Live In The Light

1 John 1:5-10

Here is the message we have heard from Christ and now announce to you: God is light, and in him there is no darkness at all.  So if we say we have fellowship with God, but we continue living in darkness, we are liars and do not follow the truth.  But if we live in the light, as God is in the light, we can share fellowship with each other.  Then the blood of Jesus, God's Son, cleanses us from  every sin.

If we say we have no sin, we are fooling ourselves, and the truth is not in us.  But if we confess our sins, he will forgive our sins, because we can trust God to do what is right.  He will cleanse us from all the wrongs we have done.  If we say we have not sinned, we make God a liar, and we do not accept God's teaching.

(c) Holy Bible, New Century Version, 2005


The word "light" here is used as a symbol of God's goodness or truth.  Darkness would be the opposite - i.e. Satan's evilness and lies.  Living in the light allows us to fellowship with God Himself.  To me, this is mind-blowing.  There is something I can do that puts me in fellowship with the One who created everything.  He is so far beyond anything I can comprehend, and yet He says he'll fellowship with me. 

I encourage you - live in the light.  He gives us grace to do so - you don't have to do it in your own strength.  Trust Him, pray to Him, live according to His word.  It's worth it.

Not Ashamed

Psalm 34:1-5, Contemporary English Version:

I will always praise the Lord.  With all my heart, I will praise the Lord.  Let all who are helpless, listen and be glad.  Honor the Lord with me!  Celebrate His great name.  I asked the Lord for help, and he saved me from all my fears.  Keep your eyes on the Lord!  You will shine like the sun and never blush with shame.

 I have led a life that is far from perfect.  I have sinned, sometimes unintentionally, and sometimes deliberately.  I've had experiences that filled me with intense shame.  But even the worst of it all fades away when my eyes are fixed on Him.  When my gaze is steadily on Him, His glory and holiness and the love He has for me over-rides my own perceptions and beliefs, and I see myself as He sees me.  I am redeemed, chosen, called.  I am his child.  And most of all, I am loved.

People can tell when I've got my eyes fixed on Him.  When my attention is on God, and His love for me, my face changes.  During those times, I get told repeatedly by others that I look so good, that they can tell I'm doing well.  When my gaze shifts, and I'm looking at the world or myself, people ask me what's wrong.  It's a spiritual principal with natural, tangible, visible evidence.

Where is your attention?  Where are your eyes fixed?  How can you tell?

I'm Alive

Ephesians 2:1-10, NIV

As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient.  All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our sinful nature and following its desires and thoughts.  Like the rest, we were by nature objects of wrath.  But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions - it is by grace you have been saved.  And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.  For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith - and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God - not by works, so that no one can boast.  For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

This passage means so much to me.  I don't know about anyone else, but I know that I personally slip into legalism sometimes.  I'll do something I shouldn't do, or I'll neglect something I should do, and I'll start to feel un-saved.  It's just a feeling, but I know that if I don't counter it with scripture, it will take root in my heart, invade my thoughts, and if it continued unchecked, I would convince myself I was no longer saved at all.  My salvation causes obedience.  Obedience does not cause my salvation. 

What distortions do you battle in your own life, and what scripture do you use to contradict them?

It's Supposed To Hurt

I burned my finger recently.  Was putting in a baking sheet with supper on top, and the front of my finger hit the oven rack.  I heard it go "psssttt" before I felt my hand jerking back (luckily, without the baking sheet full of food).  It's a tiny burn - from my fingernail down to the knuckle, just under half an inch.  And it's just on one finger.

And you know what?  It hurts.  It's distracting.  It makes me feel generally uncomfortable, even though it's just a tiny injury.

That's how our conscience should be.  When we blurt out a bad word, it should sting like this.  It should distract us and bother us.  When we fudge the truth just a little, it should burn.

But our consciences are like my dad's hands.

He is a mechanic (a gifted one, at that), and does a lot of welding and other things that burn his hands.  He doesn't even feel them anymore.  He can have big, angry blisters and not have even noticed they were there until I ask what they are from.  Sometimes, even after he thinks about it, he can't remember. 

We get that way.  We get so used to our little transgressions that we fail to feel the sting. 

The problem with that isn't the absence of pain.  The problem is, when our conscience hurts, we turn to God.  We pray, we repent, we resolve to change for the better.  When that happens, the result is good.  But when we get so accustomed to the little pains, we don't bother turning to him - because we aren't even really aware that anything is wrong at all.

Psalm 139:23-24
God, examine me and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.  See if there is any bad thing in me.  Lead me on the road to everlasting life.

We have hope though.  No matter how seared our consciences are, God can still search us and show us what we need to see.  The question is, are you (and am I) brave enough to do that?

There Are Days

Ten years ago (well, nine years and eleven and a half months), I graduated from high school.  I remember sitting in the second row of chairs, surrounded by people I'd spent most of my life knowing.  I remember looking around me and seeing how easy they had it.  How simple and enjoyable and effortless their lives were.  How beautiful they were.  How little they struggled and how seldom they had to fight.  I stared briefly at every face.

And I remember them.

But the last ten years have taught me something.  They didn't have it easy.  Their lives weren't necessarily any simpler than mine.  They didn't have a unequal share of happiness.  And they fought.  They grew up with one parent, they were abused, they had eating disorders and were addicted to drugs and self harm.  But they fought.  And because they fought, they got to keep going.  They got to build lives and families and careers.  They got to develop strength and faith and wisdom. 

I see those things reflected in them now.

And I see them reflected in me now.  I'm thankful.  I'm thankful for the lessons and for the joy and for the beauty and for the relationships I've had since that day.  Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the negatives though.  On mother's day, I let that happen.  It was an empty, heavy day.  I found my thoughts constantly focusing on one thing:  my Gramma, who was the closest thing I had to a mother growing up, is in heaven.  My babies are there too, and I've never met them.  And my mom?  There's an ocean of time and emotional distance between us.  I miss her, always.  She's sick; each night when I am trying to fall asleep, I inevitably find myself thinking about the fact that I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

I let myself focus on that, and it pulled me down. 

This week has felt like swimming through quick sand.  My physical energy is depleted.  Emotionally I've been on edge.  Mentally, my thoughts are jumpy and disconnected.  And each day has gotten just a little harder.

Those things have combined with the reappearance of pain and other symptoms from endometriosis to create days like today.  Days when I'm just... unwell.  Unwell enough to lack the strength even to sit upright.  Unwell enough that I can't focus to follow the plot in the book I'm trying to read.  Unwell enough that my body temperature is up and my blood pressure is down.  Unwell enough that lab work is coming back abnormal.

There are days like that in every one's life, as far as I can tell. 

And as far as I can tell, the only thing I can really do about it, is to rest.  So that is what I am doing.  I am resting.  I want to be with people, to do things, to "be productive."  But there are days when that seems to be too much to ask.

There are certain truths that keep rolling through my head and heart though.

Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares about you.

Come to Me all who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

He leads me beside still waters.  He restores my soul.

Fear not.

Fully God, fully man.  He has done it all, lived through it all, faced it all.  Perfectly.  I don't have to be perfect, because He already was and still is.  And that is why I can have faith and hope.

Even though there are days...

Random Things

In the 23 days since I last wrote, it feels like everything has changed.  And also like nothing has changed.

Most of my writing and "sorting" has been done in my journal.  My paper and glue, use-a-pen journal.  Rather than try to recap all of it, I'd prefer to just... share.  A little bit of two of the entries.  Enough to show you what's been on my heart, enough to illuminate the struggle and the fight and to show you that even in those things, there is beauty.

---

God,
I need you.  I need you to consume me like a fire, burning away everything that can be destroyed.  I need you to change my heart and renew my mind according to Your will.  My own will is sinful and imperfect.  I love with hesitation and with impurity.  I speak lies with ease and I am afraid of the truth.  But part of me still wants to bend to your will.  My soul is weak and my body is dying, but my spirit is alive and cries out for You.  So fill me, change me, consume me.  Rewrite my script, and make yourself the primary role.

Save me, oh God, and I will be saved for all eternity.

"I Have Eternal Life"
Truly, truly, I say to you:  Whoever hears my Word and believes Him who sent Me has eternal life. 
~1John 5:24a

---

I need to go home.  To my family, to my Father, to my church.  I miss God.  I miss His Word.  I miss His love.  I miss His Presence.  And I miss my Pastor.  I miss his influence in my life.  I miss his protection.  God gives us so many people for so many things... but He only gives us one Pastor.  If something happens that makes it impossible for that Pastor to keep being our Pastor, God can give us another.  But it's not a matter of simple choice.  It's a matter of necessity and a gift born of love.

I have so much I am hiding.  So much shame.  But my Pastor loves me.  He really does.  He always will.  He loves me as a daughter.  And the pain of not being under his care, of not having a leader in my life, of choosing to walk away from that gift, is shredding my heart.

Today, I realized something.  If any of the kids in my class came to me, after being gone - regardless of how long they'd been gone or why they left or what they'd done while they were away - even if the things they'd said or done were so horrible that they hurt the deepest parts of me - I would run to them with open arms and hold them and tell them I never stopped loving them.  And my Pastor is better at love than I am.  So it is time to go home.

Lord, help me and give me the courage and strength that I need to do this.

The Highground.

In Exodus 3, Moses was out in the desert and God spoke to him from within a bush that burned, but didn't burn up.   God spoke to him.  And Moses was instructed to take off his shoes, because he was on holy ground.

I grew up believing that if God was speaking to people (or a person) somewhere, that place became holy ground.  It wasn't the fact that there was a burning bush, it wasn't the miraculous lack of consumption in the fire, it wasn't even the fact that God was there - because God is everywhere.  It was the fact that God was deliberately revealing Himself and speaking to Moses. 

Saturday, we chose to skip our planned trip to the zoo, and we instead visited a couple veterans memorials.  The first was what I expected - lots of plaques, statues, a tank, a jet.  Those things are sort of... standard.  They are important.  They are meaningful.  And I really, genuinely enjoy going to them.  And I feel honored, and privileged, and so incredibly thankful for all that's been done on our behalf.  We took a lot of pictures for a project we are doing, and spent some time reading the plaques and some time being silent in respect and in memory of what had to be done to purchase our freedom here in the United States.

Then we started driving to the second one. 

As we slowed to turn off the highway, there was something very... different about it.  It felt... well, it felt special.  Spiritual, even.  I was very strongly impressed, inside, to not wear my shoes.

I walked barefoot down the walkway.  It was paved with square stones, each bearing the name of someone who had served our country, who had given the ultimate sacrifice.  I could feel the heat of the sun in each stone.  And I read the names.  All of them.  And the heavy, serious, "God is here" feeling stayed, and grew stronger still.

At one end of the memorial is the memorial that is pictured here:

What you can't see in this picture, is what that memorial was truly like to stand before. 

I don't know if you've spent a lot of time around statues that generate tears in the people who view them, but I have.  Tears leave salt rings after they dry.  Sometimes people will wipe the tears away with their hands, and leave a white-rimmed hand print.  It washes away as soon as it gets wet, but for just a while, it stays.  This memorial, had tear rings.  It had a hand print on the side of one of the faces, faint.  And then I noticed... the dog tags.  The dog tags were hanging off the soldiers' hands, they were around their necks, they were suspended with the many metal rods bearing the names of fallen soldiers.

And it hit me, hard and fast.  The "different feeling" and the fact that I couldn't get myself to wear my shoes, and the sadness and peace that were both prevalent... this was holy ground.  Here, at this memorial, God speaks to people.  Hurting, broken people go there and He ministers hope to them.  He ministers life.  They leave dog tags, they leave watches and medals, and with these little bits of material, they lay down some of their grief.  Because God meets them there, and he takes some of their grief, and gives them what they desperately need. 

During the time we spent there, I found myself in tears.  The changing of the guards at the tomb of the unknown soldier is more emotional.  The rows and rows and rows of silent, white crosses in Arlington cemetery are more somber and are enough to drive me to my knees.

But they are the closest things I've ever felt, to what was at the Highground on Saturday.  I read the names on the dog tags.  I saw the medals hanging among the chimes.  I saw the picture propped by one of the statues, with the words "I miss you and I will always love you" on it.  I did not photograph that picture. 

My words are failing me tonight.  Failing me miserably.

The gist of it all is this:  I went to the Highground.  It is a place where God meets people.  It is holy ground.  And it is truly a beautiful, sad place... and also a place of evident hope and faith.

Rain

It's raining outside today.  Big, round drops of precious water.  The air smells of earth and rain and of the crops that are maturing nearby.  It is cool and the sound is quiet, steady... soothing.  The cloud-shadow makes things look a little flatter, a little less distracting, a little less harsh.

I love the rain, love to stand outside with my arms open to the heavens, letting it wash over my face.  Years ago, I was given a key to one of the churches on our town.  The pastor has since retired, so I no longer use that key.  But, especially during the 18 months of serious trial and hurt and fear that I've so recently come out of, that key was so important to me.  The moments of peace were almost impossible to find then, but sometimes... sometimes they were there.  Late at night, when the rest of the town was sleeping, I would go to that church.  That Pastor and his wife were my "parents" in high school.  I know their church as well as I know their home.  I would silently open and close the door, locking it behind me.  I'd walk on soft carpet through the darkness, up the stairs and through the narrow hallway, out into the sanctuary.  I'd turn the sound system off, and I would sit down at the piano.  The light from streetlamps or the moon always made just enough light to see by, filtered through the stained glass and gentle.  I would play softly, listening as the music resonated and grew around me. 

I would pray, I would cry for mercy, for hope, for healing.  Mostly for forgiveness.  And in the darkness, in the quiet, He would touch my heart.

And then I'd hear the sound of rain.  It would start imperceptibly quiet and slowly build until it was a rushing roar that surrounded me like air.

In the Old Testament, when the people really, really messed things up, God withheld the rain.  If you want examples, I would be happy to send you a list.  They are there though - Genesis, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, 1 and 2 Kings, 1 and 2 Samuel, and so on.  When the people sinned and God was angry, it did not rain.

But in Genesis, chapter 49, verse 25, it says "Your father's God helps you.  God Almighty blesses you.  He blesses you with rain from above..."  Psalm 68, verses seven and eight:  "When you, God, went out before your people, when you marched through the wilderness, the earth shook, the heavens poured down rain, before God, the one of Sinai, before God, the God of Israel."

And as the rain fell, I knew He was near.  As close to me as the air I was breathing, and mightier than every storm on the earth, My God was there. 

For me, when the rain comes down, it reminds me of God's love.  Of His mercy, His forgiveness, His grace.  It reminds me that even when I've done wrong, He is ready and mighty to save.  And my heartfelt cries, they do not go unanswered and unheard.  The Lord of All hears and answers.

And the rain falls down.

I Will Be Happy If...

I've noticed a lot of people lately talking about how they finally have what was supposed to make them happy.  Kids, a spouse, friends, money, a home, whatever... and I've noticed something.  The ones who are happy now, were happy before.  It seems to have almost NOTHING to do with whatever they wanted.

So.

What will make you happy?

Personally, I will be happy if we pull ahead further in our finances.  I will be happy if I can actually get pregnant before time runs out (actually, I will be happy if I find out time has not run out already).  I will be happy if we can adopt some babies.  I will be happy if we can adopt some older children.  I will be happy if we finish our house.  I will be happy if I can spend more time with friends.  I will be happy if I can be healthy.  I will be happy when I heal from the surgery I had just over a week ago.

But all of that... all of that is nothing when I try to compare it to knowing my God.  I can't even make the comparison, because they are too far apart.

And I realize something... I have to be happy.  Not because it's important.  Really it's not - my lungs work just as well when I'm sad as they do happy.  My finances don't go any further, my life isn't easier, and I'm not any more saved if I am happy than I am if I am sad. 

But people are watching.  Sad people.  Angry people.  Hurt people.  Scared people.  All those emotions I don't like, they feel.  And so do I.  So I let them see.  And then I let them see me happy in spite of it all.  I let them see me happy while we can't fathom how we'll pay next week's taxes and bills, while my uterus is painful empty (it really is painful; part of last week's procedure has made sure of that), while I scramble to find a way to try one last time before surgery takes away my chance for the rest of my life, while I dream about adopting babies and older kids and wonder if it will ever really happen, while our house has insulation showing where there is no drywall and I don't know when the last time I hugged certain friends was, and it's been over a year since I last thought of myself as "healthy" and even while I lay curled from the pain of the last operation.  I am happy.  Yes.  Right now, right this second, I am happy.  I have something that shines so brightly that all of those other real and painful and unpleasant things lose their emotional pull, and I.  Am.  Happy.

Are you?

~Psalm 119:2:  Happy are those who keep His rules, who try to obey Him with their whole heart.

I cannot even begin to TRY to count the number of times when people have heard me express longing for children.  Countless times.  Also, sorrow for the children who I've conceived and then had go on to heaven before they were even born.  I admit, it's been a big focal point for a bit over five years now.

And so many well-intentioned people have said "Just be happy with what you have."  And the reality is, I am not happy "with what I have."  I am not happy about the loss.  I am not happy that my husband is taking a Sunday afternoon nap with no children around him.  I am not happy that the surgeon has said that really, this last surgery was it.  End of the line.  Time for baby or time to move on.  I am not happy that my house is, 3 years later, still a construction zone.  I am not happy that our choices as a family have not meant greater financial prosperity.  None of those things are reasons to be happy.  But truthfully, if I was rich and had ten kids and a mansion and had never had so much as a cold, none of that would be a reason to be happy, either.

The only real reasons to be happy, are not impacted or changed or touched at all by the circumstances of life.  Our salvation, peace, eternal life, hope, confidence, and the fact that Romans 8 promises that NOTHING can separate us from the love of God.  THAT is why I am happy.  I am unshakably, undeniably happy.

And I still want babies.  I still cry sometimes when I think about what could be.  I still ache to hold a child that is biologically related to my husband and to me in my arms.  That may never happen - each day that goes by is a day closer to saying "Okay, nope."  But even if that day comes - even if things get painful enough or I find myself in danger again - and I say "Okay, do it" and the surgeon spends her day sectioning off my abdomen and wrapping organs and taking steps that make pregnancy a very dangerous idea... even then, I will still cry about my desire to be a biological mother.  But while the tears stream and my heart aches, I will also be happy.  Just like I am today.

Take My Breath Away

Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver her.”  But You, LORD, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. 
I call out to the LORD, and He answers me from his holy mountain.
~Psalm 3:2-4

There are moments in life that take my breath away.  Beautiful moments. 

Like the day my nephew Israel was born, and the first time I held him close to me. 

Or the day my daddy walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  He was wearing his flip flops and I was wearing... nothing on my feet.  I had heels but they hurt so I left them in the back of the church.  I kept looking at my daddy's face.  He'd see me looking and his smile would get bigger still.  And then mine would.  And then his would. 

And then I looked up and I saw my husband.  Derek is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% in love with me.  Do you know how amazing that is?  To have someone so loyal, so committed, so passionate?  To not have any real fear of abandonment or even harm or neglect?  It will take your breath away, just for a minute, when you realize that there is someone who feels that way about you.

Other moments... walking along a path in the woods, crying privately about the recent death of my Gramma.  Knowing I would wait the rest of my life before I could be reunited with her.  Aching and broken and trying so hard to be strong.  And there, on a snow-covered branch, with big flakes floating all around me, was a flawless cardinal singing so sweetly.

Looking to my left and seeing my dad and my Kelly and my husband and my dad's friend Charlie, all beaming.  Looking in front of me and seeing my friends and instructors.  Raising my arms up so that a black belt could be tied around my waist... less than a month after getting out of the hospital with my hand, and 8 months earlier than it was predicted I'd be able to even START training with my leg again.

Trying to teach a very happy 10 year old how to do some ground-fighting.  Trying to be serious.  Starting to get annoyed with his unstoppable laughter and unyielding smile... and finding it suddenly pouring out of me, too.  Laying next to him on the mat, just laughing.  Looking into his black, almond-shaped eyes, at his tan skin and a smile so big it looks like it almost hurts... and realizing that the isolation and resignation and sadness have faded away.

Hearing my closest and dearest friend after Derek tell someone that I am a good, good friend.  That I would be a strong place for them, that I could hold them up during a hard time.

Those moments take my breath away.

Seeing lines of clouds in a deep blue sky, with fields of hay rolling in the breeze and birds singing. 

Watching the hillside behind our house blinking with so many fireflies it seems impossible.

Coming in softly late at night, and watching my husband sleep.  All the tension gone from his face.  Gently kissing him, pulling the covers up over his shoulders.  His mumbled "I love you" that is so deeply ingrained, he says it even in his sleep.

Sitting on the back of a horse for what would be her last full-speed run... ever.  And what was my first full-speed run with a horse, ever.  And feeling for just a moment that I was somehow joined together with this animal who CHOSE to obey me, and that the world rushing by could not touch me.

Tiny, sticky arms wrapping around my waist as two young boys dash across a restaurant to greet me.  Spaghetti stains left on my shirt from their faces, and warmth spreading through my heart with their "I love you" still fresh and new.

Feeling my pocket vibrate and hearing the strumming of a guitar, telling me that my daddy - my hero, my protector, my friend - is calling me.

Those moments, take my breath away.  Not for long, but briefly.  Just briefly, I am too full of so much good, and I don't have room for air.

And then there are other moments.

Watching a young father gently pick up a tiny, tiny white coffin that holds his newborn daughter.  Watching him walk, alone, down the aisle of the church while my heart exploded with grief and love for that child's family.  Watching that man slowly sink to his knees at the back of the sanctuary as tears poured and his shoulders slumped.  Watching him rise up again.

Driving too fast for too long in order to make a cross-country trip in time to attend a "brother's" funeral.  Feeling my heart explode with new grief as I notice one of the pictures by his coffin - it was him, holding his baby girl, before she went to heaven.  Dreaming so vividly of him stronger even than he was here, with his giggling daughter, dancing in heaven.  Seeing his bride comforting those who came to mourn this wonderful man, and vowing not to cause her any more grief or hurt... knowing I would bear all of her pain for her if I could.  Hugging her and suddenly feeling the crushing weight of what she was facing, and being so unprepared that I began to cry.  Forcing a smile as I said to her, "My heart is broken for you, for your kids, for all of us who will miss him.  He is in heaven, and we WILL meet him again." 

It took my breath away.  So intensely that I wouldn't have been surprised if I had physically turned blue.

Standing with a camera, as requested by my Grandfather.  Taking pictures silently, as he bent to kiss my Grandma goodnight.  Hearing him tell her she was beautiful.  That he loved her - that he'd always loved her, from the first time he met her.  Watching the back that had always been straight and the shoulders that had always been square slowly droop.  They've dropped further in the years since.  And when I look at him, it takes my breath away.  This man has known death, has known grief, has known financial hardship, has carried personal burdens that he is afraid to put down... and what did he choose for the inscription on the grave site he will someday share with his wife?  "But you MUST be born again."

I relived that moment when the film came back.  All you can see is the flowers around the coffin.  The middle of the pictures is completely white.  It takes my breath away.

Seeing a still, perfectly formed but not-beating heart on the ultrasound screen before the technician turned it away.  Falling to my knees in the bathroom of a convenience store on the way home, and crying out to God in sheer, broken anguish.  A month later, getting "lost" in the Black Hills with my husband.  Still waiting for my body to release its hold on our daughter.  And being filled with a gentle peace that did not remove the sadness, but made it easier to bear, as we sat beside a mountain stream surrounded by millions of tiny blue flowers, and tiny blue butterflies.  Anna's flowers. 

It took my breath away, to be so broken and so at peace and surrounded by both beautiful life and ugly death.

Watching my friend be blasted financially, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  And seeing no end in sight.  Knowing I cannot fight this battle for him, I cannot take it on his behalf.  And loving him so deeply that I would.  I would take every last bit of it, if it would take it from him.  Watching that friend give up over and over... and over and over, renew his fight, renew his vow to NEVER give up.  Knowing that I am so blessed... to have my husband, my daddy, my friend... men who treat me with respect and love and honor and gentleness, and who defend not just me, but everyone around them.

Walking into a nursing home and having tears start welling up and my throat clamp shut when I see a strong, intelligent man curled up like a baby in the bed, having shrunk drastically in such a short time.  Wondering if that day, he'll know who I am or if he'll once again thank me for being kind enough to "visit a stranger."  Kneeling down to hug him, and feeling his hands soft and warm gripping my hand and around my neck, holding on with every bit of strength left in his failing body.  Feeling his tears wet against my cheek, and hearing him whisper thank you.  Trying to stand strong, maintain composure on the way out the door.  But unable to stop the ache inside, and unable to stop myself from imagining that it will be my dad in that bed some day.  Breaking inside for him, and for his children, for his wife.  Knowing that the burden he carries, the aching and sorrow that come when a parent buries a child, aren't fading along with the rest of his memories.  Knowing that soon, he'll be with his son in heaven... and that his other son will be here on earth and will be more broken than he's ever been.  And knowing I'm powerless to do anything more than be present.

It takes my breath away.

Watching my husband walking the same difficult path I walked down myself just a few short months ago - the path of genuinely and fully grieving the fact that all of our children live in heaven, and not here.  Facing the very real probability that we will not raise any of our biological children here on earth.  And hearing his stifled sobs as he does what I've been doing... and reads a childrens' book about heaven.  As he gets the truth of eternity ingrained more deeply into his heart, giving him the strength and courage to feel the temporary loss here and now.

Seeing so vividly that it seems as if it's playing out in front of my eyes, an image of that daughter who went to heaven.  Seeing her holding my Gramma's hand and beaming as they wait for me at the Eastern Gate.  Remembering Gramma's soft promise, made each night that she tucked me in.  "Make sure you look for me in the Rapture, Jenn.  It will be beyond description.  But if I beat you to heaven, I promise, I will meet you at the Eastern Gate."  Aching for that day with every fiber of my being.

Knowing that in Heaven, there is so much.  And loving my life.  But wanting so much to just be done.  To go there, and be with my Jesus.  To see my Grandma smile, to hear my childrens' voices.  I wonder if my uncle Paul is a carpenter there?  I wonder if Gramma takes care of kids who get there before their parents?  I wonder what it's like to truly and eternally be free of oppression.

And it takes my breath away.

And when I have no breath, when life squeezes the air out and I am at the end of myself... I remember these words from Job, chapter 33.

"The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life."

It's Not Me - It's Him

It seems like most of the time, life involves trying to prove something to someone.  There are tests, requirements, standards which must be met or exceeded.  We go to first grade and our efforts begin to be graded - not based on our actual abilities, but on the way our performance adheres to certain standards. 

Truth is, it's exhausting.  And it contaminates our thinking and beliefs regarding our God.  At least, it contaminates mine, and I've seen the contamination in the words and actions of so many others that I've lost count.  Maybe it doesn't impact you.  Maybe it doesn't carry over into your faith, into the one thing that will matter for eternity.

It seems like we look at our lives, and see the short-comings, and think either one of two things:

 -"I have to try hard, do more, be better, or I will never make heaven and God will never accept me."
 -"I cannot possibly succeed, cannot possibly be good enough... I've already messed up so much, what is the point of even attempting to do any better?"

Okay.  I know what a lot of you are saying:  "No, it's not that black and white."

And you are right.  It isn't that clear-cut.  At least not on the surface.  We rationalize.  We tell ourselves we aren't being extreme so it must be right.  Do any of these thoughts sound familiar?

 -"I know He forgave me for lying yesterday, but today I did it again.  I'm out of chances."
 -"I am worthless."
 -"I won't actually make it to heaven."
 -"I cannot continue this way.  I am done."
 -"I can't do this.  What is the point of even trying?"
 -"I know this is wrong, but I am already condemned so why does it matter?"
 -"I give up."
 -"I will never win."
 -"I am captive."
 -"I am not really saved.  If I was, I wouldn't really (insert the thing you battle most)."
 -"I have to do (insert ideal that you hold in your mind and/or heart) so that I can be accepted by Him."

I don't know.  Maybe the emails, the questions, the comments that I have received represent a dramatic minority of those who trust Christ for their salvation.  I doubt it though. 

Read Colossians 2, verses 11-14 with me:

Entering into this fullness is not something you figure out or achieve.  It's not a matter of being circumcised or keeping a long list of laws.  No, you're already in - insiders - not through some secretive initiation right but rather through what Christ has already gone through for you, destroying the power of sin.  If it's an initiation ritual you're after, you've already been through it by being baptised.  Going under the water was a burial of your old life; coming up out of it was a resurrection, God raising you from the dead as He did Christ.  When you were stuck in your old sin-dead life, you were incapable of responding to God.  God brought you alive - right along with Christ!  Think of it!  All sins forgiven, the slate wiped clean, that old arrest warrant cancelled and nailed to Christ's cross.

Look at these words.  Just look.  Do you know what they mean?

They mean it isn't up to you to earn salvation.  You don't have to earn your way into favor with God.  There isn't a test or a set of standards that you have to conform to before He will love you, before you can become part of His kingdom.  It's already been taken care of.

It isn't you.  It's Him.

**Disclaimer: I am not suggesting, not even remotely, that sin in our lives does not need to be addressed.  Our actions and thoughts are to conform with the Word of God, and we are to try our hardest to make that happen.  What I am saying is that our failure to be perfect isn't what we're going to be judged or charged by.  The thing that will determine our guilt or innocence for eternity is Him and what He did.  Not us and what we did.**

But what about those things that consume us?  What about the sin that we vow every day to never repeat, and then the next day, it happens again?  What about the thoughts we can't seem to capture.  The intentions that are not pure, the fear, the anger, the hurt? 

What do we do with the things that our adversary, the devil, has stacked against us?

Colossians 2:15:
God disarmed the principalities and powers that were ranged against us and made a bold display and public example of them, in triumphing over them in Him and in the cross.

Did you catch that?  The devil, and his minions, those powers and principalities that are out to destroy us, have lost their ammunition.  They are disarmed.  No war can be won if one side is armed and the other is not. 

But wait.  Yes, this says the other side is disarmed but if we have no weapons, then how can we win?

Read Ephesians 6:17
Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.

The principalities and powers get disarmed, and we get a sword.  Seems like we will win.  It may take us a while to figure out how to actually use the sword.  We might not remember we even have it sometimes.  But we do.  We are armed; they (it, he, etc.) are not.

We win. 

The fight is hard.  We take hits.  We fall down.  We fall short.  Our technique is flawed and our courage sometimes fails.  We may wave our white flags and we may fall to our knees, believing we are defeated.  It can hurt, it can be overwhelming, it can be terrible and frightening sometimes. 

But He (Jesus) said to me, "My grace, my favor and loving-kindness and mercy is enough for you; it is sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully (successfully and with strength).  For my strength and power are made perfect, fulfilled, and completed, and show themselves most effective in your weakness.
(2 Corinthians 12:7a)

He can handle our weakness.  He planned for it.  He paid for it.  It's already been dealt with.  Those areas where we simply can not, He can.

It's not us.  It is Him.

So what do we have to do about it?  What's is expected of us in response?

Hebrews 4:14-16 answers that:

Now that we know what we have - Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God - let's not let it slip through our fingers.  We don't have a priest who is out of touch with our reality.  He's been through weakness and testing, experienced it all - all but the sin.  So let's walk right up to Him and get what He is so ready to give.  Take the mercy, accept the help.

I'm running out of steam for tonight.  So I leave you with this final statement:

Yes, I believe we are required to act upon what He did.  I believe our faith isn't truly faith without actions to back it up.  I believe we should live the best lives we can and strive to be free of sin.  But I also believe that when we stand before God Himself, the thing that matters most isn't going to be us, but Him.

Because it's not me.  It's Him.

Colossians 3:1

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things.  For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today.  Today, I am not the only one missing a child.  I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache.  One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up?  Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right.  When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me.  Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend.  And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life.  I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child.  Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye.  Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming. 

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition. 

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world.  Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath.  Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child.  Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't.  Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have."  As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven.  As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting.  Be thankful you can do whatever you want."  As if raising their children would have been hurtful.  As if they didn't want to raise their child.  As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us.  With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven.  You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request. 

Picture us in heaven, with our children.  Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right.  I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important.  Just picture us together.  See that in your heart.  And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity.  Remember this is what His perfect will is. 

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website.  If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year. 

Truth is, it hurts.  It always hurts.  But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

In Devotion...

There's a song I've liked since the first time I've heard it.  "Our God Reigns" by Brandon Heath.  We've recently started singing it in our church sometimes.  I don't like to sing songs, though, without thinking about what they mean... about what's coming out of my mouth.  What I'm truly saying.

There is a line that I haven't thought about though.  A line I just sort of brushed past, thinking "Yep, know all about that."

In devotion, to His bride.

I guess I sort of let it slide because, well... God is perfect.  Jesus is perfect.  I'm not.  The devotion, comes easy for Him, right?  And even though I'm not perfect, I'm not terrible (at least not always). 

Today, I had an appointment with my doctor.  Nothing major - just needed a new prescription for the pain in my leg and to have him re-check my swollen, clotted, and recently un-infected hand. 

I thought I was going to explode with love, and appreciation, as I sat in the waiting room.

I was a half hour early (not because I'm super-punctual, but because I forgot what time my appointment really was).  As I sat in the chair, my mind sort of drifted to different things.  I watched with disinterest as an old classmate came in with her son (he's almost eight; how does time go by this fast?), and as an irate man came and demanded to see a physician who actually hasn't worked there for nearly a year.  I laughed when the receptionist started giggling on the phone.  Not because I knew what she was talking about (or hearing) but because her giggle is infectious.

Then the elevator doors opened again, and a dapper, older man (I'd put him around 70) came out pushing a wheelchair.  And a tiny, tiny wisp of humanity was folded in that chair.  Literally folded.  In half.  Chest resting on knees, head lolling to the side, tongue protruding.  There were stumps instead of fingers on her left hand, and the right hand was gnarled and curled.  She wasn't wearing shoes.  Her right foot was visibly swollen, even through the heavy wool socks she wore.  Her left foot was clubbed, and I'm reasonably sure there were no toes left.  Her hair was tangled and gray, skin wrinkled.  Her skin was nearly transparent, but she was still clearly of Mediterranean decent.  Her brown eyes were vacant and unfocused, and her face without expression.  There is no way she weighed any more than about 70 pounds... and that's if her clothes was maybe not as baggy as I think.  She looked to be about 200 years old... or more realistically, probably the same age as the man.

She was, in so many ways, not what I picture when I imagine a beautiful woman.  Bear with me here... I'm not being rude, or mean, or prejudiced.  I certainly didn't view her as ugly - far from it.

The man pushed her chair to the desk, and was quietly checked in and handed a pager.  As he slowly wheeled the chair in my general direction, he started talking.  He told her how he felt the doctor would help her today, that he thought this would be a good day.  He told her that her blanket was folded up in the pocket of her wheelchair, so it wasn't cold when he wrapped her up in the car.  He took her over to the fish tank they have there... it's full of very large goldfish and a couple plicostomouses (I know I butchered that spelling, by the way).  He knelt carefully beside the chair, angled toward the woman just a little.  I had wondered up until then if he was close to the woman, or merely providing transport.  I noticed that he was wearing a wedding band on his left hand... and a smaller one on a chain around his neck.

He began to talk in earnest to the woman, as if he expected a response.  I tried not to stare, but I couldn't help it.  As he looked at her, it was enough to melt any heart.  Such love.  His eyes danced as he told her about the fish, about what kind they were.  He started talking about a trip he'd taken, to Australia.  He'd gotten to go scuba diving, and saw "the most beautiful, beautiful fish you've ever imagined.  Thousands of them."  As he talked... an amazing thing happened.  The woman's chin lifted just a little.  Her eyes opened a tiny bit wider and began to shine.  Her tongue quit moving side to side.  A dimple - an actual, real dimple - appeared in one cheek.  The man held her hands - the one gnarled and useless, the other missing all five fingers - and spoke to her, leaning close.  I watched as saliva started to run down her chin... and I hated it.  I hated that something so basic, so natural, was interfering with the beauty of this moment.  The man never paused.  He released her left hand, and used a towel that was folded carefully in the woman's lap to wipe her face.  He let the towel fall, and cupped her chin in his hand.  Gently, sweetly, he kissed her forehead.

He began to talk to her about his plans for having the men in their youth group stay overnight one Friday, and the women the next.  About how a particular speaker had agreed to do both weekends for them.  About campfires and sleeping bags and s'mores.  Her eyes shone even brighter, and that dimple reappeared.  So did the saliva.  She must have felt it - she grimaced.  He wiped her face again, gently, carefully.  His fingers caressed her cheek.  He asked her if the medicine he'd given her at home had tasted okay, or if it was really terrible.  I didn't see a response, didn't hear anything... but he did.  He laughed - a deep, rich laugh - and said "It was that bad, was it?  But at least you didn't get sick in the car, right?"  The dimple reappeared. 

This man knelt there, in front of this folded up, mangled, helpless woman, and told her he was going to take her camping.  Because she always seemed so happy outside, and he wanted her to see all the beauty he got to see.  He was going to ask the doctor what extra things he should bring.  He told her how they'd put their tent near the water, and he'd set their air bed up with extra pillows so she could see outside while he built a fire.  Then he would hold her, and they'd have marshmallows and watch the fireflies and the stars.

The buzz of their pager interrupted my (probably somewhat rude) observations.  The man stood, slowly.  He pushed the chair toward the hallway, and the nurse smiled and said "How are you both doing today?"  The man gave another of his laughs, and said "We are doing very well today.  It's a beautiful world, and I get to spend the entire day with my beautiful wife."  He laid one of his hands on the woman's back.  I caught one last glimpse of her face - eyes once again blank and unfocused, tongue protruding and moving slowly side to side, no expression... nearly resting on her knees.  He smiled down at her then... rubbed her back and squared his shoulders.  And said to the nurse, "Isn't she lovely?"

In devotion to his bride.

Think about it.

Driven By Eternity - Day 8 - Repost

Scheduling a re posting of this old post of mine.  I really liked it then, and so did several readers.  I hope that this holds true.

Therefore let us go on and get past the elementary stage in the teachings and doctrine of Christ (the Messiah), advancing steadily toward the completeness and perfection that belong to spiritual maturity. Let us not again be laying the foundation of repentance and abandonment of dead works (dead formalism) and of the faith [by which you turned] to God, with teachings about purifying, the laying on of hands, the resurrection from the dead, and eternal judgment and punishment. [These are all matters of which you should have been fully aware long, long ago.]

In other (my own) words, eternal judgment isn't just something some people have come up with based on some obscure passage or their own interpretation of the last little dash at the end of the line. It's not just real, not just relevant... it's elementary. In the book, in Chapter 4 (I'm skipping notes on the story of Affabel - I don't feel right about trying to condense it and I won't plagiarize. http://www.messengerintl.org/ Go to the website, order the Affabel series. It will be worth your time, I promise). Anyway, back to chapter 4... following that scripture, Rev. Bevere writes,

"One dictionary defines elementary as "constituting the basic, essential, or fundamental part." It's the essential part we must have right from the start to build upon; it's a foundation."

To me, this means that we can't move on beyond those basics until we get it. We may get tidbits - just as a baby occasionally gets a little morsel of mommy's food. But we need these foundations before we can truly move forward in our walk with God.

Maybe I'm unique, but I'm hung up the eternal part of this judgment. Judgment isn't necessarily bad... it can be good, too. As in the judgment to award someone compensation for a wrong done to them. It's not the judgment part that concerns me. God is just, He is Holy and Righteous. Of course there will be judgment. Our works aren't in vain. Or, rather, they don't have to be in vain. Some things we do here will be gold, silver, or precious stones in heaven. Other things, things that may not be bad or sinful but are still not for the Kingdom, will be wood, hay, and stubble. They'll all be tried by fire, and what remains will be purified gold, silver, or stones. The rest will be waste. I get that. I understand that. We need to remember that while we're here, because once we're there, it will be judged. The part that throws me, that concerns me, that keeps me awake at night, is the eternal part. While we're here, we can always say "Well, I'll get to that later." There's the notion that we'll have a chance to make it right, to do better. But once we get there... that's it. There's no more chances to do works that will yield a lasting reward. If we come through that fire with nothing but our lives, it is infinitely better than spending eternity in Hell.

But... we'll all find ourselves before Christ, wanting with everything in us to lay our treasure at His feet. As a way of thanking Him. For those who are saved but have nothing to show for it, they'll have one thing - a palm branch. A pitiful offering. I don't want to be one of those. And it's eternal. I've not seen any scripture that indicates that once we get to Heaven, we can do anything to earn more rewards or to change our status. That's the scary part... knowing that here on earth, I am choosing my eternity. Not just where, but how. And that's why I've only read one page of chapter four tonight. Because this is one of those things that keeps me awake. That messes with my head. That messes with my own theology and desires and beliefs.

The other thing that gets me is this... He is coming quickly. Come Lord Jesus. I want Him to come. But really, I don't think I actually get it. If I got it, would I live differently? Maybe. If I knew for a fact that in exactly one week He was returning, what would I do? What if it was one day? What if I knew it was in an hour? Would my sense of urgency increase? Would I be so concerned about offending people? Or would every second be spent warning people that He's coming. And it's not like if you're on the fence about it, you'll be given a chance to say, "Oh, wow, I guess that I should change my mind and follow Him" and then still get to come with us. It will be in the twinkling of an eye. We, the believers who are going, will have a brief warning - the loudest, most majestic trumpet blast we'll have ever heard. But the rest of the world? It's clear in scripture:

"No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son,[f] but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. For in the days before the flood, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark; and they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left."

Matthew 24:36-41

See? That's what it will be. Nobody is going to CHOOSE to stay - the choice is made before hand. When you choose whom you will follow. We've been learning in church about how in the last days, it will become possible to see the difference between wheat and tares. In other words, instead of having a bunch of people who appear saved, and not being able to tell who is and isn't, it will be clear who truly belongs to God. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems to me that as each day ticks away, it becomes more obvious who in this world has a relationship with my King and who is truly and eternally lost. And that, too, keeps me up at night.

Great Love.

You might remember this post from a while back.  After a lot of reading and praying and looking carefully at what is actually being done by each program, our choice was narrowed down to one region, one center.  At that center, we chose a child to sponsor through Compassion.  I have said before that they are excellent stewards of the funds they receive.  I've looked at a lot of sponsorship programs, and Compassion stands out as making a tangible difference, with a focus on enabling the children and their families to be independent.  And they stand out in consistent expenditures.  I've seen programs where as little as 40% of what is donated goes toward anything that actually impacts the child.  Compassion is, and has consistently been, much higher than that.  When you look for a child to sponsor, you can read what it's like where he or she lives, as well as see what, exactly, will be provided by their local program.  It varies at each location. 

Back to our child.

We chose her region, her center, because they provide basic food supplies, medical procedures, exams, and treatments, school supplies, and tuition.  All of that... but most importantly, they teach her the Word of God.  They will tell her of His love, of His provision.  They'll teach her, as she grows, to be able to support herself.  They will help her family, too, to be better able to provide.

Our child's name is Marpendo, which means Great Love.  She is beautiful, and I love the meaning behind her name.  In the way she holds her body, face pointing at the camera but eyes averted, an empty smile... she seems so love-starved.  I don't believe her family is depriving her of love... but if she's not had His love, she's starving.  We'll get that fixed.  She reminds me of my Rico that I sponsored so long ago... he had that same face, the same expression.  Over that first year, her smiles started to get more genuine.  Light appeared in his eyes.  I loved seeing that change, and I am so excited to witness (and be a part of) that same change in Marpendo. 

I pray that Marpendo would grow in stature and wisdom and knowledge of Him.  I pray that the love of God would be undeniably present in her life, and that the ministry she will be receiving will overflow to the family member who takes care of her.  Marpendo's parents are no longer living on earth.  I pray that my God would help to heal her wounded heart.  Fill her with hope and expectation... that she'd learn that He has plans for her, good plans, plans to give her a hope and a future.
I'm just so excited and feel so peaceful, choosing to finally go back through the door God never closed.

Stars. And Him.

Last night, I spent some time with a good friend and my husband.  Then my husband went home and I got to chatting with said friend and ended up staying pretty late.  Then I had the 35 minute drive home.

It was so quiet... no other cars (I saw one, in 35 minutes.  A county sheriff on patrol who followed me for the last 5 minutes of my trip.  I assume to run my plates out of boredom.).  The sky was so clear, with little patches of steam and smoke rising up from houses.  No lights other than in the one tiny town I went through. 

The stars were so bright.  It was so cold and so still that they didn't really even twinkle.  Everything looks bigger that way.  And there were meteors.  Lots of them.  Just as I reached the top of the final hill, a particularly large and bright one flashed into view and trailed further than usual.  It was one of those rare moments when you look up at just the right instant; one of those moments that burns vividly into memory and can be recalled at will.  Or maybe you need to think in pictures for that to happen?  Regardless, it did.

I got to spend those 35 minutes worshipping and praying.  "God time" is the most special time... to be able to communicate with the One who created the entire universe is just so... humbling, and beautiful, and amazing.  It is a time when I can express myself, yes.  But more than that, and better, is that He can communicate with me.  Peace.  Joy.  Hope.  Assurance.  Correction.  Rebuke.  Love.  Most of all, love. 

Do you know how amazing that is?  That One who can created everything, Who knows all, sees all... that that One loves me?  It is something that is irrevocably true, and yet... and yet, I cannot wrap my mind around it.  HE loves ME.  Wow.

Psalm 8
LORD, our Lord,

how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
in the heavens.
Through the praise of children and infants
you have established a stronghold against your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?
You have made them a little lower than the angels
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You made them rulers over the works of your hands;
you put everything under their feet:
all flocks and herds,
and the animals of the wild,
the birds in the sky,
and the fish in the sea,
all that swim the paths of the seas.
LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Baby Boy Bolte.

I want to dedicate today's post to a sweet baby Isaac, and to his parents.  Today is his Heaven Day.  He was born with a fatal brain defect, and his parents were faced with the impossible task of squeezing a life-time of love into six short days.

If I could give them a gift... it would be this book.  It is called "God Gave Us Heaven" by Lisa Tawn Bergren.
"Papa, what's heav'n?"

"Why, heaven is God's home... the most amazing place we'll ever get to see."

"More amazing than Glacier Bay?" Little Cub asked. "Glacier Bay is the best place ever."

"Yes, Little Cub. Even better than Glacier Bay. God has great plans for you, Little Cub."

"For me?"

"For you. Both here, and later, when we get to heaven. God loves us and never wants to be far from us. He's made a way for us to be with him forever, in heaven."

"When do we get to see heaven, Papa?"

"When our life here is over."

"When we die?"

"Yes, Little Cub, when we die."

"Will I be old like Grandma when I go to heaven?"

"I hope so, Little Cub. I hope you get to live a long and full life before you see heaven. But some of us get to see it sooner than others."

"They do? How come?"

"They get sick or something bad happens. But the good news is that no matter what bad things happen here, nothing bad happens in heaven!"

"Nothing bad at all?"

"No more tears, no more sadness, no more pain. Only good. Only smiles!"

Little Cub thought on that for a while. "Will we eat in heaven?"

"Will we eat? Will we eat! We'll have more food than we need! It'll be the best of all polar bear feasts!"

"Every day?"

"Every single day."

"What else will we do in heaven?"

"Worship God and explore the best place we've ever seen."

"Will we get bored of that?"

"I doubt it. Heaven will be a million times better than even this!"
"Can we take our stuff to heaven?"

"No, we won't need our stuff there, Little Cub." He paused and lifted her backpack from her shoulders. "Feel how heavy that is? Doesn't it feel good to have it off of you?"

Little Cub nodded.

"Sometimes we think we need stuff, but it's just more weight for us to carry. Our best stuff doesn't weigh anything at all- stuff like love, family, friends, and faith. That's where our real blessings are."

"What will God look like, Papa?"

"Hmm... you know what Mama looks like? How she looks like love to us? God will be like that..."

"Cept a hundred times better!"

"Exactly!"

"Will we be angels?"

"No. Only angels are angels. God made us polar bears for a reason."

"Shoot. I want to fly."

Papa laughed. "Me too. But you never know what we'll get to do in heaven. I bet we'll think it's even better than flying."

"Will I get to see you in heaven?"

"I think so, Little Cub. I think we'll see all our loved ones there. It will be like the best family reunion ever."

"How do we get there, Papa? To heaven, I mean."

"Hmm... Let's say this side of the canyon is life here, on earth. And that side over there- where we find the path home- is heaven. God knew that our bad choices might keep us from him forever. Might even wash us away! He didn't want that. He loves us too much. So he sent his very own Son, Jesus, to be our bridge. All we have to do is walk across it to head toward our forever home."

Little Cub thought on that. "I like Jesus," she said.
"So do I, Little Cub. So do I."

"Will I have a room in heaven?"
"Oh yes, there will be many rooms in heaven."

"Will it be as cozy as mine?"

"The coziest ever, Little Cub."

"Will I sleep in heaven?" she said with a yawn.It had been a very big day. Papa yawned too and they giggled together.

"Heaven will be full of all the things we love most," Papa said. "And right now, sleep sounds heavenly to me."

Little Cub went to sleep and dreamed of seeing God and his angels, of singing and smiling all day long. Of her best friends and her whole family being with her forever. Of playing, of laughing, of everything good. And she was glad, so glad, that God had given them all heaven.

Happy Heaven Day, sweet Isaac.  You and Asher are not forgotten here.  Please show your support to Isaac's parents, the Boltes.  You can get to their blog by clicking here.

Courage to Live.

There is one emotion that I truly despise.  One emotion that in my eyes truly robs people.  One emotion that stifles growth and in so many ways, inhibits really living at all.  It can cripple, immobilize, and destroy.  It breaks apart relationships, ends dreams, and can even stop hearts from beating.

Fear.

We are not made for fear.  The Bible tells us 365 times to "fear not."  Once for every day of the year. 

But what about those moments that make our pulse raise, our temperature rise, every muscle tensed and ready?  Is that sin?  Is it wrong to feel fear?  It's a question I've asked myself so many times... and I admit I do not have an exact answer.

I think it might be.  Before you get upset... follow me for just a minute.  1 John 4:18 tells us that "there is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear; because fear hath torment.  He that feareth is not made perfect in love."  If fear is a sign of imperfection... than it cannot be of God, and cannot be "right." 

Unfortunately... we are all flawed (Romans 3:23 - all have sinned and fall short of the Glory of God).  We live in an imperfect, sin-infested world.  This side of heaven, we must fight to do what is right, and we often lose the fight (if we fight at all). 

That said... there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:1).  I would not dare, for even a second, to condemn someone because they are afraid.  In fact, there are things in this world that are pure evil.  Things that do wrack us with fear.  Mostly, death and the process of dying.  Indirectly, at times - being afraid of a financial situation,or where we will live, the start or end of a relationship.  Ultimately, it doesn't really matter why we are afraid. 

What matters is the presence of courage.  Courage is what sends us running toward the gunshot, so to speak.  It is what inspires greatness.  It is what gets us out of bed each morning and it is what enables us to learn new things.

It is not the absence of fear.

Courage is a choice we make.  It is choosing to act a certain way regardless of fear.  For some people, courage is smiling along with their cancer-ridden child.  It is in taking a deep breath as a coffin is lowered into darkness.  It might show up when a person stands before a review panel or when he or she kneels before the altar of God.

There are as many opportunities to choose courage as there are moments in life.  It looks different every time, but we can recognize it anyway.  Sometimes it is as much a surprise to the courageous one as it is to anyone looking on.

But always, courage lets us live.  Yes, actions buoyed by courage do sometimes lead to death.  Running into a burning building to save another; serving in the armed forces; waiting until the last minute to give birth in hope that a tiny child's lungs will develop just a little more. 

But it is courage that allows us to truly live.  Without it, we would not stand on top of mountains.  We would not stand with our arms outstretched to soak in the fury of a storm.  We would not laugh, we would not cry, we would not love.  We would never take a chance on our dreams, and we would miss every victory.

With it?  With courage... we can do those things and so much more.  We can truly live.  We can do more than exist.

There is one reason to have courage... one thing that lets us hold our heads high and stand unmoving in the face of anything.  The Lord, our God, is with us where ever we go.  (Joshua 1:9).  The fact that He is with us, that He never leaves or forsakes us... that is what gives us courage to live.

But That's So Selfish (Plus a Leg Update)

Forgive me if I include a very brief leg update for the curious: Still scheduled to be admitted the morning of May 11th, will go home 5-7 days later. The psuedomonas turned out to be susceptible to Cipro, so I'm taking very high doses of that and Augmentin up until that morning. A "colony" of bacteria was removed by the nurse today, which will be cultured and verified as something that either Cipro or Augmentin will kill. Slurpy's working well. Pain is decreasing. There are several small eschars (areas of hard, dead tissue) and several obvious colonies of bacteria, but over all, the wound is looking better than it has since the original surgery. Talked to the doctor about some concerns I have related to the PTSD. The result? He understood. I will have a private room. I will not be catheterized and I will not be required to use a bedpan. Over all, a very productive day.

Okay. Now that that's over with, the meat of this post.

Selfishness. Defined by Webster's as either "concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself: seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others" or "arising from concern with one's own welfare or advantage in disregard of others." Certainly not a trait most of us want attributed to ourselves. In fact, I don't know that I've ever met someone who said to me, "I wish I could be just a little more selfish."

I have noticed that many people, myself included, seem to say "yes" to almost any request made of them. I want to give. I want to help. I want to be selfless. If it benefits someone else, I am all for it. Even if it hurts me. I have always used Galatians 5:13 & 14 to justify myself in this attitude. I've convinced myself that i have to "do it all" because... well, because that's the unselfish thing to do. Look at those verses with me for just a moment, will you?

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. (taken from the Message Bible)

I could use this passage to try to convince you that we should do everything others ask. After all it says "serve one another in love." Right? We should serve others. In love. Because that's what we're told to do.

Let me ask you something though. Have you ever been SO busy that you cannot remember what it is you are supposed to do next? Maybe not. Have you promised someone that you'd be there for them, only to walk away with the sinking realization that you have another equally important commitment? I think that sometimes in our efforts to serve God, to love our neighbors, we fall terribly short. Not for lack of willingness. Not for lack of "yes" answers. But because we don't say no. We get so wrapped up in doing, going, and helping, that our own lives start to fall apart.

Look at Luke 6:41 & 42

"Why do you notice the little piece of dust in your friend's eye, but you don't notice the big piece of wood in your own eye? How can you say to your friend, 'Friend, let me take that little piece of dust out of your eye' when you cannot see that big piece of wood in your own eye?! You hypocrite! First, take the wood out of your own eye. Then you will see clearly to take the dust out of your friend's eye.

I always looked at that passage as sort of applying to them. You know, those other people who sit in church with you. But you know what? It's talking to me. The reason I didn't think it was? Well... I am pretty sure I would notice if I got a big piece of wood in my eye. Even if it was metaphorical, like getting entrenched in sin. Or failing to meet my commitments. Or failing to manage my finances. Becoming unsubmissive to my husband. Wouldn't I?

Maybe. If I had time to pay attention to that sort of thing. You know, in between all of the loving my neighbor that I have to do.

Face it. We cannot obey the commandment set forth in Galatians if we don't take heed to what's written here in Luke. Maybe that's why Luke comes first in the Bible? We absolutely, positively must take heed to ourselves. We have to take care of ourselves before we can take care of anything or anyone else. There is no way we can be of any earthly use if we are falling apart.

I am a very good example of this one. I got so caught up in wanting to "be better" and help people that I didn't even notice myself slipping back into the very dangerous, very scary habit of self mutilation. The mess I made is still being cleaned up (see the note at the top of this entry). And right now? I just need to let myself take care of me. I can't take care of others, can't see past my own mountain to help them. And that hurts. But truth doesn't always feel good going down - sometimes, it's bitter, like medicine. Right now, my truth is that I can't really do much for anybody else. I hate it. Loathe it. Want to deny or ignore it. Or both. But I can't. I have to heed it, or I'll wind up with not just a big stick in my eye, but an entire log jamb. And that would certainly help my neighbor, right? Well... maybe not so much.

A little bit further in Luke, it we see what exactly it was that Christ came to do. We are called to be Christians, or Christ-Like. So maybe we ought to read what He did, so we know what we ought to be doing. Read Luke 19:10 with me:

The Son of Man (Christ Jesus) came to find lost people and save them.

Well, that's simple. If we're to love people, and be like Christ, we should be out finding lost people and saving them.

I will be honest. Right now, I feel selfish. I am not out finding lost people and saving them. I am barely getting through my days, battling a systemic infection, fighting to keep my leg, looking at my 3rd urgent surgery in so many weeks. Praying that this one the last - the surgeon isn't sure it will be.

Am I a bad Christian for this? Am I failing? I've stepped back from some of the "helps" things that I usually do. I spend less time now "reaching out." I am asking others to help me. I am trying to force myself to let them. Everything in me is screaming out "THIS IS SO SELFISH."

But then I read this in Matthew. Matthew comes before Luke the way we arrange our Bibles, but this account is after the commandment to love, and after we see what Jesus came to do.

Read Matthew 14, verses 22 and 23:

As soon as the meal was finished, He (Jesus) insisted that the disciples get in the boat and go on ahead to the other side while He dismissed the people. When the crowd dispersed, He climbed the mountainside so He could be by Himself and pray. He stayed there alone, late into the night.

So. There you have it. Jesus, who was perfect, drew away for a time. He spent time alone. He prayed, and He didn't do it for just a little while. He did it late into the night. He didn't just happen to find Himself alone, either. He sent everyone away. He took care of Himself. I don't believe that He would have been able to do what He did if He didn't take this time, alone. This time to be restored and refreshed and rebuilt.

And so, while my flesh screams "SELFISH SELFISH WOMAN" my Spirit whispers, "Wisdom. This is wisdom."

Think about it... can you find a way to apply any of this to your own life? If so, please leave me a comment. I'd love to hear from you.

Tonight's Walk - Courtesy of a Bird Named Ollie.

I know, I know. "Walk" has been in the title of a high percentage of my posts lately. But really, isn't that what we all do? I'm not talking about the physical process of putting one foot in front of the other. I'm talking about living. About breathing. About seeking Him and wanting to know Him.

The focus tonight is thanksgiving. Not necessarily exuberant, can't-keep-it-inside thanksgiving. Tonight, it's more of a peaceful, moved-nearly-to-tears, amazed kind of thanksgiving. The sort that results in whispered, heartfelt hallelujahs.

God doesn't always answer our prayers the way we think He will. And when He gives us what we need - really need - it doesn't always look how we expect it to.

Several weeks ago, something came to mind as I was praying one evening. That thing? The knowledge that there was a woman, and her husband, and three kids, whom I had never actually met. And this family was (and still is) within four hours of us. After having been half way around the world. And early next year, there will once again be an entire ocean between us and them. But for now... for now, they are within reach. They are glorifying God here. Serving Him and seeking His face. And soon, they will be "back on the missions field" glorifying God, serving Him and seeking His face.

It rose up in me, with far more certainty and even a sense of urgency, that we needed to meet them. I can't really explain it, and I don't know if they had any of that urgency.

The time we spent with them seemed, in many ways, very ordinary. We hugged (something I thought wouldn't happen outside of heaven). We talked. Laughed. Shared a meal. It was a little awkward, for about fifteen minutes. And then? It was comfortable.

And it was like salve for my heart.

As I have mentioned so many times over the past year, there are some battles being waged. In me, personally. In our marriage (we are not battling each other - we are battling side by side). Physical, mental, emotional. Spiritual.

One thing I have struggled with a lot more than I let on, is the loss of every pregnancy we have had. No child of ours has lived more than twelve weeks after conception (or fourteen weeks of pregnancy). There aren't any tiny shoes in our home. No baby monitor. No barriers on the stairs. We don't have to be home for nap time, and we don't own a car seat.

Our little girl, Anna, would be turning three next month if she were still here on earth. Sometimes I feel guilty for missing her. I feel like my arms have no right to ache, like my heart has no reason to be heavy. So many have lost so much more than I. And yet... maybe it is okay.

This family that we met on Saturday... they know. We haven't shared every detail, but they have the general picture. They know that we have five children. That they are all in heaven. Most people we know are aware of this. It's obvious that they haven't forgotten. The carefully redirected conversations, the guilty looks, the whispered apologies make it painfully clear.

This weekend, it was the words of a small girl that touched my heart. Derek and I were talking with her parents, and she was happily being near the way that children of that age often times do. There was a break in conversation. She put her elbows on my knees and looked up at me. And she asked a question. A simple, innocent question that I have never before been asked.

"What are your kids' names?"

I looked at her, a little confused. I thought maybe she didn't know. I gently explained that we didn't have any kids yet. Her answer touched something deep inside, and I know that my words here can't explain it.

"No. I don't mean kids here. I mean your five kids in heaven. What are their names?"

I had to blink back tears - the first time I have even come close to crying in I don't know how long. I wonder if anyone else heard my voice crack when I answered.

"We only know one little girl's name. Her name is Anna. Annaliah."

"What about the other four?"

As she looked up at me, I was torn between wanting to cry, and wanting to shout for joy. I wasn't sure how to explain it so that a preschooler could understand.

"Well... we don't know their names yet. We'll have to wait until we get to heaven to find out."

I wondered if this would confuse her. Or if she would have more questions. I didn't know if it would be okay for me to answer them if she asked - it's the sort of thing that may be best explained by parents. But no explanation was needed.

In the way that it seems only children can, she accepted that answer and moved on. There was no struggle to believe, no analyzing, no surprise. To her, there was nothing strange about it.

And she's right, you know. There isn't anything difficult to grasp about the fact that our children are in heaven. It is sad that we don't know them, but there is nothing sad about where they are. It isn't shocking, it isn't scary.

And her calm acceptance washed over me like cool water on a hot day.

Thank you, Lord, for Emma. Thank you for her child-like faith. Help me Lord, to never lose sight of Who you are, and what you have done for me. And thank you that good-bye here on earth doesn't have to mean good-bye forever.

When I parked our truck in front of the house they are staying in right now, I had a moment of doubt. Okay, truthfully, I had several moments of doubt. What if we were in for an evening of awkward silences, broken by stilted conversations and sideways glances? What if I had misinterpreted the written words we'd exchanged, and the family I had grown to love existed only in my mind?

Those doubts persisted for about ten seconds after the door opened. I'll be honest here - I am not big on hugs. They don't come naturally for me, and I never hug people I've just met. In fact, there are people I care about very much, people I would do anything for, whom I have never once hugged.

So to put it mildly, I was shocked by my compulsion to hug this woman. I didn't know what to do with myself. Should I hug her? And if I did, how would I initiate it? Should I ask first? Should I squeeze, or just lightly drape my arms across her shoulders? What if it totally creeped her out? What if my armpits or breath smelled? What if I accidentally stepped on her feet? Seriously. I hugged my Pastor probably fifty times before I finally managed one time not to step on his toes, so it is not just an irrational fear. I seem to have a talent for toe-smashing. As for the armpits and breath, we made a pit-stop half way to their house. My dad and my Kelly took us out for pizza, and then we did a little go-cart racing. Making those fears not entirely irrational, either.

Fortunately, she didn't wait for me to make up my mind. If she had, I would probably still be standing there staring at her. Instead, she put words to my thoughts, and actions to my... well, thoughts. (That last statement didn't come together as eloquently as I had hoped).

"I feel like I should hug you."

And, at least for me, that is when it quit feeling awkward. Sure, we spent a while trying to "get the feel of things." But it wasn't an uncomfortable adjustment.

I don't remember the last person I met who was so warm, so open. I doubt I had the same impact on her. But rather than focus on that, I am going to thank God for the blessing.

I thank you, Lord, for Spring. Thank you for her openness. Thank you for using her to show Your love. Thank you for allowing our paths to cross.

Do you ever struggle with who you are? I don't mean forgetting your name, or not knowing who you are. I mean knowing who you are, and accepting that. Maybe you don't. But I sure do. I seem to have a real talent for convincing myself that I should be... different than I am. I often ask myself if I am responding to things the way I should. Am I smiling at the right time? Have I been silent to long, or do they think I talk too much? What about my hands - should I hold them still or is this one of those times when I can fidget?

More importantly... is who I am okay? Does it even matter?

Something happened on Saturday. As we talked, relaxed, ate... he watched. And listened. Every word seemed to register. Unfair as it is, I was watching his face for judgment. We arrived a little after three. We pulled away from their home almost eight hours later. And in all that time, I never did figure out what his judgment was.

The only thing I saw was interest. He and his wife wanted to get to know us. Not so they could judge, not so they could criticize, and not even so they could help us change. I kept thinking to myself, "these people just really love... people." And something occurred to me.

I need to love people that same way. God doesn't love us for what we do, and His opinion of us isn't based on the music we listen to or the color of our shoes. He loves us. And He has commanded us to love one another.

Father, thank you for loving us. For sending your Son. It is a sacrifice I can't fathom. Thank you for loving us that much, flawed and broken as we are. And thank you for Tim. Thank you for using him. Help me to show that kind of interest in the people I meet. Help me to remember that you love people, not the things that people do.

When I was little, my Gramma used to love making things for me. Breakfast (which she often brought upstairs and gave to me in bed). Snacks after school. Hot fudge sundaes, extra dumplings in the soup, green eggs and ham. Quilts for my bed, clothes for my dolls. Forts made of blankets. There wasn't much Gramma couldn't make.

I don't like to admit this, but I really was an ungrateful child. I don't remember thanking her for what she did. I do remember criticizing her. She would beam as she gave me whatever it was that she had made.

The day she died, right before she and my grandpa left, she offered to make me a snack. It was just the way that Gramma was. She made things for the people she loved. When I turned her down that day, she looked disappointed. The image of her face is burned in my memory. What I didn't understand is this: doing things, making things, for the people you love is a joy.

On Saturday, we were presented with lumpy, slightly odd-looking "treats." An eleven year old boy smiled at us as we were told that he made them. I took one, not really sure what to expect. And it was absolutely delicious.

Really, it was. I am not usually a fan of rice crispy treats. Or, I suppose I should say cheerio-life-unknown cereal treats. But these? These were really good. About half way through mine, I happened to look up at the boy who made them. He was watching us.

The look on his face was so easy to read. He had a treat in his own hand, but he wasn't eating it. He wasn't even paying attention to it. He was looking around the room, smiling as we all ate his creation.

After supper, he wore that same expression as we ate the brownies he had prepared. While we were loading dishes into the dishwasher, his mom shared a little bit more about the "desert extravaganza" that had been prepared for us. Yes, I am sure he probably had fun baking, but that wasn't his goal. His goal was to do something special.

Thank You for Nat. God, I don't know what You have in store for me, let alone this eleven year old boy. But I know this: the joy he derives from being a blessing has served as a reminder for me. A reminder that You are for me, and not against me. You want to bless me. It isn't a chore for You - it is something you want to do. I may not understand, but I am grateful.

I'm almost done with this post. I have one more person, one more blessing, to share with you.

This person stands less than three feet high. She has a round belly and an amazingly cute dimpled chin. Here eyes sparkle when she smiles, and her giggle is extremely cute. Her mom let us know that she was a shy little girl, and wouldn't be likely to let us pick her up or hold her.

And that was okay. I've been around enough toddlers to know that it isn't personal when pull away from new people. It's normal. Natural. Healthy. I heard, I understood, and I moved on.

Then her brother decided to show us what happens when you put Ivory soap in the microwave. If you haven't done this, I'd highly recommend it. But that's a different post, for a different day.

As her big brother and sister climbed on stools and counters to watch the results of the "experiment," this gift from God craned her neck, trying to get even a glimpse of what was happening. I remembered what her mom had said, but didn't want her to miss out. She looked up at me as I spoke.

"Can I pick you up, so you can see?"

She nodded. I picked her up, and she settled into my arms as we watched the soap. (Yes, I am deliberately neglecting to tell you what happens. And yes, I am doing so because I actually do want you to microwave a bar of Ivory soap.) Once the soap was removed from the microwave, I set her down so that she could play with the results. I watched the three kids enjoying themselves, and quietly thanked God for each one of them.

Then her brother decided to repeat the experiment.

I didn't even have a chance to ask permission to pick her up. Two tiny, soapy hands grabbed mine and tugged. As I picked her up, she smiled at me. And my heart melted. Figuratively, of course.

I breathed in the smell of her as I thanked God for the blessing that she is. And as tiny fingers absently played with my sweater, I closed my eyes. I opened them again when I felt her head against my chest. She was staring up at me, eyes wide and shining. She took a deep breath and relaxed against my chest.

We stayed that way for maybe five seconds. The moment seemed to pass almost before it started, and yet it seemed so long. I couldn't tell you what about this was so special. I only know that it was.

Lord, thank you for Katie. Thank you for giving her life. Thank you for giving her to Tim and Spring. She is a blessing from you, and they know it. I pray that you'd keep her safe as she grows. And thank You for that moment.

Okay. I am done, for tonight. I will leave you with one final bit of information.

You may have noticed that I said this post was "courtesy of a bird named Ollie." You see, three and a half years ago, I received an email. It started with these words: "Hi. I really need to talk to someone! I think I'm falling in love with this little bird and want to help him."

It ended with this paragraph: "Well, you may answer any or all or none of my questions. But any help you'd give would be much appreciated. I was so relieved to see an email, so I could talk to a real person. Oh, we are Americans living in Poland. Thanks in advance for your help."

You are welcome, Spring. But I should be the one thanking you.