tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61159828415370430342024-03-12T20:02:38.920-07:00Vintage ChicButtercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-85923951627971428962016-03-02T22:14:00.002-08:002016-03-17T01:01:03.970-07:00I'm Still BloggingJust a quick note to those who follow me here or have somehow found their way to my page, I want to let you know I LOVE that you have found my musings and hope that they have been meaningful to you. Although I am no longer posting here, I am still writing. <br />
<br />
I'd love for you to check in at <a href="http://saturatedinseattle.wordpress.com/">Saturated In Seattle</a><br />
<br />
Thanks so much,<br />
<br />
Karyn Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-71435911830822714472016-02-24T19:39:00.000-08:002016-02-25T07:35:28.105-08:00Project 52: From Where I Stand<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pJ76P3bAHhc/Vs52whv1ltI/AAAAAAAAAPw/TGdN_76ssxU/s1600/DSC_0755.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pJ76P3bAHhc/Vs52whv1ltI/AAAAAAAAAPw/TGdN_76ssxU/s400/DSC_0755.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I stand as messenger!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ll never forget those dark eyes, never. If I close my eyes
now, 17 years later, I can still see them. I can still see the spacing of his
lashes and prominent pupils due to the shadowy-dim light. His girth suffocated
me as my face was pushed into the all-weather carpet, burning its roughness
onto the left side of my face. Without a thought of possible repercussion, I
mustered all I had within me and let out a blood-curdling scream for help,
except my body betrayed me and no sound came from my lips. I felt my vocal
cords constrict, and my mouth open, but no sound escaped. I tried again,
telling myself that it was my fear choking me and that if I could just relax,
then my voice would work. It didn’t. The silence was deafening; literally
piercing my ears. Silence from him. Silence from me. And still, sometimes, the
quiet can become too much for me. I remember thinking that this six-foot-four,
275-pound African-American man would give up after trying for what seemed an
eternity to destroy me, but he didn’t. My thoughts quickly changed to wishing
he would just hurry. I have no comprehension to this day how long the physical
attack lasted. I only know I allowed the emotional portion to affect me a good
share of the years since. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I felt like a rag doll; limp, lifeless and hopeless when I
was finally left all alone in the dark. I didn’t cry---not right away. I picked
myself up, cleaned up the best I could, and then I cried. And cried. And still
to this day, I cry. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I cry for me. I cry for him. What has to happen in a
person’s life to bring them to such a place to commit such violence without
regard for another human being? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Weaving in and out of various parts of the story in an
attempt to focus on where I am standing now, this week’s theme, I skip ahead
nine months to share that with my husband of now 23 years by my side, I gave
birth to a beautiful reminder of God’s Sovereignty, a bi-racial baby girl that
resulted from that traumatic night; and a few years later found myself part of
Pacific Northwest’s Speakers Bureau for Crisis Pregnancy Centers, focusing
on both educating the public and fundraising. (I am incredibly, incredibly
passionate about the issue of pro-life! Incredibly!). </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At one such speaking engagement at Beasley Coliseum at WSU,
I was teamed up with an African-American man. We had never met before and to be
honest, I do not remember what he even spoke about. However, after the event
was over, he approached me, pulling me aside, and with tears streaming down his
cheeks, he said, “I want to ask you for forgiveness for my “brother”. Will you
forgive him?” I was completely caught off guard and the strength that I had
been mustering up all day betrayed me and I fell at his knees and sobbed like
the little girl I so desperately had been trying to hide for a very long time. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I don’t remember my co-speaker’s name, but I have never,
never forgotten his words. I have pondered them in every possible way; I’ve
turned them over, upside down and back again. I’ve mulled them over, looked for
a hidden agenda, trying to believe there was something there I wasn’t seeing.
Friends, there wasn’t. His words, however, were not his own. He was merely the messenger because they were
the words of Christ, “Forgive them” (Luke 23:34). </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">17 years later, I, too, stand too as a messenger. Over and
over again, I find myself standing in the expanding space between injustice and
forgiveness, loving the unlovable, forgiving those who have wronged; those who
have crudely dismissed the beauty and value of one’s life and forever altering
others in seemingly unforgivable ways. Standing in this place of Hope happened
to me. I wish I could say I have this amazingly loving heart and I sought out
ways to show love to the unlovable, but I didn’t. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Somehow in the midst of my seething hatred, wishing ill-will
of my attacker so much so that I have literally made myself physically sick and
praying for vengeance, God filled me with compassion, broke my heart for what
breaks His and allowed me to surrender all those warranted thoughts to Him and
rely on His strength and leading in my life. I trust---I absolutely have
to—that God will deal with each injustice in a far better way than I ever could.
Injustice is something I cannot comprehend no matter how hard I stretch my
imagination or try to put myself in an offender’s shoes. It’s ugly and it robs
us of our security, dignity, and innocence while often jostling our faith in
both humanity and God. Turning a blind eye to injustice is an injustice in
itself!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I refuse to turn a blind eye to it---I run toward it now. I
write to prisoners, through the Prisoners for Christ organization, study the
Bible alongside them, write notes of encouragement, direction and prayers over
them. When I mail my letters, it is only the beginning because I vow to
continue to pray over each prisoner. I have no idea if the words I write are
meaningful to them or are life-changing, but I do know I am showing them Jesus
the best way I know how. I stand with my arms outstretched toward heaven in
humble thanksgiving for the forgiveness that I have been graced with and desire
with all my heart to share that freedom with those held captive (physically and
emotionally) by their own unforgiveness and sin. I stand as messenger.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-61309897339743169232016-02-17T23:30:00.000-08:002016-02-25T07:43:54.045-08:00Project 52: Heart/Love (What I Know Now)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iEkzBwbjeqM/VsYU6-ZhmCI/AAAAAAAAAPc/4dcwmbTS8ok/s1600/DSC_0751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iEkzBwbjeqM/VsYU6-ZhmCI/AAAAAAAAAPc/4dcwmbTS8ok/s400/DSC_0751.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A good start to my forever!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thinking about this week's theme of "heart/love" for the Project 52 challenge I accepted for this year, I asked my girls', "What should I write about this week?" Both responded simultaneously, "Tell us how you fell in love with Daddy". <br /><br />So at my girls' request:</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
<br />It wasn’t love at first sight. How could it be? I was eleven. He was twelve.
And we had never spoken a single word to one another, let alone made eye
contact. And yet every day after lunch, I literally held my breath as he would
pass by my class where I would be waiting outside with my peers for our teacher to let us in.
I knew nothing about him other than he checked </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 1</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> on my list of “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">must
have qualities</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">” when his reeling attractiveness found in those incredibly beautiful
hazel eyes and dark hair strutted by. I spent insurmountable time thinking and
dreaming of him, and even ducked into the girls’ bathroom to freshen up my cherry
flavored Lip Smacker and enormous bouffant, I called bangs, with super-hold Aqua net Hairspray. I suppose I thought if he noticed me, I would stand a chance. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I didn’t know then that I know now is
that any girl simply attracting a boy with her looks might not attract the
quality guy she desires and vice versa.</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <br />
<br />
I thought of him off and on over the next couple of years, but rarely saw him
once he moved onto high school. However, in 1990, about 4 years after my
initial stocking encounter, during his senior year and my junior year, we ended
up having a class together. By this time, I didn’t really like him, but my
heart didn’t get the message and still skipped a beat when our paths crossed--
and I still carried my Aqua net for just such an occasion. He had made quite a
reputation for himself as the star relief pitcher for our school’s baseball
team. His ego preceded him; he was downright cocky--and that squashed the
initial attraction I had for him. However</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">,
box 2</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> had been checked, because being athletic---‘nough said. I guess in
some small way; I was still hoping there was more than meets the eye with him.
Deep down, I felt there was. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know
now that I didn’t know then is that sometimes people over compensate to hide
their inadequacies or pain. How a person appears to be in one setting is not
necessarily who they are on the inside.</span></i><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ironically, it was the two of us always getting into trouble
in the class we had together. He was the class clown and I was the only one
caught laughing! Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 3</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";">: I love
a guy who can make me laugh! Between having to do push-ups and sit at a banquet
style table pushed up against the blackboard at the front of the class as a
consequence for our disrespectful behavior, I realized I was, in my awkward way,
flirting with him. I wouldn’t have gone out with him though. Worlds
colliding---introvert, hot-mess-me and cocky-popular-seeming extrovert him---it
would not have worked. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now
that I didn’t know them is that opposites attract and if you are meant to be it
will work out, even if it comes at a high cost and a lot of work.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He was awarded a scholarship for baseball (still loving that
box 2 is checked) and went to an out-of-state college. That was that. I dated,
fell in mad like with someone I thought I would marry and your dad did not
cross my mind for a full year. The next fall, I started classes at a local
college, and because it was local, I looked around to see if I would know
anyone. And there before my eyes, stood your dad. And again, my heart skipped a
beat. I walked over to him and hit him---don’t worry, it was one of those
playful, flirty hits we girls do from time to time. He looked me in the eye and
smiled. He smiled-- and my heart melted. Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 4:</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> A contagious smile---it didn’t matter that his teeth were
jacked up; it actually made his smile all the more lovable. He asked how my
summer was and I proceeded to talk all about how I had replaced the alternator
in my 69 Chevelle SS (love me some muscle cars!). His eyes glazed over, so I
kept talking (this is why people don’t believe I’m an introvert). </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t know then is
that not all guys are into cars and when a girl works so hard to impress a guy,
she might be over compensating for her own inadequacies. </span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Your dad did not sit next to me in class and I knew I blew
it. I spent my first class of college learning a lot---just not about
Psychology---well, maybe it was Psychology, just not from the instructor’s
lecture. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t
know then is that real life experiences will often teach you more than a book </span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(but
don’t discount the beautiful truths found in books---a good many have changed
my life)!<br />
<br />
Unexpectedly, your dad called me two days later and asked if I wanted to study
for an upcoming test. Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 5</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";">:
My guy must spontaneous! I could hardly speak. I agreed to the non-date-study-date for Saturday and looked forward to wooing him. Writing my genuine thoughts here
for you, I am asking myself, “What the hell is wrong with you? Woo him? It was
a study date for Pete’s sake---and remember you don’t even really like him"!
(Also, I might be the last person on the planet to use the word “woo”) Friday
after classes, I was walking down the steep hill to the lower-parking lot, lost
in deep, reflective thought as the sun shone down on me, adding to the all-over
warmth I was feeling that day, when all of the sudden my moment of tranquility
was disrupted by what some would call music. All I heard was bass! Bass, my
dear children, is only one---count it—one--part of music! I turned to look who had
such god-awful taste in music and there…wait for it…was your dad wearing his Ray
Bans with one wrist draped over the steering wheel of his lowrider truck. I
hoped he wouldn’t see me and I started to turn away when he gave me the ‘sup-nod.
I wondered in that moment if a date, study-date or otherwise, was just a waste
of time. Clearly, we were not a good match. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t know then is that we are often closed
minded and judgmental of the things we see and hear and assume our way is best
and right. </span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Though I didn’t think your dad and I would end up together,
I was incredibly intrigued by him; so much so that I couldn’t get him out of my
mind, so I left our study-date in place. Saturday came and I cleaned grandma
and grandpa’s house, literally scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees. I
then showered, did my hair and make-up, but then chose to wear sweats. This was
very intentional. Very. I wanted to look my best, but not appear like I was
trying too hard. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I
didn’t know then is when we are focused so much on our outer appearance, often
we are not working on the inner aspects of our heart. I was not emotionally and spiritually working
to be the best God desired me to be for my future husband. However, I rocked a
good pair of sweatpants---if that’s even possible!</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br />
I was not the only one trying too hard to look casual. Your dad showed up
wearing a mamba sock, which is the 90’s version of a do-rag. He had his ear
pierced and was sporting (I use that verb so loosely here) a huge earring
of…prayer hands. Was it cool, you ask? Uuuuuhhh not in the slightest. I am
dying laughing as I recall this image that he dawned for quite some
time---which literally caused your grandpa to run out of the house to warn
grandma about the hoodlum their precious baby girl was “entertaining”! My list had a box labeled “fashion sense”. I
am certain I don’t have to tell you this box did not get checked. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t know then is
that sometimes boys try too hard, just like girls and that the image we work so
hard to achieve is often not the image of Christ.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I heard your dad arrive before I saw him. Know how? Bass! I
rolled my eyes and thought, “Here goes nothing”. As bizarre as I found him to be, I also knew there
was something worthwhile there. I ran out to meet him and before we even walked
back into the house he turned to me and said, “Hey I’m hungry. Can I take you
to dinner?” Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 6</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";">: My guy
needs to be generous. So we went, the two of us in his lowrider; he in his
mamba sock and I in my sweats. We were the definition of “hot mess” before that
term even came into existence. I wish we had thought to take a selfie. Oh,
wait! Those didn’t exist---or cell phones---or even email. Though that dates
us, it does not change what a journey toward love sometimes looks like. We
talked about this and that for hours, literally hours, (check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 7:</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> good conversationalist and
stellar listener) when he finally approached the subject that terrified me
most: music! Flash backs of just the day before flooded my mind and I pensively
squeaked out “I love music, just not rap”.
He listed group after group; groups like The Smiths, Talking Heads, The
Beautiful South, Ten Thousand Maniacs, etc. most of which I was unfamiliar
with. He saw the doe-eyed girl sitting across from him, evaluated her, maybe
took pity on her, and slowly eased her into his love for all genres of music,
starting with the Beautiful South, which I loved. (Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 8</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";">: sharing his passions with me). We talked for hours like we
had known each other forever. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know
now that I didn’t know then is that there is a whole world to be learned
through the perspective of others. Our perspective is often incomplete. </span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m sure you’re dying to know about our first kiss. It
was…uneventful to say the least. I wish I could say that the skies parted and
angels sang as sunbeams bounced off our embracing bodies (don’t say, “Eeww”),
but instead, I was on the phone, mid-sentence, when your dad leaned in for a
quick kiss. You’re familiar with my gigantic horse teeth, right? Well, so is
your dad! I quickly hung up the phone and we had a do-over. This is where you
could say, “Eewww” because it was damn near magical. I didn’t actually write
this on my childhood list of “must-haves”, but heck, check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 9</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> for obvious reasons. I asked your dad later why he chose that
moment to kiss me. He said he had been watching my lips for some time and he
just couldn’t wait a second longer. Almost sweet. More impulsive though, which
is the exact opposite of who you know your dad to be! </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t know then is that reality rarely matches
our dreams and sometimes your first kiss is bad. God’s grace landed us a pretty
great second kiss though! Another thing I know now that I didn’t know then is
that it’s really hard for guys to take the lead and we need to be both patient
and gracious.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Over the next four months we didn’t study a bit! That first
study date was all about biology, but not the kind you find in a text book or
under a microscope! I was smitten with your dad and fell for him so quickly it
scared me. I didn’t want to lose him. I would do anything and everything for
him, even sacrificing little things like sleep and big things like my
self-respect. (read between the lines, my loves). </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t know then is that true love really does
wait. Girls that feel they have to compromise their morals and values or let go
of them all together either by pressure or by their own initiative are not in a
healthy relationship.</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Our choices
remain with us forever.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> On my 19</span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
birthday, he sent a dozen roses to my workplace. Having worked at the town’s
grocery store, people asked me about them all day long. I literally gushed and
blushed all day, and honestly, the more I talked about him, the more I loved
him. The next day, the day after this romantic gesture, he took me to Lookout Point,
better named “Make-out Point” a place known for…hummm…how do I say this
tactfully for my sweet children…a little nooky. No nooky took place, no hand
holding, no kissing. Instead, confusion and tears filled that little lowrider
as I sat listening to him break my heart. He said he thought he loved me, but he
wanted to take a break to see if what he was feeling was really love or just
infatuation. I rolled my eyes, but had to accept his words. I was devastated. I
felt my heart would never be the same again. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I
know now that I didn’t know then is that guys are really stupid sometimes.
Wait! I knew that then! What I know now that I didn’t know then is that even
guys struggle with their feelings and need time to process! I also learned that
a broken heart is never wasted when we learn more about who we are and what we
genuinely need in another person. Some guys are worth waiting for.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time passed and I was stuck sitting next to him in assigned
seating. I can’t believe I passed my classes, because I am pretty sure I didn't hear a single lecture due to my wildly nervous heartbeat. I wrote your
dad a poem a few weeks after our breakup. (Yep---that’s the kind of hot-mess I
was back then--kind of wish I was still that girl), gave it to him at the end
of class, and ran to my car, like a little girl. It was practically the
equivalent of the “Do you like me? Yes, or no?" notes we wrote in third grade; though
slightly more romantic. Slightly! I drove home, biting all my fingernails off,
praying that he wouldn’t reject me again. He called and asked if I would come
over. I can only point to the fact that my Chevelle’s awesomeness got me there
in record time. When I arrived, he opened the door, and just like you might see
in the movies, he boldly said, “If you take one step into this house, you’re
saying yes to forever!” Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 10</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";">---romantic!
Me in my overalls, because I was still working that angle, took the most
pronounced step ever over the threshold and said with the biggest smile, “OK”.
And that was that! </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I
didn’t know then is that if it is really meant to be, it will come back around.</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We dated several more months, incessantly talking about
every topic under the sun. Your grandma even remarked how we talked more than
teenage girls---and we did. Daily, for hours and hours at a time. Then one day,
it dawned on me that we had never talked about what we were going to school
for. I was pursuing my teaching
certification in special education and he…wanted to be a pastor! A what?!!!!
Well, that did it. I was not cut out to be a pastor’s wife. And, my goodness,
he</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> definitely</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> was not cut out to be a
pastor---I mean don’t you have to take a polygraph test and be holy and pure
and--- this was not the life I wanted. We argued and in tearful frustration, I
yelled, “Well, don’t ask me to marry you, because I will say no”. Don’t get me
wrong, </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 11</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> had been checked a
long time ago when I learned that his faith was genuine and that he loved the
Lord, but marrying a pastor…that was a box some other girl had on her list, not
mine. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know now that I didn’t know
then is that God has given each one of us a gift, and a dating couple should
talk in depth about the compatibility of those gifts early on. </span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The next day was Thanksgiving of 1992 and your dad brought
me to grandpa’s church, the church we attended, which was completely empty (and
cold). He suspiciously locked me out of the room, which totally upset me and
brought to mind the argument we had had just the day before. What I didn’t know
for several minutes (and it was minutes) was that he was struggling to light
the candles he had brought. Once he did, he unlocked the door and grabbed my
hand as he escorted me to where the candles were arranged among a dozen pink
roses and a white box tied with green yarn (green yarn!!!! Is that not totally
endearing all on its own?!). I smiled and thought, “There is that sweet
surprise element of his again”! Then I cringed because I had not thought to get
him a Thanksgiving gift. I reached for the box and began to pull the green yard
off the box, but he stopped me to ask if I had smelled the roses. Glancing up at him, I responded,“Yes, they’re
beautiful, thank you”. While keeping my eyes locked on his, I bent forward and
smelled them again for good measure. I began to pull at the yarn and again he
interrupted, asking, “But did you smell </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">this</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
one?” It was as odd as it sounds and as I looked up at your dad, I could see he
was trembling---like really, trembling. It was cold in the church, but not so
much to warrant such trembling. To humor him, I exaggerated my smell of the
rose he was pointing out and there nestled inside a pale pink rose was a
solitaire engagement ring. It was my turn to be impulsive and so before he
could even say a word, I jumped up and yelled over and over again, “YES! YES!
YES!”. He reached for my hand and said, “Wait! I haven’t even asked you yet”.
He then had me sit and he slowly kneeled, seeming to compose himself a bit, and
proceeded to tell me everything he loved about me and how we would always talk
things through and how it would be hard, but it would be worth it, and I
believed every word he said. I had forgotten all about the box with green yarn
until he handed it to me several moments later, saying “This is actually
something for both of us. It’s going to be hard, but I believe in us and will
do whatever it takes”. Inside the box was a workbook titled, “Saving Your
Marriage Before It Starts”. Check </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Box 12</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";">:
hard work doesn’t scare him; in fact, he embraces it. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I know now that I didn’t
know then is that God’s plans are bigger and better than ours. He can take our
differences and make them beautiful. Your dad and I complement each other,
complete each other in the most remarkable ways. I also learned that marriage
is work and the sooner you start working on it, the better!</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was over-the-moon in love and happy and looking forward to
a bright and beautiful future as Mrs. Dennis Wellman Schneider. On August 20, 1993,
</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">box 13</span></b><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> was checked---as your dad
promised to love me as long as long as we both shall live. He isn’t afraid of
commitment or hard times because He trusts in God’s sovereignty and knew long
before we said, “I do”, that a marriage made of three strands is not easily
broken. I could write about the 23 years that have followed thus far, but I
don’t think I have to tell you how the story ends! He’s my happily ever after,
my lobster, my love you more. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What I know
now that I didn’t know then is that praying together is the best way to bond
two hearts together and when God is truly in the center of a marriage it puts
everything into proper perspective. </span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve learned a whole lot of lessons; most I never saw coming
primarily due to my naivety, and many I could have avoided if I had taken the
time to cultivate the person God designed me to be before diving into a
relationship. I’ve learned that not all boxes will get checked. I’ve learned
that some boxes will appear that I didn’t even know I needed. Your future
spouse is not something you order from the GoodToGod Catalog (you like that,
don’t you?). Creating a checklist is not such a bad place to start--- for yourselves, beginning with
Proverbs 31. Ask the Lord to nurture those qualities
in you so that when the right guy comes along, you’re not starting behind the
eight-ball, like your dad and I did. I sit here praising God for His merciful
grace over our marriage and hope so much that when you look to us, you see Him
there too and are encouraged to weave a tapestry of three of your own one day.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-21604495071156190902016-02-10T23:10:00.004-08:002016-02-11T18:02:27.845-08:00Project 52: Eyes (Wondrously Known)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ESUODtahedI/VrwjMbXFNWI/AAAAAAAAAO0/Zwnx5KGlcd4/s1600/DSC_0592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ESUODtahedI/VrwjMbXFNWI/AAAAAAAAAO0/Zwnx5KGlcd4/s400/DSC_0592.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"My eyes are my favorite part of me; but not because <br />
of how they look, but for how they see". (Frau Feuerameise)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">While running errands on a cool dusk evening in late
September, I noticef an older bedraggled gentleman hunched over, shakily holding
onto one side of his walker, while attempting to a hold his large cardboard sign
for passer-byers to see with his gnarled fingers of the other. As I rounded the
corner, I saw that he was wearing only one shoe and the other had no laces. He
had dropped his sign and was struggling to pick it up. I was immediately endeared to him; maybe it
was because he had a grandfather-like quality about him, maybe it was because I
could see that his needs extend beyond the simple plea scrawled on his sign as I looked into
his milky grey-blue eyes, I don’t know. I was running slightly behind, but decided
to park and walk one of the gallon-size Ziploc bags filled with various necessities
I keep in a box behind my seat, over to this man. As I struck up a brief conversation
with him, he told me that he had children and it was them that he was on the
corner for, not for himself. They needed milk and school supplies; neither of
which were in my bag, mind you. I put my hand on his shoulder, looked him in
the eye and told him I was deeply sorry for him and his family and that I would
pray for him. He thanked me for my kindness as he reached out to grasp my hand
for a brief moment before we parted ways. It was a sweet encounter I will never
forget, but not because he was a precious old man, which I am entirely endeared
to, or because I gave him one of my necessity bags. No! It was because I understood
moments later that I was not meeting his greatest need---to be seen, to be
known.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I realize that the territory that I am about to embark comes
at the risk of sounding slightly haughty. I assure you nothing could be further from
reality because after my brief encounter with this dear man, I rounded the
corner, briskly walking back to my jeep pretending I didn’t see the haze of my
breath drifting heavenward, and was struck, as if by lightening, by the fact
that I had never asked the man his name. It seemed so simple, so little in the
grand scheme of what I was attempting to do that I have bypassed this noteworthy
detail dozens of times without this thought ever crossing my mind; but this
night…this night I could not escape the mournful, heart-crushing pain that
accompanied this realization. This level of grief was unlike anything I’ve ever
experienced because with it, after copious contemplation and soul searching, I
understood what it really means to be seen, to be known and the undeniable significance
this is for </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">all</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> people (I think
herein lays a glimpse into the meaning of the “Love your neighbor as yourself”
commandment--Matthew 22:39). For days, and even now, when I recall this story, my soul aches
so deeply, so intensely, that my prayers scarcely grasp adequate words to
convey my sincere sorrow and conviction for not seeing God’s child. I did not
see Him.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I have often asked the Lord to break my heart for what
breaks His, to give me His eyes to see the lost, the weary, the broken, and
that He would show me how to respond in a meaningful way. And all this time I
thought my sensitive heart was a fractured replica of His. Maybe it still is; but I know in the deepest part of who I am that God has called
me out beyond my comfort zone and into an area where I have no choice but to trust
Him to lead me. It is here where real faith stands. And it’s here that I have
been fearful to set my anchor. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Author, Francis Chan, reminds us that “God’s definition of
what matters is pretty straightforward. He measures our lives by how we love”.
The question then becomes, “How do we love?” It is not a matter of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">if</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> or </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">who</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, or even</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> when</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, but </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">how</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> do we love? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If we were to pull apart Psalm 139, we would see how Christ
loved us. Though I will not dissect each verse for you here, I have to point
out at least verse one: “Oh Lord, you have searched me and you know me”. This word </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">know</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
is not a mere encounter. In the Greek, “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">yada</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">”
is a verb meaning to “know relationally and experientially. God Knows [our]
hearts entirely” (The Complete Word Study Dictionary).</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“To know” can be based on factual knowledge as well as relational
knowledge---and I suppose it is the later that I reference as I attempt to
write out my thoughts. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I believe one of our most basic needs and deepest longings
is to be known. Sure there are those of us who, on one hand, fear being really
known---at that ugly, gut level that even spooks us from time to time, but on
the other hand, we have a tremendously, desperate desire to belong, to feel a
part of something grander and deeper and all encompassing. We know to reach
this place; we must become real. As I write these words, I can’t help but to
think of one of my most treasured childhood stories, The Velveteen Rabbit, written
by Margery Williams: </span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">[in response to asking if becoming real happens all at once]"It doesn't
happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a
long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or
have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you
are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you
get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at
all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't
understand." </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Our fear of being known often keeps us from being real, raw,
and vulnerable with others, but what if I told you that we are already known.
All our flaws, fractures, scars; all our shame, regret, embarrassment; all
those dreams we’ve been fearful to breathe to life, all those tears we’ve
cried---all of it---all those pieces that make up the real us—what if someone
saw all of us? What if…</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">John Piper
paraphrases 1 Corinthians 8:3 beautifully when he writes, “Deeper than knowing
God is being known by God”. God knows us from the inside out. Contemplating on the
incredible fullness of this phrase, I understand that I not only belong to Him,
but am loved, and adopted by Him. Being known, being connected to Christ, is
nothing short of intimate and privileged and saving and friendship and…profoundly
humbling.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This realization not only deepens my awareness of what it
means to be seen, to be known, to be loved, but also the primacy of grace and
the necessity of it to precede our relationship with Christ. In other words, “We
love because He first loved us” (1 John 4:19). Without His gracious and sacrificial
love for us, we would not have the ability to love Him. God is the source of
our love and it is the Holy Spirit who enables us to love. When we know God, we
can love as He does (1 John 4:6-7).</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">As Christians, we
have often made our lives all about us knowing Him---but we often skim over the
fact that He knows us---the real us---and He profoundly loves us in ways we
cannot possibly fathom and made us His own. </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">C.S. Lewis wrote in his book, The Weight
of Glory: “To please God—to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness…to be
loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his
work, or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or a burden of glory
which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is”.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">To be known, to be truly seen by the Lord is a tremendous gift
of grace. And in turn, I want to live Christ all the more boldly, all the more
loudly, all the more intentionally. It is enough for me to be known by Christ.
More than enough. It’s actually who I am! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So I take this new found appreciation for what it means to
be known, to be seen, by God and think of the shoeless man on the corner---the man whose
name I will never know—and know God sees him, the real him, his needs, his
hurts, his dreams---and because God is gracious, He will prompt our hearts to
know how to love others the way He does. Without a doubt, there will be times our faith will be tested, where we will wonder if we are on the right path, or doing enough ,or even the right things. God sees the motives of our hearts and when we trust Him to led us in unchartered oceans, where sometimes we fear dropping anchor, He meets us there, firm and secure, and works in and through us to show His love to all people. </span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-23923190480343792462016-02-03T17:44:00.000-08:002016-02-03T21:24:34.038-08:00Project 52: Motion (Grace in Forte)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I-8b8oW0UTg/VrKr5ILz3TI/AAAAAAAAAOg/ZxvkWwF6jF0/s1600/DSC_0514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I-8b8oW0UTg/VrKr5ILz3TI/AAAAAAAAAOg/ZxvkWwF6jF0/s400/DSC_0514.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Watching my daughter practice piano day after day, I can
only describe what I see as nothing short of graceful. I could bask in this
sunbeam of her for hours upon hours, if she would allow me. Mesmerized by her
heart and mind extending out through her fingertips and fill the air not just
with a collection of captivating notes, but with something it lacked before;
something like insurmountable joy and hope, I find that her music breathes life
into our home in a way other things cannot. Unfathomable joy ushers in completeness;
rivaling other elations I cherish, like uncontrollable giggles of children or
the slipping away of the sun’s brilliant radiance at the end of a long summer
day. Her music steadies and comforts my soul. It’s not about the songs she
plays, but the passion, intention, and purpose all filtered through her sieve,
or soul, of tenderness. Her character is meek and her gentleness can be felt
even in the forte of whatever song she chooses to play. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Grace is motion; it is movement. It is not without purpose,
determination, or strength. And as I think about the different things I have assigned
grace to, things like pirouetting ballerinas, the sweeping motion of an eagles’
wings, the glide of ice skaters, Meg’s piano playing… I have realized how much
I have misunderstood a colossal part of grace. Grace is not light of touch or
wispy like stratus clouds or soft like velvety bunnies, and yet somewhere along
the line we have always assigned grace as such—an elegant tenderness; but this
is what grace resembles once reflected off the One who placed it within us to
begin with. When I sit back and think about the intentional placement of
the pianist’s fingers, the dedication needed to master a melody, the strength,
determination, energy both necessary and required to share a piece of themselves
in this way, it baffles my mind. Grace is intentional. Grace is a practiced,
quiet strength. It is led by determination to go beyond the expected. Grace is
the active expression of Christ’s love through us (Col. 3:4, paraphrased).</span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In His book, The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning pens the
profound, yet simple words that reside deep within my own heart: “My deepest
awareness of myself is that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and I have done
nothing to earn it or deserve it”. When we experience the goodness of Christ in
our lives, that is grace. That is His immeasurable strength, determination,
intention, and unconditional love and acceptance for us-- and through us. I am
completely humbled day in and day out at how much I desperately need Christ’s
grace and I am completely grateful (and baffled) for the fact that His grace is
not just enough for me, but more than enough so that I, in turn, have excess grace
to share with others. Grace requires strength that surpasses ours, enduring practice,
and deliberate intention. Often, we are called to exhibit grace to those who
have hurt us, sinned against us, or the unlikable. On our own, we will feel
uncomfortable and unqualified. Out of the overflow of what has already been
given to us, and a reliance on Christ’s strength, not ours, we intentionally
practice grace over and over again. And in the crazy, hectic-ness of life where
life is so loud, grace abounds. Grace in Forte!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I love that I have the honor and privilege to watch Christ
express Himself through Meg in her music. She is a beautiful expression of the
love of Christ. </span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-73443587190901573582016-01-27T20:49:00.000-08:002016-01-28T08:11:50.127-08:00Project 52: Blue (Really, it's about Baptism)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-98H9vK26L3c/VqmSp5daewI/AAAAAAAAANg/UX50E2xrd_o/s1600/DSC_0495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-98H9vK26L3c/VqmSp5daewI/AAAAAAAAANg/UX50E2xrd_o/s400/DSC_0495.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Project 52's Topic this week: Blue. <br />
When I was a little girl, I colored pictures of water blue. I suppose that's why I chose to take my picture of water for this challenge. Ironically, it does not capture a bit of blue. I'm going with it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I was 9 years old, I was a buck toothed lanky girl who
stood at least a full head and shoulders taller than my peers, and although I
felt incredibly awkward in my own skin and didn’t really have an understanding
of who I was, I knew my Jesus and boy, did I loved Him. Sunday after Sunday, I
sat in one of the 30 fabric covered pews flanked by floor-to-ceiling multi-colored
stain glass windows with my mom and dad sitting strategically intertwined between
my two siblings and I. I could predict church as well as Johnny Carson could
predict the answers to clues in sealed envelopes. Church was not mysterious. It
was predictable. I knew church. I knew the pastor’s sing-song rhythm so well,
that I could practically count down the seconds and number of syllables until
his inflection and seemingly calculated rise in tone began before he would slam
his fist onto the pulpit. Echoing in the rafters and reverberating in our ears
long after, that thud sent an urgency through our bones, guilting us to action,
“less you be damned to hell”. It was a place that scared the bejeezus outta me (is
that a bit sacrilegious here?) and at the same time felt entirely sacred. The
only explanation I have to explain this seemingly oxymoron experience is to say
that I felt the Lord’s presence in the face of legalism. <br />
<br />
There were unspoken expectations and it seemed everyone played along. It was
Sunday- Funday! I probably shouldn’t say that because wearing itchy wool skirts
and pretending I liked being there wasn’t fun. If I can take an inch of liberty
here, I would say, I bet it is actually Sunday-Funday for Satan. He loves when
we put on those masks and act as if we’re OK. He loves when we compare our wool
skirt to the pretty petite girl’s across the aisle. He loves when we sing songs
about “oh how we love Jesus” and yet have just cursed Him the night before. I
bet that sly little smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and a gleeful giggle
escapes. We may be fooling the other wool skirt wearing chicks, but we’re not
foolin’ anyone else, especially ourselves. That phrase, “fake it until you make
it”, does not, absolutely does not apply here. I faked it. I faked it for the
first 20 years of my life. And when I was 9, I started to realize that there
were expectations of me that expanded beyond my outward appearance. And so I
was baptized.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I remember checking the box on the envelope that I usually
disassembled each week in order to have more space for drawing. I put it in the
offering plate and that was that. A few weeks later I was baptized in front of
the church with several other kids my age. My pastor asked me two questions
prior: “Do you know Jesus as your Savior?” And “Would you be willing to sit on
your knees once inside the baptismal so I can reach you?” (See, even at 9 I was
taller than our pastor). My answer to both was “Yes”. I remember entering the
baptismal and feeling absolutely elated. I swear they trucked in salt water
because never have I buoyed that much. I tried to kneel, but I kept floating.
The pastor managed and I was immersed “by the powers vested in [him] in the
name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost”. Baptism done. That’s all it was.
And I thought nothing more of it for many years.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I have attended church my entire life so I have had the
honor of witnessing hundreds of people profess their faith publically in
baptism. The idea of baptism always stirred at my heart and when my own
daughter asked to be baptized when she, too, was 9, I felt the weighty, albeit,
honorable task of making sure she understood what it symbolized. When I was in
her same position I believed two things about baptism and honestly, I do not
know where these ideas came from. First, that it was something you had to do if
you genuinely believed in the Lord, and secondly, that it was a washing of the
spirit, performed to obtain a clean slate. What I did before the age of 9 that I felt needed a clean slate is beyond me!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As my faith continued to be cultivated, the more I learned
to love, love my Jesus and the more I felt compelled to understand His
beautiful Truths for myself. I leaned that those two ideas I had at 9 were not
so far off the mark, but there was so much more to it and it had nothing to do
with me. Romans 6:3-10 became pivotal verses
for me as I dissected each with a ferocious hunger. Though I could easily write
in more depth about my discovery, I will simply say that baptism is ALL about
Jesus, not about us. It is an emblem of Christ’s burial; signifying death to
sin’s rule over our lives, to our unbelief, rebellion, idolatry, etc. and His resurrection;
signifying a new life of faith, submission, and unfathomable, gracious, and
sacrificial love. It’s a sign of belonging, of union with Christ in His
suffering, but also in His glory. This is what we are declaring when we are
baptized! Doesn’t this just give you gooseies?!!! Don’t misunderstand me here, I am not saying
that baptism unites us with Christ---FAITH units us with Christ! Broken down so
eloquently by author, John Piper, we understand that: “…we </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">show</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> this faith, we </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">say </span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">this
faith, and </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">signify </span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">this faith, and </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">symbolize </span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">this faith with the act of
baptism.” If we believe, we publically proclaim it through baptism. He died and
rose so that we might have life---and life to the full (John 10:10). When we
rise from the water, it is symbolic of the covenant we have made with Christ.
(It is not the covenant itself, just as a wedding ring does not make us
married. It’s a symbol). </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">You see, when I was 9, I made baptism about me, not Jesus. I
didn’t know better. And a couple years ago, that weighed so heavily on my heart
that I desired to be re-baptized with all the understanding and genuine love I
have for Christ now. So, in a horse trough at a very special ranch (Raven Rock Ranch), where
I had felt increasingly close to the Lord and witnessed His glory more times
than I can count, I was baptized. I desired to be baptized with the imagery of
Christ’s brutal suffering and His un-surpassing desire to give me (and
you) life. Kneeling in the trough filled with water warmed by the afternoon’s
sun, I closed my eyes and felt my heart pierced with a pain I’ve never
experienced before; and as I was about to be lowered, my eyes filled with tears
for Him, for God’s Son. I cannot fully comprehend that sacrifice. I cannot
understand that level of love. I had the honor of my husband and our good
friend, Tim to stand by myside and together slowly lower my body until it was fully
covered by the refreshing, life-giving water of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirt--
Whom I know witnessed this act of outward expression of my faith for them. A
second or two passed before I broke the surface of the water and felt the
warmth of the sun shine upon my face. I raised my hands toward the Son, giving
thanks for the life He gave on my behalf and the life I now have because of
Him. I am a new creation (2 Cor. 5:17). My daughters stood just outside the
trough and witnessed what can only be described as one of the most meaningful
events of my life.</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShzNZMPeic0/VqmQ8p7JLJI/AAAAAAAAANM/puHADbckOhY/s1600/Baptism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShzNZMPeic0/VqmQ8p7JLJI/AAAAAAAAANM/puHADbckOhY/s400/Baptism.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Baptism August 13, 2013 <br />
Yep, that's a horse trough. I'm classy like that!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShzNZMPeic0/VqmQ8p7JLJI/AAAAAAAAANM/puHADbckOhY/s1600/Baptism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Water. I love water. Everything about it, but especially
it’s nourishing and life-giving, thirst-quenching attributes. I can’t help but
to think of Rev. 21:6, which says, “He said to me, “It is done. I am the Alpha
and Omega, the beginning and the end. To him who is thirsty I will give drink
without cost from the spring of the water of life”. Without a
doubt, Christ is the merciful Living Water that brings the dead to life through
His amazing grace!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShzNZMPeic0/VqmQ8p7JLJI/AAAAAAAAANI/nm0hZe849K4/s1600/Baptism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ipct4kBRqUo/VqmRJaD8LYI/AAAAAAAAANQ/ZVmSv_18lQs/s1600/baptism2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-82207381705090439172016-01-19T23:27:00.000-08:002016-01-20T12:25:09.554-08:00Project 52: Guilty PleasureNote: Project 52 is a one year photography challenge. I love photography, adventures, and challenges, so naturally, I fell in love with this idea! As I looked over the list of topics for the year, I felt inspired to write a bit as well on each of the topics. It's been awhile since I've put much on paper, but I assure you my desire to write authentically and live boldly for Christ are just as much a part of me as always. Week three's topic: Guilty Pleasures. Although I have many, spanning from shoes to delicacies, I chose the one I hold the most dear to my heart---and honestly, could not live without: Books!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5HgsGEXuPOY/Vp8x_pK4zhI/AAAAAAAAAMY/6s_yTN5KlkI/s1600/DSC_0362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5HgsGEXuPOY/Vp8x_pK4zhI/AAAAAAAAAMY/6s_yTN5KlkI/s400/DSC_0362.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I love books. I really do. I love
everything about them from the feel of their nearly smooth, weightless pages
that beckon for my fingers to purposefully glide across them; to the rustling
coo they make with each turn. I read intentionally and yet, ever so
slowly, lingering maybe longer than necessary at intersections of words because
I long to relish in the feeling of connectedness as long as possible. And if I
am writing to a fellow book lover, you know the tantalizing smell of books…some
describe it as "musty" or "old", but I believe it’s the
smell of wisdom, dreams, and love all bound together with string with the hope
of sharing one’s soul with another. The smell wafts just beneath my nose and
comforts me much the way a warm blanket just taken from the dryer might.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’ll
admit that some books plead for me to read them over and over again, while
others sit content, collecting evidence of time, among my shelves watching over
me as if to say, “I did my job well the first time around, but I’ll serve as a
reminder of the time she discovered such and such or learned about this and
that”. A few of my affectionately battered books stack seemingly haphazardly on
my bedside table, while others rest, for now, on specially reserved shelves.
Margins scrawled with thoughts, questions, names of loved ones, or prayers for
understanding, guidance, or strength; phrases underlined, specific words
circled... *sigh*, the mere picture brings peace to my heart. These books
are my companions, delivering balm to my sometimes weary soul, offering
encouragement when the storms of life seem to close in, teaching me lessons yet
to be learned or, let’s be honest, to be relearned. Books are very much a part
of who I am. Upon finishing each book, I hold it near my heart and feel as
if I have gained a better sense of who I am. They nourish my soul in ways most
other things cannot. </span>
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zZaNoGuGvYk/Vp83IL9OloI/AAAAAAAAAM0/E_ZdK3FlKbI/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zZaNoGuGvYk/Vp83IL9OloI/AAAAAAAAAM0/E_ZdK3FlKbI/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I love bookstores. Colorful spines, compelling titles, varying degrees of height,
thickness, and depth, and genres galore greet me at the door and I feel as if I
am home. If I thought it appropriate---heck, if no one would look my way, I
would spin gloriously throughout the store with my arms outstretched, like Julie
Andrews’ character, Maria in the Sound of Music. My mother taught me better
however, so I’ll save those types of shenanigans for my real home! It is a
rarity that I visit a bookstore and not walk out with an armful of books. I
have absolutely every intention of diving into each and every one---and I am
optimistic that I will! The guilty pleasure piece comes in when I admit that I
have a plethora of unread books at home just waiting for their chance to
breathe truth into this marrow of mine. I really have no business purchasing more
books. <br />
<br />
Several years ago, my silly husband asked me if I had ever noticed the big brick
building on the left as I am driving into town. Brow furrowed, I questioned, “You
mean, the library?”. You see, his sweet self was trying to feed my love for
books while attempting to be a better steward of our finances. Of course, I
know where the Library is and I frequent it often. However, I love, love
marking in my books, which is funny for this type A girl, who likes things neat
and orderly. This Type A girl would never think to destroy public property,
hence the need to buy books. Asked why I mark in books, I can only say that it’s
because I crave that connectedness, that mingling of thoughts with the author’s,
and the necessity to digest in a tangible way (that is why I write).<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zZaNoGuGvYk/Vp83IL9OloI/AAAAAAAAAM0/E_ZdK3FlKbI/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zZaNoGuGvYk/Vp83IL9OloI/AAAAAAAAAM0/E_ZdK3FlKbI/s320/DSC_0372.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
I treasure the Word of God more than any other book simply because the
connectedness, the level of belonging, of feeling held and loved and led-- as I
am--- no matter what season of life I am in, surpasses any other book I’ve ever
read. It is often referred to as the Living Word because it breathes life into
me day in and day out. I see something new no matter how many times I’ve read
it. Without a doubt, it is my life, my love, my joy, my teacher, my
inspiration, my encouragement, my identity… my everything. I read a quote just
today that explains my great, great love for the Word of God better than I
could: </span><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“God’s Word. A love letter to
my heart. A tool box for my hands. A shield for my mind. And a sword to use
against the devil. What a gift” </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lysa Terkeurst.
<br />
</span></span></span><br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-12382190942652115702016-01-14T10:58:00.000-08:002016-01-14T10:58:28.072-08:00Project 52: Morning
Quick Note: Project 52 is a one year photography challenge. I love photography, adventures, and challenges, so naturally, I fell in love with this idea! As I looked over the list of topics for the year, I felt inspired to write a bit as well on each of the topics. It's been awhile since I've put much on paper, but I assure you my desire to write authentically and live boldly for Christ are just as much a part of me as always. Week two's topic: Morning<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V5E0YKSrptk/VpfujnUD-QI/AAAAAAAAALw/oT2l3bs632o/s1600/DSC_0312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V5E0YKSrptk/VpfujnUD-QI/AAAAAAAAALw/oT2l3bs632o/s400/DSC_0312.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His mercies never<br />fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness". Lam. 3:22-23</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif;">I love lazy
clouds lingering at the tops of bare trees and sunbeams fighting to display
their radiance in the dim morning light. I love the reassurance of life as I
feel my lungs fill with cool, sharp air and my skin prickle with goose bumps while
exhaling prayers of thanksgiving for yet another day, which on their own, resemble
hazy rain clouds drifting heavenward in the early winter mornings. I love clear, dark mornings when stars still
dot the sky, reminding me my God is so much bigger than I, so much more in
control that I, so much more powerful and all-knowing than I. It’s exciting to
embark on day where promises will be fulfilled, hopes will be dreamed, and new
mercies will be gifted. <br />
<br />
I’ve always associated mornings with mercy. I’m pretty sure it’s because when I
was a wee girl growing up in a small Baptist church, we sung a hymn inspired by
Lamentations 3:22-23, which speaks about God’s mercies being new every morning.
We sung this hymn so often, seemingly every. single. Sunday, that I can still
hear the slow, and I do mean s-l-o-w, organ’s vibrato in the back of my mind to
this day. It wasn’t a song I particularly liked (can you tell?), however, the
words acted as a key ingredient in the foundation on which I’ve built my now 43
years upon. I am not a glass-half-full kind of girl by chance. I am a glass-half-full
kind of girl because mercy was planted and nurtured throughout my entire life.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif;">Mercy is often
misunderstood. When it isn’t overlooked, it’s taken for granted or confused
with something it is not. And what I mean by that is that we often believe we
deserve more or better or something other than what we have received. And
although that maybe true, when we look for what we DON’T have, we miss what we
DO have. And that’s exactly my point. Remember the story of the Israelites and
how even though the Lord daily provided manna (bread) for them, they still
cried out for meat? Remember how God eventually gave into their pleas and in
the end they realized that they really had no desire for it after all? (Exodus
15-16) I think we’re a little like that too. We want all that Christ offers in
addition to the perks of the world. Thinking about this, I wonder just how much
we miss of God’s glory when we are searching for something we have assigned
more significance to? <br />
<br />
Robert Gelinas points out in his book, “The Mercy Prayer”, that mercy is
“compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, steadfast love, unfailing love,
goodness, generous love, and loving kindness”. You may read that list and
quickly make the connection that those are attributes of Christ; and you would
be correct! Mercy is at the core of Who Christ is! (Psalm 103). I feel it
important to note here that mercy is for everyone; the loveable and unlovable
alike. We are all sinners and fall ridiculously short of God’s glory (Romans
3:23); and if we consider that the wages of sin is death (Romans 6:23), we know
we have been gifted an abundance of mercy when we receive His gracious, sacrificial
gift of salvation. Mercy assumes we’re going to sin and He loves us anyway; He
supplies our needs anyway. Mercy doesn’t alleviate our pain or suffering, but
does act like an ointment to our wounds. It’s not based on anything we do or
don’t do. On that note, I think it’s equally important to understand that God
doesn’t dole out mercy with reluctance, or weighing the pros and cons of doing
so, or even anticipating some form of repayment (not that we could!). He has no
ulterior motive. He simply loves to love and He does that by gifting us His
mercy each and every day, starting first thing in the morning. Micah 7:18 tells
us that “God delights to show mercy”. Delights! Can you picture His face? Do
you get a sense of His heart? </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif;">Perhaps the
best definition I’ve heard is “Mercy is God’s grace in action”.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif;">Going back to
the story of the Israelites for a minute, it’s important to remember that God
didn’t just place His provisions in their laps. They actually had to go out and
gather the manna. When they saw the abundance of manna, they were so excited;
so excited that they gathered far more than they needed in hopes to save some
for the next day. Do you remember what happened? It rotted. God provides what
we need for this day and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i> for
this day. I love how Beth Moore, in her Bible Study: A Woman’s Heart, God’s Dwelling Place” points out that “our ratio of mercy
matches our present need. When the time arises and the need escalates, so does
the grace required for us to make it. God is always sufficient in perfect
proportion to our need”. We always have
what we need. Nothing more, nothing less for today. We cannot store up or use
up God’s mercies. It’s impossible. And every day, we will learn to rely
on Him to meet our needs. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif;">This
morning I thank the Lord for another day, another opportunity to see Him and to
reflect His love to the world. I challenge you to do the same. I am pretty sure
that if we can practice having a thankful heart for what we already have, we
will be transformed from the inside out. This happens when we trade our agenda
for His; when we trade our shame, regrets, fears, etc. for His mercy. What a
way to begin each morning!</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-49937507322592338132016-01-04T06:59:00.000-08:002016-01-28T07:35:13.203-08:00Chapter Two<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Below is a talk, a testimony of sorts. I had the privilege to share about an amazing, life-giving ranch in my area, Raven Rock Ranch. Though I gave this talk about 6 months ago, I was recently asked to publish it here. Seems silly that it is here where I am most vulnerable and did not think to share this with you. I'm calling it my Chapter Two. If you've followed me long enough, you'll understand. If not, "Chapter One" is in my archives to the right. Thank you for asking, whoever you are!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oVuHfeUQqtE/VoqHgQX4e3I/AAAAAAAAALc/OTL_ia80S5A/s1600/Rusty%2B2013%2B041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oVuHfeUQqtE/VoqHgQX4e3I/AAAAAAAAALc/OTL_ia80S5A/s320/Rusty%2B2013%2B041.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg and her Rusty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><br /><br />Raven
Rock Ranch Testimony</b></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I was 26, I was raped. Nine months later
I gave birth to a biracial baby girl. She had the daintiest, doll-like features:
petite dark chocolate eyes, petal pink lips, and a head full of black
hair---though I did not know that right away. She cried and cried until she was
placed into my arms for the first time and instinctively I cradled her tiny six
pound body into the crook of my neck and without a thought, whispered the words
of my heart over and over again, “I love you, I love you, I love you”. Her
crying soothed and I kissed her head and then her cheeks and then each of her
ten fingers and each of her ten toes. In that moment, I knew she was mine. I
knew in that moment I would do anything for her. The trauma we endured together
over the last nine months seemed a mere memory. I chose to look forward, not
back. Dennis and I named her Megyn, the most beautiful name we could find, which
means pearl---and as you know pearls come from oysters, which are ugly,
battered, weathered, but the pearls themselves are priceless, a genuine
treasure. The same is true with my Meg. I loved her before she was born. I
loved her more upon holding her in my arms and now, 15 years later, I love her
more than I ever could have imagined.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I knew raising a biracial daughter in our
predominately white community and home would be challenging for a multitude of
reasons, but in my worst of nightmares I couldn’t have imagined all that my Meg
would endure or that we would ever need a place like Raven Rock Ranch; a place
for broken souls---some struggling with substance abuse, physical abuse,
identity crisis, etc. the list goes on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But in order to get to the story of how we ended up at Raven Rock Ranch,
I need to back up a dozen or so years ago to the time when Megyn was about 3-4
years old---about preschool age, when she was just learning her colors. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">At this time, it was part of Dennis and my
routine to take one of each of our two girls upstairs to tuck them in bed at
night. We’d snuggle under the covers and listen as they would share one good
thing about the day and one thing that bugged them. We would listen as they’d
say their nightly prayers and then we would pray over them as well. I loved
this time---not because my energetic girls were going to bed after a loooong
day, but because there was something sacred/special in this quiet time, where tender
words of the heart are shared, where cuddles seem softer, and peace feels like
my daughter’s small hands reaching around my neck and slobbery kisses that
drool down my check. Dennis usually tucked our oldest daughter, Abigail, in and
I usually tucked in Megyn. I remember the day when her nightly prayers began to
shift from a heart of gratitude, where she prayed, “Dear God, thank you for
butter and mayonnaise and cookies” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(not
kidding) to a deep agonizing plea that I never would have imagined possible for
a child of that age, if I had not heard it myself. “Dear God, please make me
pink, like my mommy. God, why won’t you make me pink like my mommy? Can’t you
do it, can’t you do it?” And she would sob, tears staining her plump cheeks.
And so would I because I knew that the Lord was not going to change the color
of her skin. It was then that I knew the struggled I feared for her was taking
root.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">By the time she was in elementary school, the
name calling had begun. Names like “Afro-naut, Sausage lips, Blackie”. And by
the time she was in the sixth grade, those hateful words became physical
violence. I witnessed with my own eyes seven sixth grade girls circling my
daughter kicking and hitting her as they called her these names, in addition to
calling her a monster. As I rushed to my daughter, I noticed her disposition.
She just stood there; her head hung low, her arms to her sides. She did not try
to defend herself in words or actions. She--just—stood--there. Later when I
asked why she didn’t try to defend herself, she said, “Because I’m not worth
it. They said I’m a monster. I came from a monster. They must be right”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Sigh) I knew she was struggling with her
identity and with bullying, but I did not realize that she believed that she
was a monster because of how she came into the world. Children so easily
believe the lies they’re told, even ones they have told themselves…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dennis and I have raised her like our older
daughter, in a house of love and acceptance. Contrary to many people’s fears/beliefs
about giving birth and raising a child of rape, she is not a reminder of my
attacker and though I will not take the time now to share a lot about that, I
will say she is more of a reminder of the sovereignty of Christ in our lives.
We do not love her differently than our other daughter. We have spent her entire
life speaking and living out the truth of the value and gift of her life has
brought to our family. Still, she cannot accept it. She rarely showed emotions,
no smiles, no tears. She just existed-- withdrawn, isolating herself more and
more, talking only when necessary, only interacting with others on a as needed
basis.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, it was about this same time frame, sixth-grade,
when I had gone upstairs to put clean sheets on her bed, when I accidently
knocked over a bench in her room. It was one of those benches, with the top
that opens and you can store things inside. Out fell a couple of knives, a
runaway list, and her journal. You can imagine my surprise, I’m sure. Her
thoughts of running away were not even on my radar. I never expected that, even
with all of her struggles. That, in combination with the knives… you bet I
broke that mom code about respecting my daughter’s boundaries and I read her
journal cover to cover. What I discovered caused such a deep hurt within my
soul and questions upon questions piled up---questions like, “How did she get
to this point, where she glorified death?” She wrote about it in vivid
detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And “Cutting? She became
addicted to cutting in an attempt to feel?” I knew nothing of cutting. This
scared me immensely. And “If love isn’t enough to save my daughter, to show her
her worth, what is?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
confronted her about what I had read and she confessed all of her written words
to be true and pulled up her sleeves up to show me the hundreds, literally
hundreds of scars that ran up and down the length of her arms. I had never seen
anything like it. When I asked her, “Why”, she said, “Mom, you have no idea
what it’s like to live in my skin. I can’t escape it no matter what I do. I
need to have control over something. I need it!”. I had no idea the
importance of those words until much later.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I knew Meg needed something that Dennis and I
could not provide. Really, if love had been enough, she would have been a
well-adjusted, typical kid; she was anything but. I refused to leave her alone.
I bent-over backwards, compensating for the wrong doings of the kids at school.
Really, I was completely terrified that we would lose her to suicide. I made an
appointment with her pediatrician and shared what we discovered and immediately
he sent us to have further testing done, which revealed a hodge-podge of things:
biological depression, anxiety, sensory issues, ADD and the list goes on. Meg
was put on medication, which led to a two year roller coaster ride with several
different medications and varying degrees of doses being administered every
couple of months. Every—single---one---of ---them led her to have hallucinations
and hear voices (which by the way where telling her to, “Kill herself”)! Though
we did not have our doctor’s “blessing” we weaned her off all medication, feeling
completely frustrated because we knew she desperately needed help, but not
knowing where to find it. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">We eventually found a reputable child
counselor and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i></b>got a long with her great. Meg, on the other hand, struggled
to answer questions or even to open up about the inner struggle she was having
regarding her identity and the hatred acts repeatedly done against her. After a
few weeks, Meg refused to go. When I asked why, she said, “I feel like I’m in
trouble when I go. I feel like all we do is talk about the bad things. It makes
me feel worse”. I understood that completely. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Don’t misunderstand me; I am not against
medication or counseling. Both play a vital role in so many people’s road to
healing/recovery. However, it is not always the best or right fit for some. Meg
needed something different; though I didn’t know what. We needed something that
she would be receptive to, something that would minister/speak to her tender
heart and meet her where she was: a broken place. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">By God’s grace and I do mean by God’s grace,
we found Raven Rock Ranch.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I called Sandy, shared our story, and asked
her if Raven Rock Ranch would be a good fit for my girl. She said, “Yes”. We
arranged to meet the following week, which felt like an eternity as my heart
beat wildly in anticipation the entire time. Upon arriving, she gave us the
tour of the ranch, introducing us to each of the six horses and shared their
stories. Each of their stories was of varying degrees of abuse. They were all
rescued and given a new life, a new purpose. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As we moseyed through the ranch in our barn
boots and heavy fall jackets, I leaned over to Sandy and asked, “So which horse
will Meg work with?” She said, “I don’t know”. Looking confused, she responded
by saying that she lets the horse choose the child. My smile masked my
disbelief, but I agreed to play along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Arriving at the last horse, Rusty, a beautiful copper colored quarter
horse about 12 years old at that time, the same age as my Meg, he was out under
a cluster of trees eating his morning hay when we approached the fence. We did
not call out to him, we did not bribe him with carrots; we simply stood there
watching him. And in that moment, he stopped, looked up, turned, and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ran</i></b>
to us, stopping just short of the fence directly in front of Meg and lowered
his head. In that moment, he had chosen Meg. Meg instinctively held her hand
out to his muzzle and let out the softest giggle. My girl who had not shown
any emotion in years---literally years, was not only smiling, but giggling! I
knew in that moment that equine therapy was different than anything else we had
tried. Meg was receptive. Rusty met her where she was and she embraced the idea
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">helping him</i> heal. She did not
realize that in her brokenness, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rusty
would also speak life and value and purpose into her life. </i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A beautiful bud had blossomed between Meg and
Rusty and continued to bloom during their time in the aisle of the stable,
where Meg spent a good share of her 90 minutes a week brushing and caring for
him and learning to tack. She clearly was in no hurry to ride. She found value
in just being together. She gave more hugs and kisses to Rusty than any other
horse has ever received---I am certain. She nuzzled noses and whispered secrets
that I will never know. She would lay her head on the nape of his neck and just
rest. It was enough for her to just be--- <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many times I had to bite my lip to keep the
tears from falling because what I witnessed time after time was my daughter who
could not show herself care, love, acceptance, and grace or allow herself
permission to fail or have the ability to forgive herself <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so easily</i> show that to Rusty. As they worked together, anyone
watching could clearly see this attitude of “I know you’re broken, I’m broken
too. Let’s work together”. It was something that surpassed respect. It
was a genuine friendship. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every
week I saw smiles. Every week I heard laughter. Meg would go to the ranch no
matter the weather---snow, rain---it didn’t matter. If she was sick, she went
anyway because she didn’t want to let Rusty down. She couldn’t live without
him. He had become her security. She was learning to accept herself--- as she was---
and find her identity in him through caring for him in his brokenness. She
realized she was important to Rusty. He needed her. And whether or not she knew
it yet, she needed him.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The time spent in the aisle way built a
relationship of friendship and trust, which became apparent in the round pen,
where Sandy would often teach the kids to ride or become leaders or whatever
she foresaw that they might need to work on. Meg enjoyed riding, but could have
cared less about it. She just wanted to be with Rusty. Sandy saw this in Meg
and had her begin with what she calls “ground work”. The first day she tried
this, she had Meg lead Rusty around the round pen and then just drop the lead
and slowly start to walk away stopping <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>20 or so feet away. She believed Rusty would
follow Meg because he wanted to, because she was his leader, because he trusted
her. Meg desperately needed this assurance---and often. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg stood there and Rusty stood there. It
seemed an eternity. I watched from the other side of the fence and prayed that
she would not feel rejected again. I feared if he didn’t walk towards her, she
might lose the glimmer of hope I had seen in her eyes, that maybe she would
even give up on Rusty. I hoped and prayed that the Lord would do a mighty work,
that He would show my daughter His love for her through the only thing that
seemed to be able to communicate with her. In that moment, Rusty lowered his
head, snorted and walked to her, he lowered his head again to her hanging hand
and nuzzled it. The smile on her face---priceless! She’d rub his forehead and
walk on. And he followed. He chose her over and over again. She didn’t
have to change anything about herself for Rusty to accept her or to trust her.
He just did. When she said stop, most of the time he stopped. When she signaled
to back up, he backed up. She was learning that her words have value, that her
words mean something---and not just to Rusty, but to those she interacted with.
She was learning that if she could be bold with a horse, she could be bold for
herself, stand up for herself, and believe in herself. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not that Raven Rock Ranch is about riding.
It’s not, but a measure of the change taking place in Meg could be seen in her
riding. When she first began, she rode with her back hunched over as if she was
trying to make herself as small as possible. And when she gave directions, her small,
timid voice was barely audible. In fact, I remember the first time she wanted Rusty
to do something, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind, could you please…”. I am not
exaggerating when I say; she had no confidence in herself whatsoever! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time she graduated the program, a year
and a half later, she was riding well; her posture was tall and confident. Her voice:
certain. She was no longer cutting. She learned how to take control. She
learned to be a leader. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There was evidence outside the ranch as well.
She is gifted musically and writes music as away to process her emotions and
struggles. Many of her songs are filled with encouragement and hope for others.
When I see her in social situations talking and laughing, she exudes a genuine
joy she did not have before. She has learned to accept herself as she is. She
is not perfect by any means. There are still days when people’s judgment about
her skin color and/or how she came into the world get to her, but for the most
part, she has made peace with it. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She graduated from the program a year a ago
and another healthy milestone happens tonight, when she attends her first
formal school dance. My girl is going to a dance! My girl is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">choosing </i>to go to a dance!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I am
indebted to Raven Rock Ranch for the hope they so freely give and the heart in
which they give to each and every child as if they were the only one on earth
that mattered. Without a doubt, my Meg is not who she once was, she is living
life and life to the full. I could never thank them enough!</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-40252932687746293392016-01-03T15:48:00.001-08:002016-01-04T06:46:40.070-08:00Project 52: Who Are You?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
A note before diving in: Project 52 is a photography challenge that I have accepted for 2016, but because I love exploring and learning more about both photography and writing, I am combining the two with each week's theme here. <br />
<br />
Week One: Who Are You?<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oCmrSQk6_XM/Vomy137-_dI/AAAAAAAAAK8/lLMldnym0R8/s1600/DSC_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oCmrSQk6_XM/Vomy137-_dI/AAAAAAAAAK8/lLMldnym0R8/s400/DSC_0095.JPG" width="265" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oCmrSQk6_XM/Vomy137-_dI/AAAAAAAAAK8/lLMldnym0R8/s1600/DSC_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I cannot sum who I am up in just a few words or merely a few
sentences. I am complex, yet simple. I might resemble the made famous quote by
actor Tom Hanks in his role as Forrest Gump, I’m “…like a box of chocolates;
you never know what you’re gonna get”. I don’t mean to imply I’m mysterious, on
the contrary; I’m an open book. I like
who I am though. I’ve worked hard to become the woman I am today. Everything
you see of me on the outside has a story of hard work, fight, determination, and
ultimately of love for myself because I have always known to some degree I am
worth fighting for. I am better than the circumstances that have surrounded me or
have threatened to take me captive, trying mightily to rob me of joy. I am not
what happens to me. I am not my environment. I chose joy a long time ago. It
resides deeply in my soul and escapes through my smile. I think I might even
smile in my sleep most nights---not because my life is easy. Lord, knows it is
anything but. I think I smile because I am secure in my faith. I am a glass
half-full kind of girl.<br />
<br />
I’ve been broken. Some of that brokenness has been done to me, while a good
deal more I have done to myself. I am not broken now. Chipped and fractured in
some places and certainly scarred in others. And I treasure each of those
chinks in my armor because I have learned more about who I am and who I was
always made to be. I am whole. I am complete. My identity is not in my scars,
but more so in the One who bore them for me so that I might have life to the
full---if I would choose it. And I did. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oCmrSQk6_XM/Vomy137-_dI/AAAAAAAAAK8/lLMldnym0R8/s1600/DSC_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am:<br />
<br />
Loved<br />
Treasured<br />
Delighted in<br />
Fought for<br />
Protected<br />
Cherished<br />
Forgiven<br />
Called<br />
Comforted<br />
Held<br />
Led<br />
Whole<br />
Transformed<br />
Redeemed<br />
Free from condemnation<br />
Sanctified<br />
Saved<br />
God’s workmanship<br />
Anointed<br />
Free<br />
Blessed<br />
Graced<br />
Empowered<br />
Equipped<br />
Promised<br />
<br />
<br />
As I sit here typing out these characteristics, it dawns on me that these point
more to Christ and all that He is able to do in a surrendered heart who desires
to learn and love. I guess that’s who I am then. A heart surrendered. <br />
<br />
I have several life verses; verses I hold close to my heart; that I pray
repeatedly as I ask the Lord to continue to refine me—at any cost---to mold me
into His likeness. One of my favorites: Colossians 3:4 “I am an expression of the life of Christ
because He is my life”. It is my prayer that when people see me, they first see
Christ. He is my life, my love, my everything. It’s who I am!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-48305098389261954332014-08-25T19:58:00.000-07:002014-08-26T08:27:00.990-07:00Dear Beloved<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wJAmSqyOjO0/U_v2w4eiBWI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/eFbGK07Ya94/s1600/beloved_by_panhead13-d6q1tw9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wJAmSqyOjO0/U_v2w4eiBWI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/eFbGK07Ya94/s1600/beloved_by_panhead13-d6q1tw9.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">My Dearest Beloved,</span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">I am writing because I cannot look at you without seeing a
searing pain just below the surface of your hollow eyes. When I listen to you,
your words seem tainted with bitterness and your heart seems distant not just
from me, but everyone. You are living in the shadow of the very life promised
to you and though you are not content, you live as if you have accepted this as
your lot in life, that you deserve nothing better, that this life can offer you
nothing more. My prayers for you contain few words; instead I fall prostrate,
begging the Lord through heavy sobs to rescue you, to reveal Himself to you, to
speak to you. When I think of you throughout my day, I am paralyzed with a bottomless
sadness for you. I am grieved, so deeply grieved for you. </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">I have been in the dark, where I cannot see, hear, or feel
God. I have felt as if I had to make my own way through this life and have bent
over backwards attempting to find happiness and fulfillment through the ways of
this world: work, education, friends, and hobbies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would seemingly make headway, only to be
setback by an unforeseen circumstance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life promises contentment if we would just do….
however, it was always just out of reach, which caused me to keep striving and continue
to put off everyone and anything that got in my way. I came to a place where I
didn’t need anyone, believing that people will always let me down. I became
self-sufficient and though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was seeking out a
life that was sad and lonely. I see this in you as well.</span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">God got my attention many years ago, thankfully. Nothing
inspires prayer and draws us closer to the Lord like adversity, sorrow, and
humiliation. I got to the place where I realized I can do nothing without God
(Phil. 4:13). I desperately needed Him, His love, and mercy and with that, my
self-sufficiency went out the window. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So as I share with you some things I have
learned along the way, I want you to know I have had to do most
things twice---at least---the wrong way and then the right way. I don’t write
from a place of being arrogance, but from a humbled place--- a place that
wants so much for you to embrace the beautiful gift that is yours for the
taking. I write from a place of deep seeded love and respect for you. I write
as your friend. </span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">First, I want to remind you that living for God is not going
to feel like a mountain-top experience all the time. For some reason, we have
come to believe that our faith, our walk with Christ, is supposed to be more
than it currently is, that it should resemble a favorite author, pastor, or
friend <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>whose faith just seems to come easier
for them---their whole lives ooze intimacy with Christ. Don’t get me wrong, we
will have seasons of incredible intimacy with Him where we hear, feel, and see
Him and crave being in His presence, but true faith is lived when we don’t
hear, feel, or see Him. Do we still believe He is with us when we don’t have
something to hang our hat on; when darkness surrounds us and God seems to be
nowhere in sight? Do we abandon Him when faith looks different or feels
different than what we expected? Listen carefully, “Human feelings cannot touch
him and human thoughts cannot measure Him. Our personal experiences cannot
heighten the certainty of His presence anymore than the absence of experience
can lessen it” (Brennan Manning). Do you get it? Just because we don’t hear,
see, or feel His presence does not mean that He is not present, no more than
when we do hear, see, and feel His presence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God is with us. He will never leave us. He
will never forsake us (Duet. 31:8). He is never out of reach.</span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">I cannot stress the importance of abiding in Christ.
Abiding is a fancy word that means “to remain”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I mentioned, it is easy to walk away from
Christ when we don’t experience Him like we desire or when the world feels as
if it is caving in on us. As children, we feared the dark. It caused us to feel alone
and unsafe. It caused our imaginations to spin wildly out of control; and if
you were anything like I was, you concocted an escape route or practice Kung Fu
fighting skills while laying awake into the wee hours of the morning, only to be
awaken to the light and the security that we craved. I had nothing to fret and
lose sleep over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone experiences
dark seasons of life, where we cannot see beyond today, where we feel alone,
unfulfilled, as if our joy has been stripped away from us, and we cannot look
up no matter our efforts. It’s a painful season. It is also <em>necessary</em> in the Christian’s
life because it helps us to reexamine our hearts and motives. In short, the darkness is a refining
process. “He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver; He will purify”
(Malachi 3:3) Like silver, we are often put through the fire, or darkness in
this case, so that our impurities will rise to the top to be skimmed off. With time
and abiding in Him through the darkness, our Savior will more readily see His reflection
in our lives. Refining (sanctification) is a life-long process. An interesting fact is that silver means redemption. I think of
redemption as rescuing which does not mean escaping the darkness, but seeing
the light while in the dark.</span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">As Christians, we are “in this world, but not of this world”.
If you are like me even a little, this is a hard concept to grasp and even
harder to live out. What this essentially means is that our true home is in
heaven with Christ. Our lives on Earth are fleeting and when we die the things
we have worked so hard to accumulate collect dust and eventually end up in the
trash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are to live with the understanding and determination
that life’s meaning for the Christian is to show Christ’s perfect,
non-judgmental, humble, grace-filled love through our interactions and pure
efforts to others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up in a
legalistic church. Rules were everything, which made Christianity pretty easy.
However, as I grew older, I explored my faith and relationship with Christ more
and realized rules do not make anyone holy--- and honestly, make us the god of
our lives. In my ignorant youth, I believed that surrounding myself with other Christians
was the best thing I could do for myself and after awhile I did not have a
single unbelieving friend and all my social outlets were in the Christian
community. It took several years for me to realize how incredibly unhealthy
this was, how arrogant I must have appeared to anyone outside the Christian
faith, how unchallenged I was in my walk with Christ because I was living life
and serving shoulder to shoulder with people I genuinely loved and respected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus reminds us in Luke (6:32-35), “If you
love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those
that love them….But love your enemies, do good unto them, and lend to them
without expecting anything back. Then your reward will be great and you will be
children of the Most High, because He is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked”.</span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #660000;">I have often used the
example of the watery expanding rings left from a stone thrown into a river to
refer to our lives. Beloved, the innermost ring must be comprised of like-minded people,
people who will speak truth to us even when it is hard, people who will support,
love, and encourage us to grow outside our comfort zone, people who will always
point us back to Christ when we veer off the path, but also who will remain by our
side when our seasons of darkness seem to swallow us whole. The outer rings are
where our faith is tested more intensely because that is where the rest of the
world dwells, where the light in the darkness is a mirage, promising that if
they do this or get that---that they will finally feel fulfilled and live a
life of happiness and peace. It is dangerous and if our inner circle is not intact,
we can easily be swayed and fall prey to the ways of the world.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">People, Christians and non-Christians alike, often believe
that the only way to know Christ is through prayer, listening to sermons,
attending church, and Bible Study.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
a beautiful checklist we have created in hopes to be holy! I balk at that---
really! I am not saying these are not incredibly important activities
and won’t aid us to knowing about the Lord, but there is an infinite difference
between knowing about God and knowing God. To know Him is to honestly, without abandon,
trust Him; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to live in complete surrender
to Him--- allowing Him to see us, all of us---the broken parts, the bitter
parts, the sinful parts---all of us--- and believe that He loves us in spite of
those things and so much so that He will not allow us to remain in this place. Complete
surrendering is not having God and…anything else. It is the letting go of what
you can do for yourself and relying on God to take care of whatever needs to be
done--- and in His perfect timing. It is easy to get caught up in the music we sing,
or the words we read, or even the prayers that we pray---again, these are
beautiful, important, and potentially life-giving activities, but if they
become our God or replace the relationship with Christ that we seek, we have
missed the very function of these activities, the very One they are meant to
point us to. Our relationship with Christ is a personal, up close, intimate one marinated in these activities, but not the activities themselves. </span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">Another thing I must share with you as you reach for the
Master’s hand as you crawl out of darkness is the gift of forgiveness---a gift
you have unknowingly already received as well as the gift you must live from in
order to dwell in the freedom God so desperately desires for you. Forgiveness
is essentially living from the very heart of Christ. Man’s nature is to wound.
God’s nature is to save. In all honesty, this has been one of my biggest
lessons in life. Living in resentment towards those who have wronged us
intentionally or unintentionally only hurts ourselves. Often times, the person
who hurt us is unaware of the grudge we hold against them. It eats at us day
and night, devouring the very part of us that God desires to grow in us: His
perfect peace and grace for others. Our struggle to forgive or the resentments
we clutch onto reveals how much we trust God to take care of the injustices
done against us. There is an incredible freedom we feel when we forgive those
who have wronged us. Don’t misunderstand forgiveness. It is not saying that
what someone did against us is OK. It is saying, “I am no longer holding on to
this. I will not allow my mind to dwell on this or allow it to rob my life a
moment longer of the peace waiting for me on the other side”. Forgiveness is
the signature of Jesus in our lives. We have been forgiven of so, so much. </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">There is so much more I could share. I fear I have overwhelmed you already. Please know </span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">Beloved, I want nothing more for you than for you to choose
the less traveled road, a road that is not easy by any means. An authentic
Christian life is, as Brennan Manning (once again) says, “a summons to strip
ourselves of earthly cares and worldly wisdom, all desire for human praise,
greediness for any kind of comfort, a readiness to stand up and be counted as
peacemakers in a violent world; a willingness to let go of those pretenses that
would have us believe we aren’t really worldly. Even the last rag we cling to—the
self-flattery that suggests we are humble when we disclaim any resemblance to
Jesus Christ---even that rag has to go when we stand face-to-face with the crucified
Son of God”. This road, Beloved is a road that fills the deep longing you
have been trying to fill with things of this world for so many years. It is a
path that will challenge you at times, as it is not a popular path and it is often
misunderstood. It is also a path that often leads to persecution, but it is without a doubt, the
path where you meet Jesus face to face, where you will discover what it really
means to know Him, what it means to live out of your unfathomable love for
Him at all costs, and to know the freedom you have only dreamt about. <br /><br />I am eager to walk this humble journey along side you, my dear one.
I am praying ceaselessly for you, knowing God hears my prayers and loves you more than I ever possibly could. I am here for you and will keep sharing what I have learned and keep pointing you back to Christ, but I know I am not the one who will change your heart, so I release my grip on you and eagerly watch as the Lord works in and through your life.</span></div>
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love you so very much,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Calibri;">K</span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-82209591246314217232014-08-18T10:31:00.000-07:002014-08-18T10:56:34.017-07:00Loved<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vhDf---qd_M/U_I4D_YFm6I/AAAAAAAAAJs/3RZePS4IMhk/s1600/photo%2B(9).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vhDf---qd_M/U_I4D_YFm6I/AAAAAAAAAJs/3RZePS4IMhk/s1600/photo%2B(9).JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the last letters I received from my Dad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">I grew up on dairy farm in a small town in western
Washington. It was a wholesome, traditional, and humble upbringing where my
brother, sister, and I learned to work hard, put others’ needs above our own,
rally with the community, and worship together on Sunday mornings sitting
between my mom and dad. If scenes from Little House on the Prairie come to
mind, you’d be on the right track. I loved my childhood and am eternally grateful
for the sweet gift of it. I am sure I have romanticized it to some degree, for even
the hardships now seem like the bow on top of an already beautiful package. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the things I treasure most from my
childhood is the heart-to-heart conversations I had with my dad. I won’t
pretend to remember the substance of them, but I remember the heart in which
they took place and where they led me. </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Many, many conversations with my dad took place in the
milking parlor. I still remember what it felt like to sit on the wet, cold
cement step watching my dad as he worked. It was not uncommon to see him tear up as
he shared whatever he was struggling with or giggling like a little boy over
the joke I heard at school that day. His battered hands working hurriedly while
the oldies played statically on an old beat up radio in the background; as we
would talk about everything and nothing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love
that we had to yell over the machines at times while at other times, we didn’t
need words at all. Just being together was enough. My dad was approachable. My
dad was present.<br />
<br />
As I grew older, a lot of our conversations took place sitting on the back
fence looking out over the pasture while the sun slipped too quickly below the
horizon. Dad often would say, “Look at the masterpiece God painted for us
tonight”. I loved unwrapping presents like sunsets and sparkling stars and even
the aroma of cow pies with my dad. Through his actions, I learned to never take
these things for granted, to see them as gifts to be unwrapped slowly, to be
treasured, to see God in them and humbly, yet courageously,
worship Him. I loved listening to my dad pray. I loved the feel of his oversized, calloused hand in mine, and the little squeeze he would give me just before he said, "Amen". My dad was humble. My dad was filled with immense gratitude.</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">I’m a ponder; like my Dad was. I’d like to say I learned it
from him, but I think God just wired me like that and used my Dad to encourage
me to put voice to my thoughts and questions. I love that my dad wasn’t perfect
and didn’t know all the answers. I loved that he lived transparently,
passionately, and unapologetically for his beliefs. I loved that he encouraged
me to openly wrestle with my faith and not readily accept whatever I heard in
church or what he and my mom taught us kids as truth---I can still hear him,
“Look it up…that’s how you learn, that’s how you grow, that’s how you discover
God for yourself”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad was transparent.
My dad was student and teacher.</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">As I grew older and eventually moved out and married, my Dad
often called to ask what I was reading, what I was learning and then eagerly
shared what he was learning or wrestling with. I miss those talks more and more
with each year that he has been gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
dad was my friend. </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Shortly after my dad passed away I found a letter he had
written me several years prior. I did not like this letter at all and
considered throwing it away because it pointed out things about myself I wish
had not been true. I saved it because…because I guess I knew there was more
value to it than just a reminder of his bubbly handwriting and the odd fact
that it smelled like ketchup. His letter began, “I have been burdened for you”
and ended with “I am praying over you, Karyn. You have all the Jesus you need,
snuggle into Him and rest in His arms”. My Dad was not afraid to speak truth
even when it was hard for him. My dad was bold. My dad was an encourager. </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">My dad sure loved me. I sure love him. </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #073763;">My dad has been gone for four years now. And when
I get to talk about him, never once do I define him by what he did for a living,
how much money he earned, where he lived, the size of his house, kind of car he
drove, or any other material possession he acquired. My dad lived a present,
humble life that pointed everyone he met to Christ. He encouraged others by being
transparent, vulnerable, and openly wrestled with things he did not understand.
He loved others with the love of Christ. We are called to do the same.</span> </span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-87905358363726192072014-08-08T09:59:00.001-07:002014-08-08T15:05:17.809-07:00Fragile Faith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3sB-nRGgq6c/U-UBnqB6D7I/AAAAAAAAAJc/__VJhARx6Do/s1600/12222179-fragile-rubber-stamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3sB-nRGgq6c/U-UBnqB6D7I/AAAAAAAAAJc/__VJhARx6Do/s1600/12222179-fragile-rubber-stamp.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Years ago I
came across words written so prophetically tender to my soul that ever since, I
have quoted and re-quoted John Piper’s affirmation as well as have given the
Lord complete access to my life in hopes that He would gently guide and refine
me <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>into authentically living out these
words. <br />
<br />
The words?<br />
<br />
“God is most glorified in us, when we are most satisfied in Him” (John Piper,
Desiring God).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">It is my
deepest desire to glorify the Lord. I want nothing more than when I see Him
face to face for Him to welcome me into the folds of His wings and give me the
biggest papa bear hug---so big that I am lifted a foot off the ground. And as
He sets me back on the ground, He looks me square in the eye, tears of joy
streaming down His cheeks as He whispers, “Well done, my Beloved. There is no
doubt that you have loved me, lived for me, and served others in my name. You
gave everything you had until there was nothing left, but Me and then you kept
going in faith”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not perfect by any
means, but I live confidently in Him, sometimes even radically (which for this
introvert is really living in faith!) as I attempt to live with my eyes fixed
on Him. I truly am satisfied in Him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">I am
satisfied in Him because I trust Him implicitly. The Bible is filled with
countless promises and He has fulfilled every one of them in my life. He has
lead me through some earth shattering circumstances, been the light in the
midst of my darkest hours. He has spoken to my tender heart and given me strength
to endure hardships while conquering others. He has been the source of exuberant
joy and given me peace that surpasses all understanding. He has given me His
eyes to see the world as He does and have a compassion and empathy that are not
my own for the brokenhearted, the unlovely, and even the crude. I see Him when
I look for Him. I feel Him when I quiet my soul. I hear Him when I read His
Word. I am completely satisfied in Him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">However, I
know many people are not satisfied in Him, don’t trust Him, don’t feel His
presence. I know people who blame Him for the injustice in the world and
therefore believe He is not a loving God. It makes sense that people who are
not Christ-followers feel this way because they only know of Christ, not Christ
Himself. However, we don’t expect Christians to feel this way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">My oldest daughter
wrestles with her faith. Though she believes in God, has asked Him to be the
Lord of her life, attends church regularly, prays, and reads her Bible, she
struggles with this being enough. As we were talking about this one night last
week, she breaks down, sobbing---the kind of sobbing that swells from the
inside out, staining her face with hot tears that reveal an inner wrestling that
she cannot make sense of. Between heavy sobs, she says, “I’m not like you, Mom.
I don’t feel God. I look at you and you ooze this love for Him, you see Him, you
hear His voice, you feel Him, and I, I just don’t”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I am being completely honest, my initial
reaction was surprise. Not feel God? How can that be? How easy it is for us to
assume that others think and feel the way we do; that God speaks and guides others
in the same way He does us. The Lord was quick to help me catch my tongue and
guard my expression so as not to add insult to her already hemorrhaging heart. I
know she is alone in her wrestling. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Christianity
is not mimicking someone else’s walk with Christ, though we may be inspired by
them. Occasionally, we find ourselves in the midst of those whose faith seems
to come easier to them. They seem to encapsulate humility while at the same
time a confidence which we can only dream of encompassing. They know the Bible
like the back of their hand and pray so eloquently---so poetically, that we, in
comparison, sound like a blubbering fool. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have witnessed others be moved by the Spirit
because they not only hear His voice, they trust Him. They know Him, really
know Him and unapologetically live out of this deep, deep love they have for
Him. We all know someone like that. And although my daughter does not say she
desires her faith to look like mine, she believes that faith must look and feel
a certain way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my daughter’s
frustration, she asks, “So faith is just believing, not anything else? No
feelings, no nothing?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Searching my
mind and silently asking the Lord to guide this conversation, I reminded her that
our faith is not based on feelings, but on the decision to trust that God’s
Word is truth, that He died for us, paying the penalty for our sin because He
loves us that much. I reminded her that her checklist (reading her Bible,
attending church, praying…) can easily become a religious act---where we live
by the letter of the law rather than the spirit of the law. Christianity is about
relationship, not rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reading the
Bible, praying, and attending church are tools to build and maintain an
intimate relationship with Christ---which is where that immeasurable love she
desperately desires springs forth for Christ. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of people follow a similar checklist, doing
all the “right” things and never learn to follow Jesus---never fall in love with Him. It’s easy to follow a
plan, but not so easy to fully relinquish ourselves to God’s authority. If we have
our eyes on ourselves, our accomplishments, our goals while marking off our
checklist, how can we be sold out for Christ? I think this is where the root of
many of our struggles lie. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">My daughter
listens attentively and nods her head in understanding, but still looks for
something more. We have become a world of quick fixes and instant gratification.
We gravitate toward books and magazines that promise step by step solutions to
"live our best life now". We don’t want to think. We don’t necessarily even want
to do the work. We just want someone to tell us what to do and how to think and
hope we get the results we desire. A personal relationship with Christ cannot
be replicated or manufactured. It’s personal. My relationship with Christ is
different from your relationship with Christ.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">So, I share
with my Delightful that the mark of a Christian is not in how much she prays,
reads the Bible, shares her faith with others, her church attendance record, or
even how well she follows the ten commandments. Rather, the mark of a Christian
is how well we love one another. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
Christians, our intimacy with Christ manifests itself by how we respond to
others in need. I cannot help but to think of James 1:27, “Religion
that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after the
orphans and the widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being
polluted by the world”. As we grow in intimacy with Christ, our heartbeat grows
in sync with His and we see the world in a whole new perspective. It is a
perspective that begs for us to show love in an array of ways (using our gifts,
talents, and passions that the Lord has equipped us with) to all those around
us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">I tell my daughter that she has all the tools
she needs, but perhaps she has misunderstood the tools, how to use them, as
well as how live them out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in an attempt
to encourage her, I do my best to define the tools and their purpose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start with prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Prayer is
not as scary as it may sound. The key component to prayer is simply being present
with the Lord. I often times picture myself kneeling before the cross. When I
do, my focus is completely on Him and not on myself and my heart is humbled as
I breathe in His immeasurable sacrifice for me. Sometimes my prayers are said
in the sanctuary of my heart, no words, just silent fellowship with Him.
Sometimes, I talk to Him like I’m talking to a friend---about everything and
nothing, about small things and big things. Sometimes my prayer is simply
saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” in unison with the beating of my heart because I
don’t know what else to say. I pray while I’m working. I pray while I’m sitting
in the solitude of my home. And sometimes, I sing worship songs as my prayer (For
those of you who know my singing ability, remember that Jesus tells us to make
a joyful <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">noise</b> unto the Lord!). Jesus
left an example of how to pray in Matthew 6:9-13: The Lord’s Prayer.
Essentially, it reveals our respect, gratitude, need, and desire for Him in our
lives.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Talking to
someone we don’t know well yet is awkward to say the least. As we grow in
friendship, it will become easier to be transparent and vulnerable before God
and we will eventually hear His voice---not necessarily audibly, but He will
make His presence and will known to us. He tells us that when we seek Him, we
will find Him (Jer. 29:13). I promise He does not make Himself hard to find!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">For me, nothing
about nature escapes my ever searching eye for Him. I see God in the majestic,
rugged mountains, in the long sandy beaches, in the vastness of fields, and in
the mystic edges of hovering fog. I feel Him in the sun’s warmth, in the down
pour of rain, and the gracefulness of falling snow. I smell Him in the pine trees and in
the fresh cut grass. I hear Him in the silence of early mornings as the sun
crests the eastern horizon. I hear Him in the whispers of the wind as it runs
its fingers through the spindly branches of my willow tree. I hear Him in the
sweet melody of the robins and the low hum of the hummingbirds. I could go on
and on about the beauty I see of Christ in nature. God is in it all so that we
might glimpse His glory and worship Him in utter admiration. This worship is
prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">My daughter
doesn’t make eye contact. Instead she worries a loose thread on her sweater. I
know she’s listening, taking it all in, so I continue. I reminded her that
attending church is not solely about learning something new, but also about being
in community with other like-minded people who struggle like we do. It is a
place where the walking wounded congregate and encourage one another by helping
us fix our eyes on our Lord, the author and finisher of our faith (Heb. 12:2). She
interrupts me and scowls, “That only happens when you are in a group. Once you
leave that group for whatever reason, you are left on your own. Church is a
very lonely place”. Boy, has she got me on that one. I have wrestled with
organized religion all my life primarily for this very reason.
Church can come across as a club and if you are not part of the “inner circle”,
so to speak, you are on your own. It is easy to dwell here and become bitter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Bitterness
is a sneaky tactic of Satan’s. When we feel it brewing deep within us, we need
to heed the warning and stop everything, fall to our knees, and ask the Lord to
take it from us. Unchecked, bitterness will rob us of the very joy God so
desperately wants for us. I, personally, have been hurt by the church
repeatedly. I can choose to focus on the people who have grieved my soul or I
can choose to seek God with all my heart, mind, and soul. Church is a place
filled with sinners; many of them are desperately seeking God and desire to
walk in communion with others who believe as they do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">I love
worship probably more than anything else; which is slightly ironic because I am
the least musical person on the planet. In that moment, it is just me and God
and I hardly notice others around me. It fills me, ministers to me, and is a balm
for whatever has grieved my heart during the week. It draws me like nothing
else. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">It’s hard to
sing a love song to a God we don’t know or feel in love with, or a God that
we are questioning or even doubting. I say don’t sing, just listen. Let the
words wash over you; allow them to lead you to seeking out more of Him. (Most
songs sung in church are based on scripture).<br />
<br />
Followed by worship is the sermon which is just a fancy word for a lesson. I
have gone to several kinds of churches. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
where the Pastor yells and pounds his fists on the podium telling us that we’re
all going to hell. Another church where I’ve heard great topical life lessons,
but the Bible is not necessarily preached. And another kind of church called an
expository church, where the scriptures are broken down and explained in detail
so that common folk, like me, understand what we’re reading. The Bible, though originally
written in Greek and Hebrew is not meant to sound like a foreign language to us. God wrote
it for all people, so finding a translation that is easier to understand and find
a style of teaching that is meaningful to us, one based on the Bible, is essential. If we don’t
understand something, we need to seek someone out. Churches are equipped with staff to
help find the answers to our questions. <br />
<br />
My girl looks up at me and I feel I’ve lost her. I am not sure she is on the same
page as I am here, which wounds my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that bitterness has taken root
and is crowding out the Truth that must be plucked before she can find her way
again. I continue on however, telling her that reading her Bible is perhaps the most
valuable tool in learning about God’s character. When we see how He responds in
the various stories He has left for us in His Word, we will discover Who He
is---not just to Adam, the Israelites or even to the Apostle Paul, but Who He
is to us. Fundamentally, “Jesus is servant, ministering to the needs of others”
(Brennan Manning). You cannot fall in love with someone you don’t know. The
Bible unfolds Christ’s character and without a doubt, as we read and study His Word, we will come to know
and love Him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Out of our
love for Christ, we begin to deliberately, consciously, and eagerly desire to live
for Him. Simply, this looks like love. “Love the Lord your God with all your
heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind;
and love your neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27). Jesus lived for others. Jesus
served others and gave sacrificially of Himself. We are to do the same—which is
contrary to the mentality of our world. It is not up to us to determine how we
will be used for God’s witness or for His glory. We simply love and let God
take care of everything else.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Quietly sitting there, taking in my words, I run to the other room to grab the book I am reading because I
have, have to share what I had just read that morning with my girl. “All that is not the
love of God has no meaning for me. I can truthfully say that I have no interest
in anything but the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. If God wants it to,
my life will be useful through my word and witness. If He wants it to, my life
will bear fruit through my prayers and sacrifices. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But the usefulness of my life is His concern, not mine. It would be
indecent of me to worry about that</i>” (Dominique Voillaume).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">I pause and
look at my daughter. She slowly looks up at me and bites her quivering lip. She whispers, “So God really takes care of
everything else, I just have to believe?” Tears streaming down my cheeks, I say,
“Yes”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">It is my
heart’s cry that my daughters apprehend the wonderment of God’s merciful gift
to us, that they would accept being accepted (I’m still working on that
myself), and understand that the essence for a follower of Jesus lays in living
in faith, not some sort of checklist. “Living by faith consists in constantly redefining
and reaffirming our identity with Jesus---measuring ourselves against Him---not
measuring ourselves against our church dogmas and local heroes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus is the light of the world. In His light
we discover that it is not mere rhetoric that Jesus demands, but personal
renewal, fidelity to the Word, and creative conduct” (Brennan Manning).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-77441272323903882682014-07-30T20:06:00.000-07:002014-07-31T09:08:00.127-07:00I Love You This Much!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0CbMN2bnoS0/U9myYl9k1EI/AAAAAAAAAJM/NRJU6SgDVFY/s1600/I+love+you.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0CbMN2bnoS0/U9myYl9k1EI/AAAAAAAAAJM/NRJU6SgDVFY/s1600/I+love+you.gif" height="224" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">My girls are
now teenagers, but every once in awhile they still play the game, “Do You Know
How Much I Love You?” You know that precious game where as parents we respond, “How
much?” and our little Delightfuls stretch their arms out as far as they
possibly can, responding through squinted eyes and strained heart vocals, “This
much”. It never gets old. I love being told that I am not just loved, but loved
to the full extent of who they are. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">These
precious memories are tucked deep within my heart; and there next to the
snapshot of my girls’ outstretched arms of love for me, is another snapshot of
outstretched arms of love. These arms however, are stretched across a wooden
beam and held in place with stakes--Jesus on the cross; the crucifixion.
Without a doubt, the cross symbolizes my faith. However, the cross is not just
a symbol of a necessary sacrifice for my salvation, but it also symbolizes the
pattern I hope my life reflects. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">The cross
has become so commonplace in our society that what it represents has been gravely
skewed or forgotten about all together. I’ll admit that until several years ago
when I would see a cross, it did little, if anything, to stir my heart or point
my mind to Jesus’ crucifixion on that Golgotha hill over 2,000 years ago. And
although it represented my faith, it did not actively serve as a relevant tool in
my walk with Christ. The work of the cross had been done and my eyes were (and
are) firmly fixed on the One who once hung from those beams, not the beams
themselves. However, as I have spent these several years relishing in the
friendship and guidance of the Lord, I’ve come to have a whole new appreciation
for the symbol of the cross in addition to His Lordship.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Marinating
in the heaviness and humble surrender of that Friday afternoon, picturing my
friend nailed to those wooden beams, I find that I am drawn to know more about
Him. If you believe that Jesus is indeed the Son of God, you know He had the
power to escape such excruciating torment and unjust death. As Christians, we
believe He not only allowed this to take place, but intentionally sacrificed
His life in place for ours—what unfathomable love and grace for us---Perhaps
the most profound piece of this equation is that in order to die for us, Christ
had to set aside His power. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Maybe that
sounds like a no-brainer to you, but I had never reflected on that fact before. Of
course, He had to set His power aside. But as we consider what occurred three
days later, that Christ rose from the dead, we have a better understanding of
what 1 Corinthians 1:18-24 is talking about when it calls our attention to the
fact that “Jesus Christ crucified is the power of God and the wisdom of God”.
Think about that for a moment. We are not saved because of God’s power. We are
saved because He laid His power aside and humbled Himself for our sake. Brennan
Manning, author of “The Signature of Jesus (1988) refers to the cross as “The signature
of the risen One”. I love that. “The signature of the risen One”. (sigh) That
description causes my heart to beat wildly and cry out in
gratitude to my Beloved Jesus. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">When Christ
set His power aside, He was showing His unconditional, inconceivable love for
us. Manning reminds us that “power forces us to change. Love moves us to
change. Power affects behavior. Love affects the heart”. With this in mind,
think about the cross. Do you see Jesus’ suffering love for us? Does it not
stir the deepest longings in your heart to be loved this much? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“Christ on
the cross is not a mere theological precondition for salvation. It is God’s
enduring word to the world, saying, ‘See how much I love you. See how much you
must love one another’”. The cross is not just a symbol of my faith anymore;
rather, it is a reminder of how much Jesus loves me and how much I am to love
the world around me. In Matthew 16:24, Jesus tells us that if we want to be His
disciples (Christ followers), we need to “take up our own cross and follow
Him”. Essentially, He is saying, “let go of what power and control you think
you have and look to me; follow me. I promise I will lead you to the
well-spring of life where you will never thirst again”. My mind wanders to the tender
words of the Apostle Paul: “My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made
perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my
weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” (2 Cor. 12:9). <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">With my own
arms outstretched, palms facing toward the heavens, as a symbol of my own sacrifice for Christ, I hold on to nothing, I
relinquish all of myself, all of my dreams, plans, and notions about this life
to Him and allow Him to lead me. I fully believe that Christ treasures His own snapshots of us, holding them close to His heart and saying, "She loves me thiiiiissss much". </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #0c343d;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">
</span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-47495515717811144732014-07-22T14:09:00.000-07:002014-07-24T12:07:46.324-07:00Grace under Pressure<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0E6n_7B5fdU/U87R6yoDu4I/AAAAAAAAAI8/qCcwPlVTSCA/s1600/grace2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0E6n_7B5fdU/U87R6yoDu4I/AAAAAAAAAI8/qCcwPlVTSCA/s1600/grace2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">I cannot go
through a single day without the thought of grace lingering in the forefront of
my mind. Moment by moment, I have a choice of whether or not I will choose to
respond to an injustice/sin in grace or allow my human instinct of judgment and
consequence to spill from my lips. Grace is somewhat abstract because it is the
gift of favor or pardon in light of what we deserve; however there are
conditions to receiving this grace, not just from others, but from Christ as
well. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">Grace does
not turn a blind eye to sin. Grace does not release us from accountability or
even from consequences. I’ll admit that I have thought of grace as being ultra
compassionate toward someone’s circumstances without judgment or consequence
for a long time, but as I have attempted to understand church discipline more,
I have been challenged to seek meaning in the seemingly hazy line between grace
as I have always defined it and discipline.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><br />Grace
chooses to see the heart of the person before their sin and acts in response. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can think of no better example than the
story found in John 8. (Paraphrasing) A woman brought before the court had been
found guilty of adultery. In those days, anyone found guilty of adultery was to
be stoned to death. However, as the teachers of the Law, Pharisees and
onlookers waited breathlessly to hear the woman’s sentencing, the Judge
solemnly declared, “He who is without sin may cast the first stone”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, not one was without sin and all
eventually left the court, leaving only the Judge and the woman. Picture this
tender moment with me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus kneels
before the young woman, looks her in the eye and whispers, “Is there no one to
cast the first stone?” Tears streaming down her face, her lip quivering, as
both her mind and eyes question what has just happened, as she whispers an
unbelieving, “No”. Jesus then tenderly cups her cheek in his hand and says,
“Then neither do I. Go off and commit this sin no more”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is grace. Jesus saw her repentant heart,
forgave her and sent her on her way<span style="color: #073763;"> <span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">while man looked at her outward appearance (1 Sam. 16:7). </span></span>This is not to say that the woman did not
receive any consequences; most assuredly she did. However, she was not
condemned.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">As
Christians, we experientially know that God<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">
is</b> grace. Everything we read, study and experience of Him oozes unfathomable
grace. We also know that as Christians, we are called to imitate Christ--- to
be sacrificially, gracefully accepting of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">all
</b>people, to forgive those that wrong us, and love our neighbors (our enemies,
those with alternative life styles, beliefs, etc.---there are no exceptions) as
Christ loved the Church. Think about that for a moment: how did Christ love the
church? He loved with His entire being, with everything He had to give,
including humbling himself from His position in Heaven to becoming and living
as a common man and sacrificing His very life for our sakes. He lived his life
among the beggars, thieves, diseased, prostitutes---the unlovely, the unlikeable,
and the unworthy. He was eager to wash the feet of the broken, the hurting, and
the sinful and He justly and wisely admonished the wrong, the prideful, and the
sinners.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">Even though
I have not questioned God’s grace, I have wrestled for decades with the
church’s grace where discipline is concerned. Several examples of church
discipline come to mind: <span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">a friend while in high school got pregnant</span></span> and had to share her
sin before the church, another friend who had admitted to having sex outside of
marriage during premarital counseling was told she could not wear white and
instead had to wear a pink wedding dress. Another friend was raped by a fellow member
of the church and instead of discipline being brought upon the man, the young
man was forgiven by the church and still allowed to attend (which forced the
girl to leave the church, question God’s love for her, and her value). Three
different circumstances; three different churches and yet, in all three
situations, the line between discipline and grace is confusing at best. We want
to believe that the church is doing the right and best thing and in accordance
with scripture, but in instances like these it causes us to question not only
the church’s grace, but God’s grace as well. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I struggle
with the seeming injustice often found in church discipline. It is not that I
don’t believe in church discipline. I do. It is Biblical. <br /><br />
“Stern discipline awaits anyone who leaves the path; the one who hates
correction will die” (Proverbs 15:10).<br /><br />
“Endure hardship as discipline; God is treating you as His children. For what
children are not disciplined by their father?” (Hebrews 12:7).</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“No
discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it
produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained” (Hebrews
12:11).</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">However, I
believe some churches see the sin and not the heart of the person. If the heart
is repentant, then allow natural consequences be the only discipline one
receives. If the sin keeps occurring without a repentant heart, then intercession
and correction are necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one of
us is without sin, not one! (1 John 1:8). It’s interesting to me to think about
what sins are often brought before the church. Usually sexual immorality; I’ve
never heard anything but. However, God does not weigh our sins or assign
varying degrees of sin. A lie is a sin. Adultery is a sin. And both look the
same in God’s eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">So in light
of discipline, how does grace fit into the picture? Although grace is a free
gift, there are conditions for receiving it and remaining in it. Here are just
a few:<br /><br />
God gives more grace to the humble (James 4:6). Therefore, if we are humbled in
Him, we will receive more grace. <br /><br />
“The Lord your God is gracious and merciful and will not turn His face away
from you, if you return to Him” (2 Chron. 30:9). He will look upon us if we
return to Him. On the flip side, if we do not return to Him, we forfeit His
merciful grace.<br /> <br />
“He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry. As soon as He
hears it, He answers you” (Is. 30:19). We must cry out to Him so He can lavish
His grace upon us.<br /><br />
“For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His steadfast love
towards those who fear Him” (Psalm 103:11). Fearing God is not the shaking in
your boots in the middle of the night kind of fear. It is a reverent, sweet
humility and submission to His authority and power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we live within this holy respect of the
Almighty God, His steadfast love is boundless toward us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">The list
goes on. And as I read countless scriptures where grace is clearly conditional,
I see two things. First, I see that God desires nothing more than to lavish
such love and grace on us. And second, He is just waiting for the moment when
we relinquish our lives to Him, seek His face and will in all things. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">John Piper,
in his book, “Future Grace” (2012), points out 10 conditions to receive grace: </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">1. Love God</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">2. Delight in Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">3. Draw near to Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">4. Wait on Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">5. Take refuge in Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">6. Hope in Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">7. Trust in Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">8. Cry out to Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">9. Fear Him</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">10. Look to Him</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">Does this
list look like a synopsis of what having faith looks like, or what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith, in essence, looks to God and embraces
Him and Him alone. And although faith has inner and outer components, this list speaks to the condition of a faithful heart, to a heart emptied
of self and eyes firmly fixed on Him. Clearly, the condition to receive grace is that
we must have faith.”By grace you have been saved, through faith…” (Romans
3:23). <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #073763;">From faith
grows love for others. Love is the second component to faith. It is the outward
expression of our love for Christ. Loving others is a necessary evidence of our
faith. It’s so important, in fact, that Christ commanded it. “This is His commandment;
that we believe in the name of His Son Jesus Christ and love one another” (1
John 3:23). Two actions: believe and love, one command. So to digest some of
this information; grace is conditioned on our having faith, which is rooted in
Christ’s love which then spills out onto others. So my question then becomes,
what does grace look like practically when discipline is necessary?</span></span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">I am reminded of a conversation I had with my
teenage daughter just yesterday when I wrapped up her consequences with the
words, “I am doing this because I love you. If I didn’t love you, I’d let you
do whatever you wanted. Accountability is love”. I have faith in my daughter. I
trust her, but she still needs guidance and every now and then discipline to
keep her on the right track, especially when that track keeps veering off
course.<br /> <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">Grace shows
incredible love and devotion to the person being disciplined. It says, “I love
and care so much about you to let you remain in this unhealthy place”. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I believe
there is a place for church discipline, when it has been marinated in love for
the person---not as a way to expose their sin, but as a way to expose them to
Christ’s grace and forgiveness for them. I have yet to see church discipline
done well. I think it’s a tricky thing and often can be misunderstood by the
congregation as well as the recipient. Some churches are legalistic in their
approach (such as the ones I mentioned at the beginning), missing the purpose
of discipline. One sin is not more substantial than another in Christ’s eyes. Not
one of us is worthy of casting the first stone. Therefore, to discipline, we
must, must act in grace---through love for one another and with the ultimate
purpose of pointing our brother or sister back to the Lord. </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">Can you
imagine what church discipline rooted in excessive love would look like? Discipline
should be an overwhelming feeling of love and respect for the recipient---intimate
and grace-filled and should cause the recipient to desire to change paths, knowing
they are supported every step of the way. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</o:p></span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;">“See to it
that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause
trouble and defile many” (Hebrews 12:15).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #073763;"><br />“Let all you
do be done in love” (1 Cor. 16:14).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-66838793043635309982014-06-25T12:26:00.000-07:002014-06-26T07:03:34.020-07:00Chapter One<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DVPua3dA6W8/U6si0m98ATI/AAAAAAAAAIs/eE8eOBCPdrQ/s1600/chapter1_thumb.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DVPua3dA6W8/U6si0m98ATI/AAAAAAAAAIs/eE8eOBCPdrQ/s1600/chapter1_thumb.gif" height="300" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">Growing up in a fire and brimstone Baptist church, it was
imbedded in me from early on that everyone plays an important role in
fulfilling the Great Commission (sharing Jesus with the world). And although I
didn’t necessarily know what that meant for those of us who didn’t feel “called”
to the mission field---places like Africa or China, I always knew that my story
(testimony), as well as yours, is a part of God’s greater story and was meant
to be shared in hopes to show Jesus to the world and connect with others. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I’m a pretty average chick. Married, with two kids and a
dog, live in the burbs, go to church, teach kids with special needs, garden,
read, and sing terribly---like I said, average. I have wondered does an average
person have a story worth sharing. Would it point you to Christ, reveal more of
Him to you; cause you to hunger for a God that not only satisfies, but exceeds
any preconceived notions? Simply, would my love for Him be infectious? Rather,
would His love and acceptance for me, hopefully evident in my life, cause you
to seek Him out?</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, I’m talking
decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve not shared parts of my
story, perhaps the most important chapter, because shame still accompanies
aspects of it. And although I know in my heart that shame is not of God, my
head gets the better of me and plays torrid games by inundating me with
thoughts of rejection. I know better. I also know that Satan is the initiator
of such paralyzing thoughts. I’ve been fighting this for a very long time.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Recently, I timidly shared “Chapter One” with one of the
most inspiring women I’ve ever known. I not only had the privilege of growing
up with her, but still have the honor of being precious friends in our middle
age. Through tears, she said, “Sharing our story is freeing. It means Satan no
longer has the power of shame to hold over us. Once it’s out there, he cannot
use it against us. And God can use it for His glory.” (Everyone should have a
friend like her---she speaks truth so eloquently) </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Driving home that afternoon, it dawned on me that my story
is part of God’s story and He will use it however He sees best and right. Stories
have the ability to connect us on the deepest of levels. Often, allowing us to
see ourselves in others where we can learn and be encouraged by them. That
night laying in bed, thinking about our conversation, I came to the conclusion
that if I am going to be bold in my faith, I need to share my story, even if it
is uncomfortable, even if fear lingers in the shadows. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I am worried about the outcome (what others
think, do, or say), I am sharing for the wrong reason. Ultimately, sharing
my story has more to do with God than it does with me.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I just started reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Story Lives </i>(2013) written by Henriet Schapelhouman and in it she reminds
us: <br />
We are created for God <br />
He handcrafted every person with a specific character and for a specific
purpose <br />
He made us the way He intended<br />
He placed us in a specific time and space<br />
God designed us<br />
In short, this means He wanted us for His pleasure and companionship and even
if we consider ourselves an average Joe, God purposely created us as unique
individuals and for a reason that He will reveal to us when the time is right. We
are part of HIS story and He is the one who sets it into motion for His glory
and purpose. My story is not my own. Your story is not your own. They are
intertwined, making up God’s bigger story.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">So, I share what I call Chapter One with you in the hopes
that you will see my story as part of a bigger story, God’s. May it reveal more
of Him and what He can and will do through your life, if you let Him.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Nineteen, unmarried, and pregnant I sat in a sterile waiting
room, restlessly waiting for my name to be called. The doctor’s tardiness
intensified my anxiousness and my already out of sync heartbeat seemed to thump
with a greater intensity with each tick of the clock. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Finally, 45 minutes after my scheduled appointment, my name
was called. You’d think relief would have set in, knowing I was taking a step toward
what I believed was freedom, but instead I felt as if I was a prisoner with
hands and feet shackled together by chains that clanked as I was lead into a
dark room, lit only by a small lamp in the far corner.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I was instructed to disrobe and lay on the table. I did so
without a word. Usually, a chatter bug, I didn’t want to be known. If the
emperor had a new invisible suit, I would have eagerly paid him the moon for
it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Doppler located my 7 week old
baby quickly. I did not recognize the image, but upon the sound of the
heartbeat and other swooshing sounds that filled the small dark room, my eyes
lit up as if it was a sound I had always known, a sound that mimicked my own
racing heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse saw my reaction
and quickly turned the volume knob so I could no longer hear my baby’s
lifeline. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">“Yep, you’re pregnant”, came the gruff response of the stout
nurse as she tossed my robe onto the table and left the room. I dressed and
waited for instructions. Though the ultrasound screen had grown dark, I could
not help but to stare at it, trying to visualize my oddly formed baby that just
moments before had lit up the room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another 30 minutes passed and I grew
increasingly uneasy. I knew I shouldn’t be there. I just wanted to hurry up and
get this over with. I reasoned that I would give the doctor five more minutes
and if she didn’t show up, I’d leave. Where I’d go or how I’d get there didn’t
cross my mind. Dennis had dropped me off at an out of town clinic and I had no
way to get in touch with him (before cell phones). </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">As the clock clicked onto the five, the doctor came into the
room joined by another nurse who looked like my grandmother. She took my hand
in both of hers and gave me the sweetest smile, squeezing my hand in hers as
she walked me into another room assuring me I would be OK and that she would be
by my side the entire time. I smiled and was oddly comforted by this perfect
stranger. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">The room was beautifully decorated; brightly lit with lamps
on coffee tables, walls covered with grass cloth and a wrought iron bed with a beautiful
floral bedspread and decorative shams. It was not what I had expected and a
part of me felt as if I had just entered the twilight zone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still in my robe, the grandma-nurse set a
soft floral nightgown on the bed and gave me privacy to change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything in me screamed to leave, but as I
looked around, I felt betrayed by my surroundings. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">20 minutes later the soothing music that had been playing in
the background and my grandma-nurse’s nurturing voice were drowned out by the
sing song words of the doctor, “I’ll be back. I’ve got to go count the parts.
We want to be sure we got all the parts.” What I was trying desperately not to
think about had not just been blatantly thrown at me, but had been done so in
the most heinous of ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parts? My baby
in parts? I am not sure what I thought was happening to her, but a visual had
never accompanied what I was doing. Tears streamed down my face and the heaviness
of shame and regret that I had been trying to keep at bay, now threatened to
choke me. I couldn’t breathe. Gasping for breath and trying to sit up, my
grandma-nurse shushed me and ran her fingers through my long hair, like my
mother used to do when I was a little girl. I couldn’t speak. Literally, I
could not speak. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I was moved to a recovery room with other women who had just
had abortions. Beds lined up, filling a large room lit with harsh florescent
lighting buzzing overhead, I listened to several women compare notes about
their experiences. Some were crass, using abortion as a form of birth control,
others complaining about how expensive it was. All of them had had multiple
abortions. Laying there in aching pain, I felt like the lowest of scum. I knew
better. I went against absolutely everything I had believed.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I was a girl raised in the church, had accepted Christ as my
Savior at a young age, and was raised in a God-fearing home, now laying
childless by my own hand. The guilt was astronomical. I was led here because I
feared what my parents would say if they found out I was living outside both
God and their desires for me by having sex outside of marriage and then that I
was pregnant. Dennis, son of the pastor of one of the largest churches in our
area, feared not only what his parents would think of us, but also feared possible
repercussions for his dad at the church. In Dennis’ fear, he threatened not to
marry me if I didn’t go through with the abortion. My wedding dress hung in my
closet and invitations had already been ordered. I felt trapped. And even
though I knew it was against God, I tried with all my might to put Him out of
my head. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I went home and cried for months, living as a shell of what
I had been. I was empty. Though I was in the throes of planning my wedding, I
could have cared less. Everything felt meaningless. I went through the motions
of daily life, including marrying Dennis just four months after the abortion,
but I was not who I once had been. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
say I was broken is a grave understatement. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Nightly, I cried begging the Lord to forgive me. In my
heart, I knew He had because He promises that He will forgive each of us if we
ask and He will remember it no more, but I could not wrap my mind around the
fact that God would forgive me for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>.
I could not forgive myself. I punished myself by working harder to be better at
everything and anything. I strove for perfection, thinking illogically that if
I worked hard enough, long enough, good enough that God would forgive me, that
somehow He would see some value in me even though I had grieved Him. I knew it
didn’t work like that, that God loves me where I am and for who I am, but
somehow I lost sight of that fact.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Dennis had about enough of me by this point and told me to
find help. I called Crisis Pregnancy Center, not even sure they could help me.
Mary Ann answered the phone and after getting my story out between heavy sobs,
she told me that she too had an abortion as a Christian and that the Lord had
freed her from the shame that daily held her captive. I asked how that was
possible and she invited me to attend a post abortion Bible Study.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I felt so distant from God. How could I face him by spending
time in His Word and in prayer? I had pushed Him away and yet I desperately
needed Him. I went to the class not knowing what to expect, but needing
something that I could not provide or earn myself. Although several other women
signed up for the class, not one of them showed up. It was just me and Mary
Ann. For 12 weeks, she shared her experience and showed me the Jesus she had
fallen in love with, the Jesus who had rescued her, redeemed her, and made her
whole again. And through intense Bible Study, I learned more about God’s
Character and who I am to Him and in Him. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I was slowly healing from the inside out. My eyes were
firmly fixed on Jesus and Who He is, not on what I had done. Though I was still
deeply hurting, I realized that God’s forgiveness has nothing to do with how I
feel. The fact that I didn’t “feel” forgiven did not mean that God did not forgive
me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I discovered that in the backdrop of
forgiveness stood the cross. And the cross represented acceptance, freedom, and unfathomable grace.
Forgiveness does not burden, it does not rob us of joy, and it does not keep us
from moving forward. God took my shame and forgave me. Period. If there was any
lingering guilt and shame it was not a reflection of Christ. Those are Satan’s
powerful tactics. I however needed to learn how to forgive myself. I’ll admit,
I am still in process all these years later. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">The biggest thing that impacted me and still to this day
leaves me in a state of absolute awestruck humble gratitude is Isaiah, Chapter
53. It is an honest portrait of Christ’s sacrifice for us. I am not sure how I
had never heard this passage before, having grown up in the church, but I
hadn’t. Studying and meditating on the precious truths of Isaiah 53:5, where
Christ says, “by my wounds you have been healed”, I found myself biting my
quivering lip time and time again, because I got it. I really got it. And still
to this day, twenty-one years later, I weep every time I read or hear those
life-giving words. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I knew Jesus had died on the cross for me, paying the
punishment for my sins, but I hadn’t considered that His wounds---His physical
wounds--- stakes in His wrists and feet, the gash in His abdomen, the repeated
beatings, the crown of thorns deeply imbedded into His scalp--- and the
emotional wounds---hateful, vengeful, mocking words of onlookers, Pharisees,
and even people who claimed to believe He was indeed the Son of God---how that
must have grieved His already battered heart---but what’s more painful to imagine
is when His Father turned his face away from Him---my heart breaks at the
picture of it all. And then to know that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chose</i>
to go through all this for me---for an average Joe--and that He accepted those
wounds so that I might have life---not a life lived in shame or lived mediocre,
but a life lived to the full…my heart gushes at the thought, swells with the
realization that I don’t have to live in captivity, that the door to my
invisible cage had been open all along. My wounds have been healed because He took
them from me and made them His own. He made them His own! I am not defined by
my wounds, I am defined by the One who took them from me and replaced them with
Himself.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">My life changed forever on May 3, 1993 when my unborn
daughter, Alyshia, went to be with Jesus at my own hand. Satan intended to use
that life-altering and devastating experience to derail me permanently from
living firmly in Christ. God had greater plans and took what Satan intended for
evil and instead called my name, wrote it in His book of Life, and loves me as
I am---sins and all. I am not who I once was. And as the song goes, “I once was
blind, but now I see” and what a glorious sight. It was because of this
experience that I asked Jesus to be the Lord of my life, that my parents’ faith
became my faith. I believe in Him not because my parents lived in such a way to
share Him with me, but because He revealed Himself to me personally, spoke to
me when I needed it most. To say I love Him is perhaps the biggest
understatement I could ever make. I am entirely in love with Him.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">It is my deepest prayer that my story, what I call my
“chapter one” in a long series of growth lessons, points you to God. That you
can see what He is able to do through the lost---even Christians who have lost
their way, taken a wrong turn. God is so good to call us back to Him, to redeem
us, and to keep on loving us as if we were already perfect. I know my life will
have many, many more bumps and bruises, that my path may become cloudy at times
or my pride and self-sufficiency may attempt to rear its ugly head, but in the
end I know God still loves me and I will one day live with Him happily ever
after.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">I wonder what your story is, if you have taken the time to
reflect on the events that have lead you to the place you are now, see how your
story plays a part in God’s greater story and how it intertwines with others
around you. Some stories bring with them an element of shame, guilt, or
sadness. Some bring with them exuberant joy and purpose. No matter which
chapter you read or are currently “writing”, each and every one of them has
brought you to where you are now and play an important role in God’s plan. </span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-62613303392529250742014-06-15T17:41:00.000-07:002014-06-15T17:41:06.332-07:00Losing my Religion
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4vbcn-c1BOk/U548icyq6mI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/450PJFwREl8/s1600/Religion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4vbcn-c1BOk/U548icyq6mI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/450PJFwREl8/s1600/Religion.jpg" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">I love someone I have only seen through the fullness of
fragrant peonies, the milky warmth of sunrises, fire blazing sunsets, and through
brilliant sparkles precisely hung in the depths of darkness begging me to count
beyond my ability. I’ve seen Him in the mighty tree laded mountains towering
over variegated grasses slow dancing in the whispers of the afternoon breeze. I’ve
seen Him in the silvery ripples playing hide and seek in clear babbling streams
that yearn for my feet to share in its joy by kicking and splashing
relentlessly. I see Him in the complexity of science as well as in the simple
innocence of laugher. I’ve felt His presence and heard His voice throughout my
entire life, through all seasons, as He graciously and continuously fulfills
His promises of provision, protection, guidance, and unconditional, sacrificial
love for me. My world oozes God. I cannot, cannot get enough of Him. The love I
have for Him supersedes any other love I have ever known. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This love keeps me going back for more. It
fulfills. It sustains me like nothing else in the entire world. It speaks to
me, ministers to me, teaches me, guides me, and loves me as I am. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">In life, we know this is a rare and precious love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people would say that it doesn’t exist;
perhaps that we are living in a dream world. And if, by chance, people allow us
to believe in such a love, they say, “It won’t last, that it’s only a matter of
time before we slip up, fail, and lose this love.” The world is filled with
skeptics, people who have been hurt and struggle to trust, people who are
blinded to what is right before their eyes. Some are romantics however, and encourage,
“It is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all”; believing
that to love is a risk.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Christians, we want to believe, are different; that once we
discover this love, it becomes a part of us---our identity—and we never fear
losing something so entirely precious based on our actions. But the truth is,
many of us have the same fears. And more than a few of us live life knowing we’re
entirely unworthy of such unconditional, sacrificial, authentic love that we
try to earn it. We bend over backwards, living through a set of self-imposed rules
and restrictions in hopes that we, through our own feeble actions/abilities,
can refine ourselves into a state of near perfection which God will look our
way and say, “Well now, here’s one worthy of my love.” </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Attempting to control our spirituality, our refinement
process in hopes to earn this kind of love, (it’s called Agape love btw) is
crazy at best. Many Christians know this and yet easily fall into a
works-driven “faith”; believing they can work for their salvation, which
essentially is God’s gracious love for us. I believe the reason this
performance or work driven cycle continues to sneak its way into our lives is because
the world works this way. “If I do this, then blank happens.” We see time and
time again that when we work for something, we are rewarded with appreciation,
a paycheck, self pride, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re
conditioned to perform from young ages. Parents give praise for good grades,
for placing well in a sports event, even being a good friend and we learn that
if I do my part and do it well, I earn affection. (Side note: I absolutely believe
parents should praise their children for their efforts and accomplishments, but
not only in performance areas. Praising their character trumps performance any
day and helps children understand they are loved and valued for who they
are---as they are---not what they do). </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps this works-driven faith, or what I have always referred
to as “religion”, happens because we have not fully grasped or accepted that
God’s love is free, that He is not of the world, so He doesn’t respond like the
world. This popular ploy of Satan’s also causes us to focus on ourselves and
performance rather than having our eyes fixed on Christ and what He has already
done for us while we were still sinners. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps we missed the part where God promises
that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He</b> will finish what He begins
in us. Meaning, He is taking responsibility for us and our growth. When we try
to control the outcome, we are in actuality showing how little faith we have in
God and inadvertently elevate ourselves above God. Faith is not about works. It’s
not about performance. It’s not about rules and restrictions. It’s not even
about us. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Richard Rohr, author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Naked
Now </i>(2009), writes about faith as “being united with Christ”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I know religious works keep us at
arms’ length from a God we claim to love, I have to admit that I haven’t thought
about what it means to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in union </i>with
Christ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the subject of faith comes
up, my mind is quick to go to Hebrews 11:1, “Faith is being sure of what we hope
for through things unseen”. Though true, this scripture personally leaves me
clamoring for more answers, for a greater definition, for something deeper, meatier.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It always has, ever since I memorized it
at the ripe age of nine. At that age, I dismissed it, thinking I just didn’t have
the maturity to understand such complex matters. Here I am a whole lot older
and I still struggle to understand. So I read on, trying to grasp a better
understanding of this “unity in Christ” concept. I’ll confess, I have heard
this terminology many times before, even sing about it on a regular basis. However,
I have not really taken it to heart, thought more introspectively about it as a
way to better understand my faith. Rather, I’ve always thought of God as being
beyond me, not out of reach, but not so close that He literally dwells within
me. It’s a bit too abstract even for this imaginative girl!</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">As I write this, I find I am consumed with a precious memory
of when I was four years old and shyly and yet so intently asked my Daddy to
help me ask Jesus into my heart. With my mom and dad in my bedroom, I prayed a
simple prayer, admitting that I was a sinner, that I believed that God sent his
Son Jesus to die on the cross for my sins and then rose from the dead three
days later to prove He was indeed God. I remember hoping as I asked Jesus into
my heart, that He would accept my invitation. My parents assured me that He
did! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish at four, I realized that
Jesus was literally taking up residence in my life, not just figuratively. Children
don’t get so wrapped up in the complexity or abstract nature of faith. They
simply believe. I know now that I was the one accepting God’s invitation, not
the other way around! </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">First up, “God’s love has been (as in already) poured out <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">onto</i> us” Romans 5:5. <br />
<br />
OK, so clearly God is all in. He’s invested. He’s given everything. Got it. From
this scripture, it sounds like to be unified; I have to be the one to take the
next step. <br />
<br />
“Believe in the Lord and you will be saved” Acts 16:31. <br />
<br />
That’s it? Simply believe? For many, I think this is where the rub lies. It is
hard to believe in something we cannot see, don’t give credit to experiencing,
etc. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(People who struggle with faith or
God live by their own merit, for their own merit). OK, so I believe. Moving on.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">“The Spirit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
with you and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> you” John 14:17. <br />
<br />
(Though comforting to me, it may sound a litter poltergeist-ish to others). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is with me always, to the end of time. He will
never leave me, He will never forsake me, and He loves me as far as the east is
from the west and forgives me just as much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is my all in all. He is my foundation. He is my hope. <br />
<br />
Rohr reminds us that “hope and union are the same thing and that real hope has
nothing to do with mental certitudes” (Rohr, 16). Meaning, that our union in
Christ has nothing to do with the ways of this world, the mental games we play
with ourselves in attempts to gain His acceptance, appreciation, and love. No,
simply we are united because God chose us and we chose Him back. No strings
attached. This union is a mutual choosing of one another. Simply, it’s
relationship.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Hope is actively being fulfilled through an inconceivably
precious union in and with Christ! Sitting with that statement, I find myself
in awe of the realization that Christ has been within me and I in Him all along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never grasped that, never appreciated the
significance of such sacrifice for the almighty God to inhabit this lowly soul.
I am not my own. I am His beloved bride and His thoughts about me outnumber the
grains of sand. The palms of His hands bare my name. At the risk of trivializing
this beautiful union: we run life together as a three legged race, like two
peas in a pod, like peanut butter and jelly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is not without me and I am not without Him.
My heart quickens at the thought and I am humbly brought to my knees both in
thanksgiving and in utter adoration for my God!</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Faith is relishing in the truth that we are no longer separated
from Him.</span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">Sadly, and maybe like a lot of well-meaning Christ
followers, I’ve made faith more of a religion than a relationship at times. I
am giving up following the “shoulds”. I am giving up the self-imposed rules I’ve
prided myself on. I’m giving up trying to appease others by morphing myself to
fit what I perceive they want/expect of me as a Christian. I am giving up
bending over backwards to earn a love I already have. Instead, I will rest
confidently in Christ and allow Him to do the rest. </span></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri;">“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen,
since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” 2 Cor. 4:18</span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-44984073469278285972014-02-06T11:11:00.000-08:002016-02-25T14:22:08.341-08:00Neighboring Up<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">Her deep set chocolate eyes rested just below her white,
knitted stocking hat in an attempt to disguise a pain, a brokenness of spirit
as well as body and mind. Her once merry eyes now lacked sparkle, warmth, and
gravely defied her youthfulness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exhaustion
clearly stole her ability to concentrate on a single task, let alone make eye
contact or regularly form coherent sentences, causing her to come across as
forgetful and disheveled. I could see that she was trying to be friendly, though
her infrequent smiles seemed forced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Understandably,
she was outside her comfort zone and who wouldn’t be in this situation. </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: #351c75;">We spent an hour together in an open air bistro where
coffees and mochas sprinkled our table for four while the hustle and bustle of
Seattle laid backdrop to the tenderness of our time together. My husband,
Dennis, sat by my side and J., the Safe Families Coordinator, sat by hers. No
one in those moments, however, could have stolen my attention from her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes rarely left hers and my heart ached as
I tried to comfort a mother who just escaped her husband’s latest rage against
her, leaving her penniless, homeless, with a crushed hand in desperate need of
surgery and a newborn baby. Perfect strangers:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>one in position of great need, the other in a position to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">Our conversation began with business. It had been done, the
legal ins and out of us caring for her son while she underwent surgery and
recovery. In short, Dennis and I would follow a set of rules, laws, and guidelines
as would she. She understood that she would retain custody of her son though he
would be in our care for X-amount of time. She would also be responsible for
any medical bills that may occur, promise not to sue us or Safe Families, etc.
if anything unexpected should occur. I studied her face as J. carefully explained
these crucial points--points that were meant to put her at ease, answer any
questions she might have, etc., but I could see that she could have cared less
about that part of it. She appeared to be calloused; yet, I understood her
callousness to be a defense mechanism, a survival skill. However, in this
moment, she was in a position where she had no choice but to trust. </span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: #351c75;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several days ago when
Dennis and I learned that we would be bringing this baby into our home all I
could think about was him. My own daughters are now teenagers, so I do not have
the opportunity to nuzzle cheeks and breathe in the sweetest of scents. I love
babies. I am not sure anything on earth makes my heart beat as wildly as babies
do. I pulled out crib sheets and blankets, arranged to borrow a crib and car
seat, thought about what items we might need to purchase for his stay with us.
Without a doubt, he consumed my thoughts and filled my prayers. However, as I
sat across from this mom, I found myself more in a state of ceaseless prayer
for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HER</i>. She wasn’t looking for charity,
a free ride. Honestly, I believe, she wished she didn’t need us at all, though
she did not say. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">I desired to cut to the heart of the matter, to learn more
about her, more about her son. In her aloofness, I wondered if she would really
open up. Finally, I couldn’t hold back another moment and jumped right in to
gush over her son’s grey eyes, his dainty fingers---how proud she must be of
such an angel—a genuine smile spread across her face and I knew in that moment
there was life just beneath this hard exterior. Twice in our conversation, she
paused, fixed her eyes on her sleeping son and apologized for not being what he
needed her to be. I bit my lower lip and smiled, understanding the desire to be
more, to be better, for my children. Mother to mother, woman to woman, this
broken child (and that is what she is) and me, began what I hope is a wonderful
relationship of trust and support. </span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">I smiled warmly, hoping to ease the certain inner turmoil,
questions, and concerns she might have of us, and talked as if I understood her
struggle, her situation, but I didn’t. She never opened up about her personal
struggles, never shared more than what was asked of her. In fact, most of her
responses were answered matter-of-factly, no inkling of emotion. She never
asked questions of us, however, I found myself asking her over and over again,
“Who is taking care of you? Do you have a support system? Do you have what you
need?” She never answered. She never complained. She avoided these questions,
squirming in her seat, adjusting her hat. I knew the answer and it caused a
deep ache, burdening my heart severely. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted her to know that though we would be
caring for her son, she was important to us as well. Her son was here and safe
because of her courage to leave a horrific situation</span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">As Dennis and I drove toward home, I found myself biting the
inside of my cheek in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. This
woman---this woman had made an impact on my heart. Here, I was eager to care
for a baby (my absolute delight) and although we will still have the honor to
care for him, my heart now aches for his mother and all women like her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Homeless, jobless and yet in a better place
than they started. I admire her courage, applaud her, but ache desperately for
her as I know the road ahead is littered with statistics that will beat her
down, rather than lift her up. </span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">A wise and precious friend reminded me of the parable of the
Good Samaritan recently. Remember the story where a man of status and great
knowledge of the law asked Jesus, “How do I inherit eternal life?” to which
Jesus questions back, knowing that this Pharisee knew the laws by heart, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What is the written law?” The man, I assume
proudly shares, the law is to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and
with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and, to
love your neighbor as yourself”. I picture Jesus smiling as he assures the man
that he his right in his response. The Pharisee, still restless in knowing the
answer, but not truly understanding it’s meaning, asks, “Who is my neighbor?”</span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">Jesus then tells of a man who had been walking alone along a
dirt and dusty road when he was suddenly attacked by brutal robbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These robbers took his money, beat him
mercilessly, stripped him of his clothes and left him---possibly to die. This
man was most likely a Jew, not favorably looked at, not accepted in the
Samaritan community. The road was one regularly traveled and soon a priest
walked by, he sees the man and crosses the road so as not to bother with him.
Soon, another man, a Levite, comes along and he, too, sees the man but takes no
pity on him. Time passes, and soon a third man, a Samaritan, enemy of Jews, happens
upon the wounded man and swoops down immediately to bandage the man’s wounds,
giving him ointment to care for his open sores. Next, he puts the man onto one
of his donkeys and walks with him into town to an Inn where he can find rest
and recover. The Samaritan has to leave for whatever reason, but not before
giving the innkeeper two silver coins and asks him to look after the wounded
man. He promises that if extra expenses occur he would reimburse him when he
returned. </span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">Jesus wraps up his story there and asks the Pharisee, “Which
of these three men who passed by the wounded man was his neighbor?” The
Pharisee replies, “The one who had mercy on him”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus smiles, and instructs, “Go and do
likewise”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good at its best is when the
law of the heart eclipses the law of the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Putting stereotypes, differences, status, etc. aside, and seeing one
another as neighbors (as brothers and sisters) to show Christ’s bountiful love
in a tangible way is what it means to be a Christ-follower. </span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">My friend pointed out that we do not know what happens with
these men. Do they become friends? Do they part ways? Does the wounded man
attempt to pay him back? Honestly, it doesn’t matter. The point is we are to
show mercy, to show love to those in need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is easy to care for our loved ones. Caring for our “neighbor” might
get ugly, dirty even, and possibly leave us in a place of utter brokenness—a
place of absolute dependence upon the Lord. Are we willing to do it anyway?</span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">I can practically hear Jesus’ tender words as he tells us,
“Truly, whatever you have done unto the least of these, you have also done unto
me” (Matt. 25:40). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will I walk by/turn a
blind eye from the wounded, the hurting, the broken or those in need? Will I
make excuses as to why I am not the “right” person for the job, due to time
limitations, lack of resources, or if it doesn’t fit or utilize my
talents/skills/giftedness? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will not. I
will not! Instead, I will embrace the struggle helping another person may be,
the breaking of my heart, I will enter the dirt and grime and put aside
everything for the sake of my Father and His glorious kingdom. I will honor Him
and show His love to his children.</span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "calibri";">We do not have the baby boy in our care until tomorrow. It
is my hope to show not just him love and acceptance, but his mom too. They are
my neighbors after all. </span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-12101637535807095172013-10-26T10:41:00.000-07:002013-10-26T10:48:02.908-07:00Bragging Rights<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Seemingly out of the blue, the story of the Israelites came to mind this
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, they were the Lord’s
beloveds, His children, and though they had been in captivity for a great
number of years, the Lord never turned His back on them, He remained with them
as they endured trial after trial. He walked beside them even when they turned
their back on Him, ultimately rescuing them by parting the Red Sea long
enough for them to pass before enclosing it upon their enemies. Without a
doubt, the Israelites were grateful. In their humble gratitude, they built a
monument of great significance that would remind them of the work, the promise
the Lord had fulfilled in their lives.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #073763;">I imagine this
monument was in the middle of town and would be passed regularly by the town’s
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When their children would ask
about the monument, their parents would stop, scoop their wee ones onto their
laps and with tears in their eyes, begin to share in detail their testimony—the
mighty work the Lord had done in their lives. The children’s eyes would widen
and their mouths would drop with each turn of events--- enthralled by the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The children would beg to hear it each and
every time they passed the monument. Can’t you hear it? “Momma, Momma, tell us
about the time when…” The story never got old. Instead, it introduced them to
their Heavenly father on a personal level and gave them a deep hunger to know
Him personally. As they grew and had children of their own, they too, would
share their story.<br />
<br />
Testimony: the evidence we experience of Christ working in our lives as He
works to reveal His glory as He tenderly transforms us into the likeness of His
Son. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our testimony does not begin and
end with our story of discovering who God is and inviting Him to be the Lord of
our lives (salvation), as often believed. Rather, our testimony, likened to
transformation, is on-going, continuously being added to, never complete until
we enter Heaven’s gates where we’ll find ourselves embraced, (engulfed, I like
to imagine!) in the tender folds of our father’s wings. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps one of the best examples of transformation is that
of a caterpillar to a butterfly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Francis
Chan, author of The Forgotten God, poses the question: “Ever wonder what goes
through the caterpillar’s mind when it wakes up from its long nap to discover
it can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fly</i>?” Seriously, how amazing
is that? The caterpillar does not even resemble who it once was. He is a new
creation.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #073763;">We are a new creation in Christ Jesus. Think about that for
a moment. We are in the midst of being transformed. Our minds have been
renewed. The old has gone away and the new has come (2Cor. 5:17). I’ll admit
that I take this for granted time and time again, that I forget that the same
God who raised Jesus from the dead and parted the Red Sea dwells within me. I often
brush past the countless times He has refined me—where He has allowed me to
glimpse His glory. Perhaps, we all get distracted, lose our focus, get whisked
away by the seemingly urgent or beautiful, sparkly things in this world, buying
into outside experiences to furnish a personal sense of meaning. We forget that
we are not what we do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a feeling
even if we were to build a monument like the Israelites did, even that would lose
its splendor and eventually we would not even see it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">So the question then, is how do we live intentionally for
God, keeping Him in the forefront of every thought, every word we speak, and
everything we do? We surrender daily to Him, submit to His leading daily, live
like we have been transformed from a measly caterpillar to a new creation-- brilliant
in color, pattern, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and can fly! As I
reread these words, they sound so simple, they sound predicable even. We have
heard them before, perhaps countless times, and yet we disregard such simplicity
because we know it is anything but simple. It requires work on our part. It
requires us to make a conscious choice daily, sometimes hourly, to live intentionally and fully surrendered to Christ. We are a
generation of wanting our cake and eating it too… at no cost to us. We want
intimacy with Christ and…. <br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">In writing these words, I am brought to tears and my heart is grieved that I take the work of the Lord (my testimony) for grated as times, brushing past who I once was, skimming over the mighty work the Lord has done in my life. I can fly for crying out loud. I can soar with eagles because my hope is in the Lord and it is Him who strengthens me (Is. 40:31).</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Beloved, ponder these facts for a moment: we have been redeemed. We have
been bought for a price that cost Jesus everything. We have been forgiven. We were
created not because God needs us, but because He wants us. His thoughts are
about us constantly and He desires to fill us with Himself. We are loved,
treasured really. Overwhelmed by His grace for us? Me too. And then when I reflect on the countless ways He has revealed Himself
to me (revel in the specifics), transforming me more and more into the image of His Son, I am left speechless,
my heart begins to beat wildly, and I am left in a place of utter worship. I
cannot help but to fall to my knees in humble gratitude before the throne of my
God.<br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Having an appropriate view of God dictates how we choose to respond to His magnitude and the work He has done in our lives. Honestly, when we live intentionally for Him, we cannot help but to boast of the work the Lord is doing in and around our lives.
The choice is ours to make. Today, I will choose to live in a place of gratitude and relish in the work the Lord has and is doing in my life. And Lord knows, I have incredible bragging rights because in my weakness, His power has been made perfect (2 Cor. 12:9). What about you? <br /><br /><br />“Gratitude awakens the soul to the sweetness
of being tethered to God” (Margaret Ashmore).</span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-61745852174320528582013-10-14T06:44:00.000-07:002013-10-14T06:55:40.958-07:00Beloved?<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">“It takes a profound conversion to accept that God is relentlessly
tender and compassionate toward us just as we are—not in spite of our sins and
faults, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but with them</i></b>. Though God does not condone or sanction evil, He
does not withhold His love because there is evil in us” (Brennan Manning). </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">I believe that the distance we sometimes feel between God
and ourselves is because we have projected our feelings about ourselves onto
God—believing that He is judging us as harshly as we judge ourselves (or
others) or that He holds too high of expectations for us that we cannot
possibly meet. Perhaps we feel that we cannot possibly approach Him until we clean
up our lives, or look more presentable. We know that we are unworthy. Perhaps we
fear that because we are likened to filthy rags that Christ will not even look
our way, that---He will reject us. We know the old adage: God is love, but we don’t
believe that applies to us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t live
this truth.<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write a lot about my identity in
Christ. Perhaps, I do so because I am still trying to grasp it myself, even
though I have been a Christ follower for more than half my life. I find myself lamenting
with Paul when he writes, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to
do, I do not do, but what I hate to do, I do” (Romans 7:15) and resonating with the song writer who penned the words: "Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love". Sin lives within
us! We are human beings in the midst of a great battle, not a battle against
flesh and blood, but against the rulers and authorities, against the powers of
this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms
(Eph. 6:12). We forget this constantly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though we cannot see this battle, we certainly
feel the effects. We often don’t realize these struggles, trials and strongholds
are Satan’s poisonous darts as he works with all his might to stifle us-- and
if he is really successful, his stifling leads to bondage. For the Christian,
this looks like a prison cell in which the door is wide open. We fear stepping
into the light. We fear being seen; our shame or guilt revealed. We fear rejection.
We reason, perhaps unconsciously, that it is safer to live in bondage than to
be seen, to be known, to be rejected. One of the basic human needs is the need
to belong, to be accepted. And we fight for this at all costs.<br />
<br />
We forget that the sacred voice of Christ calls us, “Beloved” and being the Beloved
constitutes the existence of our being” (Brennan Manning). Think about that for
a moment. What images does your mind conjure up when you think about the name
Beloved? Do we conjure up images of an idealistic, perfect person whose morals
are always on the up and up, who tirelessly serves others day and night, who
smiles genuinely, lives authentically at all times, never grows tired, never
stresses or worries and has great hair days every day? (Anyone else thinking of
Mary Poppins?)This is not an accurate image of God’s Beloved.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">God’s definition of Beloved defies our definition. Perhaps
that’s why we struggle. We see ourselves more as a beggar in God’s kingdom than
His son/daughter. We don’t see ourselves as Beloved and this distances us from
the Lord. God’s Beloved has wounds, battle scares that sometimes still ache;
still immobilizes us at times. Complete with struggles, sins, and unworthiness,
God’s Beloved does not allow these to stifle us, but allows the light to shine
on these wounds, these imperfections, so that in God’s love, graciousness, and
mercy we can be healed and live fully in relationship with Christ: in freedom,
in acceptance, in belonging. As a Christ follower with wounds of my own, I have
learned that when I allow myself to feel inferior or inadequate because of
these wounds, Satan has accomplished what he set out to do in my life: question
my identity in God’s eyes. These negative, self-focused thoughts somehow replace
the wonderful spiritual experiences I have encountered, defy the truths that I
have memorized in God’s precious Word, and inevitably replaces my freedom for
shackles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God’s Beloved in shackles? I
am sure nothing breaks the heart of our Father more.<br />
<br />
Living as the Beloved, challenges us because it defies human nature. Everything
in us begs us to conceal our wounds, hurts, pains, imperfections, struggles,
and addictions out of fear, shame, and/or rejection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we do this our inner darkness cannot be
illuminated with God’s healing power, “nor can it become light for others”. Our
wounds allow others to see God’s merciful hand more clearly. It helps us to
know that we, too, in our weakness, are loved tenderly, the receiver of boundless
compassion, infinite patience, and excessive forgiveness. God’s love does not
keep score of our wrongs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this
and yet I do not always live in this truth. God knows this about me. He knows
this about you. It does not scare Him away. It does not disappoint Him.
Instead, He continues to whisper our name through the wrestling of leaves,
through the tenderness of a hug, through the ache of loss. He does not grow
tired as He waits for us. 1 Corinthians 13:7-8 reminds us that, “Love always
protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails”.
God is love. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">“Our falling (our sin, our failings) does not hinder
[Christ] from loving us” (Brennan Manning). Satan’s number one ploy: get us to
believe that our sin keeps Christ from loving us. Nothing, Beloved, nothing could
be further from the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read some
time ago that our spiritual life, our relationship with Christ, begins when we
can acknowledge our brokenness, our poverty, our utmost need for Him. Accepting
our wounded self is to take the first step into the light. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wounds of pain and
sadness make us aware of our inner poverty and create an emptiness that becomes
as free space into which Christ can pour His healing power”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we make the decision to live authentically,
raw, vulnerable, we find ourselves standing in the Truth that sets us free and
we have the privilege to “live out the Reality that makes us whole”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">The decision, and it is a decision, is ours to make every
day. Each morning, I encourage you to wake up and greet your Abba, Father and
thank Him for loving you as His Beloved son/daughter. Embrace your identity in
Christ and live it fully without reservation, without restriction. Live Christ boldly
as the Beloved!</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-51970072910688307662013-08-05T20:14:00.003-07:002013-08-05T20:18:49.154-07:00Masquerade<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">There is a fear of being known; fear of rejection if we live
out loud, if we say what we think or share how we feel, bring to light our
struggles, or even expose the dark secrets of our past. Sometimes, this fear subsides
as we age and grow in both maturity and in peace with who we are, who we were
created to be, accepting our lot in life, knowing whether pleasant or painful
that God can and will use it to bring glory to Himself, that nothing falls void
in life, and that our purpose primarily is to worship Him more than to be
self-focus, self-serving. However, to reach this place, this acknowledgement,
we must be willing to remove the masks that we wear, allowing ourselves to be
vulnerable. Without a doubt it is risky business.</span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">For many, it is easier to hide, stifled by fear, not living
fully or to our full potential or purpose. I have lived in this place and still,
occasionally, Satan reminds me of my unworthiness and sinful nature and I fall
into the trap of grabbing a mask that covers my true identity. I AM the
daughter of the Most High King and continuously fall short of His glory! The
Lord is gracious to remind me who I am in Him, however, and the mask is
eventually thrown to the wayside. However, as the mother of a daughter who has
wrestled over her identity for the majority of her life and falls prey to the
lies that Satan constantly bombards her with, my heart weeps for her constantly
as I pray that someone, somewhere, somehow can speak truth to her in a
meaningful way. I know that God’s plan is not to harm, but to give hope and a
future in Him. I know that He will not let Meg stay here because He promises
that He will finish the good He began in us, and what Satan intends for evil,
God intends for good. </span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Looking at the unfinished collage art project left strewn
all over the kitchen table from the night before, I was taken aback by both the
simplicity of the piece as well as the depth and growth it held for its
creator, Meg, my 13 year old daughter. The project idea was taken from one of
my art therapy books. The instructions were basic: list things that represent
who you are, what you look like, how you feel, and/or who you want to be. Meg
had asked to do this project and I readily complied (I never say no to art!).
She made her list and I made mine. We then cut and tore magazines apart in
silence as we scoured image after image looking for something recognizable, for
representations of who we are and hope to be (I never use fashion type magazine
for this project). Flipping through page after page, forced constant
evaluation, causing us to asking of each image, “Is this me, is this who I want
to be? Why? How? It allowed our mind to wander into Truth, to embrace who we
are, even if it wasn’t pretty.</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Unfinished at the end of the night, Meg asked if she could
leave everything out so she could resume working in the morning. Again, I never
say no to art, so a substantial “mess” covered my entire table! I awoke early
the next morning while the house was still quiet. Sipping my coffee, snuggled
in my robe and fuzzy socks, I sat at the table. Meg’s collage and list before
me, curiosity set in, and I could not help but to skim her list. Her list was
lengthy and consisted of physical characteristics and her dreams for her
future. I smiled as I read the list, but my smile quickly faded and a dull ache
replaced the joy I had felt in my heart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could scarcely take my eyes off the last
words written on her list, “I am broken”. </span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">I am broken” the words both haunted me and caused me to
glorify the Lord as my daughter takes this first step in facing her fears. For
years she has been wrestling with her identity as a product of rape as well as
being half African American being raised in a predominately white home and
culture. She has struggled with knowing where she fits and feeling accepted and/or
worthy of any acceptance she does receive. She obsesses over her identity and
every couple of years attempts to reinvent herself (pretty typical for
teenagers), wearing a new mask which she hopes people will like better than the
real her as well as one that makes it easier to look and accept herself. She
lives in an invisible cage that she has made for herself. Held captive by what
she believes she is supposed to be, but cannot live up to, no matter her
efforts. She wears a mask, fearful to discover and embrace who she is.</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Setting her list back on the table, I took a closer look at her
art work. Flowers of every variety, color, size, and shape filled the upper
half of her paper. Amongst the flowers were small words of all colors and
thickness, posing the question, “Did you know that you are…” and then in large
bold font, filling two thirds of the page, “WANTED”?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bit my lower lip as I felt the hot sting of
tears slide down my cheek. This was the break we had been praying for. For
years, literally years, we have been sharing with her, her value, purpose, and
her identity in Christ in hopes that she could accept it, own it, and live it
boldly. She has not been able to open this gift. Fear of embracing something so
incredibly freeing and powerful, and going against all the messages the world
bombards her (and us) is scary. Looking once again at title she had created for
her art piece, I knew that she was processing this very message, that though
she was still in that invisible cage, the door was now open. All she has to do
is walk out.</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Humility requires trust. Without trust, we cannot fully know
love. Love is the first gift of grace, the ultimate gift that cost the Lord
everything to give to us. Attached to this gift is a note that reads, “Take it,
apply it, and trust me to make it real. I love you. Jesus” (TrueFaced). The
Lord’s desire is to mature us into who He says we are (not the world) and
release us into the dreams He designed for us before the world even began. It
is a process to accept and trust God’s assessment of who He says we are. I
cannot help but to put this into perspective by pointing out that we are able
to love because He first loved us. We do not need to do anything to receive
such love, such grace. It was given to us as we are, not who we could be or
hope to be. </span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">I said nothing to Meg about her art project. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not want to influence her creation in
anyway. It sat unfinished the whole next day. She never did add more to it.
Perhaps, when she went back to it, there was fear in moving forward or perhaps
she was content with it as it stood. At any rate, we put the supplies away and
I relished in complete and utter gratitude for the journey she is on and where
I see she is heading. My hope, though not waning, was strengthened in that
single moment.</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Several days later, she went to camp for the first time. We
have encouraged camp for years, always receiving a negative, fearful response.
This year, however <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she approached us</i>,
asking if she could go to camp. I didn’t even look to see how much it cost,
where it was, etc. It did not matter! My daughter was taking a step of great
courage in asking to go to camp where she would not know anyone. I signed her
up immediately, cautioning her that once I pressed the submit button, she had
to go. She said, “Then hit the button already!” </span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">In the preceding weeks leading to camp, I expected her to
change her mind, to become fearful of the unknown, to attempt to get out of
going. She did not. Instead, her excitement grew. It helped that her older
sister, Abigail was also going as a camp counselor. Although the two would not
be together, there was a comfort in knowing if she needed something, her
sister, whom she had great respect and admiration for could be found quickly.</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">The camp theme was Masquerade, though I did not know that
when she left. Abigail checked in each morning via text just saying, “Hi” and
that she was having a blast. On Sunday morning, the phone rang. It was Abigail.
My heart skipped a beat and immediately, I thought, “Oh no, she shouldn’t be
calling me. Something must have happened”. I answered quickly to hear her
cheerful greeting. I sighed a sigh of relief and told her how much I missed her
and loved her. She interrupted my gushing to tell me about the happenings of
the night before. Their lesson had been about wearing masks, what masks look
like, why people wear them, etc. Abigail shared that the girls in her group,
once back in their tent, started opening up, sharing deep, painful stories.
Abigail, just 18, said, “Mom there is so much pain. The only thing I can do for
these girls is to pray for them”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sought
out to encourage her, telling her that though it felt overwhelming to hear such
pain and not knowing what to do, what to say, or necessarily how to pray, that
God had equipped her to be there in that moment and that in her weakness, His
power is made perfect. She interrupted me again to say, “Yeah, but mom, that’s
not why I am calling”.</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">“I’m calling because Meg’s group leader whisked me away from
breakfast this morning to tell me Meg had shared her whole story with the girls
in her group last night. Mom, did you hear me…the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whole </i>story”. I could not speak, I could not hardly utter more than
an “uh huh”. The lump in my throat threatened to choke me as I attempted to
breathe deeply through my nose at the complete understanding of what this
meant. </span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Meg took another step in the healing process, taking off her
mask. Such courage she had to have to share her story, a story she has not
shared---ever. She must have felt safe. She must have trusted the girls she was
with to be so transparent and so quickly---only two days into camp. I immediately
prayed for the leaders, for the girls, for Meg that camp would be a place of grace.
Meg is still at camp, returning tomorrow. I will let her unfold the story in
her own timing, but I cannot tell you how eager I am to hear how the Lord
worked in her life this week and what tools and truths were given to her for
the journey ahead!</span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Once we remove these mask, seeing ourselves as God sees us,
the son/daughter of the Most High, highly favored, loved beyond measure, not
only completely and unfathomly accepted, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted</i>, we can begin to see our Heavenly Father through eyes of
gratitude, worship and live for Him with every fiber of our being, rather than
striving to meet the world’s or even our own unrealistic expectations. </span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Calibri;">Today, I choose gratitude. I choose to see God’s
sovereignty. I choose to dwell on the Truth!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></o:p> </span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-49877822368082142582013-07-30T20:13:00.000-07:002013-07-30T20:46:16.243-07:00Acorn<span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d;">The warm sunbeams danced relentlessly amongst the oak tree’s leaves overhead, fading the dark green leaves to chartreuse with the slightest of breeze as they caught the sun’s brilliant light. Wrestling leaves whispered overhead while a rainbow of colored art supplies sprinkled the table below, and whinnies of horses in the nearby pastures and the stable just off to my right sang harmony as I knelt on my knees at the art table facing an 11 year old boy whom I just met.<br /><br />He looked like an average 11 year old boy, lanky with dark hair and eyes and a crooked smile that immediately endeared me to him. He wore a t-shirt and shorts, revealing the brace on his leg. I never learned exactly what his disability was, something to do with his muscles, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. He had come to Raven Rock Ranch this day expecting to work; but instead was asked to do art with me. He was readily compliant and walked to the table and then just stood. His arms hung heavy at his sides as his eyes took in the array of colors. He didn’t say a word at first, but his lips would purse and then pull taught and his eyebrows furrowed and lifted as if he were in deep thought for several moments. And then suddenly, a sigh escaped and he picked up a green oil pastel. <br /><br />I had come with a specific art project in mind for the kids, but upon seeing his anxiousness about art in general, I decided to skip it, follow his lead, and work more intentionally on building a relationship with him. I picked up an orange oil pastel and started to draw. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to draw. I really don’t know how to do any art.”, he said in a single breath. I laughed, trying to break the tension, and said, “What a relief! Neither do I! Maybe together we can make something pretty cool”. We decided to make an alien, taking turns drawing each body part and article of clothing. It was a messy colorful creature that had one eye, a tongue sticking out the side of his head; one long arm and one short arm. He was also nearly circle in shape with two short legs. It was quite the sight, I assure you! We talked as we drew and I learned that Samuel loved sports. I mean really loved sports. Soccer is his all time favorite. He could ramble off players, teams, trades, scores and the like. We decided to make our alien a soccer player. <br /><br />Looking at this finished creation, I said, “If this is a soccer player, he needs someone to play against. We should make another alien”. Feeling more relaxed about the process of creating, he agreed. We took turns drawing each element of our creature again and talked more about sports and his dream to become a soccer player. My heart sank as I listened to his grand plans, knowing his disability would not allow him to play the way he dreamed. Nearly complete with our drawing, I handed him the oil pastel to draw the legs. He drew one long leg and one short leg. It seemed to suit our crazy creature, but I couldn’t help but to see the personal connection he was making to this creature. In the end, this alien had a football shaped head, one eye, the neck of a giraffe, muscular arms with two uneven legs.<br /> <br />We named our players crazy made up names and laughed about how silly they looked. Samuel kept talking about sports and without thought, picked up an oil pastel and drew a goal and a soccer ball off to the side. I asked, “If the two were really playing, who do you think would win?” He pointed to the first, nearly circular alien. I looked at him, questioning his choice, while pointing to the other alien telling him I bet <em>this</em> one would win. Samuel quickly refuted my vote by pointing to his uneven legs and said in an almost in urgent tone, “He would not be a good player. He would probably lose the game for the whole team”. I pointed out his long neck and gigantic eye and told him that he would be able to see everything and be able to tell his teammates where to go, what to do, and such. “He would be the most valuable player for sure”! Samuel still disagreed, but then was silent. He set his pastel down, hung his arms to his sides and fixed his eyes on the player with uneven legs. I could see that he was not going to leave that conversation under the oak tree that day, but take it with him, perhaps pondering his own value.<br /><br />Although the Lord was unwrapping something so profound for him to see, to accept about himself, I knew it hurt. Wanting to encourage him, I shared with him that my husband, Mr. Dennis, was once the star pitcher for his baseball team and had played for 13 years, never missing a game. He had such talent that he was awarded a scholarship to play in college. Though playing was Mr. Dennis’ first love, as he got older, he could not play like he used to, like he wanted to. Years later he helped coach a team for our church and as it turned out, Mr. Dennis made a terrific coach. His love for the sport equipped him to see all positions, read the body language of the opposing team and make wise calls. Coaching was just as important as play and incredibly fulfilling. Samuel looked solemn, nodded his head and said, “Yeah, if I can’t play, coaching or being an announcer might be kind of fun”. I sat back on my knees, awestruck by the work the Lord was doing in that very moment in this boy’s life. It is my hope that he sees his value and learns his true identity. He is loved, He is accepted. He is valued. He is wanted. He is treasured. And it has nothing to do with his ability or disability. <br /><br />Later that day, while driving home, my heart was burdened for Samuel and several other children I had the opportunity to do art with that day. I witnessed their hurt, their lack of self worth, their insecurity, anxiousness, and fears. My heart has always wept for these children, but today some of these children now have faces and names. My heart bids me to pray on their behalf constantly and that lump in my throat seems to be ever present. Driving home, my mind wrestled with the hurt and in my human mind, I searched for more ways to help when I heard (not audibly) “Just pray. Just keep praying”. God has a perfect plan for each of these children. Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that it is not to harm them, but to prosper them and to give them a hope and a future. I love the verses that follow: “Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with your whole heart. I will be found by you, declares the Lord, and bring you back from captivity…” <br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;">It has only been a few days, but I can still see the brilliance of those oak leaves glimmering in the sun. And as I sit here, in front of my large picture window that looks out to a forest of trees, I am reminded that each of these majestic trees started out as a small seed. I cannot help but to see the children at RRR as little acorns. They are in the deep dark soil feeling as if they will always be there, perhaps feeling frightened, alone, not able to trust, perhaps paralyzed either by past experiences or the unknown future. But God’s plan is that they will one day grow into a great oak, strong, vibrant, and full of life; praising Him for giving them hope through Raven Rock Ranch and a future in Him. </span></span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-34199093071177181102013-03-14T19:43:00.001-07:002013-03-14T19:44:42.870-07:00Beauty from Ashes<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Holding the two vividly detailed hand-drawn self portraits
in my hands, I shook my head while biting my lower lip in both amazement and
anguish as I slowly studied one and then the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little girl looked up at me with those
dark chocolate brown eyes and cautiously asked me if she had done the
assignment wrong. Forgetting that my body language was communicating what I felt
in my heart rather than what I desired for her to hear and understand, I quickly
tried to cover my actions, by replying, “Oh, honey, the detail you put into
each of your portraits is simply beautiful. They have stolen my breath away!”
She innocently laughed and bounced away to pick up a book that she had been
begging to read. </span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">The assignment had been to make two portraits. One portrait depicting
what she felt like on the inside, the part that no one sees; the part that she
believes no one would understand, the part that is hard for her to express with
words. I asked her to think about what colors represented her feelings as I
opened the tray of oil pastels and took out the box of charcoal and colored
pencils. I asked her if she was big or small, loud or quiet, seen or invisible,
etc… The other portrait was to represent what she wanted to feel like on the
inside and how she wanted other people to see her. I asked her the same questions
(what colors do you see, are you big or small, loud or quiet, seen or
invisible, etc...). I then sat at the far end of the table and worked on my own
project.</span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Unlike me, she needed no time to begin her portrait. I
watched from the corner of my eye as her hand searched for her color of choice,
finally resting on a new piece of rectangular charcoal. I set my eyes back on
my own pad of paper, but could hear the sharp sounds of the charcoal being
etched onto the textured paper. The sound of the charcoal told me her story
before I even saw her picture. I heard every stroke. I heard every frustration.
I heard her feverishly race to put the image on paper. There was certainty in
what she was creating. There was bitterness and anger. With the slightest pause
in the air, I looked up to see her start shading the image with her fingertips,
again intensity filled the air. I said nothing and returned to my work.</span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">When I looked at this finished portrait, darkness hovered
over the young girl wearing tattered clothing. Her dark eyes were smudged and a
single tear was at the corner of one eye. Angry, bold words were written all
over the page. Words like: stupid, loser, fatty, ugly, just kill yourself
already… My heart ached as I could identify with some of these emotions, for I
had spent a good share of my own adolescence believing many of these lies. If I
am being honest, I was not surprised that her portrait revealed such hurt. I was
taken aback however, by the intensity! That is something that art can reveal
that words often cannot, especially when the child struggles to communicate
effectively with words to begin with. I asked the girl later if she could
describe herself in just one word what would it be and she said, “A tomb”. My
heart sank and I smiled weakly as I pulled her into a hug. </span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Her second portrait was also in charcoal but she had used
crisp thin lines to draw her image of a young girl wearing a flowered top and a
crown on her head. Her smiled filled her entire face, which in turn made me
smile! Words again filled the space around her image. Words like: beautiful,
accepted, loved, important, etc. At the sight of this portrait my heart seemed to
stop beating and my breath truly was stolen away. Again, I could identity with
this 13 year old girl. Though I am far older, I believe all girls, young and
old, desire to be beautiful, to be valued, and appreciated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
asked her to describe herself in one word in this picture, she said, “Filled-up”.
If you know me, even a little, you know I couldn’t hold back the tears at her
words.</span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">My breath wasn’t stolen away for the realization that I am
not all that different from a 13 year old girl, but because just that morning I
had read Isaiah 61:1-4:<br />
<br />
<em>The Spirit of the
sovereign Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach the good news to the poor. He has sent me to
bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release
from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and
the day of vengeance of our God to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those
who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the
oil of gladness instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit
of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord
for the display of His splendor. They will rebuild the ancient ruins and
restore the places long devastated, they will renew the ruined cities that have
been devastated for generations.</em></span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: purple;">In those days it was
common practice for those who were in mourning to pour ashes on their heads, tear
their clothes, and wail loudly as they roamed the city streets. This was an
outward expression of the anguish residing in their hearts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though this is not common practice in our culture
today, our grief can become a foothold for Satan to keep us from living a full,
Spirit-filled life. The Spirit of the Lord longs desperately to come alongside us
in our grief, in our pain, and walk with us, replacing our torn rags with
garments of praise, restoring our hearts to gladness, and bringing us more into
the likeness of His Son, Jesus, as He places His crown of beauty upon our heads.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Strong’s Dictionary reveals that the original meaning of the
“crown of beauty” was an ornamental head dress like a crown or a wedding veil.
The term is derived from the Hebrew word, “pa’ar”, which means “to gleam, to
explain oneself, to beautify” (Strong’s). In those days, the kind of head dress
a woman wore explained who she was. Isaiah 61:3 beautifully portrays God “blowing
away the ashes of mourning and replacing them with a crown---not just any crown,
His crown”! We are the bride of Christ, of the Prince of Peace. Can we accept
that? Can we let go of the lies we have allowed Satan to fill our empty spaces
with and confidently walk in the Truth. We ARE His bride. </span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Obviously, there was no way for this little girl to know
what I had read hours before our art lesson. However, the Lord gave me such a
tender moment with her as He had most certainly primed my heart for this time.
Forever, this young girl will be in my thoughts and prayers as I hope with all
my heart that her and all women, young and old (me included) will embrace the
identity Christ desperately longs for us to accept.</span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Satan wants to destroy our dreams, God wants to surpass them.
He gives us dreams so we will long for His reality” (Beth Moore).</span></div>
<span style="color: purple;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri;">Can we learn to see ourselves as beautiful to Christ? Can we
wear His crown confidently? I dare you to sketch yourself as He sees you and
then pray that He give you His eyes to see yourself like that too!</span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-36496071373493233822013-02-08T07:35:00.001-08:002013-02-15T06:38:15.477-08:00Fishing For Peace<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AUuqNqQqKoA/URRKmTNCC3I/AAAAAAAAAH0/4_D87p1kJAI/s1600/oyster%2Bshell%2B284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AUuqNqQqKoA/URRKmTNCC3I/AAAAAAAAAH0/4_D87p1kJAI/s400/oyster%2Bshell%2B284.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg and her oyster shell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">My Dad loved to fish. No, I mean, He really looooved to
fish. It was more than a hobby for him, it was a time of respite as he would often
sit, contemplate, and pray over events both big and small, while waiting for a
“nibble”; as well as the thrill of the catch. He rarely kept the fish he
caught, as it was truly a sport for him. Therefore, we really had no proof of
the fish stories he would tell. He fished year round, many times after he would
get off work. And on weekends, he’d get up before the sun even had a chance to
crest the horizon. Steelhead season, I have to believe was his favorite. And my
worst, as winter’s breath inevitably chilled my bones and threatened to stay!</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a young girl,
nothing could be worse than getting out of bed when it was still dark, dress in
layer after layer and go sit in wet, smelly sand for hours upon hours, while
Dad fished. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though my siblings and I
would always find mischief along the sandbar or create massive sand murals with
pieces of driftwood, and end each trip swinging our legs off the tailgate of Dad’s
‘66 Ford, while eating warm bologna sandwiches, I still resolved that nothing
could be more boring than to sit and watch a pole for hours on end in hopes to
get a bite. I believed that until I was 26 years old. (Therefore this is an old
story!)</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Though I had not gone fishing with my dad for many years, I
had decided that when I traveled home with my then 9 month old daughter, I
would go with him. I don’t know why I thought it would be any different or why
I was now subjecting my baby to this torrid event, but something drew me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose I wanted what my dad had found
there all those years, whatever it was. </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Sipping strong coffee from the lid of Dad’s green dented
thermos, I sat with Meg on the slight incline of the sandbar, watching my dad.
I loved everything about him in that moment, especially his crooked smile or
the way he would bite his lower lip while he putting fresh bait on his hook. He
waded out into the river a little further and cast his line again. I watched
how the river glided swiftly past him, over fallen trees, and boulders; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>continuing downstream, narrowing in places,
skimming the sandy bar, and eventually spilling into another body of water. I
loved watching his line plunk into the river, creating a series of expanding
rings, until they disappeared. I was enthralled by the entwinement of regal
simplicity and splendid authority.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #073763;">I had sat on the
banks of this river more times than I could count, but not until this day, did
I pay any attention to its fluid movement and how it formed itself to the shape
of whatever object stood in its path. The river was never without motion. I had
seen it bursting with energy as its upstream source aggressively pushed its
mass into this stream. I had seen it flooded as well as low enough to count the
speckled rocks lining its floor. I have seen it nearly still, just ripples carelessly
riding on the surface. Still, always in motion. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">I turned my face to the morning sun, letting its warmth seep
into my soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thought-provoking words
of Horatio G. Spafford (1873) came to mind in that moment, a precious hymn I sang
as child, growing up in a small Baptist church: “When peace like a river
attendeth my way…” I hummed the song repeatedly as the melody soothed my
wounded soul and the words caused me to contemplate what peace really means. “Peace
like a river”, I whispered to myself as I sought out the characteristics of the
river only 15 feet in front of me. <br /><br />“Peace like a river”. The book of Isaiah uses this analogy twice, though the
Bible addresses peace 251 times. It is the thing that we seek, bend over
backward to meet. However, peace is not only as Webster defines: “A state of
tranquility or quiet”, but experiencing this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">while</i> meeting many bumps and unexpected twists and turns on life’s
journey. Peace is not something that we can attain on our own merit, despite
our best effort. If you are like me, you may have attempted to eliminate
activities in hopes of finding peace. We reason that we are too busy to really
have peace in our lives. However, we are not meant to live life in the
stillness of a…a pond! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, we must
be connected to the Holy Spirit! He is the upstream tributary or source that
feeds into the river. Rivers are constantly being renewed by active, ongoing
motion. It is not filled once and left to fend for itself. Christ encourages we
who are thirsty, we who are in need, to come to the fountain (Is. 55:1) Here,
He fills us with His life-giving water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
we must keep going back to the source. A relationship with Christ is the key
component to peace. This filling enables us, like the river, to spill out into
another body of water, overflowing into the lives of those around us. </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">I let out a sigh of gratitude, smiling a toothless smile as
I hung my head, saying a prayer of thanksgiving for this visual lesson. Holding
my sweet Meg in my arms, kissing her plump cheeks, and breathing in her sweet
fragrance; I released my preconceived notions that life should be easier,
without so much pain, and heartache. Storms of adversity will wash over us, attempting
to steal our attention from the One who gives us peace. Beloved, don’t let
them. Christ grieves desperately for those who whose hearts and souls are in
unnecessary turmoil (Luke 19:41-42).</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">I am reminded of the parable
of the disciples out at sea while a terrible storm raged, violently tossing
their boat about. They were terrified. I imagine some stood wide-eyed, watching
the sea swell and the vengeance of the wind whip their boat perilously, while
others closed their eyes tightly in an attempt to sooth their fears. However, I
certain they all watched with wide eyes and dropped jaws when they saw Jesus
walking on the water! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am positive they
believed that Jesus would save them by calming the storm. Their thoughts were interrupted
as Jesus called out to them, “Take Courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid”. It is here
that you would expect Jesus to calm the storm. He did not. Not until he climbed
into the boat did He calm the storm. I believe we have been sucked into this mentality
as well: believing that peace is equated with rescuing—from calming the storms
of life. “The point is not that we don’t have anything to fear, but that [Christ’s]
presence is the basis for our courage” (Beth Moore). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With the “winds still raging</i>, He said, ‘Take Courage. It is I. Don’t
be afraid’”. We can have peace when we authentically surrender to the
trustworthy, sovereign authority of Jesus and keep going back to the “well”.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">I set Meg down in the sand and encouraged her to play, when I
came across an oyster shell. It had been brutally weathered and grayed with
grains of sand lining the broken, ruffled layers on its back, revealing a life
of being carelessly tossed about in the continual motion of the waters. I
flipped it over, rubbing my thumb up and down its smooth, iridescent inner
shell, thinking that perhaps an irritation the size of a grain of sand had made
its way into its life, forming a peal, a treasure of great value. </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had been wounded to my very core 18 months earlier when I
had been raped, conceiving a child, my Meg, as a result. My heart had been hemorrhaging
all these months as I attempted to understand where God was in all of this. I
went from blaming Him for the situation because He allowed it to happen, angrily
accusing Him of not loving me; to a place where I fully embraced Genesis 50:20,
“What Satan intended for evil, God intended for good”. In this moment, holding
Meg, my precious pearl, a seeming reminder of incredible pain, she was/is infinitely
<em>more</em> of reminder of the peace that God grants us when we surrender to His authority.
</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">My nose began to run as I could not help but to think God
had orchestrated this life lesson specifically for me, this day. I bit my
quivering lip and ran out to my Dad, with Meg in tow. “Hey Dad, look what I
just found”, showing him the oyster shell. I was a kid again, still learning,
still constantly amazed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;">Meg’s name means “pearl”. She was named Meg for that
meaning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was brought into this life
through a horrific situation, but without a doubt, is my pearl of great value. So great in fact
that a Merchant I know so very personally sold everything He had for her…and
for you. “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine
pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away; sold everything he had,
and bought it”. (Matthew 13:45) Our identity is not in the bumps and bruises
that we accrue, rather our identity is the One who freely gives us peace in the
trials of life. He sees you as His pearl, nothing less!</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The oyster shell, 12 years later, still sits on Meg’s
dresser and serves as reminder that pearls often come through the storms of
life and peace can and will accompany us when we surrender to our sovereign
Lord’s authority. I went fishing with my dad that day and caught a whole lot of
peace!</span></span>Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115982841537043034.post-15177458020751633732013-01-04T06:13:00.001-08:002013-01-04T17:19:11.129-08:00Trust Follows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7uwyo3xPU8U/UOdCpJ1rgMI/AAAAAAAAAHE/dfMyZkJCEa0/s1600/DSC_0233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7uwyo3xPU8U/UOdCpJ1rgMI/AAAAAAAAAHE/dfMyZkJCEa0/s400/DSC_0233.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">Bitter frost glimmered brilliantly underfoot as it caught
the early afternoon’s sunlight, crunching raucously as we sauntered toward my
truck, while escaping my lungs through hazy vapors lingering at my lips. My
winter kissed nose began to run and so did the tears, for my heart had been
etched with the most precious of memories.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">I had spent the last hour watching Rusty, our angel in horsehair
(!), follow Meg around the round pen without a lead, without a single touch. I
watched Rusty lower his head to her waist, turn circles, back up and stop simply
by the sound of her voice. If I had not seen it myself, I would not have
believed it. I honestly do not know of anything more life-giving than to watch
a girl who struggles with her value and a once neglected horse bond. He was
free to do what he pleased and he chose to follow her. </span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">I recall our first day at Raven Rock Ranch. It was a warm
fall day and Rusty had been keeping himself cool in the shade of a cluster of
trees at the far end of the pasture. When Meg approached the fence, it was if
he had always known her. He trotted to the fence, bent his head low and
breathed in her scent. Her smile had been held captive for countless years and
in that moment Rusty had unlocked not just her smile, but her precious giggle
as she leaned forward to nuzzle noses with him. Sandy, owner and operator of
the ranch, revealed that he never does that. He chose her that first day. And
she chose him. </span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">Every week for a few months now Meg has looked forward to
our time at RRR. She cleans stalls, grooms Rusty, and has been learning to tack
and ride. Her small voice, awkward gestures, and lack of confidence confine her
in most areas of her life, isolating herself, floundering in self doubt, and
engaging in self-destructive behavior. However, Rusty sees beyond that. He
simply sees his girl. She shows up and his quiet day becomes a vivid wonderment
as they work together to meet each other where they are. They do not need to
pretend with one another. Their hearts have been gravely bruised and yet they
have chosen each other to journey toward healing, learning to trust one another along the way. </span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;">Today, Sandy unhooked the lead from Rusty’s halter and asked
Meg to slowly walk away from him, believing that he would follow her. After several steps it looked as if Rusty was
not going to follow. He just stood there. His ears twitched as he listened to
the slightest crackle of frost laden footsteps and the whinnies of horses in
bordering pastures. He lowered his head, smelling the air as if searching for
anything to give him direction. Meg stood still, her back to him, just waiting. I am certain she would have waited for him all day for I have never seen devotion like hers to Rusty.
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Calibri;"><br />Rusty had never been given a choice before. Never. Now, he had freedom to do what
he wanted and it clearly confused him. Several minutes passed and finally he
took a step---walking parallel to where Meg was, not to her. Admittedly, I
chuckled. It was as if he was saying, "I want to be near you, but I will not do
it exactly like you want". Typical 10 year old behavior! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sandy reentered the round pen and
instinctively, yet unconventionally asked Meg to breathe into Rusty’s nose.
Horses greet each other by breathing into one another's noses, so it seemed likely that he would identify with Meg, recognize her on a different level if she were to do the same. With both hands planted on her knees, she stoop to Rusty’s lowered head and
breathed into his soft muzzle. Frosted air escaped her petal pink lips, rising heavenward.
Then, without a word, Sandy left the pen. Meg began to walk and Rusty followed.
Meg stopped and Rusty stopped. She walked in circles and so did he. He was
smitten with a girl he was learning to trust!</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Trust sees what physical eyes cannot. It is a
deepening, a ripening, a willingness to wait for God in the unplanned place of
obedience, and to walk with God at the unplanned pace of obedience---“to wait
in His place, and to go at His pace”, knowing with certainty that He will carry
us through all our afflictions. Trust requires faith. It feels risky until we
know; really know the One we’re walking with.</span> </span></div>
Buttercuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00634536616063924677noreply@blogger.com0