The Story that's Not About Me.

It was a rude awakening this morning, I’ll admit.

My friend and I sat over coffee yesterday discussing life.  The struggles.  Our battles. Unanswered prayers. And where God fits in the whole equation. 

The thing is I want the story to be about me.  Desperately. For if it’s not, where does that leave me in the story and what should I being doing here on this page?  This page in my country. This page with my family. This page at my job. This page in the Story that’s not about me.

Sometimes we want to author it, don’t we?

We want characters to enter and join in the adventure.

Other times we want them to leave the plot completely.

We want to create a romance.

We want to be the hero.

We want to leave a legacy.

In the Story of Me.

But things enter in.  Plots we didn’t write in.  Tragedies we didn’t dream up.  Characters who hurt us.  Others who complicate paragraphs.  Who distract from the story, who enter in and turn our hero complex into characters we didn’t write in.

Others walk out, when we want them to stay.  The ones who bring color and life to a sometimes dreary black and white page.  Paragraph ended far too abruptly.

In the Story of Me.

What if we can trust that there is a Story.  A story that we are co-authors in with Someone who works for a reputable publishing company. The author wants to weave us in page after page as part of His grander story and the story is all about love.   And the tragedies, and losses, and unsavory characters are still there, yes.  But, the author uses it to reform his characters.  To mold them and shape them.  He uses it to re-author a story chapter after chapter and redeem the pain.

In the Story of Love.

And in this story, we have a hero, who leaves a legacy, and is our Greatest romance.

Who we can trust with the plot.  And the characters.  If we get to know Him.  The Author of the Story of Love.

And it’s hard, I know, to not want to grab the pen and take over.  Especially when the chapter is not going our way.  To want to make it again, the Story of Me.  But, the stories of me collide because our neighbor is writing a different one altogether.

So this morning, I’m thinking about stories, and especially the Story that’s not about me.

The Ladies in my Living Room

From as far back as I can remember I didn’t want to be a “Sunday Christian”.  My internal opposition to the formalities of traditional church caused arguments over shiny shoes and buttoned dresses. “Peace be with yous” and Sunday confessions made me feel vacant on a Wednesday.  I didn’t want a God of Sundays.  I wanted a God for a lifetime.

The personal Jesus who invaded my life as a twenty something, walked with me in Paris and in Rome.  He rose with me on grouchy mornings, came with me to dinner parties, sat with me at pubs, and yes, even came with me to church on Sundays. On the Sundays I didn’t attend, he sat with me over coffee, or as I visited with friends.  He was there on the duvet days, blankets up to chin, soaking in the rays of a slept in morning.  He was there too on the days I put him in a corner, or put him outside all together.  Knocking.  Waiting.  Longing. Forgiving.

Learning about the omnipresence of God, a Spirit who could be in all places, at all times, outside of church walls and stained glass windows, freed me immensely.  Meeting the redeemer who invested in me daily, who I could commune with in traffic and on knees, showered peace on my angst filled soul.

              

And then there were the ladies in my living room.

Women who also walk and talk with Jesus.  Who spill their dreams and longings to Him behind closed doors.  Who spill tears on sofa, in front of other women connected to His spirit.  Women united, on a mission, to live out a different sort of life, with a different sort of King, in a different kind of family.  Women who are not interested in a Sunday God, but who, more than anything want to know, more deeply, more intimately, this personal Jesus who loves them beyond measure; at their workplace, in traffic, at church, and on their slept-in Sundays. Who care more about resting in the grace filled places, than striving to earn some false imaged one.  Women who are growing and stretching and risking.  Brave women who fight battles that no one knows about.

I think God does his best work in the most ordinary of places.  And the seemingly ordinary women who sit in my living room-are in fact extraordinary ones, who are being led on an extravagant adventure.  Outside of the God of Sundays. With a very personal Jesus who is daily ransoming their beloved, brave, seeking, hearts. I can't wait to see where God will take us.

 

Saved by Grace

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am an avid reader and carry an affiliation for all things paper. At any one time you will find a stack of 5 or 6 partially read books atop my night table. The written word soothes my soul, revives my spirit, renews my intellect, recharges my batteries, and often helps me fall asleep.

 I can recall as a young child, being very excited about the concept of learning to read. As a 5 year old, too serious for her strawberry shortcake pajama’ed self, "A" is for Apple was digested under the dim light from the bed side table as if it were "War and Peace".  A stack of library books nestled closely, as I took in the smell of old tattered pages and plastic covers that protected the treasures that were my picture books. Books still provide that same sense of comfort and security for me. Some of my favorite afternoons have been spent getting lost in the world of book shops and libraries.

Becoming a parent only intensified my reliance on written guidance and reference. Like Google search at my fingertips, volumes of “What to Expect When You're Expecting”, “The First 12 months”, and “The Toddler Years” offered a refuge and lighthouse to my new parenting complex. When Olivia reached (and reaches) a new developmental milestone, you will find me tucked away at the back of a coffee shop soaking in new knowledge and wisdom to prepare myself for the battlefield that can be parenting. Armed with chapters and references, my parenting confidence again feels in tact. Theoretical underpinnings waiting to be put into practice.

How I love books. 

If I am to be honest, though, I sometimes think that the thing I love most about reading is in the not doing.  One can dream and imagine and get idealistic out the wazoo without having to actually make any sort of inward change.  We can get lost in our thoughts and our fairy tales as an escape from our circumstances, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but I think a whole lot more is expected from us than sitting stagnate, getting puffed up on knowledge; be it theological, or otherwise, and Jesus said so himself.

God wants our hearts more than anything which includes stepping out in action and we can’t very well do this if we are sitting in Starbucks consumed by Amazon orders.  Knowledge is essential and needed; beautiful, and evolving, but God didn’t come to perfect our intellect, He came to save our heart. He came to perfect our faith.

When I step downstairs in half an hour, after saying this, I promise you I will be dozing off with a novel of some sort in my grip, BUT…

I am mindful that the breath I take and the life that is chartered out for me is a result of my heart being ransomed daily ,even on the days when I clearly don’t deserve it.

I know with every morsel of my being that I’ve been pursued relentlessly and patiently through my questions, my doubts, and my hesitations. Because He loves me more than I really can comprehend and it’s okay that I can’t comprehend it.

I am grateful. Thankful. Owe my life, to the One who knows the unique making of my intellect and my being.  Who speaks into it in more creative ways than I could ever have dreamed up or imagined. Who always seems to be taking me on a wild ride. Who is faithful and good. Who is on my side.

I praise Him for wiring me for knowledge and books, but more than anything for creating my heart to fit like a puzzle piece with His. 

And this is something I definitely can’t order on Amazon.

~For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith, and this is not from yourselves, but is a gift from God~

Ephesians 2:8

Slippery Slopes

Being a Social Worker by profession and education has landed me in the world of the “grays”.  There is little to be found, at least in my 9 to 5 world, that exists in the simplicities of black and white.  Situations; no people, are muddled and complicated. There are layers upon layers of seeming truths, and everyone’s perspective, be it at times, vastly different, can oddly be equally valid. I’ve become comfortable in the land of the grays. Accepted it. Expected it.  Even embraced it.

But, I can emphatically tell you that there is one particular area in my life that fits nicely smack dab on one end of my black and white continuum and is unlikely to shift or progress anytime soon.  I will let you in on a secret friends:  I absolutely, unconditionally, passionately detest down-hill skiing.

And for those avid skiers who are preparing to send me their top ten tips of how they came to grow and love the sport, I will save you the energy and tell you, I’ve tried.  I really, truly have given it my best shot. But, alas, have come to terms with our incompatibility, and we have sadly broken up once and for all. It was time.  My friends knew it and deep down, I knew it.  We were wrong right from the start. And it’s best we went our separate ways.  The downhill skiis and I.

When I tell you I gave it my best shot, I really mean it.  At least a dozen times, maybe more I gave it the old college try.  I paced myself.  First, bunny hills.  Even lessons.  Stretching.  Psychological preparation.  Positive self talk.  Letting go and Letting God.  Becoming one with the breeze.  One with the mountain. Loosening the grip of control.  Only to once again, tumble, no, roll manically, forcefully, down an unfriendly mass of snow, all while losing a pole,  as well as the steadying piece of fiberglass that was to be faithfully linked to my boot. An ungraceful, tense, mascara-ed snow monster.  This is me on a mountain.  Just thinking of these moments, once again causes my blood pressure to rise.

So, why do I tell you my snow tale woes? Well, because I was reminded recently once again of this whole idea of being on slippery slopes.  And I'm not talking athleticism here.  I’m talking about those black diamonds you know you can’t go down.  The dangerous ones.  The mogul filled ones. The dead end ones.  The ones that can leave you in a broken heap with a busted rib on the side of a cliff.  Ones where you may have already collided with a tree, and had the rescue team come up and find you.  You know the ones I’m talking about.  The slippery slopes we just shouldn’t go down.

And the trickiest ones aren’t even the ones in the physical realm.  They’re the mental battles that play on our thoughts and emotions.  Thoughts that can enslave us.  Bring us down.  Tear us up.  Often we don’t even recall riding up in the chair-lift to start the descend.  Mostly we didn’t even intend to be on the hill in the first place.  But, then we find ourselves here, mid way through, air so frigid, eyes burning. Jaw clenched, poles gripped so tight it hurts to loosen.  Legs unsteady. Balance off. Shuddering in fear at the stream of bumps and crevices up ahead.  Knowing we will get hurt if someone doesn’t take us off  immediately.

Are you on a slippery slope? We’ve all been there haven’t we and it can be terrifying and discouraging trying to get off. If you are on one,  God urges you to lean in to him as He gently takes you down.  He invites you to listen, really listen to the mountains He wants you to stay off.  The ones that will hurt you.  The ones that will take you down.  He has your best interest at heart and is fully committed to your walk with Him and this includes your running and your skiing adventures.  While he wants you to always stretch, grow, and be challenged, He knows what is harmful to you, what will stunt you, what will ultimately only injure your beloved heart.  There are a team of rescuers waiting to take you down, and the most beautiful Savior back at the lodge who longs to sit with you and unpack the mystery of the mountains. Be encouraged. 

~But remember that the temptations that come into your life are no different from what others experience and God is faithful.  He will keep the temptation from becoming so strong that you can't stand up against it.  When you are tempted, he will show you a way out so that you will not give into it.~

Corinthians 10:13

Snow Days

Growing up in the country afforded me the luxury of feeling close to nature while fully experiencing the beauty of the seasons.  Our first summer at the new house gave my 11-year-old self endless hours of getting lost in the mystery that is the prairies, as I searched for bird’s nests or whatever other earthen treasure I could find. Afternoons were spent on bicycle, taking on the spirit of an explorer investigating new found land.  

Autumn brought the making of my first scarecrow. It sat atop our front veranda welcoming in the neighboring harvest, and greeting me as my foot stepped off the school bus at the end of a long day.  I didn’t know it then, but this move to the country, that took me away from the din and busyness of the city, offered me a playground for my imagination. It also introduced me to the wonders of a world that I suspected was created divinely.  The silence and the expansion of space spoke uniquely to my soul and whispered about a world bigger than the one that lay before me. As the sun set, I alone on my bicycle on a country road, couldn’t deny the presence of something, somebody.  I didn’t know it then, but God was already speaking to my pre-adolescent soul.  Introducing himself to me.  The little girl who lived the eighth house in on Arnold road.

Winter on the prairies, though beautiful, was more fierce and unruly.  Fragile drives to the city highway with hands clenched controlling swerving wheels.  Snow, piles of, thick, heavy, dense sparkling snow went on for what seemed like forever.  Beautiful in its appearance, but deadly on the stretches of open streets that were ungraced by lampposts or neighboring houses.  Snow that can swallow you up, rest on you, freeze you, and that offered no love for the wicked.

Our house, tucked away in the winter, felt like a refuge, a shelter from the elements.  Outside, wind could feel so sharp as if cutting through your once-warm face like an enemy.  Drifts that covered the once cleared driveway, seemed to take over, in their power and their might.  Drifts that trapped you.

The winter season on the prairies can be lonely and discouraging, much like the winter seasons in our lives.  Once fertile ground is covered now and the elements seem unbearable. Uninviting. And on the days that snow pants and hot chocolate equip us with some sense of pleasure; the snow angels,  fort building,  the ice skating,  we know that the magic can’t last forever.  At some point, we must go back inside.  And let’s face it.  Some of us just aren’t winter people.

Are you in a winter season in your life?  Are the trees barren? Is snow piled high, right outside your bay window? Are you feeling the fear of the unlit, icy gravel roads as you try to navigate your way to the highway?  Do you find yourself longing for summer days?  For the beauty of the birds, the birch trees, and the bluebells.  Are you discouraged by the endless snow that surrounds you?  Do you feel trapped in your refuge longing to break free and once again dance freely in the open field?

Though you may experience him less tangibly, God is with you in your winter season.  Offering you, yes, a cup of hot chocolate, toboggan days, or a book by the fire, but more so, His faithfulness, His shepherding, he offers you Him.

He promises to see you through it in His time, and in His way.  Perhaps he has you here for a reason.  To grow you in your faith.  To refine your character.  To teach you more about his love.  To show you about the beauty of the freshly fallen snow. The unity of the family in shelter from the storm. 

And in it-in the winter season-we celebrate the birth of a Savior.  And I couldn’t think of a more applicable time to celebrate.  To remind us that there is so much more than the snow drifts and the frigid temperatures. To remind us that once again warmth and light will come, renewing us and bringing peace and freedom.

On our snow days, whether they’ve been days, months, or even what seems like years, He’s got you and will see you through to summer once again.  In the meantime, He may just want to show you the beauty of the winter. The beauty of a coming King who lay in a manger. Who has come to give you life and to be the lover of your soul.

~There is a time for every event under heaven-a time to give birth and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.  A time to kill and a time to heal; a time to tear down and a time to build up.  A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance~

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

 

Scaling Mountains

One thing, I believe, every little girl has in common is the sense of wonderment and awe when handed their very first diary.  I started one at the age of 8 or 9, and continue to keep up this tradition during different seasons, both high and low, in my adult life.  I do not know where men stand on this particular issue, but I have a couple of male friends who find this activity just as significant in their XY chromosomal existence. Something of which by the way, I have about as much understanding of as landing on the moon.

There is something very powerful in the recording of one’s life.  One’s story.  The inner thoughts and longings.  Celebrated successes and battles, lost or still waging.  It’s satisfying and gratifying to know how far you’ve come.  The progress made, the goals attained.

But, bear with me, if you will for a moment as I take off the rose colored glasses and be completely frank.  There are things in each of our lives, that like a record player stuck on a particularly bad tune, play. Over. And over.  And over.  There are times when I glance back at journal entries from long ago and see unanswered prayers and struggles that I may as well have photocopied and plastered in preparation for the following year.  The meandering and perusing back through my written history can, if viewed with the wrong lenses, be rather depressing.

Like you, I’ve got a couple of stuck recorded songs. Battles I’ve fought and lost.  Others I’m still slugging away at.  Mountains I’m still scaling.  There have been times on my climb I’ve been badly injured, and had to take a break to recoup from the rocky terrain.  There have been others, where the weather has not co-operated with my intentions, leaving deathly frostbites and me to breathe in air so thin I’ve been unable to maintain focus.  Other times, the climb has felt too discouraging and I instead sat nearby in my tent, cursing the steepness and planning my nearest descend.

Are you climbing?  Have you been on this particular mountain for what seems like forever and a day?  If you are hanging by your rope, overwhelmed with the distance ahead, please stop and take in the mountain air and hear me on this:

God has not forgotten you.  He cares about your climb beyond what you can imagine.  In fact, He's anchoring the rope awaiting your presence at the top.  And as your climbing, He's also there beside you, no matter how long it takes, or regardless of the seemingly false starts you've had.  He wants to bring you to completion, and this includes refining your character and your mind.  Your heart's desires, are there with you too, on that mountain climb.  He knows them.  He's given them to you.  Do you think then, he will leave you there hanging without bringing you to the pinnacle of his beautiful grand majestic view?

We are all on that mountain.  Sweating. Struggling.  Fearful.  Tired.  Climbing.  We have a Beloved travelling partner with us on our climb, who shelters us from cold and windy days, nurses our injuries when jagged edges knock us down, and who cheers us on and celebrates our victory when we reach the summit.  He will not leave or forsake you on your challenge.  He promises it so.

~For I can do everything with the help of Christ who gives me the strength I need~

Philippians 4:13

A Spoonful of Sugar

I have this book that is collecting a whole lot of dust upstairs.  It sits amid my library collection in my daughter’s play room.  I’m not sure when, and for that matter, why, I picked up this book on my travels as I glance down now and read the cover page: “The Five Love Languages: How to express heartfelt commitment to your mate”.   The bad news is the novel is receiving about as much attention as my exercise ball that sits in the same room. The good news is my golden retriever can now count on my heartfelt commitment and attunement to her love language.

But I digress…

Gary Chapman, author of the bestseller, breaks down in layman’s terms, the five key areas that essentially make a person feel loved and cherished by, not only their spouse, but by people in their life in general.  The summary is we all gravitate towards one particular love language, essentially ways that make us feel most loved.  For example, some people thrive and flourish with a physically affectionate mate, while others would shutter at the thought of a human Velcro accompanying them throughout life.  Others find contentment and peace in having things like special gifts given to them. While others are content living out of a cardboard box.  You get the picture…

The reason why I am telling you this is to let you in on a secret.  I. Love. Words.  My best friends know this about me.  How to encourage me when I am down.  How to cheer me on and pick me back up.  Like a gigantic warm fuzzy, these words of affirmation, of qualities they uniquely see in me, wrap around and squeeze me like an over zealous Ukrainian Baba.  My love language is words.  This makes buying gifts for me, very affordable and extremely economical.  It also makes my greeting card shopping for others, somewhat time consuming and excruciating.  But, back to the topic of sugar…

I think of these ways we feel loved-words for me-like spoonfuls of sugar. Like healing, soothing balm to our sometimes fragile, weary souls, Ms Poppins really did have something going on with the whole spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down thing.  For, life is a whole lot easier when we feel treasured, endeared, cared for and loved on uniquely.  The sugar {i.e. love language} buffers the sore scratchy throats of life.  It eases and melts the aches and pains of our stiff, rigid joints. “In the most delightful way”.

The thing about love is it corrects us.  Without relationship, it is impossible for us to grow, develop, and evolve.  When we love someone, and when they truly know us, down to our not so nice parts, we trust that they have our best interest in mind.  And like a spoonful of sugar, they can help facilitate the most difficult things we have to swallow.  The things we need to change in our selves.  Old patterns that are no longer serving an interest.  Old mistakes that hold us back from God’s will for our lives.

There is a technique in family therapy that the therapist refers to as the “stroke and kick” method.  Ultimately, the things that need to be changed within a client in the counseling setting, need first care, love and attention {i.e. the stroke} of the therapist before the individual is gently challenged on their difficulties {i.e. the kick}. I think God works on our hearts like this too.  He focuses first on his relationship with us.  His love and care for us.  He pursues us to ally with us.  He grows us in a place of trust first before the medicine must go down.  Before he starts challenging us on the areas in our life we need to care for and pay attention to.

The medicine never tastes good. In fact, at times it is down right awful and gag worthy.  But, it is essential for our spiritual growth, and will, I believe, invite us in on the journey of God’s most "delightful" plan for our lives if we allow him to make us well.

Be blessed! ~Christy

Faith in Numbers

“Girl, you’ve got some faith”, she said to me with shopping bags weighing down her tired shoulders.  It was late on a Sunday afternoon in foggy London town and a girlfriend and I had just finished a whole day of city wandering.  Between baristas and bookstores she, I think, had hoped I’d call it a day.  But, knowing my Sunday routine the commitment was set in stone to be alongside for the journey which included a 7 p.m. church service many miles from our shared accommodation. We collapsed into the pew covered by bags and bad attitudes.

I used to spend a good portion of my Sundays living on public transportation.  Leaving my flat around 3 o'clock in the afternoon to embark on what felt like a grand adventure, introduced me to the alternate ego of the city that was trains, tubes, and buses, not to mention the mastered art of high heeled walking.  All to sit in the back corner of a well known church in the south west end of London, just around the corner from the infamous Harrods department store. 

I dedicated this six hour journey on a weekly basis to grow closer in my faith to God.  I thirsted for Him deeply and enjoyed these moments of solitude in both preparing for and having drank from his proverbial cup.  The acoustic guitar echoed throughout the vast space of the century old church.  Years of history soaked the walls.  Grace spilled from the stained glass windows.  A random conversation in Winnipeg, before moving, led me here to this place.  The place that carried me through the better part of my spiritual walk while I lived overseas.  The place that prepared me for the weeks ahead.

But, more often than not, during this season and others, I felt like a faceless Christian;  masquerading through the busy streets of the urban jungle.  Longing for God in the public places where he wasn’t spoken of, loving him in the private moments where I could sing his praise.  Careful not to say the “J” word for fear of losing friends and alienating people.  Very much alone on my journey with him.  A long, slow, drawn out challenging journey where the waves could easily toss me about.  Seeing ships of people dancing in the moonlight, sipping drinks, and celebrating, only to be alongside them paddling solo in my canoe.  I wonder, have you been there?

One tangible thing God has taught me over this past decade is the importance of living in community.  While I relished and treasured my seasons alone with God, it’s in community, with other people who I can love and talk and pray with, that my faith has been more apt to grow. 

The single most influential thing that brings me closer to Jesus, aside from his pursuance and spirit, is the people in my life who know Him.  Who live for Him.  And honor Him.  Who bend to Him.  People who have walked through infertility, who have shouldered the burden of depression, who have been crippled in pain, who have lost loved ones, but who trust in Him at his word and fall to him in their valleys.

Broken, complicated, messy people whom he loves deeply and fiercely.  Who are his children. Who walk beside me, pray for me, encourage me and serve with me. And I wonder, why I didn't do this sooner.  This whole living in community thing.

Jesus spent time in prayer and solitude, absolutely, but he spent most of his time relationally. He hand-picked a group to walk and share life with.  Imperfect people.  Perfect community.  If you are walking solo, or alone in your canoe, there is a ship full of community just waiting to take you on board. And the celebration needs your presence.  Your faith just may need it too. If you are struggling solo in your boat, glance up and I promise, he will pour out community on you.

~When two or three gather together because they are mine, I am there among them.~Matthew 18:20

On My Plate

For those faithful readers who are scratching their heads at my lack of posts as of late, my apologies.  This season of my life has turned into a busy one. Correction, chaotic one and the shifting and tweaking and rebalancing of all the “areas” has resulted in a smaller amount of time to sit and hunker down and get lost in my word filled dreams.  I miss it.

And, more importantly, I miss connecting with you.

To avoid all of the yawn filled explanations, it really does come down to these three small words, involving, having a lot:

On My Plate.

And, I know you can relate.

Glancing down at it, months ago, I thought it was already a full one. Heaps of mashed potatoes, gravy soaked turkey breast, steamed vegetables smothered in cheese, luscious full cranberries, not to mention all the casseroles. And, I wonder, how will I have room for dessert?

Because, I want to have room to enjoy and to play and to laugh and to take in the moment of the taste of the pie that awaits. But, I worry.  I worry that after the meal, there will be no more room and I will want instead to lie down and rest.  And, I can’t think that God would have me miss out on dessert. 

I relish the quiet seasons with God.  Resting in Him.  Praying with Him.  Drawing close to Him.  Taking in His creation, as I walk with Him, pouring my heart and my life out to the one who knows my name.  This is when I feel most connected. Most alive.  Almost tangibly as if I can feel myself in the crooks of his fingers and the palm of his hand.

But, he is calling me to a different place now and even in the harried activity and the rushing and tasks I must accomplish, he is with me just as much as when I walk with him in the woods.  Because, he is always there. Even when I feel there is no space for him.

Is your plate full?  It’s okay friend, because mine is too.  And the good news is God is with us at our table.  In fact, he’s called us to be here for a season.  And he’s in it. Every waking harried moment of it.  He’s still calling us.  Loving on us.  Faithful to us.  Guiding us.  Let’s walk through this season with each other and with Him and trust in the beauty that he will make of it as we are faithful and trust him.

Have a blessed day.  He goes with you.

~I will be your God throughout your lifetime-until your hair is white with age.  I made you, and I will care for you.  I will carry you along and save you.~Isaiah 46:4