Dear Friends,

Just a gentle nudge to remind you that in order to follow the new blog postings, you will need to go to the new site and follow the instructions for subscribing.  You will not automatically get postings even though you were prescribed here at Unswervingly Held. 

I am greatly aware of how much noise we receive in our inboxes and understand that sometimes there are seasons for things. But if you did intend to re-subscribe, please go to the new site below. Click on the small black box with the parallel lines on the top right corner of the page. When it opens up, scroll down below the comments and click on follow blog by email.  It's a bit harder to find than on my previous site.

Thanks so very much!

Blessings,
Barbara

www.barbdillard.com

Words Remaining

Dear Readers,

I know. It's been quiet on my end for awhile. I confess that I began to wonder if I was just part of the ongoing noise pollution.  I disliked everything I was writing and wondered if I had anything new to say. Even the purpose of my writing came into question within my own heart. However, this past year away has shown me several things.

First, I need you more than you need me.  Can I tell you what a privilege it is to be invited into your home with my thoughts?  

Second, I've unplugged a bit and am learning to hear my own voice again.  It's actually more of a whisper but I'm okay with that.

Third, I must never limit the proclamation of God's truth.  If faith comes by hearing, who am I to decide that my web presence is one too many?

If you have missed my occasional posts in your mailbox over the past year, please join me at my new home noted below.   Don't forget to re-subscribe there to continue to receive posts since I will no longer be posting at Unswervingly Held.

Joy,
Barbara


Barbdillard.com

Yielding

A new grandson is born over a recent weekend and we display his picture on Facebook with joy overflowing.  "Likes" and warm congratulations adorn this cherished event.  People whom we barely know rejoice with us.  

On another Facebook page, a different child’s picture is displayed.  Husband and wife celebrate alone. They stroke the picture of their offspring with bittersweet, caressing her with their eyes.  Eight years is an eternity to not touch your daughter, much less get a glimpse of her or look into her eyes. 

Mental illness ripped her from them as a teenager.  Months bled into years as she denied them contact.  She is older now – a grown woman - yet she is carried in that mama and daddy place inside them just the same. 

And in this recent picture, the estranged one smiles.  Eyes seem to dance, arms around the few she has allowed into her fragmented mind and world.  And in a flash, just for a moment, she seems to smile at the grieving parents. 

They yearn to break her free from the chains that bind her but not unlike our new grandson, she must be birthed in God’s perfect timing.  So they wait and view her from afar, on screens and through other's chance encounters. Though their pain has taken a settled place within them, there is no bitterness or resentment.   They serve joyfully, pray faithfully and celebrate other's life events. 

Often we think that “having it together” is a score for the home team as Christians.   But I think far more is spoken through lives of faithfulness in the grit and grind of imperfection and brokenness.  Because honestly, it shouldn't be about us anyway.   It's about how our lives point to God.  When we yield the canvas of our hopes and dreams, the Great Artist creates.   He may paint with a different stroke, but it is perfect in His way and timing.

The true beauty of our lives is not in being free of life's problems but in the yielding.  And this is the life that we see in them. 

In the meantime they, whom we love so dearly, whose pain we tenderly but awkwardly hold, wait.  On tiptoe. And as the storm rages on and they are pelleted by downpours, we pray and watch with them for rainbows. 

The Writing on the Wall (or Table)

The show room lights rained down upon the outdoor furniture display.  Like Goldilocks, I tried out the chair for a fit and it did not disappoint. Even the table was "just right".  I could already envision it nestled outside our bedroom window, a perch for a good read, birdwatching and relaxation.  Yes, it would fit the empty space perfectly.

The table and chair set found its home in the spot that I imagined; it filled the space but it didn’t fill me.  Not like I thought it would.  I can't even remember the last time that I sat there.  The desert dust collects on the table top as the chair's fabric sears under the blaze of the southwestern sun, a daily reminder of the appetite I have for stuff and how little value it holds in the end. 

There is something about a vacant place that seeks fulfillment.  This time I would fill with a table and chairs that in the end, didn’t meet any real need.  More often, the vacant place is within me.  Wants blur into needs and I forget the countless items in my life that just occupy space, time and upkeep without any real reward.   

Truth be told, there is a cost.

Deut 32:15 says “Jeshurun (a poetic word for Israel) grew fat and kicked; filled with food, they became heavy and sleek.  They abandoned the God who made them and rejected the Rock their Savior”

The fatter we become, the less our awareness of what really satisfies.  We want Egypt's bread instead of early morning tidbits of manna that we cannot store up.  These earthly counterfeits take up residence in our lives while heaven's accumulated treasure plummets into negative numbers.  Like the Israelites, our hearts revert to idolatry even when we have tasted so much more.

We can run and fill haphazardly or we can quiet our hearts and listen to the real need.  These days I am running way too much, filling with the temporal, all the while hungering for nuggets in the hillside that must be mined.   I shake my head when I read the foolishness of the Israelites but I fare no better.

In His grand design, when God fills, it is as a spring rather than an inlet.    While it may nourish us, it's extended purpose is always for something beyond us.  Our flesh says "fill me" but the Spirit says "fill and then empty".  In God's upside down Kingdom, we find the fullest expression of who we are created to be.

And it's a perfect fit every time.

 

 

 

 

 

Polishing Plaques

“For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain”

Phil 1:21

I displayed this desk top verse proudly during my college years.  It became a fixture and so settled in upon my desk that eventually the only time I saw it was when I dusted it.  And really, I had no concept of the meaning behind it.  What 18 yr old girl , looking brightly into the future, can embrace a concept of her own death?  And how little I knew of a life so lived for Christ that it could swallow me up.

Many years have passed since that little plaque and I have learned a few things.

I’ve learned that sometimes living for Christ might be harder than dying for Christ.  Good intentions remain just that - good intentions.  One passion usurps another.  And as time passes without action, the specificity of convictions are lost.  Similar to panning out from a location on a Google map, the details fade against the backdrop of “more”.  My intentions must lock in with gears of motion.  I must continually remind myself that the servant in the parable of the talents is judged not for doing wrong things but for doing nothing.

I’ve learned that life is brief and accelerates as one gets older.  The Scriptures tell us that life is but a mere breath in time. On a recent Sunday our pastor directed us to take a “congregational breath”and then he said, “Congratulations, that was your life.”  The rest of the sermon came alive at that point.  There is an urgency in time that I seldom feel.  But gray hair and wrinkles are reminders of how quickly "todays" bleed into "yesterdays".  

I’ve learned that obvious sin may be managed but living with the depravity of my own heart is exhausting.  A prayer phrase from the book, The Valley of Vision, reads “sin’s deformity is stamped upon me”.  It's true.  Each day I start with a clean slate but before I have even left the house I’ve fallen multiple times.  I am the freshly bathed child who immediately slips out to play in puddles of mud.  Without the grace and mercy of Christ, I lean toward destruction.

I’ve learned that dying is not a one time event.  I will have to die many times before that final hour.  Many of these deaths are within my control, choices that I make in response to the rhythm of life.  I will have to die to perfect families, flawless marriages, and satisfying jobs.  To having my own way, to keeping peace, to having order.  To earthly security, to always being liked and respected.  Because my ultimate death will be consummated someday in One who gave everything up for me. My tiny sacrifices are paltry against the backdrop of His love.  

As I brush off the mental dust from Phil 1:21,  I want this verse to hold me instead of me holding it.   I want to be so wrapped up in Jesus, so living His grace that I need no plaque to announce how I embrace living and dying.   

And that's a long walk home.

Pot of Gold

In my reverie, I am back in that kitchen again with its black and white checkerboard wall paper and spotless counter-tops.  Mom, clad in her signature faded apron, stands at the stove fussing over the pot - the "magical pot", as we fondly label it.  It is old, dimpled and scarred, crusted with flecks of previous delicacies. Even so, it seems that everything cooked in it is bound for success.  Simmering pot roasts, steaming pork and kraut, and ham spiked navy beans find home in its beloved arms.  But the "piece de resistance" is the homemade vegetable beef soup.

The story goes that once when the pot cradled this divine soup, my Mom felt an urge to share it.  Now you must know that as a child of the Depression, this was not characteristic of her. Often she gave, but only when there were “leftovers”.  This new thought was first fruits giving - giving without assurance that there would be enough for us.  And for one who had known uncertainties as a child, this was new territory. Winter chill frosted the windows as she prepared the nourishment within our insulated fortress.  But give it away, she did.  Amazingly, when we sat down to enjoy the remaining soup, it appeared as if nothing had been taken out of it.  We felt like the widow at Zeraphath whose jar of flour and jug of oil did not run out.

Shauna Niequist, in her book Bread and Wine, says that “Food connects us to good memories, tells us we’re safe and brings us back to sweeter times on hard days."  This pot and its various contents are rooted in all that and more..

My Mom is gone now.  She and I share no more culinary delights.  Today, I press the pot’s cold metal to my pursed lips and close my eyes.  I can feel her, smell her.  And the aroma of vegetable beef soup invades my awareness.  Isn't it crazy how the things you think matter hold little sway when the loss has a chance to burrow in and mature?  This old pot, worth little in material value, is locked in my memories.  And now it is locked in my daughter’s memories as she too anticipates it in her home someday.

A little piece of her Nana and me.

For the Love of Camels

The rich young man had asked the question.  And Jesus had answered.  “Sell it all. Give to the poor”.  And as if that wasn’t enough to fill the ear, the chilling prognosis came later when his disciples questioned him further:

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.” 

These words of Jesus trip me up every time.  Because I’m rich.  And so are you.  We are First world people. 

I want to rationalize these words. Really, what camel ever wanted to go through the eye of a needle anyway?  But maybe that‘s the point. Desire is the crack in the doorway to knowing God.  Maybe the glitz and glitter of wealth can eclipse that desire. 

So while these words of Jesus appear hard to us, they are actually about hope.  Because as He spoke, Mark says Jesus loved this rich young man, knowing that this unburdening was vital to the righteousness he craved.  So rather than shame, I see incredible love. Apparently selling possessions and giving to the poor is not only about the poor.  And these words, though specific to the rich young man, actually hold promise for us as well.

Prosperity comes with not only enjoyment, but also upkeep and distraction from our underlying thirst.  It deceives us, seeding independence and self sufficiency.  No wonder the Third World is exploding in Gospel receptivity and growth, while we in the First World, like that famous frog, are dying in the slowly boiling water of prosperity.

I have been following 4 bloggers who traveled to Africa with World Help.  In a strange way, I envy the exceeding joy of the African believers who have nothing in terms of worldly health and wealth.  The treasure I hear them proclaim is Christ.  As Scripture says, hearts and treasures are undeniably linked.

My pregnant daughter and family will soon be moving into a home with additional bedrooms to accommodate baby #3.  Our grandson, upon his first visit to the home, raced the square footage at a full run and played hide and seek with his toddler sister, in a display of unreserved enthusiasm.  There was so much more to explore.  Like my grandson in the larger house, prosperity enlarges the spaces in which we can run and hide.

There is nothing glorious about poverty nor am I implying that we should strive for a state of martyrdom.   But I believe that we, the church in North America, need to stop plugging our ears to the possibility that Jesus is speaking to us.  And on a more personal level, to you and me.  

Not in condemnation, but out of His great love

.

Relentless Love

She had taken that fatal step, free falling into the putrid waters below.  It had looked so inviting, so beautiful.  But upon entry, the stark reality hit and the death grip took hold.  Soon she began to smell the sulfur and sense the darkness.   

Her fall from grace left her naked and exposed.  Shame’s scum clings tightly.  Time has passed, unlike the consequences of her sin.   The Gospel rings hollow.  She used to know it well but now it seems like a distant echo of another time.   She has been excluded, if only in her own mind.  A blackball, so to speak. Loneliness and isolation tether her to hopelessness.

And still she replays the details and attempts to answer her own questions. Where was God?  How did this happen?  Is she not known by Him?  Is there no safety in the palace of the King? 

And no matter how many times she tries, she cannot pick herself back up.  Because receiving forgiveness and forgiving oneself are not equal.  Self flagellation is a kind of bloodletting, an attempt to alleviate the pain.  Yet it is also an attempt to retain the pain.  Because if she ever lets go, she fears she may truly have to accept that stain upon her soul.

I don’t know this woman.   Her gut wrenching struggle was shared by another.  And yet I know her well. 

I know …

• ·         That there is no darkness as black as the gutter alongside the narrow road when the foot becomes entangled with sin.
• ·         That like the Israelites, she will have to move toward the waters before they will part.
• ·         That when her running ceases, she will see that the miles away from her Savior were only an illusion as He was there all along.   And He is hosting a banquet in her honor.
• ·         And that upon her return, the word grace will be so fresh she will be able to almost taste it.  And she will want to shout and sing and dance.

I know because she could have been me.   And as she aches, I ache.  I ache to draw her back to a Father who forgives and still has a plan for her life.  I know the heartache of brokenness but I also know a Savior who woos fallen ragamuffins .  At first we flail and resist but He persists in His lifesaving rescue and draws us again and again into His arms.

God loves us with a love that never tires of pursuit.  May she catch a glimpse of this..

  

Tending the Soil

It‘s gardening prep time here in the southeast valley of Arizona.  While much of North America slumbers beneath mountains of snow and shivers in frigid temperatures, I will be on my knees in short sleeves, scooping up dry weathered leaves and loading a truck with bags of compost from a nearby organic farm.  For me, there’s no better feeling.

And from what I see, I am not alone.  Gardening is the fastest growing hobby in the U.S.  Could it be that our humanity hungers for reminders of the Creator around us?   

Even in urban living, city parks beckon.  Community gardens are erected and roof tops of apartment buildings are adorned with vegetation and flowers. Plant and floral arrangements are added to the interior of stark office buildings.  It would seem that when we are deprived of garden, we create it.  Might there be a part of gardening that returns us to the original garden -Eden ­­- where we lost our way?

Every day we are enslaved by routines that keep us attached to “devices” rather than living organisms.  Certainly automation and technology make our world richer, but we cannot deny our longing for something more personal - an opportunity to participate in the miracle and beauty of creation.   It's part of us because we are part of Him and made in His image. 

Gardening also offers a healing effect upon our earthly vessels.  Studies have shown that it can lower blood pressure, increase brain activity and produce feelings of well being.  As we take in the invigorating outside air and scoop the life giving soil into our hands, something happens.  Life erupts not only from the tended garden plot but also from within us.

Rudyard Kipling said, “Adam was a gardener and God, who made him, sees that half of all good gardening is done upon our knees.”   This posture of humility cultivates more than plants and flowers.  It’s a picture of our dependency upon a Savior who gave us eternal life, a life that we, alone, are incapable of producing despite our efforts.

We are all products of seed sowing.  At some point, through God's providence, someone or something spoke truth into our lives.  It fell upon good soil and eventually bore fruit.

I hold this picture in my mind when I see the miracle of a seedling pushing through the garden dirt, bringing forth new life.

 

 

Reflect

The holiday season is rushing in like the tide on the seashore. Grateful hearts, all too brief, are consumed by the vortex of commercialism.   It seems that we barely get our bellies full with turkey before Black Friday assaults us, bringing with it only distant strains of the true meaning of Christmas.  We buy things we cannot afford, send Christmas card letters that paint only the lovely parts of our lives and find ourselves mired in a war over the phrase Merry Christmas vs Happy Holidays.

If I am honest, this is one of the least holy times of the year for me. 

There was a time though, as a child, when Christmas was alive.  Not just with the “big guy in the red suit” but with a baby born in a manger.  The wonder of it all captivated me, a wonder that seems to have been lost over the years. 

Maybe the purity of that time was that there were no responsibilities to fulfill, no grown up accountability's but only the simplicity of childlike trust.  But perhaps there are some pieces to this puzzle that I can rearrange even as an adult.  I cannot physically return to that childhood but I can lay down the cumbersome things that keep me distracted from the heart of Christmas and focus once again upon the glorious mystery.  Like that child from my past, I can sit at His feet with delight.

And as I reflect upon this, I am reminded that it has always been childlike faith that ushers in the Kingdom.

Hymn Nuggets

I’m a praise song girl. The entrance into worship is easy and I love where it takes me.   It feels really good to sing “I am Yours Lord” and “I give it all to You”.   And I really mean it… at least at the moment.  Ten minutes later I may be deciding which church door will get me out more quickly or what lunch food I’m hungering for.  The change from praise to the practical happens as easily as a light switch.   Maybe it’s just my problem but I find it so easy to slip in and out of worship.

Ironically, I grew up with hymns.  The traditional church of which I was a member was one where ladies wore fancy hats, men were decked out in suits and the pews were lined with velvet.  I didn't meet Jesus there, at least not as I now know Him.  Yet I experienced a reverence and an awe for worship in that sanctuary.  Admittedly, the hymns contained words that were stilted and seemed fashioned after another time.  But something else was different that I think was a good thing. 

The hymns didn't focus upon what I felt, but Who God was and what He had accomplished. 

There seems to have been a subtle shift from praising God for Who He is to praising God for what He does for us and how good He makes us feel.  And I fall into this trap so easily.  Yes, God has done great things for me but I must be careful to not place myself as the center as if it all revolves around me.  Our God is an awesome God, with or without me in the equation.

This Advent season I am planning to tackle the hymn.  Instead of an Advent calendar, I discovered a dust covered hymnal in my collection.  As I prepare my heart for the Christmas season, I want to focus anew upon the Godhead through hymns written by men and women over the ages.  Though some of the terminology may be unfamiliar they are sure to encompass some real gold.  I'm going to study them, sing them and enter into praise of the One who never changes or goes out of fashion.. 

So if you happen to wander through my neighborhood over the holidays and hear the strains of an old fashioned hymn sing instead of a Christmas carol, you've got the inside scoop..

Fly

I have often admired the trajectory of birds as they migrate across the horizon in flight.  They seem so purposeful as they grace the skies with their artistry.  When something fearful on the ground disrupts their peace, they soar gracefully toward the heavens. 

We would do well, I think, to emulate their movement.  When life here on earth erupts into trouble as it often does, we tend to stay grounded in the messiness of our suffering.  We may confer with others, even those we respect spiritually, but we spend most of our efforts replaying the options in our minds, tossing to and fro in frustration.  We keep our eyes downward instead of upward.  Why not, in the power of the Spirit, let our thoughts and fears take flight to the Lover of soul?  It is upward where our comfort and reassurance lie - in His arms and His wisdom.

Our human parents, Adam and Eve, have predisposed us to the ground.  We spend much of our time working the ground.  We cover our nakedness and shame while relationships are frequently fraught with sorrow.  But when Christ died and rose again, He offered us another path.   He took flight to the side of the Father and He promised that He would prepare a place for us as well.  Knowing this, why do we not soar to His side at the least provocation?

Scripture says that “we are worth more than many sparrows” who frequently seem to know the right direction better than I.  Today and always in the future I will face several potentially difficult situations.  The challenge remains: will I follow my feathered friends in flight?

  

The Pitfalls of Excellence

There are few things more frustrating: I am on the hunt for something I have misplaced.  I'm always sure that the item sprouted wings but in the end I discover it right where I left it. 

Unfortunately, it’s a bit more complicated when something is gone and we don’t realize it.  The church at Ephesus in the book of Revelation comes to mind.  The constituents were hard working and full of good deeds.  They had persevered and endured hardship in the name of Christ without growing weary.  They were even able to discern true apostleship.  All of these are signs of a healthy, vibrant church.   And let’s face it, they looked pretty good.  But before we are quick to say “sign me up” you may remember that there was one critical ingredient that was missing. 

They had lost their First Love. 

And I wonder.  Isn't the greater tragedy not that it happened, but that they were unaware and functioning well without knowing it?  And this thought terrifies me.  

Because it means that a church can look good while relying on the strength of man but be a counterfeit of the living breathing Bride of Christ. 

The church here in North America is equipped in so many ways.  We have wealth, education, and giftedness.  There are programs to fit every need, multiple pastors to minister and support groups for our dysfunctions.  While these are all good things, I wonder if we are too fat... too well cared for.   Have we begun to lean upon our own understanding, upon the  "institution" of church rather than upon our First Love?  Has our excellence surpassed our Love?  The Bible says what we treasure will also be the location of our heart so perhaps that's the place to start looking.

As a nurse I know that one of the signs of impending death in a terminal illness is often an absence of hunger.  The body shuts down, quietly closing its doors to the sustenance of life.  Likewise, when the Bride loses her appetite for the Bridegroom, the perils of death await us. 

May God save us from ourselves and renew our love for the true Bread of Life..  

Truth

In reality I didn't know the truth.

I didn't know from where he hailed nor at that moment did I care.  The morning had gone from bad to worse and the responsibilities of the day hung over me like the stethoscope around my neck.  I knew I was in trouble when his wife accompanied him to the clinical testing area.  And then the communication debacle began.  His native language and mine did not jive, instructions had to be repeated and I could tell that the understanding was limited by the pauses between us.  The usual quick start to our testing stretched into time I didn't think I had.  I confess, I felt annoyed.  

However, once the testing ensued, I began to ask questions.  I really listened to this man instead of making a snap judgment, depriving him of his beauty and worth as one of God's creation.  I discovered that though his English was limited, his intelligence and life experiences far exceeded mine.  He was gracious and appreciative in a manner that I did not deserve.

And I was so convicted.  I began to see how easily I view others as obstacles to move about in my day.  I am pretty sure that Jesus, The Truth, would tell me those people are my day.

Today I am going to start my routine based upon the Truth.  That God so loved the world that He gave... And I pray that my perspective will be His.

Together

The sound of restaurant dishes tangling with silverware drowned out the stillness in my heart.  On the previous night I had met with an admired Christian author in Tucson and special memories circled in my mind as my hands encircled the coffee cup I was holding. Strangers before that evening, we had come together as one Christ follower with another.  A togetherness like no other.

Still, that next morning I was alone. Actually, that's the way I like it much of the time.  And on that intentionally planned solo trip, I found myself tucked away in the corner of the restaurant while the sun beckoned to me from the window on the other side.  A gentleman next to me, sharing the cushioned bench seating, shifted his weight causing my small frame to temporarily go airborne.  I chuckled to myself but really it only increased my sense of isolation and insignificance.  And then he dared to speak.  He asked about the breakfast. "Good", I answered quickly but like a cockroach returned to my darkened corner.  And then there was silence as he settled in for the long wait to be served his breakfast.  

And now, I wonder. Did he need to see Jesus in my eyes when I cast only a sideways glance and guarded my own discomfort?  And as I safely hid in obscurity, did I not cloister the very substance of the Gospel - caring enough about another to put aside my own comfort?  Do I not know that in a routine moment, God can change a life?  I am tired of not seeing into eyes.  I think He wants more from me than that.

My new friend in Tucson made herself available to a stranger. We shared face to face.

Together.

Should I offer another anything less ?

Grace Notes

The tiny Episcopalian church was nestled at the end of Wallace Circle where we lived.  She was Catholic and I was Baptist though I‘m quite sure neither of us could have articulated the theology of the camp that claimed us.  Slipping through the unlocked sanctuary doors, we would sashay across shellacked wooden pew seats and reach for musty hymn books.  The sweet sound of little girl’s voices escaped to the towering ceilings, a soprano melded with a harmonizing alto.  Strains of Fairest Lord Jesus and Be Thou My Vision poured from our lips long before we knew the One of whom we sang. 

Often we would see or hear the priest enter the area but he never discouraged our stealth worship.  It was as if he had clearly heard Jesus say, “Let the little children come unto Me”.  And come we did.

It would be years before those hours bore fruit in my life.  But Mercy’s arms are long for the reaching.  And recently I've been thinking a lot about moments like the “hymn sings”.  God so artfully weaves those golden strands through the dirt and grind of our lives.  And like the strength of a spider’s silken web, they are capable of supporting the weight of a life wearied soul if we but only pause to see them.

I have several that I can pull out of my own archives: 

Mr LaPole, the faithful (but boring) Sunday School teacher who tried to teach the Bible to a table of Junior High kids as he mopped sweat from his brow.   But he was there and I remember his commitment.

The church camp high that I experienced, hinting that there was "something more".

My serendipitous interview, as a journalism major, with Miss Teen America that led to a Campus Crusade for Christ encounter.

The faithful friends that walked with me, spoke truth into my life and held me accountable when my feet slipped off the narrow path.

All of these are holy moments- part of the Master Architect's grand design and just waiting to be rediscovered.  What are yours?

Laundry

Today I am teaming up with Lisa-Jo Baker on Five Minute Friday.  Each Friday she gives one word and bloggers from all over write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking. And then we link up with her.  Here's my first shot at it!

The word today is: Laundry.

                                                     

Laundry - a kind of a rite of passage in itself.  It means I am caring for myself and others in a concrete way.  For me, it’s a cleansing of more than the outer because I find it lightens the load (no pun intended).  There is something about a routine ritual that is part of living.  Its repetitive nature means there is no ultimate completion of this responsibility but for some reason, the sense of accomplishment rewards me.   Even sorting begins to release the pressure valve I experience when I see overflowing laundry baskets.  And as I work through the laundry process, there is time to think, plan and consider the things the Spirit has laid upon my heart.  It’s as if each disappearing pile gives me a more spacious place mentally to ruminate about life.

And isn't that how life is to be lived really?  Doing that which needs to be done but allowing the Lord to be part of it. 

Because laundry is what He does.  He takes that which is unclean and makes it clean.  Could there be a higher calling than that?

The Paralysis of Perfection

I met with a fitness guru recently at the gym I had joined some time ago.  One visit in the past year provided little return on my money so I opted to get a little help in the motivation department.  The trainer told me that my fat percentage was 32% and considered in the danger zone. That definitely got my attention.  She lectured with authority, tossing her blonde head from side to side as she spoke.  And then this Barbie Doll further convinced me with the story of some poor soul who had worked out faithfully in the gym but never correctly.  The wrap up: Once she entered his life, fitness took hold, the pounds fell off and he lived happily ever after. 

But when the price tag attached to her little miracle making was revealed, I slumped away sadly like the rich young ruler who had been told he had to sell all he had.  In fact, not only did I not hire her, but I did nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I was so afraid that I would be that poor failure of a soul who worked out incorrectly for the world to see, that I stayed away. 

Fitness is not my only dog in the fight.  Over the recent past, I have been on a hiatus from writing. Suddenly, it seemed like all the Barbie Doll writers were everywhere and I was the poor fool doing the writing exercises but doing them all wrong. Comparison released its poison.   I was back at that all or nothing point, allowing myself to buy the lie that if I am not the best, I need not apply.

Author Emily P Freeman says that admitting someone else could likely do it better (and probably has done it better) is freeing in itself since it takes us out of the competition mode.

Really, it’s not a matter of how many talents we have anyway but what we do with what we have.  Will we bury or invest?  Will we risk the opinion of the masses and even our own insecurity for the good of the returning Master?  Whether it is the body or our words, the precept is good stewardship.

Whatever there is - little or much - don't dig down but dig in.  And offer it UP.

Tiny Treasure

You were there weren't You Lord?  When our hearts were split open, raw and bleeding.  The day we watched our beautiful daughter rain down tears upon the newborn she cradled.  You came in the midst of our celebration, inconceivably disguised in the rags of Cystic Fibrosis and brought devastation. 

There was no way to prepare for this - our very personal 9/11.  We were floating in new baby bliss and absorbed with frilly pink dresses when the diagnosis first struck the safe fortress we had erected.  We prayed, we bargained and we denied reality.  We even dared to ask for that miracle. Minutes stretched into hours and hours into days as fear morphed into reality.

But we would relive that day again a thousand times to know the joys of this first year.  Not because You healed our baby, but because you healed us.  You gave us unending joy in the midst of circumstances we would never choose and a celebration of milestones and moments that are rendered ordinary in the absence of a life threatening disease.  A precious little girl captivates us every minute of every day, enriching our lives. In reality, we are all better people because of our Aubrey.  I now understand that You didn't cheat us. The truth is, You loved us way too much to give us the “lesser things” we thought we had to have.   Pain has seared the film from our eyes, restoring our perspective on what is good and what really matters.

Last week we celebrated her first birthday.  We sang. We clapped. And we wiped sticky frosting off of a happy little cherub’s face.  Our spirits soared in ecstasy as we watched her take hesitant steps upon wobbly legs, reaching for a future that You hold in Your Hands. 

And each time I kiss that velvety skin and see her blue eyes dance with laughter, I know it can’t get any better than this.

Singing in the Rain

Recently, a rather insignificant sentence leaped off the page - the obscure black print after the all important Red.  I was reading in the Gospel of Matthew and came across Matt 26: 30: When they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives. 

Hymns traditionally sung at the conclusion of the Passover fellowship were Egyptian Hallel Psalms – Psalms 115-118 –and were sung as praise.  Excuse me?  Singing and Praise?  But He knew.  He knew betrayal was coming.  He knew that He would bear the weight of the sin of the world and that His Father would soon turn His Face away. He knew there would be excruciating pain and darkness would descend.  And those He loved would scatter, even one who professed allegiance unto death. 

And yet, still He sang.

Obedience moved his voice and then it moved his feet as He assumed the path of suffering for me.  He was motivated by a love that I can’t possibly grasp and He gave a gift I can’t possibly earn.

But He also knew that a time was coming when the curtain would be torn and an empty grave would cease the sting of death.  And eventually there would be no more tears.  You see Jesus understands about hard things like chemotherapy, loss of a child and divorce.  He’s been to those impossible places of suffering that look as if nothing good can come from them and He's come back with the victory. 

Most of us sing praise when we are joyful and have a kick in our step but hardly en-route to our own crucifixion.  This makes me ask myself: How do I love those I know will betray me?  How do I face my accusers? How do I walk an avenue of guaranteed suffering and put my feet to the pavement when the storm is brewing and I feel like giving up? And yet still sing?

My response will determine whether mine is a life well lived.