The One Who Wipes Tears

On Sunday I got to sing with the praise choir at church.  It was such a beautiful gift.  During one of the songs we sang the chorus to the Christmas Hymn "O Come All Ye Faithful."  It took me back to another time and another place, singing that simple chorus.

I was in the fall semester of my first year in seminary.  Tim and I were attending a Mark Lowry concert.  Oh he is such a funny man!  After an evening of laughing our heads off, the comedian brought a single chair on stage, sat down and sang "Mary Did You know."  It was the first time I had heard that song.  As he finished he invited the other musicians who had shared the evening to join him on-stage as they led us in worship.  We stood shoulder to shoulder singing "O come let us adore Him," over and over, the splendor of God's gift to us heavy on our tongues.  The worship just kept pouring out.  Can you tell it was an extraordinary moment?

It became a moment I got lost in.

Let me just say that my experience of God's presence in my life has often been through my thoughts, my feelings, and all the neurological stuff that connects the two.  I especially see Him in the ordinary.  And while I'm very expressive about all that, it's wrapped in the usual, the expected, the everyday experience of being alive.  God just helps me see it in an unusual, unexpected, and rare way.  I'm just not the girl that has mystical experiences.  And if I was going to have a vision, this is not the one I would go looking for. 

Sometimes visions come looking for us.

Standing there singing those sweet songs, I closed my eyes as I often do.  In my mind's eye, I "saw" standing before me a robed person, sturdy, substantial.  But I could not see the face.  Just hands outstretched before me.  As I looked at these hands I saw that they were pierced.  I knew immediately Who was with me.  We stood there holding hands:  His hands holding mine; my hands grasping, and touching, then tracing the scars in His.  I was so overcome I began to weep. 

For all of my life up to that time, I knew God's Presence.  I could sense the Invisible Power of God's being all around me.  And the Holy Spirit was familiar too, empowering my love, my speech, my service.  But this Jesus?  So hard to relate to.  Somehow the physical manifestation of God's glory was too difficult.  And it's not that I didn't try.  I gave my heart to Him a hundred times growing up.  I just couldn't make the connection.

But there I was that fall evening in the middle of a Connection I never imagined.  As I wept, so overcome with emotion to be in the presence of Jesus, those nail-pierced hands began to wipe my tears away.  "No," I said, "there are too many!"  The words that entered my spirit came gently:  "There are never too many tears for Me to wipe away."

And that's it.

Eventually the music ended.  The concert was finished.  We all went home.

I had no idea at the time what lay ahead.  The coming year would bring despair like I had never known.  A dark depression would settle over me, choking out joy, leaving those around me wondering whether I would emerge.  Oh the tears.  So many tears.

During that difficult time I wondered often at the vision God gave.  I was angry that all I got was Jesus wiping my tears.  I did not get miraculous deliverance.  The pain was real.  The tears were real.  Healing seemed so elusive.

I understand so much more about healing and miracles now, years later.  Tears and tears later.  What a sweet gift that vision was.  Because what I now get, is that the tears we weep are part of God's mercy washing through us, helping us go through what is impossible to go through.  He designed us to be able to move through unspeakable heartache and pain without getting lost in it.  Simply by crying our way through it.  And as we weep He heals.  And helps.  And He is there wiping away our tears, and saving them.  There is not one that falls to the ground, escaping His notice.

Christ's very own words to us:  "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matthew 5:4).  We have His promise of comfort, in the very middle of our grief.  Do we have the courage to allow His comfort to come?  Do we have the courage to feel the heaviness of hurt, and pain, and disappointment?  Do we have the courage to allow the waves of loss and heartache to pass through us?  Sometimes the only way out is to cry. 

When I reflect on Lot's wife, I believe this was her problem.  She kept looking back.  Instead of letting go, and weeping out the pain of having to leave her home behind.  She kept looking back.  Refusing to release a life she could no longer have.  And so she became imprisoned in the very salt that was supposed to be her deliverance.  If only she had wept as she walked.  She could have found new life.

I have thought of the vision God gave me that fall often since the shootings in Connecticut.  I have wept as I consider the indescribable pain those families are experiencing.  And I look at the sweet faces of those kindergardeners passing through my facebook news feed, thinking of my own kindergardener playing in the next room.  Sweet Jesus have mercy.

I am comforted when I remember the words of scripture:

You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle.  Are they not in your record?  (Psalms 56:8)
 

These tears we cry mean something.  Of course they mean something to us.  But they mean just as much to Him.  JUST AS MUCH!  His promise to us is that we never weep in vain.  Every tear that escapes our eyes, allowing us to release the pain, leaves its mark in His heart.  He remembers each and every one, and every reason that caused it to fall.  And He saves them for us.  For that day when we will see that He makes all things right, all things new:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more.  And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I head a loud voice from the throne saying, "See the home of God is among mortals.  He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes.  Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away."  (Revelation 21:1-4)
 

Until that time, all we can do is keep weeping, knowing that in His keeping our tears are helping us find our lives again.  And we must keep praying.  Every night when I put the boys to bed I pray Jesus's prayer over them.  Those familiar words fall fresh on my heart in this season:  "Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven."  I pray those words because I know.  This is not the way it's supposed to be.  This kind of loss, this kind of pain.  It's not what God's Kingdom looks like, and it's not what God's will looks like.  Our tears are testimony to that.  And I will keep on praying until my Sweet Jesus comes to make all things right, all things new.

 

Great Reversals

One of the things that I have often pondered is how God shapes our hearts and fashions us for the work He calls us to.  Have you ever noticed that He doesn't automatically give us aptitudes and attitudes for the job?  I've learned over the years that instead He crafts our circumstances and desires to form us in just the specific ways He needs.

Ten years ago I was heartsick and heartsore, longing to be a mother.  The irony of it all was that parenthood did not interest me for so long, until one day it mattered more than anything.  And Tim and I discovered that becoming parents was not going to be an easy journey.  I was about five years into ministry at the time.  I remember entertaining the thought that perhaps God gave me a mother's heart so I would be a better minister. 

Here I am ten years and three boys later, swimming in a sea of testosterone. 

I'm not in full-time ministry for the time being.  I know this is by God's Hand.  I wonder at His plans for me, even as I learn to be joyful where He has planted me.  Plans and Plantings are not always the same thing.  Sometimes one is part of the crafting and forming for the other.  So I wonder in this time of being Planted, Crafted, and Formed:  Did God give me the heart of a minister so I would be a better mother?

Over the past few months I have wrestled with the reversals in my life.  All those years I spent in full-time ministry I struggled to bear up under the expectations of others.  But recently, in the absence of those expectations, I also discovered a deeper truth.  I had wrapped up my identity in the ministry part, failing to know or see or value myself as a child of God first, without the wrappings.  So I've been learning all kinds of valuable lessons about what it means to be me, simply me.  Without title, or vision, or purpose, or drive.  What is most important is close-by, wrapped in the intimate details of feeding, correcting, washing, and loving.  No mission statement.  No vision statement.  Just the faces of little ones who look to me to order their days with love.

I've noticed that Christmas also is wrapped in Great Reversals.  God's sense of humor is that I am deep in the study of Daniel and Revelation during this Advent season.  My heart and mind and soul are full of this picture of Jesus, Son of God, revealed in His Glory and coming to us in His Power, the consuming Fire of His BEING that we often dismiss, ignore, fail to see, or just plain deny.  It's easy to have Jesus in a manger.  Harder to see Him hang on the cross, but still it's manageable.  But oh we avoid seeing Jesus coming as the Consuming Fire, the King who Conquers darkness with Inescapeable Light.  There is absolutely nothing manageable about this King of Kings and LORD of Lords whose tongue is Sword and who reigns with an iron Sceptor.  Oh Mercy!

This is my personal study.  Then I go to lead chapel and preach the Word to preschoolers and Jesus is once again a baby, precious and sweet, and sleeping peacefully in Mary's arms.  At the same time that God fills my imagination with Jesus the King, God purposefully shows Him delicately wrapped in the swaddling clothes, cradled by a manger.  This is the King at rest on Mary's breast!  THE KING!!!!

In our world people of power only occupy places of power.  And if the place is not powerful they do not occupy it.  Powerful people, in the worldly the context, refuse to sit anywhere less than what they believe they are entitled to. 

So here is REAL POWER showing up in the manger bed, sung to by a humble peasant girl, guarded and reared by a carpenter, a day laborer.  The only truly POWERFUL MAN is born not into prestige and position, but without either, in any imaginable form we could recognize.  In fact, His beginnings are so humble, and so particular in their humility, we would totally miss them if God hadn't sent the heavenly messengers to spread the Word.

I've pondered this juxtaposition of Majesty laying in a manger.  It challenges me in a way I've never been challenged.  Because it does what nothing else can do.

It makes my own experience of particular humility--Holy.

God chose the lowest common denominator as His resting Place, so that every place and every person would know they are included in His Plan.  Every one of us.  Every place we find ourselves.  Every station of life.  Every noble and ignoble pursuit we find ourselves in is the birth-place of His Presence when we invite Him in.  Oh Sweet Jesus!  It is so hard to issue the invitation!!!!  We want Him to take us to His Glory and instead He reveals His Glory by showing us His Poverty!  We want Him to make our lives great, and instead He asks us to die again and again to self, that thing in us that covets greatness for ourselves.  He refuses to be made over in our image and continually asks us to be made over in His.

Here is what I have learned.  The sleep is much sweeter in the manger than it is in the palace.  And when we let Him lead us to that simple place of resting in His Hands we too can sleep in Heavenly Peace.  Because the KING of Kings, born in a manger bed, is the only ONE powerful enough to give us Peace that surpasses anything positions of power can give.

Renewed

In this heart
of who I am
is the beat--
the rhythm--
of a woman
longing
to dance
in breathless wonder,
in love with life,
shining
and
radiant
and
walking strong,
head up high,
hope - full,
hope - bringer.

Oh she is in me!
Oh she is!

I hear her
faint whisper
as I whimper,
"Jesus let her out--"
Oh Sweet Jesus,
that's who You
created me to be,
NOT
this mess that I am now.
But I believe she comes
FORTH
from the messiness of life,
the messiness of birth,
being born again
into the plans
my Sweet Jesus has.

So wait upon Him,
sweet reflection of
His Heart
within me,
shining with
the brightness of
His Glory,
reflecting the
Radience
of Him.

And as I am waiting
I know--
I am being
renewed.

How He Loves Me

In the midst of digging through Christmas decorations, I found it.  A box I had forgotten even existed.  I spent about an hour pouring over its contents, piece by piece, memory upon memory, falling in my lap.  Each old photo, card, and letter told a story, held a glimpse of a part of my life long past.

The ones that meant the most to me included a letter from my Grandpa Harrison, written to me late in my college career while I was active in campus ministry, seeking after God with all my heart.  To my knowledge it is the only letter I have from him.  He is with Jesus now.  And then there was the one written by my father, after he helped me move into my very first apartment on the campus of Lexington Theological Seminary.  It was full of a father's encouragement, but more than that.  It held the blessing and prayers of one farther down the road, who had also followed God's call into ministry, speaking hope into the new journey of another just beginning.

There were pictures from my graduation from college, graduation from seminary, and all those adventures I had as a young associate pastor in my first church.

I looked at that young woman, so full of promise, so full of dreams.  And then I went and looked in the mirror.  I don't look so young anymore. 

I walked through the rest of yesterday with a faint sadness tugging at my heart. 

I've finally put my finger on it, that sting.  It is the question that I have trouble answering:  Did I live up to the letters?

This season is so hard.  I never dreamed that God would ask me to surrender everything.  I never dreamed that the Holy Fire I felt when I knew I was serving Him in the way I was created to, would make its way to the altar.  Nor did I reckon on having to surrender passion and purpose as well.  I sometimes wonder if I was mistaken all those years in campus ministry telling young people God had a purpose for their lives, something they were made for, something that would bring them great joy.  Was I lying and didn't even know it?

I wonder at my purpose now.  I see it in those three angel faces that call me "Mommy."  I know that I only have one chance to be their mother, to share with them my heart, to be the instrument God desires me to be in forming their hearts.  I only get one shot.  And it means the world to me to be here.  So I don't want to blow it. 

But at the same time I struggle with the thing I believe other mothers struggle with:  I just don't get over-the-top-excited about packing lunch boxes.  And I remember what it is like to live in the sweet spot where inward desire, meaningful purpose, and fulfilled calling meet.  I was there not so long ago.

Did I miss something?

Last night I lay in bed, silent tears tugging at the corners of my eyes, daring to spill.  Tim was saying such sweet words to me.  I interrupted him with my "But . . . ," telling him of the ways I no longer feel worthy of love.  He said to me simply, "You are telling me how you feel about yourself.   I'm telling you how I feel about you."

His love trumps my self-doubt.  Self-pity.  Self-concern.

Love wins.

I believe God was showing me something through him.  All those years of serving, I believed God loved me because my service made me worthy of love.  And the truth is . . .  Oh how He loves me.  And He chooses a plainspoken man to show me His kind of Unconditional Love, a man who adores me, who sees me as beautiful, who is proud to be my husband, who finds joy in in my arms.

Today was better, easier.  When I feel lost in the randomness of ordinary, understanding the why of it helps.  And sometimes locking us in ordinary is the only way God can get through to us, to get us to be still enough to understand His truth--that Love loves.  And it is His Love that makes us lovely.  Not because of what we do for Him or for anyone else.  Not because of what we accomplish.  We are beloved because He loves us.  Little ol' us, without the bells and whistles of anything noteworthy.  Learning this little Truth is horrible and wonderful all at the same time.  Oh, how He loves us so.

The Mystery of the Meantime

It's hard to know what to write about.  My daily experience repeats itself--I have no real sense of anticipation or direction.  I am just waiting.  And I can't even name the thing for which I'm waiting.  I mark days, noting how working days number themselves, melting into weekends, moving steadily towards the next season, holiday, bump or break in routine.  I am lost in the familiarity of it.  My life is this tick-tock progression.  And I wonder at God's plans for me.  Is this it?  Is there more?

So it's hard to write.  Usually the words flow from a deep place that has been kindled into Life, seeing a greater Meaning, and Opening, and Expansiveness that infuses my ordinary with something quite different--Other and Unknown.  And the Revelation thrills me, stirs up all kinds of joy within, making this living less daily, more amazing, each drop of life so unique and special and altogether Gift.

But something entirely different is happening now on the landscape of my soul.

Sheesh! This is hard. 

I'm watching my life tick away, each grain of sand floating through the narrow funnel of the present, so quickly becoming the past.  And I mourn the passage because I think I missed something somehow.  I want to be joyful and amazed again.  Joy and amazement escape me.

But the Faith part of me says there is value in the boredom of waiting.

Because the stretching out of this waiting time, this interim is really shaping something in me that cannot be shaped any other way.  In the innermost part of my character I am seeing those uglier parts of my being, that only come out when the more "spiritual" parts are not being entertained.  They come forth and show how far from Glory I really am.  The only reason Glory exists in my life is because Glory comes near.

My prayer has been, "O God, do so thoroughly what You have to do in me so that You only have to do it once."  Perhaps I shouldn't have prayed such a prayer.  Because the me I love most is lost in His thoroughness.  I wonder if I'll ever see her again. 

But the Faith part of me says there is a more substantial her coming.

The woman God is shaping in this meantime has more depth, more trust, more clarity, more knowing, more yieldedness, more real hope to share.  This peson God is shaping in me is less concerned about accomplishing and more concerned about getting out of the way of God's accomplishing.

I'm not there yet.  I'm not her yet. 

But this meantime refining is helping me to care less about what I do for God and more about just belonging to God.  It's who I am and nothing else matters.  I'm learning that.  The irony is that in the desperate boredom I'm learning more about God's Glory than any wonder He has ever shown me.  Because He absolutely will not bend to my will.  He is Holy.  Oh so Holy.  There is nothing to distract me from discovering how profoundly different I am from Him.

And this is the discovery in which I must rest, waiting for Him to lift me up.  Knowing He loves me.  Just as I am.  Imperfect. Waiting me.

Glory All Around

Every now and then I look through the pictures on my phone.  Often I get tickled at what I find, frame after frame of random snap-shots from the vantage point of a very small person.  I've begun to understand that when my little one says, "Mommy, me play your phone," it usually means I have a budding photographer in the making. 

What is it that he looks at?  What does the world look like from where he stands?  What does he take notice of?

Sure there are lots (and lots) of pictures of carpet. . . . or concrete.  But then I notice there are some great pictures in there too.  And I begin to realize that he sees the world in a completely different way than I do.

So often I am focused on accomplishing a goal, moving through a process, completing a task, just trying to finish something.  My mind is preoccupied with plans, problems, and possibilities.  And it is so impossible sometimes to just be in the moment.  To take in all that is available to me.  To taste and see in each moment that God really is good.

And when I see my littlest boy's pictures I realize that this is the only way he knows how to live.

I remember a time when I looked at grass.  I mean really looked at it.  Flopping a beach towel on the lawn in front of the chapel at seminary, I laid down on my belly, and from ground level I watched the grass grow.  I still remember the pain of that day.  I had left class feeling the weight of rejection and depression full upon me, so heavy I could barely breathe.  And Sweet Jesus I just needed to breathe.  So I went outside to watch the grass.  Somehow watching slender green blades reach toward the sky helped me forget the pain of my brokenness for a moment.  And I could sense God was there with me, Big and Enough to make grass grow.  Big and Enough to rescue me from my own sadness.

Oh that was so long ago.

I can't help but wonder what my little one sees when he looks at me. 

Does he see the woman who knows that God is Big and Enough or does he see the one who needs to spend some time watching the grass?  Does he see me living in faith?  Or does he see me as the one who wonders about God's faithfulness?

Maybe this is what it means to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a child.  To have child-like faith that takes each moment as it comes, full of hope and love, ready for the next adventure, open to the Promise of the day because the Promiser can be trusted, eyes to see the Glory of God bursting out all around.

Amazing Grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.  I once was lost but now I'm found, was blind . . . .

But now I see.

Preacher Girl Revived

When I first felt called to ministry it had everything to do with the Word. 

I was in college, young, crazy enough to follow the passions stirred up within me.  I had gotten involved in the Wesley Foundation, our Methodist campus ministry.  We had something we called an outreach group that traveled to different churches singing, performing skits, dramatic readings, anything that could help a rag tag group of students share the Hope that was in them.

I always sang a song and introduced it with a story.

Singing was not new to me.  I had done that since I was a little girl.  But there was something about weaving the stories together:  God's Big Story, in and through and around my story.  It stirred up  within me a Fire that burned bright and whole and fresh and consuming.  I discovered God's Word reverberating against the walls of my own life; telling the story of how that happened, finding ways to show others how it happens for them too burned big inside my gut, that thing I could not get enough of.  I knew there was more to that experience than just singing occasionally with my college friends.

That was the beginning of my love for telling the old, old Story.  I used to tell others that God could call any kind of person into ministry, showing them my own life as example.  If God can use someone who tends to look like she belongs in junior high, someone who has a funny sounding voice, who is a bit on the "I'm just crazy enough to do it" side, who appreciates 6th grade boy humor, who can be scared of her own shadow, yet bouncing off the walls with just a single bite of chocolate, then God can use anybody to share His Word. 

I love that God brought me back to that same Wesley Foundation to be a minister where I first discovered my love for ministering His Word.  And when that season was over, God moved me to a place where I could minister to my family, three little boys and one great big handsome one to occupy my attentions.

He also brought me to our church's preschool to teach in the Pre-K classroom.  Everyday I am surrounded by a sea of four year olds.  Pre-schoolers are at home with my junior high looks, funny sounding voice, crazy personality, 6th grade boy humor, and timid sometimes, bouncing off the walls self.  I get told often, "Ms. Sami, you are so silly!"  I marvel at God's sense of humor.  When I was twenty-six and right out of seminary, He sent me to serve as an associate pastor in South Florida.  Our congregation was full of senior adults.  So much of my work there revolved around end of life issues.  And now that I'm . . . no longer twenty-six . . . my work focuses on beginning of life issues.  Given the patience and creativity and resourcefulness it takes to guide a room full of four-year-olds, this job requires the greater amount of experience.

Every week at preschool we go to chapel.  When I first began last year, there was already someone leading chapel.  Like me, she had a ministry background.  It was nice knowing someone knew my world, knew how crazy life and calling transitions can feel.  It was comforting to know I wasn't the only one figuring out how to share God's Word in a whole new way.  I began helping out with chapel once a month or so.  When this school year started we shared chapel responsibilities.

Several weeks ago my friend announced she was leaving to take a position as a children's minister at a church in her home state.  She would be returning to so many things that bring her deep joy.  I rejoiced with her when I heard her news.  It is bittersweet.  I will miss her companionship, her knowing those parts of this ministry journey that are so hard share in casual conversation.  As we hugged for the last time she whispered in my ear, "God brought you at just the right time."  God brought me, to fill a space that needed a preacher girl.

Last week Tim saw my old clergy robes hanging on the door.  He was a bit perplexed to see them.  I haven't had those things out since I was an associate pastor, over ten years ago.  I explained that they came in handy when telling the story of the Good Samaritan to four year olds.  Funny.  When I put them on during chapel that day, it felt like I was coming home to myself.  Chapel is home to me.  Being the girl who wraps God's Story up with words that connect it to the flesh that we are, well, that's the only girl I want to be.  Even when the flesh I'm wrapping with God's Word has only been on the planet so short a time.

I have no idea where this journey will end.  I just know that the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.  And that Word keeps on dwelling and swelling in me, and I must keep sharing it wherever God gives me the opportunity.  I wonder at God's choice for me, in this calling.  I know that in His perspective it all makes sense, and I trust that there will come a day when it will make sense to me too.  My friend affirmed that truth as well.  "It all makes sense now," is what she said.  God had been preparing her for a Harvest she knew nothing about with a path that was out of her ordinary.  And it seems God is doing the same thing for me. 

All I can say is that as I'm waiting for my own land of Promise, it is so good to have a pulpit again.  Even if it is only a music stand.

Joy in the Journey

 

 

My little one wants so much to be big.

He already thinks he is.  If his brothers can do it, he believes he should be able to also.  This is especially true when we are playing outside.  For a months now he would climb up on the biggest bike he could find, helmut ready, waiting for the crazy thing to move, his little feet dangling above the ground.  Big brother's wheels have often proved too big.

So much like me.

I already think I'm ready for the plans God has for me, dreams to be more and do more, longings to fulfill a destiny, fulfilled by purpose, living out of a burning passion that is kindled every day.  I want to be further along than I am.  And I forget that God has plans.  More than one.  That those plans include a guide for what fills in the blank between now and the thing I was made for.  Some dreams are just too big now to live.  But there are some smaller ones that will do just fine.  For now.

In digging through the garage one day, Jeremiah found the littlest bike.  Over the last few weeks he has been trying to master it.  His feet stretch as far as they can to rest on the pedals, but they reach enough.  And his coordination lacks the strength to pedal with strength and speed, but he can still make the crazy thing go!  And and after days of practice, he can finally do it without me walking behind him giving him the big push.  I wish you could have seen him yesterday--the huge smile on his face, the light in his eyes, the thrill of accomplishment in his excited chatter--oh he was so proud!  It was like his whole body was begging me to see:  "Look Mommy!  I'm riding a bicycle!"

And so happy.

It makes me think that sometimes I have to relent and find the dream I fit. 

I've thought much about these in between times.  What exactly does one do when waiting for the Promise?  I mean, I love that verse that says God knows the plans He has for us to give us a future with hope (Jeremiah 29:11).  But what about the in-between-times?  What about those days, months, and yes, even years, when we are waiting for dream?  So while I love the stirring words of futures and hopes and plans, it can be depressing sometimes.  What I really need is something to get me through.  A smaller victory while I'm waiting to grow into my "big wheels."

And that's why I love Jeremiah 29:5-7.  I love its honesty, its gentleness, its matter-of-fact encouragement: 

Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce.  Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease.  But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.
 

What are we supposed to do while we are living apart from the Promise?  We are called to live as a child of Promise.  We are called to grow, and multiply, and live well, seeking to know the One who is the Promiser.  And when we can do that, the Promise has a way of finding us.  We no longer have to spend ourselves finding it.

I love that Jeremiah could relinquish the desire to ride big brother's bike.  It was what enabled him to discover the joy of riding the bicycle that is all his own.  Able to make the thing go on his own. 

And this is where I am too.  Trying to find a way to pedal along.  Full of the joy of the journey. 

Even while I'm waiting to arrive at a greater destination.

I'm just so thankful for these sweet traveling companions.

Happy Feet

I wonder sometimes what it looked like when David danced before the Lord.  Then I had this moment the other day, listening to a song, its words a catalyst to the hope within me.  I couldn't help myself.  I danced.

It tickles me when I think about when first heard the song.  Can I just say it's not religious at all?  Nope.  Not one bit.  I think I first heard it while watching the Disney show "So Random."  I didn't think much of it then.  Then I heard it again set to old Disney cartoons featuring Goofy.  I just kept hearing the refrain, "You've gotta keep your head up, oh.  You gotta let your hair down, eh."  My curiosity was piqued.

Mostly because I was encouraged.

This week I downloaded the song.  As I stood in my kitchen listening to it, my heart felt uplifted.  What does one do when a song from the wrong station moves the heart to worship?  Well, one worships. 

Because it touched that tender spot in me that wonders how this is all going to turn out.  All the unanswered questions.  All the loose ends.  All the conundrums I can't solve right now.  The song said what I most needed to hear in that moment:  "You are gonna turn out fine," followed quickly by, "But you gotta keep your head up."

But.

There is always a "but" isn't there?  I am reminded of Psalm 121.  It begins:

I lift up my eyes to the hills--
from where will my help come?
My help comes from the LORD,
who made heaven and earth.
 

I seem to forget I have help when I look down.  There truly is something about raising my line of vision to what is higher than me that helps me move to higher ground.  I've exhausted possible sources of help in the low lands. None of them are really helpful.  Only God is inexhaustible.  I forget that I can look to Him sometimes.  I forget that He already knows I'm gonna turn out fine.  I forget that He's the only One who can convince me. 

So when I heard that silly pop song with upbeat words with an upbeat rhythm, I was reminded.  That life does not have to be determined by my present circumstances, but can be transformed by the One who is always Present within my circumstances. 

And when I remembered, I looked Up, heart full, head hopeful, feet happy.

In the middle of my kitchen I danced.

Birth Pains

I don't know quite how to explain what I've been feeling lately.  There is an ache inside of me that just plain hurts.  It is so strong it is almost a physical sensation. 

I have felt it before.

There was a season in my life when God called me to intercession, in a labor of love so personal, so raw, that my very being ached every time the Holy Spirit called me to pray.  I remember it felt like I was the instrument of the Holy Spirit praying, and I could feel in my flesh and bones the groans of God's Heart weeping over and with my friend.  Those kinds of prayers one doesn't forget.

But this ache that I now feel is so keenly personal.

It is my own. 

It is the ache of commencement, one journey over, the new one yet to begin.  I feel I am caught in the threshold of having left one life, waiting for a new one.  There is pain in what is left behind.  In a perfect world, that life would be over and done.  Yet there are constant reminders of what I used to be.  And people who knew me then seem to look at me with questions in their eyes:  "who are you now?"

What is hard is that the seeds of who I will be were planted firmly in the soil of my being way back then.  I carry them with me now as planted hopes, as yet, unrealized. But the questions people ask, and the only answers I can give right now, leave no room to even see her, that woman God created me to be. 

In the last few weeks a song I haven't thought of for a long time has come to mind.  It was my favorite song when my last child was born.  We were so thankful for his birth, because it seemed to go well for him.  After all, when the first baby wouldn't eat, and the second baby wouldn't breathe, we didn't know what to expect with baby number three.  He just seemed to arrive on the scene happy.  But my experience was difficult, for all kinds of reasons.  I would lay in the bathtub at night and listen to the words of that song over and over--

All who are thirsty
All who are weak
Come to the fountain
Dip your heart in the stream of life
Let the pain and the sorrow
Be washed away
In the waves of His mercy
As deep cries out to deep (we sing)
Come Lord Jesus Come
Come Lord Jesus Come

Today that song was in my heart, all over me.  My thirsty weakness washing through me in waves. 

Desperate for  answers and encouragement, I was so happy a few moments ago when I saw my favorite blog's title for today:  "What God Really Promises in Pain."  I click over, ready to drink in words of comfort and wisdom.  I'm astonished when I get there and see there are only 12 words on the page.  Twelve.  But here is what they say:  "God doesn't allow pain unless He's allowing something new to be born."  In smaller print, down the page is the scripture reference Isaiah 66:9 NCV.  How could I not look it up?  Here is what I found:

In the same way I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born," says the lord.  "if I cause you the pain, I will not stop you from giving birth to your new nation," says your God.  "Jerusalem, rejoice.  All you people who love Jerusalem, be happy.  Those of you who felt sad for Jerusalem should now feel happy with her.  You will take comfort from her and be satisfied, as a child is nursed by its mother.  You will receive her good things and enjoy her wealth."  This is what the Lord says:  "I will give her peace that will flow to her like a river.  The wealth of the nations will come to her like a river overflowing its banks.  Like babies you will be nursed and held in my arms and bounced on my knees.  (Isaiah 66:9-12)
 

 The ache eases.  I read those words of scripture and they feel so personal, like the Holy Spirit has woven this story together in such a way that I know where the pain is coming from.  It's not about mourning a death  as much as it is the pains of something new being born.