The Father's heart

 “This story doesn’t make sense”, her furrowed brow stared back at me through  rear view mirror frustrations. Rule of thumb in this mom’s house is to postpone, for as long as one reasonably can, allowing adequate time for explanations translatable to a four year old’s psyche.

It was only Wednesday, but the remnants of lunch at her chin, and the glazed look in her almond shaped eyes, made 5 o’clock feel like forever and day.  The shuttle service of parent of one narrowly escaped an SOS on the side of the road following a fill up at the local gas pump.  A change of clothes, a lick of the cheek, and a pat down of hair *and they’re off* had us on the race of fueling musical and artistic developments at my daughter’s weekly piano lessons.

Saying I was coasting on a wonder drug of auto-pilot was an understatement.   The week had been an especially long one. Until it hit me, like a brick to the head.  Her question about family trees and lineage. Though this time in the biblical sense of the word.

“Who is Jesus’ dad?” Somewhere between Iroquois Bay and this is too complicated street, I fumbled and jostled, hoping to hear a resounding, “okay” with quenched childhood curiosity.  But, the questions kept coming and the weak attempts at three in one answers sat on the dashboard like a layer of week old dust.  “But I thought Jesus was God.”  “ How could he create him if they are the same person?” “ How can someone be three things?” All questions and concepts we had discussed before at some level appropriate to the time and the occasion. 

But my daughter was having a four year old crisis of faith and it all boiled down to this moment.

This moment that I dropped the ball in.  Because I couldn’t explain it.  Because it didn’t make sense.  Because if felt complicated.  And abstract.  And so not 2012.  And did I mention I was tired?

But later in the evening when the dust settled and bedtime kisses did their rounds, I got thinking.  About fathers and sons, heartstrings, and love stories.  About presence in absence.   Fondness in forgiveness. And the ultimate cost of what it means to sacrifice for your child. 

And while I can only scrape the surface of the intimacy behind the Father’s love for his Son, and the complexities of his many parts to my four year old girl, I can tackle the higher calling of what it means to lay a life down for another. To win her heart.  To pave her path.  To show her love and faith in action over bed time prayers, tearful “I’m sorry’s”, and strivings to make her life the best chapter in our little story, in this corner of planet Earth.

  

And here, in this chapter, all the while He points us back to something bigger.   Something mysterious. Something that brings us home. That wakes us up.  Calling us in again and again and again. Relying on and digging into the biggest heart of all.  The one that loves beyond limits.  Beyond conditions. And above our wildest dreams. Enough to withstand mockery, egos, and battles of human will. Who lays it all down, surrendering all.  Opening heart, spilling blood, and turning cheek. Waiting.  Longing. To be welcomed in. Into the Father’s heart.

No one has ever seen God.  But the unique One, who is himself God, is near to the Father’s heart.  He has revealed God to us.

~John 1:18

The Artist

The studio is dark this time of day as shadows comfort the naked spaces. Finished pieces wait to be framed in wood. Specks on white paper frown at ruined chances of mantel places. Oily brushes with broken bristle long for a sculpted hand to dance with.

The perfume of turpentine tickles senses as rays peak in, spotlighting the angles and emptiness of the room. The clock beats and the street din below echo.

His knees limber over the workman’s stool; the one with the squeaky wheels, accustomed to moving here. Unassuming, he nestles attuned to his masterpiece, that for now is not more than blues and greens and hues of purple swirled, mixed, and bent.

The hair at his shoulders hangs carelessly, yet somehow still flawless. His concern for the detail obvious in every stroke and  with every caress of brush. In dipping of paint. And fixing of error.  Crumpled handkerchief low at his pocket, dirty and grimy; needed.  His eyes gaze intently and considerately, weighing what has been lay down, to the white space where lilies and lovers have yet to grace pages.  He’s the painter we’ve been longing for.

The canvas sits exposed before Him, coming to life at His touch; unadorned without Him.  In strokes intimate and careful, the artist and his brush create beauty from ashes, meaning from matter, movement from what stands still. Stretched cloth crying out for his design. His deity. Him divine.

And in the mystery of his motion, our souls are stirred; our lives more beautiful. Needing the painter to grace our corners, and color our landscapes. Unveiling a story that at first or last glance, moves hearts to meet this art Maker.

Dormant Dreams

 I haven’t been a writer long enough to know the tricks of the trade when it comes to writer’s block.  I imagine it’s a bit like sports psychology. Breaking the silence. Bringing forth voice. I’m not sure who or what sealed my mouth shut and cuffed my hands. The worst part about it is what the heart does.  When dreams lay dormant.  Speechless. Stifled.

I’m blaming it on summer.  Rest-filled days.  Worshipping sun and patio decks.  Carefree reverie. Scorched skin and sand dipped toes. Adventures at dusk to park slides and swing sets.  Mastering art of bike rides and ice cream drips.

It’s easy to find distractions, isn’t it?  To live with eyes shut, heart safe, and valley days.  Preparing for mountain climbs is daunting. Costly and fear-filled.  A welcome mat greets us to bask in the sunshine of the valley, where the terrain is smooth, and the wind blows ever so softly.

But, He calls us to step out. To step up, and move mountains. To peel off tape and speak. His journey for you lays within.  His guidance and presence in your valley seasons, and on your mountain climb is real and accessible. 

Rise. Trust. Speak.  The world needs you.  You've got Someone who cares about this beyond your wildest dormant dreams.

~He cared for them with a true heart and led them with skillful hands.

Psalm 78:72

Sunday Scripture {Enthralled by your beauty}

"Listen, O daughter, consider and give ear:  Forget your people and your father's house.  

The king is enthralled by your beauty;

honor him, for he is your Lord."

~Psalm 45:10-11

Sunday Scripture {what matters most}

"No, this is the kind of fasting I want.  Free those who are wrongly imprisoned; lighten the burden of those who work for you.  Let the oppressed go free, and remove the chains that bind people.  Share your food with the hungry, and give shelter to the homeless.  Give clothes to those who need them, and do not hide from relatives who need your help."

~Isaiah 58:6-9

Sunday Scripture {Chin Up}



"You, O Lord, are a shield around me; you are my glory, the one who holds my head high."

~Psalm 3:3

Sunday Scripture {Like a Father}

"The Lord is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear him.  For he knows how weak we are; he remembers we are only dust."

Psalm 103:13-14

Celebrating our accomplishments

Humility and humbleness is a big theme I glean from scriptures.  It’s attractive to me, and it stands out when put into practice.  Verse after verse speaks to God’s favor of the humble over the proud or haughty. Children inherit the kingdom of God.  We are reminded we must become like them and this includes, in a big way, checking our pride at the back door.  Surrendering it to Him who is without it.

I come from a genealogical line of humble women. My grandmother, my mother, and my sisters will be the first to put others before themselves.  They are faith in action and in a true and real way carry out acts of selfless love when it comes to putting others before themselves.  I think this rings true with many women.  We are taught to serve. To help. To love.  To wash feet.  To open doors.  To feed. To bend.  To adapt.  To sacrifice.

Sometimes in this serving, however, I think women can forget to honor and mark and celebrate those things we’ve risen above, created, or achieved.  While we are taught to be God honoring and people loving, we must not forget to be compassionate with our selves, and be satisfied with our accomplishments, which includes thanksgiving to God for how he lifts us up and helps us in our victories.  Be it in our physical or spiritual.

However big or small, what today, or this week, have you accomplished through Christ’s strength in you? May I encourage you to celebrate it, share it, and recognize it.  What you’ve risen above and reached for is just the beginning of where God wants to take you.

“With God’s help we will do mighty things….”

~Psalm 60:12

Sunday Scripture {Under Construction}

"I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns."

~Philippians 1:6

The shoulds, the haves, and the might have been's.

Are you a perfectionist?  With age, does come wisdom, and while I’m not a self proclaimed perfectionist in the worldly sense {you should honestly see the state of my desk and my car as I write}, when it comes to the standards I have for myself, I’m my own worst enemy.  And I know I’m not alone in this.

I’m beginning to think the 12 Steppers are on to something when they rehearse the Serenity Prayer as a daily reminder to tread lightly with themselves.  Easy on the heart.  Gentle on the mind.  And with the curb side trash, so too can the shoulds, the haves, and the might have been’s be set down nicely alongside their nagging, recyclable selves.

The attraction to Jesus is we get the sense he rolled Type B through and through.  He valued heart and people over mind and rules.  He took risks.  He stepped out.  He pushed boundaries. He broke bread. He drank wine.  He trusted. He wept.  He laughed.  And while we are told that he experienced anguish and suffering, it didn’t appear that he stressed about his performance along the road.  Status quo didn’t infiltrate his thought patterns.  Image was thrown away from as early as the manger and in the belly of the teenage mom. The shoulds, the haves, and the might have been’s were nailed on the wooden beams.  He walked by active, intentional faith and connection to his Abba father. He relied on His strength.  He surrendered in prayer.  He had disagreements and conflict and political hoops to jump through.  He doubted. He grappled.  He faced grief and loss. He was rejected and betrayed.  He didn’t measure up by societal terms.  He wasn’t wealthy.  Life went anything but smoothly and was completely unpredictable.  Sound familiar?

Joseph Conrad once said, “The artist speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives, to our sense of pity, and beauty and pain”.  As with art, beauty, and true love, there exists no room for our self imposed pressure and the expectations we place on our shoulders. Of the shoulds. The haves. And the might have been’s.  Just mystery. And beauty. And yes too, pain.  But more than this, an Abba father who is invested very much in all of it; who longs to shine through the cracks and gaps and broken places.  In you.  In me.  In all of us.

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me.

~2 Corinthians 12:9

Sunday Scripture {Prayer part two}

The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and wonderful results.

~James 5:16

Happy Mother's Day!

In my father's arms.

A little while ago I wrote about seasons.  The thing is I can feel another one bubbling up. Changing.  Travels are pending.  Routine is closing in for the summer. And my little girl starts kindergarten in 3 short months. Time is slipping. Spinning.  Moving.  Just yesterday I ordered a bundle of skin care products to hurl back weapons at the whole thing; the movement and the gravitational pull. On my heart. On my life.  On my face.

My Buddhist friends have it nailed when they talk about life being full of suffering and beauty.  Embracing and letting go; in very simplified terms.  The paradox of welcoming in birth, only to seal the coffin on another.  The unabashed joy, alongside the heavy hearted grief. Welcoming and releasing; and loosely holding both in your hands.

Yesterday as I drove home the din of the windshield wipers soothed my anxious heart, and cleared my vision. Confidence rose up again and peace settled in comfortably as He reminded me that despite the changes, He’s got me. And though the pieces slip through my fingers, they don’t slip through His. I am safe here.  In my father’s arms.

“You will be safe in His arms
You will be safe in His arms
'Cause the hands that hold the world are holding your heart
This is the promise He made
He will be with You always
When everything is falling apart
You will be safe in His arms”

~Lyrics by Phil Wickham

Sunday Scripture {The Power of Prayer}

And we can be confident that he will listen to us whenever we ask him for anything in line wtih his will.  And if we know he is listening when we make our requests, we can be sure that he will give us what we ask for.

~1 John 5:14-15

Flambeed Faith

I wonder, have you got a sweet tooth?  Or, like me, do you prefer the diversity of the sugary and the salt, welcoming in recipes from cinnamon buns, to chips and dip?

Can we talk food for a moment here?

I give credit to Mrs Karol Ladd, scholar of scripture, and woman of faith. She used a recent story to illustrate God's purpose in our sometimes very jagged roads of life.  And the word pictures had to do with all things divine and delicious to tempt your palate.

Morsels of rich New York style cheesecake, to grandma's apple pie, our individual "life" recipes are as unique and diversified as the range and wonder of the findings in a pastry kitchen.

The temptation in baking, as in life, is to want to trade  in for something more appealing.  More tantalizing. When our meringue falls flat, or our muffins raise lop sided, or worse, glued to the ungreased pan, it is easier than not to glance at our "failed" product while eyeing up our neighbors' meticulously sculpted fruit flan.  And really, who wants to be Aunt Sarah's fruit cake?

Last night, I chuckled to myself in reflection of Ms. Ladd's study, and surmised that over these recent years my "recipe" is pretty much anything flambeed. Anything that involves extreme heat.  Bananas Foster, Creme Brule, and a small audience of people who could witness the whole thing go up in smoke.

I'm flambeed faith. But, at least I'm not Aunt Sarah's fruitcake.

God gives us each a recipe. I don't know what yours is, but I'm certain that the specific ingredients you require are structured and configured very differently than mine.  It may involve sitting and waiting as it rises.  It may involve refrigeration as it solidifies and strengthens.  It may involve some time under the elements.  Or, it may involve extreme heat on display.

Each are beautiful.  Each exquisite.  Each morsels of heaven in their own right if tended to obediently, wisely, carefully, and passionately.  Focus on the recipe He's given you. It's been handed to you for a reason and He wants to use it well to glorify Him.

Happy Baking.

The sun has one kind of glory, while the moon and stars each have another kind.  And even the stars differ from each other in their beauty and brightness.

~1 Corinthians 15:41

Blessed Be Your Name

I grew up singing hymns in the pew. Flipping back and forth between “Glory and Praise”  and the “Catholic Book of Worship”.  Concentrating hard on the right page numbers and the correct verse to be followed.   Tracing music notes with my small fingers.  Up and down and down and up.  Rest and rest and start again.  A lady led us on organ.  My dad filed his already manicured nails.  There was one good singer in a rotation of many who came around about once per month, and when she did the sleepy congregation was recharged and revived.  Her voice poured out evidence of a heart filled with Jesus. She made my mother weep. She made me crave the donuts that were awaiting us in our Sunday school class.

I entered my first church as an adult in blue jeans.  I recalled too many fights over fancy shoes as a kid and I had one stipulation with God: I’d try out this church thing again, after many years, but I came with the blue jeans and he’d have to take it or leave it. I was done with pretenses and I was searching for the living authentic God who wasn’t concerned with fashion.   And, this time, I needed more than the donuts after the service. I needed him to take hold of my heart like a long lost lover, embrace me as his little girl, and never let me go.

He met me in that place the very first day.  Alas, there was no organ lady.  No angelic soprano.  No manicurist to my left.  But, a man, a guitar, and U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” blasting from the auditorium.  I had shivers run down my spine. He whispered in my ear in a personal and real way. I felt deeply blessed that he made himself known to me when I asked him to. And He has faithfully walked with me since.

My experience of worship has never since been the same. To have an outlet for the overflowing cup of blessings that are poured into my life, gives me an experience of being connected in an intimate way to my heavenly father. Rubbing shoulders with fellow believers who have been in or are in the trenches of life, yet who still come before him, palms up, voices lifted, thanking him for the gift alone of knowing him, is on it's own, a blessing.

Knowing there is an anchor despite life's ups and downs, and all arounds.  The blessings and the heartaches.  Teaches me to be less concerned with the results of my faith, and expectancies that life will somehow now go my way, but to bask in the beauty and mystery that I have a blessed redeemer who knows my name, hears my voice, and has my heart in the palm of his hands.  From this day forward.  For better or for worse. I am blessed.

 

 

“You give and take away.  You give and take away.  My heart will choose to say, Lord blessed be your name.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.  Blessed be your name.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.  Blessed be your glorious name”. ~ Lyrics "Blessed Be Your Name" by Matt Redman

The Chair

I didn't know it then, but that drive home was marked on our hearts and etched on our memories as the end of a chapter and the dawning of a whole new story. The day we brought the chair home.

The maple sat naked, waiting to soak in bristles of satin finished eggshell latex. Dipped in milky wonder.  Back and forth. And back again.  A swelling belly making strokes amateur and awkward.  Kicking of tiny toes tapping at a belly button that once existed, but for several months would play hide and seek behind clothes stretched across a life expanding.  Bursting forth.  Joyously.  Expectantly.  Anticipating. Her.

"One Hundred Promises to my Baby " dog-eared and sponged in, lay atop it's seat.  When pages met wood they sat alone in a dim lit buttercup room.  The one adjacent to mine. Beside the narrow window.  Orange and golden plush giraffe with beady eyes leaning on its spindles waited for nursery rhymes and whispered promises.  Shadows of cherry tree branches in bloom danced across its vintage seat.

When she came home she lay cushioned in the crook of my elbow, with soft temple, and baby smell so sweet you could drink her in.  We rocked.  And before we knew it the songs began.

Soon, the cherry tree shed its leaves, and snow balanced almost divinely on its branches.  Little legs became more limber.  Coos and cries left behind for blistered knee needing bandage.  A whisper goodbye for mommy to welcome in her mom, shortened bed time song.  Nighttime prayers and butterfly kisses taken over by an independence seeping in.  The rockers becoming more stagnate.  Hush little babies, more still.

Powder blue quilts draped on its spine now princess fleece.  Little girl dresses with bows and buttons welcome in a new era, a one other from the day we brought the chair home.

But, with every rock still comes the mystery of the clinging and the letting go.  Clinging.  Letting go.  Clinging.  Letting go.  Her backpack draped over knobbled rung  Offering her an escape beyond our walls.  Beyond the chair.  Beyond our rocking. Of memories and wonders of solid wood that offered a platform for grace, and beauty, and magic for this mother's heart.  Of her baby girl. 

And I hope she always, always remembers the rocking.

Sunday Scripture {Living Peacefully}

Never pay back evil for evil to anyone.  Do things in such a way that everyone can see you are honorable.  Do your part to live in peace with everyone, as much as possible.

~Romans 12:17-18

A tall order, but one that God promises to provide and help you with!

Happy Sunday,

Christy

Sunday Scripture {Lean on Me}

"So now, come back to your God! Act on the principles of love and justice, and always live in confident dependence on your God"

~Hosea 12:8~

All things New

I sit outside my daughter's dance class.  This week alone, I swear she's grown 2 inches.  "Mommy, are there more classes after this one?"  It is only her second, but I can tell she's taken a shining to the powder pink.  The smooth, shiny Lycra.  The pointed soft shoe.

Just yesterday we glanced up only to find our front yard's big old elm tree sprouting it's first green buds of the season.  It got me thinking about tire swings, grass stains, red rover, and grandmas.  Mostly, though it got me thinking about beginnings.  About do-overs.  Fresh starts.  Reconciliation.  Redemption.  And this whole business of Spring.

Since I'm new at this mommy thing, I can't tell you for certain, but I'm beginning to wonder if parenting can be a whole lot like the changing of the seasons.

Of the joyous, carefree summer days.  In moments that catch you unexpected. Like a three foot majesty who alone in her pj's, with chipped toenail polish, and sleepy morning time kisses, can make you believe in angels, in heaven, and in the coming of true love.

Or the renewal of autumn.  The shedding of car seats, the discarding of soothers.  First steps, first days, and first dates.  The falling of memories, the scrap booking of leaves.

To the freezing of neighborhood ponds.  Personality traits solidified as the trials and tests of childhood refine and reveal in a ten year old's nature what you knew to be true at two.

And the swaying and froing of old tire swings and rubber boots under old elm trees.  As new growth presents itself, mother's worries and woes are pushed away as debris.  Composted.  Recycled.  Making way for greener pastures and expectancies of fragrant blossoms.  Perennial promises holding faithful and true.

Some days.  Most days.  I can't believe He's entrusted me with this sacred gift of tending and shaping her feminine heart.  I think about, but not enough, how He wants to speak into our seasons.  How He wants to speak into our hearts.  And while I want to shield her from those seasons that come with frigid frostbite.  Desert droughts.  And days of consecutive rain;  I know my anchor to His is the best and most crucial thing I can point her to.  Again. And again.  And again.  In the shedding, and in the freezing. In the blooming, and in the renewing.  In our seasons~

...Look, I make all things new!

~Revelations 21:5~

Attic corners

We sat next to each other in the dark.  Sneakers squeaking as the giggles echoed. The anticipation rose as the projector began to roll.  Images of children. Teeth so white and skin so dark it was next to impossible to forget their beautiful faces.  I didn’t know it then, but God planted a seed that day. That day, in our school gymnasium, on my eight year old heart that’s stuck around and germinated.  Blooming and blossoming in the back drop of this simple girls’ life.  Africa. Quite simply, Africa.  Whispers and tugs and pulls on my heart strings like puppets manoeuvring as if by magic.  God sized dreams are like that, aren’t they? Coming out of what seems like nowhere, and never ever letting go. 

It was years later still and you’d find me dancing. An amethyst green dress, its hem gracefully skimming the toe of my high heels. He held me confidently.  Like familiar faces that knew each other from years gone past.  He spoke first in Spanish. Not as boldly as his hand had graced my waste, but with effort.  And we laughed and swayed. Memories shared about travels.  Photographs viewed into the night of backpacks, bright colors, and dusty roads.  And I felt a seed germinating. Busting through soil, calling forth light.

The thing about God sized dreams is they enter in at seemingly odd junctures in life and seem to take root and cannot be shaken.  Often times, they’re inexplicable.  Ambiguous.  Many times, illogical.  But always.  Always, they get our hearts beating and passions stirring and hang on tightly, welcoming us to step out of our comfort zones and into the great unknown.  Beckoning.  Inviting.  As if calling our name.

Peru was not on my 2012 list of things to do and see.  South America is on my God sized dream list, the one tucked away in the back of my heart, dusty and covered, like an unvisited attic loft.  It sits in a weathered old trunk beneath boxes of desires and ponderings. But, Someone recalled it was there, dug it out gently, cared for it, and laid it in my once closed hands. And with prayer, careful consideration, and time, has flourished into a trip that will enable my daughter and I to spend three weeks learning Spanish, visiting a new culture, and meeting new friends on the other side of this hemisphere. Most importantly though, it reminds me there is One who has not forgotten the old trunk I've sealed and tucked away in my attic corners.

Sometimes, in the trials and struggles in life, it is easy to forget that we belong to one that longs to bless us, and knows our God sized dreams. Even the ones, and maybe even more so the ones, we've given up on.  Especially the one tucked away in the back of our hearts and in our attic corners.  Time drags on, boot straps are pulled up, and game faces ready.  But, in the tender places, in the freeing places, and always in the places where we find our heart, we’ll find Him there waiting. Lavishing.  Renewing.  Strengthening.  Dusting off forgotten dreams.  Blessing.  Because, He’s like that. Because He's faithful.  Because he's not only the creator of, but the tender gardener of ours hearts.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.

James 1:17

Sunday Scripture {Hold Tightly}

"Without wavering, let us hold tightly to the hope we say we have, for God can be trusted to keep his promise."

Hebrews 10:23

Let's be reminded to keep a firm grip on the one who holds us, who keeps us, who sustains us.

Happy Sunday,

Christy

Sunday Scripture {Rolled Stones}

One of the disciples, Thomas (nicknamed the Twin) was not with the others when Jesus came.  They told him, "We have seen the Lord!" But he replied, "I won't believe it unless I see the nail wounds in his hands, put my fingers into them, and place my hand into the wound in his side."  Eight days later the disciples were together again, and this time Thomas was with them.  The doors were locked; but suddenly, as before, Jesus was standing among them.  He said,

"Peace be with you."  Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands.  Put your hand into the wound in my side.  Don't be faithless any longer.  Believe!"

"My Lord and My God!" Thomas exclaimed.

Then Jesus told him, "You believe because you have seen me.  Blessed are those who haven't seen me and believe anyway."

~John 20:24-29~

May you be reminded today that we have a risen Savior who was brought back. He died for you. He rose for you. He lives in you and with you.

Happy Easter!
Christy

A Different Kind of King

The blisters were the least of his worries. Blood so thick, and hot it blurred his vision.  Salty on his lips.  He had experienced pain.  A mistaken throw of a hammer, shards of wood slicing through his fingertips.  A carpenter becomes accustomed to sweat, and blood, and tears.  This time though, the two by four was multiplied in weight.  This time he was carrying it to break something down, not build it up.  This time, he wouldn’t laugh in, celebrate, and share in the works of his labor.  This time, he wouldn’t be nailing the wood.

He was familiar with anguish.  With torment. But, the piercing at his temples by thorns sharpened like iron caused his head to swell. The dizziness set in.  The stabbing at his brow like sewing needles encircled the crown of his head. With what should have been jewels. But today there was no gold.

The laughing in the background caused a distraction, at least intermittently.  He remembered the faces. Sweaty, broken teeth, gluttonous faces.  The cheering so loud, he could not hear the wood scraping. And when he fell the crowds roared.

The weighty wood, and the heat of the day should have been enough, but others didn’t think so.  Children threw rocks like a game of fetch. Dust kicked in his mouth, parching any ounce of moisture that was available.  And he cried tears of let the little children come to me.

Wailing in the background overshadowed the cawing of the birds.  Many looked away. Women in the distance weeping and moaning, and falling on knees.

As they ascended Skull Hill, he held tightly to His Father.  Tightly to His plan.  Tighter to His heart. His clothes were stripped away and he was thrown, his head hitting the beam, thorns digging in deeper. The echo of the iron hammer meeting the nail was nothing compared to the breaking of flesh, and the scream that ensued.  And then the other.  And the other.

As the clock struck noon a courageous head was bowed in grace. It is finished rang through the walls of Jerusalem.  The crowd parted. Divided. Some went home.  Others bowed in prayer waiting.  Awaiting.

And today we reflect and meditate.  On a different kind of throne, with a different sort of crown, of an otherworldly king.  Who could have ended the deal before it even began.  Who had the option to run.  To quit.  To barter.  To negotiate.  But who instead chose to take our place.  To exchange death for life.  To pay the price. 

Our Jesus.

Then Jesus answered, I am not an earthly king.  If I were, my followers would have fought when I was arrested by the Jewish leaders.  But my kingdom is not of this world.

Pilate replied, "You are a king then?"

"You say that I am a king, and you are right," Jesus said.  "I was born for that purpose.  And I came to bring truth to the world."

~John 18:36-37~

Conviction vs. Condemnation

Truth be told, I’m supposed to be writing a paper that’s due tomorrow. Maybe its procrastination or perhaps it is something that just needs to be put out there to reach at you and grip you as it did me last Sunday. I want to share with you a treasure I’ve tucked away in my pocket, and will be adding to a sacred collection of God inspired nuggets.  That from time to time need to be dusted off, admired, and cherished. Taken out and raised so as to allow the Son to shine in its transluency.  Especially when the going gets rough and tough. You know, when life and stuff happens.

There are a handful. Okay, more a trunkful, of Christian”y” jargon”y” terms out there that church folk can exchange in conversation like nobody’s business; but lay folk are left scratching their heads at. As recent years have passed, I’ve learned the church language, and can even act as a translator for people who need to be clued in on such words as “testimony”, “abiding”, and “bearing fruit”.

A word I’ve heard over the years, amongst different denominations, is referred to as conviction.  And while I’m by no means an expert, it has much to do with what can be referred to as a healthy dose of guilt to rein in what is unhealthy or harmful behavior to one self or others. Essentially it’s the Holy Spirit’s kick in the pants to get back on track and get right with God.  Commonly referred to as sin-it’s God’s way of pointing it out in our lives-not to humiliate or chastise us or otherwise make us feel terrible about ourselves-but because He knows what’s best for us, and has an even grander path to walk us down than we could ever dream up on our own human accord.   He is constantly, and in our best interest, refining our character. Think a parent’s love for their child and the whole need for discipline. He brings us back.  He reins us in.  He does so, I believe, with gentleness and patience.  With faithfulness and love so divine and deep, we’d be crazy not to follow Him. He’s the God of second chances and He’s not left us alone on this planet without His spirit to guide us, His people to commune with, His words to glean wisdom from, and His prayer to bask in. (I'm so tempted to say, can I get an AMEN? But I digress...)

I get that.  I’ve experienced conviction, and I’d much rather take His hand and trust His lead in my life.

And then there is condemnation.   Condemnation is not of God and is harmful and damaging to the very heart He's entrusted us with.  It weighs heavy.  It enslaves.  It shackles.  It buries. It tricks.  It steals.  It destroys.  All of these things are not conducive to Jesus bringing freedom, being light in darkness, and setting captives free. None of it. In fact, I think it pains and grieves His heart when we are in that place, set apart from Him, being kept from all he has for us and what he wants to speak into our lives. It grossly muddies our perception of God.

So, I’ve been thinking about conviction vs. condemnation. Thank you dear Sunday pastor.  It’s helped reignite some passion in an area of my heart that needed some light this week.  “God will convict, but he will never condemn.”   “Exchange your, ‘God who enslaves’ for a ‘Lord who Loves’.”  I hope you are encouraged too. Walk freely my friend.

So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus

~Romans 8:1

Grief Walker

I didn’t wear waterproof mascara. Truth be told, I hate the stuff, like putty on my lashes sticking around in residue for what seems like weeks. 

But, that night I was conscious it was missing. It was one of those moments when life is coasting along in its dog like routine, when suddenly, WHAM, something entered in. And threw off the whole ground hog day of things. My Tuesday night routine had an unwelcomed visitor.

I’m in the final leg of a course I’m doing as part of a graduate degree. I’m treading water slowly, because, well because it’s the only pocket of time I can carve out for the thing. We’ve been at it for months now and I eagerly anticipated this module. This grief and loss module. That was until before video.

Stephen Jenkinson is a practicing counselor who of all things was ordained at Harvard divinity school. He completed his studies in social work and later life navigated him towards becoming somewhat of a death guru. The official title used in the film is grief walker.  And just as it sounds, Stephen walks with families and their loved ones who are given the life changing news of a terminal illness. And the documentary showed it.  These families and their dying loved ones. And the excruciating process of facing the inevitable.  Of facing what it means to say goodbye.  It was raw. And unedited.  Visceral. And traumatic. And lets just say I needed more than the grief walker to make things better.

It sat heavy on my heart as the documentary rolled.  As I tried to swallow the water that welled up in my eyes and the uneven sobs awaiting to escape my lips; grief made its home like bricks upon my shoulders. And it followed me to the washroom to be excused. In it the mascara fell in puddles at my feet. Gaining composure in bathroom moments.  When you are trying desperately to. Get. A. Grip.

It lingered weeks following. Like an emotional hangover.   And to be honest, I was not sure God could handle it. These feelings about life and death.  The questions we have. The pain of it all. The meaning behind the loss. Our perception of God in light of the inevitable. The ticking of the clock. The freckling of my skin.  So in my self protective encasement, I set him on a shelf; for several days we didn’t talk.

I know it may be uncouth to say, but my initial attraction to God had little to do with salvation.  This ticket to eternity. Insurance from infinity “and beyond”. What attracted me to Jesus was the beginning. And then the middle. That he loved and thought of “me” enough to breathe me into the twentieth century.  And then the promise of how he will be along for the ride; how he’s got a lot to say about the journey, so much so as to promise to send His very spirit, His very essence for counsel.

But after video I’ve been reminded too of how he’s our earthly grief walker.  Alongside in our pain. Alongside in our joy. Ironing out the questions.  Comforting the agony. Bringing us close to lay at his chest to listen to the very heartbeat that we will one day go home to.  Who nurtures our loved ones who are already there. And no, it’s not neat and tidy, and the questions aren’t all answered, because they can’t be.  But the beat of the heart that I know and love has without waver welcomed me in every place my feet have ventured.  How could he too not meet me there?

And the end? This past month I've been reminded in glimpses of what I will one day be going home to. But more importantly, of who I will be meeting there. And while I'm in this earthly home, for now, and in this place, I hope I can make it my mission to know more intimately and more deeply the maker of my heart and the lover of my soul so that when I one day meet Him, I will know his face. And as he embraces me; the one who has been my shepherd, my Father, my counsellor, my friend, and my grief walker, I will rest in his shoulders and hear Him whisper: Welcome Home.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.

Revelations 21:4

Sunday Scripture {the great shepherd}

 He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.

~Isaiah 40:11

He seeks you out. He brings you home. And follows you when you go astray.

Blessings & have a beautiful Sunday,

Christy

Sunday Scripture {Take Heart}

Jesus asked, "Do you finally believe? But the time is coming-in fact, it is already here-when you will be scattered, each one going his own way, leaving me alone.  Yet I am not alone because the Father is with me.  I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me.  Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows.

But take heart, because I have overcome the world."

~John 16:33

Be encouraged today and throughout your week ahead.

Blessings,
Christy

Sunday Scripture {Love vs. Fear}

"There is no room in love for fear.

Well formed love banishes fear.

Since fear is crippling, a fearful life-fear of death, fear of judgment-

is one not yet fully formed in love."  The Message

~1 John 4:18~

Today, will you with me, turn your face away from fear and instead choose to embrace and surrender to His perfect way.  His perfect love.

Happy Sunday!
Christy

Sunday Scripture {Come and talk with Me}

My heart has heard you say, "Come and talk with me."

And my heart responds, "Lord, I am coming."

~Psalm 27:8

Today, as you receive those gentle nudges to sit and pour your heart out; remember there is Someone behind the nudges who waits to meet you there. Who is waiting for you to come and talk with Him.

Blessings & Happy Sunday!

Christy





Sunday Scripture {Under His Wing}

He will shield you with his wings.

He will shelter you with his feathers.

His faithful promises are your armor and protection.

~Psalm 91:4

Hopeful that today you are nestled nicely under his wing.

Happy Sunday,
Christy

Holding onto Promise

                                                                 
The daydreamer in me can quite easily be sucked into a vortex of despair.  I need to be careful and intentional about this. As a discipline, I’ve gotten better at this over the years.  Building those muscle groups.  Drinking those protein shakes.  Taking those vitamins.  Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Despite its drawbacks, I wouldn’t trade my romantic imagination for anything. It’s central to who I am and what makes me tick. I’ve become more creative about what to do with it.  How to hone it.  Take care of it. And I’ve learned how to embrace its vastness and expansiveness. God’s shown me what to do with it, and more importantly, why He’s given it to me in the first place.  I honestly don’t know who I’d be apart from this.

So, I’m mindful that with daylight, too comes night.  And I work hard at surrendering some of the darker moments to hold true to the rays of light that will once again rise above the horizon.  And the secret, I’ll let you in on, is that when the sun says goodbye to the daytime, and the stars set in place in the sky, when I can’t see across the prairie skies as clearly as I could before, I hold tightly and firmly to the promises God gives me to stand on.

Promises like,

“Don’t get discouraged and give up, for you will reap a harvest of blessing at the appropriate time.” ~Galatians 6:9

“The Lord will work out his plans for my life-for your faithful love, O Lord, endures forever.” ~Psalm 138:8

“I will never fail you.  I will never forsake you.” ~Hebrews 13:5

“Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you.”

~1 Peter 5:7

“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose.”~Romans 8:28

“But those who wait on the Lord will find new strength.  They will fly high on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint.”

~Isaiah 40:31

In a world and in a time that is uncertain and forever changing.  When life’s disappointments knock us down and threaten to pull the carpet out from under us, we have a Savior who proves trustworthy.  Who knows us intimately.  Who yearns to walk with us, and yes carry us when we cannot get up.  He is our greatest encourager.  And the source of all love.  Who is unchanging and stands the test of time. Our rock and our fortress.  Our friend, and our counselor; our teacher and shepherd.  Our Immanuel.

Remember your promise to me, for it is my only hope.  Your promise revives me; it comforts me in all my trouble

~Psalm 119:50