Prayer Changes Things

 

 

Last week I had the most extraordinary experience.  It was one of those things that I missed in the moment, but upon reflection, I got it.  Kind of like the disciples who met Jesus on the road to Emmaus and didn't even know it.  Later that evening, they recognize Him in the breaking of bread.  And then they say to one another, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, . . .?"

 

 

A sweet young couple came to visit me.  These two had been in my care as college students.  The campus ministry where I served is where they met.  It is where they fell in love.  They married and began walking their life journey together from that shared sacred place, much like my husband and I did twenty years before.  On this visit they brought their baby, my first opportunity to see her.  I rejoiced as I held her in my arms, in the middle of my messy living room, my own messy boys looking on with curiosity, my own messy life spilling all around us in exuberance.  This young couple had walked with me through those crazy times when my children were very new to this world.  And as they spoke about their experiences, it tickled me to think that God gave them a front row seat to my own adventures in early parenthood so that maybe they wouldn't be so undone by it all.  I think they are sometimes undone anyway.  Nothing has a way of undoing us like holding a vulnerable life, completely entrusted to our care,  for the first time.

 

It did not dawn on me until they left that the last time we stood together in my living room,  there was no baby to ooh and ahh over.  Instead there was a difficult journey seeking earnest prayer; empty arms longing to hold new life.  They had come and we prayed that God would open the door for them to be parents.  The same place where we prayed was the same place where the answer showed up smiling for pictures.  I am undone.  I got to hold the answer to their prayers, to our prayers, in my arms.  In the same exact place where that prayer was sent forth.

 

I know that Holy Spirit conviction in my bones, of being reminded that prayer really does make a difference.  Seeing some big prayers in my life land, after YEARS of earnest praying, pleading, begging, has shown me the importance of remembering WHO it is after all, that I'm praying to.  God is so faithful.  He has a way of showing up wherever and whenever He desires.  But He loves most of all to show up in our living rooms.  In the ordinary stuff of our deepest held hopes and dreams.  The longings that don't go away, even in the space of time elapsed.  Even in the expanse between desire and fulfillment.  And what I love about HIM is how He is paying attention to the details, answering in a way that can only be done by ONE who--knows--it--all.  Remembering stuff we don't even pay attention to, and then re-member-ing that sweet detail back into the answer He sends, showing us in an unmistakeable way that only He hears our hearts in all their inexpressable ache. 

 

It is why we must not give up, must not give in, must not succumb to doubt, discouragement, and despair.  It is why we must continue to give the contents of our heart into His hands and give ourselves into His meantime care.  It is why in the face of inexpressible disappointment and grief we must continue to call out to the only One who can hear the undertones of what we cannot utter.  He hears it all; He answers it all.  In timing only He can understand and that His wisdom reveals. 

 

I'm just so thankful that my sweet friends did not give in and did not give up on Him.  And that they allowed me to see His goodness pouring all through them.  In my living room.  Just where I am.  Just where I most need to remember that He is not done with me yet.



Joy In The Morning . . . .

Two weeks ago I saw this . . .

 

. . . and I wrote this:

I saw the most beautiful sunrise during my morning run. Orange melting into purple melting into red. Deepening color spread across the horizon; unseen sun casting pink hues on everything. Those are the colors that speak to me of joy.
 

Since then it has been sitting in my spirit, brimming and brewing, a Word from the LORD--"Joy comes in the morning."  Psalm 30 whispers, echoing within me, "You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy."  I have sensed a transition happening, as season gives way to season.  The wisdom of Ecclesiastes tells us that "to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."  I can hear the Beatles singing, "turn, turn, turn."

Time is turning, seasons melting into one another, like colors blending themselves across a morning sky.  The dark of night, of lingering weeping, is drawing to a close.  The grief of loss is passing and the sting of hurt subsiding, and into the dark night of this soul Light is forthcoming.

What we do in the dark days matters.  What we realize least when our hearts are bleeding and we go from day to day weeping is that each tear that falls to the ground takes with it a seed.  And in our weeping we are planting things that are only revealed by the lighting of a new day.  We are sowing in our sadness.  And even in the sorrowful times we have a choice.  We can sow more sadness to be reaped as regret and wastedness later on.  Or we can sow the seeds of Hope.  Of Joy.

Here's the thing. 

I never believe God sends the heartache and utter devastation that drives us to our knees.  But He sends forth His Word in all seasons, those seasons when everything is lovely and beautiful, and those seasons when all is darkness as despair.  His Word comes to us.  What we do with His Word makes all the difference.

 

Even in despair we can be the fertile soil that allows the Word of goodness to be planted in us, taking it in to the darkness of  our broken soil ever so thirsty for living Water.  We can let our hearts hope in that Word until it begins to take on Life within our lives, and we see how it lives and breathes.  And we can see that tender Life springing within bring us back to life.  When that Word is mature within us, the Light emerging after the dark night reveals something ripe for bearing all kinds of beautiful, delicious fruit.

 

Or we can be bitter, hard, crusted over so that nothing penetrates.  No kindness, no comfort, no balm to the spirit.  We can remain cold and distant, disconnected.  So self-isolated that even when the Word falls soft upon our wretchedness we remain untouched, and the winds of disappointment whisk away the very thing meant to bring us back to to the land of living.  We allow our bereftness to become barrenness, spreading its way to every corner of our empty selves.  When the Light of day comes there is nothing waiting within us to greet it.  The wastedness of our sorrow has born a wasteland in our souls.

 

We cannot choose the thing that brings us to grief. 

 

But we can choose the thing that grief will bring us to.

 

This is God's promise for loss entrusted to His Hands:

 

Psalm 126

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream.  Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then it was said among the nations, "The LORD has done great things for them."

The LORD has done great things for us, and we rejoiced.

Restore our fortunes, O LORD, like the watercourses in the Negeb.  May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy.  Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves. 



Spring Fever

I've had this post on my heart for a while.  And it seems that life has been hairy and crazy and busy and full.  And where is the Holy minute to write?  And then the unholy explodes into our lives and we wonder, do we even have a right to feel hopeful? 

I've pondered this.  A lot.  And perhaps my delay has not been an accident.  Because I believe the most radical thing we can do in the face of the unholy is to be children of Holy Light, those who shine in the darkness regardless.

So this Hope and Joy does not shrink back from the darkness that rages against the Light.  Instead the Spirit whispers--shine more . . . .

I've spent two years walking through my own sadness, grief and loss.  It seems one morning, I'm not sure exactly which one, I woke up happy.  For two years I could not honestly say that about myself:  happy.  But now, today, I am.

I look outside and see everything coming to life again.  And I think--That's me!  I'm coming to life again!  I am hopeful and joyful and not the kind that holds fiercely to God's Promise of Hope with blind faith because nothing feels hopeful and joyful.  Not the kind of joy that holds hands with sorrow.  I'm so grateful for that kind, because it kept my feet moving when I thought I would die.  But this Joy and Hope I feel are alive, bourgeoning within me, spilling out in creativity that is teeming with color and beauty and NEW LIFE. 

I know it is just a matter of time.

Before what is inside of me will be visible on the outside of me, birthed into reality.

I am so excited, I can hardly stand it!

The last two weeks we have been talking about Creation in Chapel with the pre-schoolers.  I even made up a song to help us remember all that God did when He created the world--"On the first day of creation my True Love gave to me, Light to make our darkness bright."  I just got it this morning that to live in the flow of Creative Energy, to release it into existence, to take that thing that inspires you and give it expression in the real world, is to truly participate in God's Holy Order, to bring forth His Kingdom, to not only live as a child of the Light but to walk in the Light.  To give expression to God's Creative Purposes for our own lives is the most darkness-shattering thing we can ever do.  Because to live in creative Joy is to truly be Fearless.

I have lived in fear for far too long.  Dwelling for far too long in shadows, hiding my quirky self from the world, because I am just too different from anything else I've ever seen.  What was He thinking when He made me?!  And why, oh why, oh why, oh why Father would you make me like this?!  I have often felt like that tiny purple flower in the middle of a sea of green, so small and fragile.  Difficult to be seen.  Impossible to take seriously.  And I have asked the Lord so many times, "why didn't You just make me another blade of grass?  My life would have been so much simpler.

For the first time maybe, I am so glad I am what I am.

And I believe that soon I will see God's purpose for me revealed.

And that gives me tremendous Hope and impossible Joy.

Easter Morning Grace

I am waiting for the meatballs to brown.

When I asked Nanny, Tim's Mom, what she wanted to do for Easter as a family, I mentioned my own family's traditional Easter meal:

Italian--

I remember as a child my mom making spaghetti and meatballs for Easter dinner.  It's the meal I make just like my mom did.  And every time I put a bite in my mouth, it feels like Easter all over again. 

In the last few days I've thought much about the Easter story.  The gift of God's Grace is that the Old, Old Story has a way of becoming New, over and over again.  And to be telling the Story of redemption to little ones this year has deepened it within me, in a way I had not anticipated.

It took me years to wrap my head around Jesus dying on the cross, but after my last child was born, God helped me understand in a way that cuts right to the heart of me.  All three of my children were born by C-section.  The last required a vertical incision that streches up my belly.  The scars from all of them now form an anchor on my abdomen.  Sometimes when I look in the mirror I laugh and tell myself, "the anchor holds."   I have no idea what natural childbirth is like.   I know well the disappointment and pain of a plan not at all working out the way you think it is supposed to.  That's the way I thought of the cross for years.  Surely there had to be a better way for Jesus to go home to His Father.

And then one day I held my sweet baby boy and heard this Whisper in my heart:  "Was he worth it?"  I knew what God was asking me.  Was it worth it to me to have my body broken so that this child could have life?  "Of course he was worth it," I said back to the Whisper.  "So are you," came the reply.

The Gospel of Mark tells us that when Jesus breathed His last, the curtain in the temple was torn in two from top to bottom (15:38).  The curtain is the thing that separates the Most Holy Place from everything else in the temple.  It is there, from the early days of the Tabernacle, that God would meet with His people (Exodus 25:21-22).  And yet the high priest could enter the Most Holy Place only once a year, and then only sprinkled with the blood of the sacrifice.  When Jesus was  broken, the power of His Gift of Himself ripped that veil in two, from God's end to ours.  As a consequence, we can enter into the Holy of Holies; God has made Himself accessible.  Through the broken Body of God's Son, we are born into New, Eternal, Abundant Life. 

Here is the part I love--

Jesus did not stay broken.

Can it get any better than this?  Jesus does not walk around Heaven broken!  He is Resurrected!  And those scars, well--

My scars are precious to me.  Really?  Did I just say that?  But they are.  Only God can take something that represented the deepest hurt my body had endured and make it beautiful.  Only God can take the thing that I thought made me look hideous and use it to show me how beautiful I am to Him.  And someday when I get to Heaven I'm going to look at His Son's scars and see my name written in the nail prints on His hands.  Each one of us, our names are written there, because first we were written on His heart.  He looks forward to the day when He can show us in person how deeply His Love has been written all over our story.

The same way my love for my boys is written on my body.

The Resting God Rises

In the craziness that is my life, I have been pondering this question since I last wrote:  What happens when the God at rest awakens? 

What happens when the God at rest wakens?

Have we seen it before?  Have we witnessed His Power in Motion?  Have we seen the Mountain Moved? 

We want to experience the "OMG" thing often and always.  We want our wants gratified, our cravings satisfied, our boredoms nullified, our discomforts mollified, our slights justified.  Yet God is not into entertainment.  God does not put on a show for us to quiet our questions.  His ego does not need the attention; His self-esteem does not require our reassurance that He is in fact Who He says He Is.  He does not need to prove Himself in the face of our doubts.  And His WAITING accomplishes in us far more than demonstration, for its own sake, can.  Regardless of how we pester Him to do more and be more, He acts (or waits) according to WISDOM we cannot comprehend.  While we may carefully mark our actions and reactions according to the changing tides of public opinion, God does not regard public opinion.   

So we often find ourselves in the boat with the God who Rests.  His decision to waken comes at His own bequest.  Often when we are convinced that we will perish regardless.  We tell ourselves it doesn't matter if God is resting in our boat.  We are shark bait anyway.  And we despair.

Only in the moment He chooses does God's POWER reveal Itself.

Here is the part of that "Jesus Calms the Storm" story that nettles me:  The disciples came away from that moment more afraid of Jesus than they were the storm.  They say to themselves, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?" (Mark 4:41).

Precisely.  WHO then IS this?  This One Who Rests in our boats?  He IS the original WHO!  And the wind and sea MUST obey HIM! 

HE does not obey ANY storm.

So it makes me wonder about my attitude in life.  I have taught myself to think too little of Him.  I have thought it acceptable and my religion has deemed it appropriate, allowing and even encouraging such small expectations, helping me even to construct a box small enough to house them.

Ahh!  This box in my heart is being demolished!

We become so well acquainted with the "Take up your cross and follow Me" way of life that we forget there is RESSURECTION POWER at work within us!  We forget that the cutting back of pruning and the intense heat of our refining is for a season.  That it is not an end in itself, but rather the vehicle that brings us to Purpose fulfilled, HIS Power revealed, in us and through us for the Transformation of the world!

HE keeps showing me, instructing me, priming me, and positioning me to see that He is not done with anything yet!  And until the storm has obeyed Him, He has not spoken His final WORD over my life.

Or yours.

I just sense in my heart this WORD:  Prepare to be amazed!

And they were filled with great and said to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?"  (Mark 4:41)

A Place to Watch the Rain

One of my favorite things to do is to sit in a quiet place where I can hear the rain falling.  Where I can see it pouring from the sky.  I hate being caught in the rain, in the cold downpour that seeps through to the bone and chills the body and spirit.  But there is comfort in watching rain fall from the place of safety and warmth.  The steady rythm and the dull thump, thump, thumping against my window and roof seem to help my soul enter the place of quiet rest. 

Outside it is gloomy as I write.  With only the widows shedding light I find myself surrounded by shadow.  Outside the rains come intermittently.  Sometimes mixed with snow.  Wind swirling everything around in a cold, wet mess.  I think about the cold, wet mess I can be too as I ponder this week's Bible story for Chapel.  Mustering up all my creative story-telling abilities I told those squirmy three and four year olds about Jesus calming the sea.

Jesus fell asleep in the boat.

Here is what I told them.  That His disciples were fishermen for a living.  That they spent lots of time in boats.  That they had seen lots of storms.  But this storm had them terrified.

We make fun of the disciples for being scared, but consider how big that storm had to be to make seasoned fishermen frightened.  So much so that they waken the Lord and ask Him why He was letting them drown.

Jesus, do You not care that this storm is about to EAT US ALIVE!?

He wakes up and says to them, "You of little faith!  Why are you afraid?"  I know why I am afraid.  Because my storms keep getting bigger, that's why.  Because the one ahead seems to loom over the one behind me.  Jesus, I know You are big enough to whup that one we just went through together, but this thing I'm going through now, do you see the size of that thing?  Do You understand the depth of the destruction that it can leave in its wake?  Do You see how small I am?

Here is the problem.  The disciples were looking at their circumstances with physical sight.  In our physical eyes we automatically see and size up.  We make instant calculations in our heads and simultaneous comparisons.  Our brains are so fast, we know in an instant how this storm ahead stacks up against every other storm we have encountered.  And with our physical sight we know the dimensions of what we are seeing, while being well acquainted with the dimensions of our own prowess.  We know when we've been beat.

Yet we know nothing of His dimensions.  We are not capable of calculating the size of the sleeping Giant in our own boat.  And we think because He rests that He is unaware and unavailable and unable.  We equate His dimensions with our own and believe only what we can see, which is very, very grim.  And might I also add, very, very little.

Because we see the human man asleep in our boat, but we do not see the Offspring of the One and Only God resting at our helm.  Our physical eyesight is fine, but our spiritual vision is near blind!  The problem in the storm is not that He fails to see how small we are, but that we fail to see how BIG He is!

Here is the thing.  I have never seen a storm that the Almighty could not rest through.  God at rest is a concept we have great difficulty with.  We want God to be always moving.  Like us.  We want God to be always working.  Like us.  We want God to be always occupied.  Like us.  We want God to be constantly demonstrating His prowess.  Like us.  And yet there is a forebearance in God that we cannot grasp.  His Wisdom always comes before His Power.  And God at rest is full of Power beyond our ability to measure.  The only time we have reason to fear the storm is if Jesus is in a panic bailing water.

He never does that.

If needed, He just ditches the boat and walks on water.

Inviting us to walk too.

Maybe if I were completely honest, that is what I am afraid of.  That somewhere between the loftiness of the storm and the smallness of my feet Jesus will ask me to do something that will really put my faith to the test.  Maybe what I fear most is that He will ask me to walk on top of the thing I'm most afraid of.

But then again, what if He asks for something that seems even more impossible than walking on water in a storm?  What if all He is asking is that we enter into His Rest while we are still in the boat?  If God at rest is something we cannot grasp, ourselves at rest is positively unheard of.

No wonder Jesus says we have such little faith.

Give Us Our Lunch, Our Daily Lunch

I went to lunch with the boys today. 

I haven't been in a while.  Last fall I went several times, but I haven't gotten there this semester until today.  I would love to say that I went because it was my idea and I'm a great mom and my kids always come first in my life.  Truth is, I heard my husband tell the boys that one day before school is out he will take off work and come to eat with them.  Busted.  Couldn't I at least spend one of my Friday's (which are always my day off) feasting with those two sweet blessings?

I'm so glad I did. 

Isaiah didn't have much to say about it.  He took my presence in stride.  But the other kindergarteners at his table seemed to be happy I was there.  I got to open some applesauce and some ice-cream.  I got to hear about a play date where cookies were made.  I witnessed the eating of the lunchable tower as one child tried to stick a whole stack of alternating turkey, cheese, and crackers into her mouth, making sure she had my attention as she did. 

Noah seemed glad to have me there.  He told me about his day, how he wants to do the reading program so he can win Hotrod tickets (the local baseball team), how he still had math and recess left.  I enjoyed hearing him talk to his friends about baseball and morning meeting and whether or not they knew their phone numbers, in order to arrange play dates. 

It was a sweet time, and over much too soon.

I think about this and consider that phrase in the Lord's Prayer:  "Give us this day our daily bread."  I have often thought about that phrase as the "please meet my needs God!" part of prayer.  And there is nothing wrong with that.  However, God has been pressing me on it, asking me to see it in a different light:  "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God."
And then the Gospel of John where Jesus, the Word made flesh, says, "I am the Bread of Life."

When I say "give me this day my daily bread" what I'm really saying is "give me Jesus."  I'm asking not so much for a meal, but for a Man. . . .  Him. . . .   His words. . . .   His heart. . . .   His love. . . .  His witness in my life.  His With-ness with me.

Being with my boys today was what made lunch so special.  I was with them.  I entered their world and was simply present, to hear all about the ins and outs of kindergarten and third grade.  And every day, if I'm really honest, what I most need is to taste and see that God is with me, that Jesus is still made flesh in my life, that He is still speaking Himself into my circumstances.  Just like I showed up for lunch with my boys, He is just waiting for me to open my eyes.  Because every day He is showing up with a feast.

Manna . . . in the Market

In the last few months I have found a new spiritual discipline, a radical act of trust, bursting with the forgiveness of regular practice, the promise that if I don't get it right this time, next time is right around the corner.  And it feels like an excellent way to live into the season of Lent.

Every weekend I head to the grocery, coupons and list in hand, and I try my best to buy just what we need for the week.

Sounds simple.

It is incredibly hard.

Because it takes discipline to not buy the numerous items it takes to use the super value coupon.  Or to add another unnecessary tube of Pringles to get the extra $5 off.  Every super-market excursion is another test of my trust.  Can I trust God to provide for our immediate needs?  Can I trust Him to provide for our needs next week?  Can I only gather that which will feed my family for the next seven days, and leave the following weeks to God's future provision?

I remember the story of the Israelites in the desert.  God's instructions to them were to step outside and gather nourishment for the day.  Not for the week ahead.  Not for the month.  The extra was to be left.  Because for every day that they needed heaven's provision, it would be waiting for them in the morning dew.  But to gather more than that was to gather rot into their tents.

How often have I gathered rot into my home because I could not trust God's provision for tomorrow to be as sufficient as today's?  Truth told, I gather more because I am putting my trust not in God's goodness and faithful steadfastness, but in my own ability to provide, to gather unto myself more than enough to cover all possible scenarios, to gourge my pantry with stuff so that I feel better.  In the gourging I'm finding that I lose touch with my real needs.  When I stuff and over stuff that cart, and then bring it all home, I never feel or see or touch the place where my need meets God's ready provision.

Why bother?  Why care about something so trivial?  This is not covered in The Ten Commandments, and Jesus did not give instructions for grocery shopping.  But there has been that nudge in my spirit for this particular season of my life.  Not for last season, maybe not even for the next season.  But definitely for this season.   I don't believe this is a mandate to be generalized.  Instead it comes as a personal call, an invitation from my Heavenly Father, to live into our relationship of trust in a deeper way.  A practical, rubber hits the road, pennies in the pocket kind of way.  It is deeply personal.  It makes me look at what I really need.  And gives me the opportunity to really appreciate what I already have.

And maybe that is the thing God has been asking me to see all along.  When I'm just concerned with getting, getting, getting, I forget to look around at what I already have.  I forget to appreciate it.  I forget to enjoy it.  And the extra burgeouning around me dry rots from lack of use.  Couldn't somebody else have actually enjoyed the thing I forgot about?  The thing that went in my trash can because I forgot it was there and now it isn't good for anything?

The Manna way of Life keeps me close to the Blessing of the Day.  That subtle Blessing does not escape my notice because I am so cognizant of not filling my cart too full, taking only what is needed, readily enjoying that which comes to me for this specific time.  Because trust isn't only about taking the worry out of whether there will be enough.  Trust is even more about resting oneself in the Good Hands of a Provider who delights to give gifts, the kind that are timely, noticed, enjoyed, and  savored.

The Best Hearts

It's funny how things work out really.  When I first started teaching preschool last year, I was teaching everything.  I taught letters, numbers, sounds, and writing.  And Lord have mercy I had to try to teach children math.  Even the basics of moving small objects around so they can be counted makes me nervous.  I not really a numbers person.  I'm more of a metaphor girl. 

This year has been quite different in how our classrooms are set up.  The children come to the classroom I teach in to work on literacy and art.  The other pre-K classroom across the hall is where math and science are taught.  And the way it shakes out is that I get to do art.  HALLELUJAH!  I love this!  Those artistic leanings in me find natural expression as I guide little ones in the creation of boundless loveliness.

And everything has a process.

Especially when the medium is messy.  Especially when there are so many tender souls involved.  Especially when the propensity for cutting and gluing oneself is greater than what could ever happen to the canvas in front of them.

This week we made handprint hearts.  In honor of Valentine's Day.  In honor of our theme for the month: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength" (Mark 12:30).  They turned out great.  But there was definitely a process involved.  (If you doubt the wisdom of this, I invite you to unleash a room-full of four year olds loose in your home with bright red paint copiously smeared on their active, little hands.)

We did this project last year, and I remembered a few things.  First, make sure all sleeves are safely rolled up past the elbow!  And second, it is easier to do one hand at a time instead of two hands at once.  Little ones have such a hard time placing their hands in just the right way.  And third, ask them to close their eyes while you place each hand exactly where it needs to go.  Otherwise they try to put their own hand where they want it, in just the way that seems right, yet it never really lands right.  But if their eyes are closed, it's easier for them to keep their fingers together, to let you ease out the thumb just enough, and to place that print in just the right place.  Then we switch hands and do it again, laying that second print in just the right place so that a perfect heart is formed.

I don't know how many times I said, "Little darlin, you're gonna have to let me do this."  And those sweet boys and girls would squint their eyes shut and try hard at trusting me to make their hand prints into something exquisite and beautiful.  The best hearts were the ones where that child just rested his or her hand in my grasp and let me lay it down where it needed to go.   At one point I looked at my co-teacher and said, "I wonder if this is how God feels?"  Little ones always think they know best.  So do we.

And everything has a process.

The scripture painted on my heart and mind this week as I ponder God's processes in my life, in my family's life is this: 

"With all wisdom and insight He has made known to us the mystery of His will, according to His good pleasure that He set forth in Christ, as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in Him, things in Heaven and things on earth.  In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance, having been destined according to the purpose of Him who accomplishes all things according to His counsel and will, so that we who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of His glory" (Ephesians 1:8-12).
 

God accomplishes everything, all things, according to His counsel and will.  So that we can live for the praise of His Glory.  And everything in God's way of doing things has a process:  Especially when the medium is messy. Especially when there are so many tender souls involved. Especially when the propensity for cutting and gluing oneself is greater than what could ever happen to the canvas in front of us.

I see sometimes what God is getting at, the broader picture He is painting with my life.  But He asks me to close my eyes and trust Him anyway.  Apparently He knows better than I do how my best efforts would put my hands in all the wrong places, and the picture would no longer be clear, and the beauty would not be His, and His Glory would not be mine to live in or live out.  I always think I know better than He does what would work and what wouldn't.  Yet after a few run-ins with the messiness of the stuff of my life, I have learned better.

The best hearts were formed when the little one's trusted me to place their hands in just the right places.  And my heart is formed best when I trust God to place me in just the right places.  I can almost hear Him whisper, "Little darlin, you're gonna have to let me do this."

I'm Melting . . .

I've been pondering the message for almost a week now.  The one whispered gently on my Sunday morning run.  The glinting light captured my attention:  Trees and ice and sunshine together raining diamond drips of water onto soft grass, newly bare roads.  The ice storm last Friday made a mess of things, but the beauty it left still leaves me breathless, even after it has all melted away.  My cold heart is melting because I saw the Melting.

Each little branch of every single tree in our neighborhood was lined in ice, and glistening.  It made the whole world look shiny.  And in the beauty I forgot all was frozen.  Then I saw the drips of water, coming fast in the warming sun. 

It's a wonder I was even able to stay on the road.  My feet kept carrying me on the three mile path, but my eyes were riveted to the right and left, trying to see the power of warmth and light bringing what was ice-covered and frozen back to life.  It struck me as prayer, the thought coming fast:  "I wonder if this is what it is like when we pray?"  I pictured what intercession must look like in heaven, when we wrap the Love and Light of Jesus around those we care about, when our hands are helpless and all we can do is let the ache of our hearts reach across chasms to comfort those we long for.  At first glance the ice doesn't look like it is going anywhere.  The frozen gleam holds fast.  But if you stop looking at the tree branches and look carefully below them, you see the truth.  That ice is really turning to water, and quickly it falls away.

I am stunned by the clarity of the Revelation:  When we sit still in the Love of God it accomplishes something in us we may not even realize.  One day our limbs and life are all locked up in a frozen captivity.  Then one day we wake up free.  Sometimes it breaks off of us all at once.  Sometimes it is the patient drip, drip, drip of our prison falling away from us. 

I am stunned when I consider its message for me.  Because I realize my life is the tree that got melted, that was liberated from a deep freeze.  One day something within me just woke up happy.  And I began asking myself the question I cannot let go of:  What is the greater miracle?  For God to give us what we long for, or for God to give us a heart that longs for what we already have? 

God can certainly do both.

The song that comes to mind was actually the one we played as our bridal party walked into the church at our wedding:

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, opening to the sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!
 

Different times of our lives call for different miracles.  But we always assume the first one is the one we most need.  Like scales dropping from my eyes I realize God has given me the second one, and I am so deeply grateful.

I walk gingerly in this awareness.  Because I know that any day's needs may necessitate the other kind of miracle, the kind where I need God to do something radical, something new, something that remedies the circumstances we are in rather than the heart that perceives them.

But of course, even those kind of miracles still produce a change in us.

Because God is all about melting away prisons, drip by simple drip.