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.

Divine Disruption

Interruptions.  We all have them.  The scenarios vary but essentially life is going as planned.  Then suddenly, our perceived control of life comes to a screeching halt.  Life throws us a curve, resulting in everything from minor annoyance to a major crisis.  Why can't we shut the door to these intruders?.

A closer look at Scripture reveals that God has set the stage for interruption. That’s His modus operandi.  He interrupted Mary’s life with a virgin birth, the apostle Paul’s with blindness and Christ's with a cross.  In fact, every person in Scripture who was used by God was intruded upon for the furtherance of His Glory. So why do we, as actors on the stage of life, feel we should escape the way of the Great Playwright? 

Karine Matter of Groveland, CA knows about interruption.  She will be moving her family and essential belongings for a third time this week due to wildfire.  I watched as the CNN commentator struggled to respond to her position of faith in the midst of this tragic encounter.  God used this moment to proclaim Himself over national TV.  Karine has learned that all of life is mission, even catastrophic interruption.

We too must embrace intrusion because life often happens in the middle of routine.  The Good Samaritan’s problem is also ours.  There are wounded people left along our path, often disguised as interruptions.  They are inconvenient, messy and costly.  But as God’s image bearers, this is our call.

Of course the greatest interruption of all comes in the form of God’s Grace.  It cares not for the darkness it enters.  It invades broken dreams, adulterous affairs and plastic religion.  It scoops up dead men and breathes new life into dry bones.  Though often unwanted and uninvited, it bursts upon the scene.  But oh the life that is changed!

So instead, let's view interruption as divine disruption.  For it might well be a “springboard moment” that has the power to change a destiny.