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