could sustain me in hard times.  And I had no understanding of the peace God could bring, even in the face of my own unfulfilled wants or desires.  I had no way to know how deep thanksgiving could go.  And now I don't know if popcorn and Charlie Brown will make it to be a Wilson Thanksgiving tradition, but it is a beautiful memory, a sweet reminder to me of how God's love redeems and rewrites our lives for us, bringing us to a place of peace and hope. 

This is me,
thankful.

The Cat in the Hat Says Alot About That

The last time I wrote I was pretty bummed.  I mean, sometimes I just get discouraged.  I find myself like Peter, walking on water in impossible circumstances, and instead of being amazed at my water walking feet, I begin to pay attention to the circumstances I'm in.  Thus the sinking begins.  I believe that is where sinking feelings originate; we take our eyes off of Jesus, and begin to survey our surroundings.  I believe what we are called to is ultimately to be able to view our surroundings through His eyes rather than our own.  But until we are in that place, it's best to just keep our peeps fixed on Him!

So this is how my sweet Jesus calmed the storm inside of me:  I had been worrying about our future, finances, trying to understand how all the mismatched pieces of our lives will finally fit together.  That's where I was last Thursday when I sipped tea.  When my oldest son arrived home, he told me that he wanted to be "The Cat in the Hat" for school the next day.  His teacher had asked the students to come to school dressed as a book character.  And so the hat fixing odyssey began.

At the beginning of the school year someone handed me a red WKU recyclable bag while I was on my way to teach class.  I took it.  Not because I really needed it, but because, like every other member of Western, I like free stuff.  It had been laying in our office at home, empty since then.  Until Thursday night.  Did you know that you can cut up one of those bags and make a "Cat in the Hat" hat?  It's true!  I just used a ton of staples, an old folder, an empty butter tub, and some ribbon to fashion a costume for my son.  We didn't have to buy anything.  Everything we needed was hidden in what we already had. 

As I was working on the project, everything fell easily into place.  Whenever one step was finished, inspiration would hit again and the next part would seamlessly work itself out until the whole thing was done.  It was as if invisible hands were leading me to just the right thing to make it all work together.  Now I know God has all kinds of important things to attend to, you know, hurricanes and all that.  But I swear I felt His Holy Spirit leading me until the project was completed.  And sweetest of all was the quiet, almost shy, I-would-have-missed-it-if-I-hadn't-been-paying-attention, remark of my son, "Thanks Mom for making my costume."

Later on I whispered my own quiet, almost shy words of gratitude to my Heavenly Father.  With all the big stuff going on in the world I am humbled that God would care to provide a costume for my seven year old, that He would allow it to come through my hands and heart, that it would be fashioned with love and stubborn imagination, and that it would make that precious boy grin from ear to ear.  I could almost hear God's own quiet whisper, "If I can take care of the little thing that means so much, don't you think I can take care of the rest?"

Yes Lord, You can.

A Good Word

Last Spring when the Wesley gave me a going away party, one of my students gave me a beautiful "Tea for One" tea pot and cup.  The gesture was so beautiful and significant.  The set is delicate and lovely, covered with butterflies as well as the words "The Lord Bless You and Keep You" printed on it.  As the weather has turned colder I have pulled out the gift and put it to good use. 

There are all kinds of tea cups and mugs I could use to drink warm beverages right now, but this one in particular keeps drawing me back.  It could be that last weekend was Homecoming and I am struggling with feelings of homelessness since it was the first time I have not attended since moving back to Bowling Green over nine years ago.  It could be that I am grieving the loss of Wesley all over again; as a friend pointed out  we tend to mourn repeatedly as the seasons change.  I always thought Fall was  a special time with the students, and  I find myself wistful for them.  It could be that everyday I wake up and find myself needing God's blessing and keeping like never before.  Yep, that could certainly be it.

Those words of blessing come from Numbers 6:22-27.  The full scripture says this:

The Lord spoke to Moses saying:  Speak to Aaron and his sons, saying,

Thus you shall bless the Israelites:  You shall say to them,

The Lord bless you and keep you;

the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you;

the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.

So they shall put my name on the Israelites, and I will bless them.

I first learned this blessing as a teenager participating in youth group.  We knew it simply as the UMYF (United Methodist Youth Fellowship) Benediction.  Years later when my youth director from that time was killed in a car wreck, I was told that members of my former youth group gathered around Charlie's grave, joined hands, and said its lines once again.  As I became a youth pastor during seminary, I ended each meeting with the familiar refrain.  Even as an associate pastor serving a church in Florida these lines were ones I often used to send my congregation forth.  But the most special, sacred, and holy place that I ever uttered these words were the times I shared them with my students at the Wesley Foundation.  It didn't matter how many entered our ministry as freshmen, or graduated and walked out into the next great adventure, each one knew these lines by heart before they left.  We would stand together in a tight circle and say them to each other, blessing each other day after day.

I never dreamed the day would come when I would be the receiver of the blessing, rather than the blesser.  But as I sit in this quiet house while my boys are at Nanny's and my husband is at work, I tell the Silence I so need this blessing.  I need to know You will bless me and keep me.  I need to know You will bless and keep my sweet boys, who are the joy of my heart.  I so need to know You will bless and keep my beloved.  My own blesser and keeper feels broken.  I need to know that the true Blesser and Keeper never breaks, and never breaks His Word.  

In the original language "bless" or barak means to bless abundantly, to bless altogether, to bless greatly.  As the details of how my not being at Wesley anymore get worked out in practical application, this is certainly the kind of blessing my life needs, and most definitely the kind I cannot produce myself.  I feel the same affinity for that word "keep."  In its original language shamar means "to hedge about (as with thorns), i.e. Guard; generally, to protect, attend to, . . . beward, be circumspect, take heed (to self), keep(-er, self), mark, look narrowly, observe, preserve, regard, reserve, save (self), sure, (that lay) wait (for), watch(-man)."  (See www.biblos.com.)  Just now I remember having a conversation with one of my friends at church shortly after finding out about the Bishop's decision to move me.  She said, "Sami, God is not going to let anything bad happen to you."  She cupped her hands together as she said her next words, "He's got you in the palm of His hand." 

Benediction literally means a good word to go out on.  Our shared benediction at Wesley has become the gift they gave me as I left, words of blessing and keeping, a prayer that God's Word made flesh would hold and keep me as my family moved forward into a new place.  So here we are in this new place, and it is still the Word I hold on to.  

The Lord bless you and keep you,

the Lord make His face to shine upon you

and be gracious unto you.

The Lord lift up His countenance upon you

and give you peace.

Amen.

Amazing Grace

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.  Amazing grace sounds like the squeals and laughter of three little boys running around our home.  It rarely sounds like silence anymore.  There was a time when I could spend hours in silence.  I used to go on silent retreats and not speak for three days!  Those days are long gone.  But its okay.  I like the noise.  It reminds me that life and joy fills our home.

I am amazed by the grace of the noise I hear.  I love the sound of little toddler feet tromping through the living room, shod with blue suede boots.  I love the sound of my big boys using their imaginations to play heroes fighting monster aliens together, working out the details of their next plan to save the world.  I love the sound of the conversation Tim and I share around the kitchen table, with the chatter and clatter of our sons rumbling in the background, discovering the common ground of our days. 

It's all just very normal and ordinary.  Sometimes it is hard to believe I went to seminary and got a 90 hour degree just so I could discovery Jesus in the day to day chaos of raising three sons.  We expect the big God moments to be wrapped in the extraordinary, to emerge from the amazing and dazzling.  Instead we find His presence hiding in the simplicity of making dinner, helping with homework, giving baths, and reading a bedtime story.

The last several months Tim and I have been spending the last moments of our sons' day, telling them stories, reading the Bible, singing songs, having prayer.  Each night I choose a memory to share with them, often from my own childhood, ordinary moments often touched in some way by God's hand.  At the time, I didn't realize God's fingerprints were there.  It's in the telling that they begin shining through, piercing the darkness of my boys' bedroom with Light.  I want them to know that God is with them, loving them, filling them with His goodness.  I want them to cherish each moment, to inhale it deeply, and live it loudly.  Blessedly they've got that last part.  I just want them to know how sweet this life is that we've been given together.  I want them to know how grateful my own heart is to know them as my sons.

My prayer is that one day they will find themselves in another dimly lit bedroom with their own children, recalling the splendor of childhood.  I pray that they will remember how good it was to be a brother, sharing adventures that only brothers can share.  I pray that they will see the hand of God emerge from the recesses of each memory plucked from the past and served to their own children with love and tenderness.  I pray that they will share the wisdom that is being wrought in these noisy days of grace, that it's power and goodness will not be lost on them, that they will see beyond the details of an ordinary life to the splendid beauty of God's Life being breathed into theirs.  I pray they will shine with love and gratitude, the way my heart shines now.

It is all so amazing to me.  Mostly because I never thought this life would be available to me, for all kinds of reasons.  So the noise is really quite wonderful, and a constant reminder of how God's grace quietly permeates our daily lives, until one day we look around us amazed at how sweet and beautiful this life really is.

"Hope Never Loses Us"

I wish they were my words.  Alas I am not that clever.  Instead my gift seems to be recognizing the powerful moment when I see it.  This moment hit me as I exited the ladies room on the second floor of Cherry Hall today.  I had to make a pit stop before teaching my class.  On my way out the door, these words caught me.  No they did not catch my eye.  They literally caught me, the person that I am, the one living in a season where hope plays hide and seek, the girl who is constantly looking for hope but scared she may miss it.  That's me, a woman caught,  off guard by simple magnetic words sticking to a board in the hallway, arranged as if they were waiting just for me.

Secretly I've always been afraid of being hopeful.  I never wanted to be the person that put her hopes in something only to be crushed by a very different reality.  Yet I've also felt the weight of being a woman of faith, to trust beyond comprehension that God's goodness is working its way into my life in ways I cannot see.  I can trust that God will surprise me with His goodness.  When I don't expect it.  When I'm not looking.  That makes sense.  And it happens all the time.  In fact I love it when God does that.  There is just that part of me that learned early on how devastating disappointment can be.  I figure if I never have specific hopes then they cannot ever be dashed. 

But these delicious words wash over me, and fill me with, well, hope.  Hope never loses us.  It takes the pressure off somehow.  My soul hears it as good news.  My weary, battle worn heart doesn't have to hold on to hope because Hope is holding on to me. 

Today in particular I needed those words.  I have been wrestling with the ins and outs of this peculiar season.  Losing my job last spring brought the unexpected grace of rest and simple joy back into my life.  Yet this "gift" has brought me to a season of deep uncertainty about the future, one I've never had to be in before.  There is no doubt in my mind that God's hand moved me out of that position.  What has frustrated me is that His hand did not move me into another position that provides like the last one did.  Honestly, I don't want to go back to that place of carrying huge burdens on my shoulders.  But if I had to, I would.  I would do whatever I needed to do so that my family can make it.  I've learned to be very self-reliant.

Slowly I am coming to see how my own self-reliance has been an idol in my life.  I never needed to rely on Him so completely before.  It terrifies me.  Even as the gift of being free tastes so yummy, I find myself squirming in the unsettledness this freedom brings.  Before if something in my life needed to happen, I would simply make it happen.  Now I can't make anything happen.  I have to rest in and rely on Him.  I love it and hate it at the same time.  My heart feels hopeful. because the burden is gone and I feel so free, but the feeling is nothing I want to put my hope on.  Can I really trust God to provide?  Can I really trust that obedience to the nudge to rest in His presence and enjoy this time is truly wise?  Can I really believe that He has plans to prosper my family that I have not even imagined yet?  Can I really trust that still small Voice in my deepest heart that says "Wait and see!"?  Can I really believe that Hope is out there whether I have it or not?

I like to think that the Hope of my future, and the future of my family, is watching me right now, unconcerned with whether or not I find my own way to the hope filled destination God has for me, because Hope knows right where to find me, when the time is right.  No matter how much I think hope is lost, Hope never loses us.

Faithful Fallowness

Harvest has been such a huge metaphor in my life of ministry.  I have spent years sowing God's word and my very life into the lives of those God has entrusted to my care.  I have planted, tended, nurtured, watered, weeded, and waited for years.  And in God's faithfulness I have seen some beautiful harvests during my years of ministry.  This June began my fourteenth year since I began full time ministry after graduating from seminary.  But this year is significantly different from the last thirteen.  For the first time in my grown up life, full-time ministry is not the primary focus of who I am.  My feelings about this have been mixed.  While I did not choose to be in this place, the relief washing through me is palpable.  People have commented how vast the difference in my appearance is:  apparently carrying invisible burdens shows up in ways we cannot guess; conversely, laying said burdens down translates into a very cheap face lift!

The thing I have become most aware of in the last few months is a deep exhaustion.  It has nothing to do with how much sleep I get, whether I'm rested, or have free time in my day.  It is as if thirteen years of fully carrying the needs of those in my care, had left a build-up of soul residue that was never properly released.   I couldn't release it; I didn't know how.   And for the first time I am no longer responsible for anyone's spiritual well-being but my own. Those extra burdens had become toxic.  God, in His mercy, moved me out of those circumstances and activated the release valve for me.  The toxicity has been working its way out of my heart, mind, soul, and body.  I have struggled with the feeling that I am being unfaithful, yet nothing in me wants to pick up any other kind of burden right now.  I just don't have the strength to carry it. 

Many people wrestle with answering God's call on their lives.  Usually this involves some kind of stepping out and beyond themselves, leveraging their resources on the behalf of others.  In fact the Bible Study I've been in is specifically centered on this call, using the book of Jonah as a picture of ways that we rebel against God when He wants us to serve our neighbor.  Usually we find creative ways to hide or run away.  But the call on my life in this strange season is so fundamentally different.  God is not asking me to go and give myself into another ministry.  Instead I have sensed the Still Voice within asking me to rest.  To be.  To be still and know His Stillness.  Running away would look like gathering up my life to pour it into something else.  A new ministry, another full-time position, a title, a job description, a mission to rescue the perishing, a whole new field to start planting and harvesting.  Faithfulness right now looks alot like laziness to me.  To let the field of my life lay fallow.

Really?!  Is this really it?!  Am I to relinquish the desire of my heart to deliver the life changing message of Salvation?  Am I to let go of the sowing of my time and effort into sheep who need a patient and steady hand to guide them into fold of the tender and good Shepherd?  Am I to stop arranging my life so someone else can experience the grace of God?  Well, yes.  Because over time in the delivering, guiding, and arranging somehow I became unable to experience the saving, tending, and gracing God provides me.  I think it has something to do with sabbath rest.  Even good work is still work.  We still must rest from our labors, even when they center on the good of God's people.

The Holy Spirit began to show me a different image of what this year is to be for me: 

But in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of complete rest for the land, a sabbath for the LORD:  you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard.  You shall not reap the aftergrowth of your harvest or gather the grapes of your unpruned vine:  it shall be a year of complete rest for the land.  Leviticus 25:4-5

A year of complete rest.  And this is for the Lord.  I can honor Him, love Him, and serve Him this year by allowing the field of my life a complete rest.  Holy cow!  This is so hard!  And yet I feel so completely unable to bear anything else.  I can only guess what lies ahead after this respite.  But God won't give me any indication that something else does lie ahead.  He just continues to be Still, inviting my weary soul into His Stillness too.  I love it there.  I'm so hungry for it.  How can I not go?

This Little Light of Mine, I'm Gonna Let It Shine

Someone very dear to me has been struggling with unrelenting disappointment that never seems to fade.  They raised the question recently, "What is wrong?  Why is this happening?"  Their question perplexes me as much as it does them.  I wish I had answers, but I don't.  But I do have a picture.

Last weekend was Bowling Green's annual hot air balloon festival.  My family and I hurried to the airport so that we could see the balloon glow on Friday night.  For a few moments all the balloons ignite the fires that send them high into the air during daylight hours.  Safely tethered to earth at night time, their inner glow paints the darkness with vivid color.  It is so beautiful to me. 

I've thought so much about balloons in the days since.  Hot air balloons were made for flight.  It seems unnatural for them to be grounded.  Why have a balloon glow anyway? Random beauty seems pointless, especially at night.  The practical side of me thinks of all that fuel wasted on "looking pretty."  Yet the metaphor lover in me sees a deeper meaning.

For as long as I have been a pastor I have shared a simple message with everyone God puts in my care:  God loves you; God has a purpose for your life; as you walk with God that purpose will unfold.  As His children we were created to live that purpose in joy, to exercise those gifts with intentional abandon to the unique design and plan He has for us.  In essence, we are meant to fly spiritually, to taste the joy of living into the person He made us to be.  Most of the time this is our vocation, our calling.  Life is good, even amidst challenges.  Our outward vocations validate our inner being with meaning.  Everything feels worthwhile.

But then there are seasons when it feels like God's purposes for us have been thwarted.  No matter what we do, it seems that all around and within is frustration and turmoil.  Each day we struggle to do the right thing knowing that our heart is not in it, but we do the right thing anyway.  There is no joy, there is no peace.  There is just the orderly march of dailiness that grinds away at our sense of self.  We long for meaning.  We cannot see how our lives are making any kind of difference.  Our inner experience is just one long stretch of yearning for something more without any hope of deliverance.  And oddly enough God seems to be the One orchestrating our misery. For some reason we seem to be tied to the ground at just the time when everything within us wants to fly.   What purpose could there possibly be in that?

Here is where the metaphor speaks the most to me.  Just like those hot air balloons were designed to sail through the skies, we were made to serve God in just the unique way that He designed for us.  And it is a wonderful euphoria to be doing that. But it is impossible when a hot air balloon is sailing through sunlit skies to see the fire that lights it from within.  Especially when it is so far away.  I think this is how some people on the outside of faith see those of us who live faith from the inside.  We seem to be disconnected from "real life" by a God who makes everything better.  The phrase "too heavenly minded to be any earthly good" comes to mind.  For the unbeliever, who might be interested in knowing more about God, how could he or she ever relate to someone who lives in a place so high and lifted up when their daily existence is flat, deflated, painful?  How can we ever be approachable to those who need hope and grace the most when "real life" fails to penetrate our joyful soaring? 

It seems to me that God speaks most powerfully about His ability to lift us out of darkness and into hope through the personal example of a believer who is also immersed in darkness yet has His Light shining through.  It is truly beautiful.  Can the glow be sustained for long periods of time?  No.  But enough to keep the balloon inflated so that others can come close.  So that they can see that we are made out of the same material.  So that they get a glimpse of God's Glory shining forth out of another life as ordinary as their own, perhaps planting within them the desire, and the hope, for the same inner Light that allows them to fly as well.

I believe our seasons of being tethered to the earth are temporary.  I still believe God loves each one of us, that He has a beautiful and perfect plan for our lives, that as we walk with Him that beauty and perfection will unfold.  I STILL BELIEVE.  I know it is true for you dear one.  I know it is true.  Yet sometimes we find ourselves tied to the unrelenting gravity of earth sitting in darkness when all we want to do is fly off into the sunshine.  I believe He gives us those times for reasons we cannot  comprehend.  But a couple of those reasons are becoming clear to me.  First of all, sometimes this is the only way we know that our flying power comes from Him alone and ultimately has nothing to do with us.  Without His Light within we are simply deflated and flat.  Without His release in our lives, we cannot go anywhere.  Second, our grounded-ness may not have anything to do with us at all and everything to do with that individual who needs to see a real live example of someone who is filled with God, yet not so high and lifted up that they are scared away from the life of faith.  It could be all about bringing good news to a hungry heart that cannot receive it any other way.

Many years ago my husband was a youth leader.  One weekend I got to attend the retreat his group went on.  The night we stayed over was beautiful and clear; we decided to take a moonlit stroll to the lake.  Once we got there the place was lit up with fire-flies.  Tim decided to make an impromptu lesson out of it and challenged his students to live life like those fire-flies, with their butts lit  up for God, sharing His light and love wherever they would go.  The challenge still rings true today.  We can get mad at the darkness and give up, or we can let His Light shine, casting beauty far into the night.  A life of beauty has benefits.  We never know whose deflated hope it will ignite.