Food for My Worn Out Self. Every Week.

Consistently I am moved by the final twenty minutes of my church service. Every Sabbath we take the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. Every week we confess our sins. And every week we are reminded of the unconditional acceptance of Christ for His people. My pastor will consistently stress that this meal is not for people who have life tied with a bow, rather it is for those who have failed and fallen flat or at times are so hopeless they can’t see two steps in front of them. This supper is not for the ones who have "pleased" Jesus and can come and sit at His table because they are shiny and clean. This table is for the crippled, poor, and blind, for those left starving as a result of misplaced love. It’s the one church I have been to where people actually choose not to take it. They understand they either need to come to Christ first or they have to resolve a festering conflict brewing with someone around them. They stay seated and, thankfully, feel safe enough doing so. Finding a church free from shame and judgment is a feat in itself.

Today I had a bird’s eye view as I sat in the front, available for people to stop and receive prayer if they needed it. Sitting in a chair off to the side, I watched the long lines form. Poor and rich, black and white, young and old, tattooed up and yuppie to the core. Some physically limb and some barely able to lift their heads. The confident and the cowardly. All walk ahead to humbly partake of this transforming tradition. "Do this in remembrance of me," Jesus said. It hits me fresh week to week. We are a mess, a mod-podge of individual lives who are shuffling to the front of the church looking for a windfall of grace to fill our beat-up insides and give us what we need for the week ahead. This is a means of God pouring out on us the gifts of His forgiveness, peace, hope and motivation to endure the darkness. Undeserving, we limp forward with our hands reaching out and open to receive this meal that changes us over time. I cannot help but be reminded over and over again, “You are mangled and bruised by the fall, but you are healed, loved and free.” This is a sermon, a tangible picture each and every Sunday that the deficit I have accrued has been accounted for. I walk forward, slowly, in contemplation...here is my balm. I have been rescued.

“Dawn, this is His body and blood shed for you...”

They say my name, they look me in the eye and I return to my seat, knowing all is well with my soul.

Is it worth losing your arm for?

It is hard to reconcile the tasks of job, family, household work and all the unexpected demands of life with the spiritual disciplines of quiet reflection and ongoing effort to block out the noise of the world. When I am in those moments, soaking in the deeply refreshing wellspring of the Word, I can imagine no greater thing. At the same time, I wonder how many of us Christians make the time to do it. The clock ticks with deadlines, phone calls, bills, schedules and all too often mindless escapes from all of the above. Our crisis is that we are a people who do not know how to rest and furthermore, we wiggle, uncomfortable with it. Each of our stories are being painted with meaninglessness and all too often we resist anything more spiritually vulnerable. As our busyness increases, a higher cost is paid. It’s a daunting question to answer: what is the cost I am paying to ignore the most important matters for my soul, my family, and my closest friends? At what altar am I sacrificing?

Tonight I was able to hear Bethany Hamilton speak at a local church in OCNJ. At age 13 she was attacked by a shark when surfing in the waters near her hometown in Hawaii. There are many inspiring details to her story, but a few things hit home to me. At such a young age there was an already, deeply rooted spiritual core. Her life was not overwhelmed by this trauma because her life was hidden in One more stable. It is hard to fathom that a 13 year old could care about the spiritual world in a way that Bethany did. For all of us who influence the young, we must inspire them to look higher, to search for more meaning and to say “no” to the self-absorption that plagues our nation. Unfortunately, most of us fall into the lie that a meaningful life comes when they are older. Not so. We do a disservice by not being another voice in their lives, telling them there is more. Showing them there is more.

Two weeks prior to her accident where she lost her arm, Bethany and her mother began to pray together that God’s will would manifest itself more clearly in her life. As an avid surfer she was challenged by the raging waves, learning to conquer their power with her board. Yet at the end of the day, she knew this would not be enough. At 13 she knew she wanted more than the pleasure of surfing. Looking back, she is now well aware of the fact that this was the Lord’s means of opening up more influence to the world. Like a stone tossed in a lake, the ripple effect moves further and further out. What do we want for our kids? Safety? Security? Ease? Fun? Happiness? Financially stable life? Moral behavior? When reading the Sermon on the Mount, our eyes are realigned to the truths of the Kingdom. God’s Kingdom stands in direct opposition to the Kingdom of this world. One is temporary and a chasing of the wind, one is peace-giving and eternal. One is our natural bent and one is altogether impossible unless we have been given a new nature.

Oswald Chambers in My Utmost for His Highest says it well on today’s date, June 15. Here is the entry. I could read this every day; oh how we need this truth wallpapered on our minds.

Also . . . add to your faith . . . —2 Peter 1:5

In the matter of drudgery. Peter said in this passage that we have become “partakers of the divine nature” and that we should now be “giving all diligence,” concentrating on forming godly habits (2 Peter 1:4-5). We are to “add” to our lives all that character means. No one is born either naturally or supernaturally with character; it must be developed. Nor are we born with habits— we have to form godly habits on the basis of the new life God has placed within us. We are not meant to be seen as God’s perfect, bright-shining examples, but to be seen as the everyday essence of ordinary life exhibiting the miracle of His grace. Drudgery is the test of genuine character. The greatest hindrance in our spiritual life is that we will only look for big things to do. Yet, “Jesus . . . took a towel and . . . began to wash the disciples’ feet . . .” (John 13:3-5).
We all have those times when there are no flashes of light and no apparent thrill to life, where we experience nothing but the daily routine with its common everyday tasks. The routine of life is actually God’s way of saving us between our times of great inspiration which come from Him. Don’t always expect God to give you His thrilling moments, but learn to live in those common times of the drudgery of life by the power of God.
It is difficult for us to do the “adding” that Peter mentioned here. We say we do not expect God to take us to heaven on flowery beds of ease, and yet we act as if we do! I must realize that my obedience even in the smallest detail of life has all of the omnipotent power of the grace of God behind it. If I will do my duty, not for duty’s sake but because I believe God is engineering my circumstances, then at the very point of my obedience all of the magnificent grace of God is mine through the glorious atonement by the Cross of Christ.

Our walk of faith is established upon the ordinary days upon more ordinary days. Our habits and intentional investment into spiritual things are imperative. His grace comes this way.

I wonder if any of us would say this level of faith, this altering of our values, is worth losing an arm over? Bethany would say, “yes.” And for that matter, so would Joni Eareckson Tada. If you don’t know her story....look it up. She’s another hero in the truest sense of the word.

A sacred moment, a random bookstore, and some extraordinary women in Salisbury, NC...

Salisbury, NC has old buildings. That’s all I cared about today. I packed a lunch, checked the battery on my camera, poured a cup of coffee and got in my car heading North. Deep down I worried this spontaneous outing could be a waste of time and gas, since I was already behind on my grading for school.

As I got off the exit, I wasn’t initially hopeful, but “keep driving, keep looking, maybe you’ll get that ONE shot that makes it all worth it!” became my mantra. The downtown area caught my attention. Quaint, small, old. The main street had a few potential shops to explore and the side streets, though not busy at all, seemed to have a some random hidden buildings that would be worth checking out. I parked the car and loaded a few things into my backpack. Maybe there would be a spot to sit and read if the mood came over me, which is usually the case on any given moment, in any given town, on any given day. Books are my constant companion. Any plan that potentially goes south is recovered by a cozy spot to read. It’s like a trump card I can toss on top of any despondency.

Since the tea shop in town seemed to keep random hours and was closed, I wandered down the main street and happened upon “The Literary Bookpost.” Though I already made a “strong” commitment to myself that I was not allowed to purchase ANYTHING on this excursion, I entered anyway, feeling my heart race at the sight of new book covers, rows of organized shelves and that relaxed “feel” of a non-chain bookstore. My eyes darted about spotting intriguing graphics and titles all around me. I am most at home in a book store and could feel my self-control dissolve while justifying my unbalanced armload of books with phrases like “this one is necessary,” “fight the electronic book takeover,” and “it’s right to support these local shops.”  Ahead, looking toward the back of the store, there was an area with a leather couch and a few rows of chairs set up like a mini lecture hall. The room was empty, but it was clear that this little shop hosts local authors to share their stories and promote their hard-fought-for manuscript. 

These few gems in my hands were books I wanted to sit with for a bit. To the left were some steps leading to a little room. Two chairs, a long table lined with poetry collections and a few more shelves of books completed this loft area, directly above this make-shift classroom. This was the perfect spot to hide away and read and sit and think and be and wonder and peruse. No one was up there and it was quiet. I could see over the whole store lit with dim lights that were lined above the beautiful rows of books. It was a little secret spot. Just for me.

Within a few minutes I began to notice some chattering and gathering of voices below where I was squirreled away. To my surprise there was an author coming to share about her book, and women who were interested came with their curiosity and bottled water. It happened directly below me so I was unable to see faces, but I did pick up on each distinct voice. I could hear everything. To be honest, I felt uneasy, no one knowing I was directly above them and yet hearing what began to unfold into a extraordinarily sacred hour and a half. I was still, my ears alert and pen in hand. At this point there was no way I could leave as the stairs cut down directly into the room where they gathered. Reminiscent of when I was young and used to sit in the hidden staircase off the kitchen and listen in on conversations the adults had around the table, I was intrigued and soon humbled by the lives of these awe-inspiring women. Slowly I garnered enough pieces to figure out what this book was all about.

Carol Henderson is a writer. Years ago she offered a one-day workshop for women to come and put themselves into the practice and journey of writing. Her voice was leading this gathering at the Literary Bookpost. However, the workshop she referenced was more than just about the art of writing. Carol had lost her son. Over the tumultuous years that followed this event, she found a lifeline through writing, and grieving and writing and crying and writing and remembering and writing and reflecting and writing and healing and writing and grieving again. Her proposal was to offer a workshop for mothers who had experienced this same, distinct tragedy. In essence, Carol wanted to offer this lifeline of writing to women swirling around in the chaos of their pain.

After that workshop in 2002, these women experienced such a bond that it only made sense for them to meet again. Six months later they gathered for the same purpose: to write. Thirteen women, ranging from 27 to 60 years old, all of whom had lost one or more children, began to embark on this expedition that would rescue them from the death of their own souls.

I continued to listen...

They went on to meet over the course of ten years. Day workshops and weekend retreats became some of the most helpful and yet most exhausting times in their lives. What they shared with one another went miles deep and one by one they began to find more and more peace. Carol would present them with a prompt to spin them into times of reflection and journaling. Maybe it was writing about a safe place using the senses, or responding to an object she would place in the middle of the room such as a life preserver. A few of the ladies from the original group were actually present with Carol in the bookstore, in the room below me. They read excerpts from the book, some of their very own pieces that birthed from these retreats. It was a most hallowed moment and definitely so weighty to hear these voices tell of the intimate details of their journeys. As I sat, I shook my head a number of times, in awe of what I was a part. At times I felt guilty as it didn’t seem right that I was not face to face with them and not dignifying them by looking them in the eye. Though they would have immediately invited me into the circle, I stayed where I was, frozen, not wanting to miss a single word spoken.

What became clear in the ongoing discussion was that most of the ladies who gathered to listen to Carol had known about the book and were curiously interested as a result of their own, tragic losses. One by one, new voices would bravely speak up mentioning the death of their child. They felt less alone and yet wishing to God that this was not the common point of reference. They collected tools to apply to their own locked-up selves. Writing and loss were the repeated themes. It seemed the two, when linked, loosen up the hardest soil inside the deepest places, those places no one can name, describe or speak rationally about. By writing, this darkness is steadily softened by the dim light of hope.

This book, Further Along, reflects upon how pen and paper serve in the work of freedom. Ten years later these ladies still cry, they still suffer from anxiety, heavy hearts and loneliness. At the end of the day, they undoubtedly want time to tick backwards and for these tragedies to be averted, for these shadows to finally blow off the pages of their daily lives. It would never be sane to say that “such and such” made all of this worth it. The very thought is offensive to those who tread these deep and surging squalls. It can only be that hope is still possible. For those who listen in on their testimonies, we see and hear a certain sound of music that is nearly impossible to find these days. The sound of wisdom. The sound of depth. The sound of authenticity. The sound of humility. The sound of determined joy. The sound of endurance. The sound of community. The sound of compassion. The sound of overcoming. In a narcissistic world where the unfortunate norm is to “present to everyone the pretend and perfect self,” this little group emerges as the water each of us is thirsty for. Life is terribly hard, and pretending has gotten us nowhere. Freedom comes in being vulnerable to tell our real life stories to those who are hungry to tell their real life stories too. Once someone starts, others are ignited with the motivation and humility to do the same. Freedom is contagious.

It was nearing four o’clock and after the last snippet was beautifully read, I quietly packed up my things and made my exit-plan, hoping to slip out with no eye contact. It didn’t take but a moment for me to give myself permission to purchase this book. If for no other reason, as a memento for this serendipitous experience. After looking everywhere for the book, I finally asked the woman at the register where it was. She encouraged me to get one directly from the ladies and to have them to sign it, to which I told her my incognito scenario...in from Charlotte...taking pictures...up in the loft... Smiling she told me they would love to know I was listening in after randomly dropping in from out of town. She exhorted me to not feel odd about talking to them at all, “this event was open to the public.” Yet in a way, I knew I was not meant to be in that room. The death of a child is so profound. I listened from the outside because I live on the outside of that experience every day. To me, the gift was to be allowed to hear them share.

As I anxiously walked to the back of the store, I was immediately noticed and invited in on the conversations. It wasn’t long before I told them that I was from Charlotte and just happened to land in on their sacred meeting; “I am so grateful to have been able to be here,” I told them. They reprimanded me for not coming down and inquired some about me being a counselor and writer and directed me to one of the ladies who lives in Charlotte.  As they talked I recognized whose voice went with which story or reading or comment. They signed the book I held, took my email and thanked me for taking an interest. “Have a safe trip back to Charlotte,” and then I left.

These moments are most transforming. They come out of nowhere, unexpected. While I was in it, I knew it was profound and yet I could not fully understand how it was tearing through my insides. I often believe with the deepest sincerity that those who we meet who have endured such suffering as this are the most real and alive people we know. They see with uncommon vision, they hear what is going on below the surface of talk and chitchat. People who have sat for a season in the crucible of pain are the most heroic and exquisite of all those with whom we share space. They are rich with thought and so thoroughly aware of what matters and what doesn’t. At last, in these settings, we can all be who we genuinely are. There is no more energy for facade, no more tiring obsession with the pursuit of the American Dream, and no more time wasted on shallow living. A dividing line has split life down the middle and the only way to survive is to choose redemption and hope. We live in a paradox of sorts: joy and suffering, pain and healing, loss and hope. It is the nature of life.

So when you can’t lift your head, when you can’t see the light, when you feel trapped in the tight walls of fear, when you wonder if the sun will shine again to warm your heart...write and write again. Write to release the darkness and know that there are many who have gone before you who have seemed to find their way with a pen...

Link for the book...check it out.

http://fartheralongbook.com/

We are Barabbas

“Meanwhile, the leading priests and elders persuaded the crowd to ask for Barabbas to be released and for Jesus to be put to death. So the governor asked again, ‘Which of these two do you want me to release to you?’ The crowd shouted back, ‘Barabbas!’”

And so it went. Jesus, the King of kings, Creator of the universe, the healer of the sick, the Light of the world, the Living water, the Alpha and Omega, the Great Shepherd of the sheep, the One who calmed the storm, raised the dead and fed thousands upon thousands...was to be crucified...

...and the vile, rebellious, notorious murderer, Barabbas, was to be set free.

It sounds so backwards. How do a people decide that the murderer should go free and that the innocent should be violently tortured to death?  It sounds like the gospel. The Righteous for the unrighteous. The Son of God for the sinful man. The older I have gotten, the more painfully aware I am of the brokenness of the world. There is a darkness covering the land. Maximize pleasure, minimize pain. Rise to the top by whatever means it takes. Dismiss those who are of no benefit to you. Ignore conviction. Deny the pain you have endured and the pain you have inflicted. Paul describes it well in his letter to Timothy,

In the last days, people will love only themselves and their money. They will be boastful, proud, scoffing at God, disobedient to their parents, and ungrateful. They will consider nothing sacred. They will be unloving and unforgiving; they will slander others and have no self-control. They will be cruel and hate what is good. They will betray their friends, be reckless, be puffed up with pride, and love pleasure rather than God. They will act religious but they will reject the power that could make them godly... (II Timothy 3:2-5)


There is “nothing new under the sun,” as Solomon said in Ecclesiastes. Man has always wanted his own way and has viciously been driven by the flesh. As Luther once described it, “Sin is man curved in toward the self.” As humans, we become beasts who roam the earth seeking each other like prey. Yet God created us to be “curved outward,” toward God and away from self.

At the core we all fit Paul’s description. These words tell the tale of centuries. The human condition is stained with the black of pride, greed, and selfishness. We are all Barabbas. We are vile, rebellious and motivated by devouring one another. Pilate stands between two men: one falsely accused and one already verified guilty. The crowd screams out for Jesus the Christ to be crucified. The image is clear. Steeped in wrongdoing and burdened with the crimes we have committed, we walk free.

Jesus stays back, standing on the platform, battered, bloody and bruised. Silent before His accusers. Watching us walk free.

This is why Easter is so unavoidable. This is why the one trait that should be most discernible in Christians is humility.
Sadly, however, it’s not.

We don’t see ourselves in dire need. Too often we consider ourselves clean, pure and rather good. But the cross is a barefaced reminder: each of us needs a rescue. 

We are Barabbas. And we have been undeservedly set free.

When Dark Clouds Hover Over Christmas....

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was hanged by the Nazi regime on April 9, 1945. He was in prison from 1943 up until he was martyred in 1945. His letters and other writings from prison have been preserved and pieces of them can be found in a small book entitled, God is in the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas. I am fascinated by this man's ability to look upward in times of crisis and loneliness. I know so many people who feel like Christmas is prison. Without a doubt, the holidays sting with sharp pain and highlight the losses and traumatic events of people's lives. Ironically, Christmas is about Jesus coming to die. It's a sincere celebration for us because we remember our Savior who was tortured in our place. But the details around His story, and the means by which He accomplished this plan, are quite the opposite of how Christmas unfolds today. This is Bonhoeffer's point: "God is in the manger." His strange way is coming low in order to be exalted on high. The dazzle of the world and the chaos of the mall sound nothing like the first Christmas eve. In one of his letters from prison to his fiancee Maria von Wedemeyer, Bonhoeffer writes these words that re-center me:


“Be brave for my sake, dearest Maria, even if this letter is your only token of my love this Christmas-tide. We shall both experience a few dark hours--why should we disguise that from each other? We shall ponder the incomprehensibility of our lot and be assailed by the question of why, over and above the darkness already enshrouding humanity, we should be subjected to the bitter anguish of a separation whose purpose we fail to understand...And then, just when everything is bearing down on us to such an extent that we can scarcely withstand it, the Christmas message comes to tell us that all our ideas are wrong, and that what we take to be evil and dark is really good and light because it comes from God. Our eyes are at fault, that is all. God is in the manger, wealth in poverty, light in darkness, succor in abandonment. No evil can befall us; whatever men may do to us, they cannot but serve the God who is secretly revealed as love and rules the world and our lives.” December 13, 1943


To those of you who suffer silently this Christmas,
To those who feel loss so deeply it makes your head ache and your stomach sick,
To those who can't seem to see the light with all the dark clouds falling about you,
To those who are misunderstood, alone and want the season to pass by with haste...
LOOK UP to the One who understands all this pain and more.
Look to Him and know His presence in the stillness of the darkest hour of night.
Wait for Him with expectation that He will deliver us from all that is not right.
Though mourning lasts for a night, joy will come in the morning.

Advent is the season of waiting.

I have come to despise waiting and yet it characterizes my life in so many ways. It surfaces raw angst in me as these gaps seem to shroud His promises, and present as if He is not actually keeping His word. But the great writer Henri Nouwen speaks of waiting as one of the qualities most significant to the Christian faith, so I heed his words with conviction:

"Waiting is essential to the spiritual life. But waiting as a disciple of Jesus is not an empty waiting. It is a waiting with a promise in our hearts that makes already present what we are waiting for. We wait during Advent for the birth of Jesus. We wait after Easter for the coming of the Spirit, and after the ascension of Jesus we wait for his coming again in glory. We are always waiting, but it is a waiting in the conviction that we have already seen God’s footsteps."

In the end, I guess this is the truest evidence of faith: seeing what isn't in front of you; hearing what is silent. May Christmas deliver a message of hope; may it refocus us our attention to the supernatural world that inhabits our true home. In the same way the Israelites waited endlessly for the Messiah to arrive, we also await with expectation His grand return. Let's choose to bank on His words,


"Behold, I AM making all things new!"

Let Your Story Stir...

Costa Rica 2011

Maya Angelo said it well: “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Stirring under our skin, embedded in our souls are stories, profound and essential. Though we see the wonder arise most clearly in children, all humans, and regardless of our our ages, bring sharp, focused attention when a story unfolds. Our very lives are stories worth telling; we are adventures, lessons, and paintings in the making. It becomes a necessary task to uncover them, name them, tell them and celebrate them.

I often wonder if depression, meaninglessness and joylessness come as a result of failing to understand this essential part of truly living life. Maybe healing and growth come from weaving the threads of stories upon stories.

Sue Monk Kidd titles a chapter in her book Firstlight, “The Crucible of Story.” We need stories, she says. Sadly, we have lost the value of stories even in the spiritual world and have instead waded in the deep waters of doctrine and theology exclusively. It’s as if being an adult means disconnecting from the heart and soul of things and “advancing” into the superior realm of knowledge and information. However, if we sit still and listen to the swirling of beauty, imagery, patterns, symbols and songs within us, we will find a fortune there. Our experiences contain what Kidd calls, “the hidden holy.”

The truth is, as Sue Monk Kidd highlights, looking inward and backwards at our own stories will be painful at times. Too often, these are the memories we want to ignore and pretend away. She says, “I knew there would be no wholeness unless I stepped down into my darkness and confronted the troubling angel within.” The process can be daunting. It requires us to stay, to be soundless and calm, like stopping a train from racing on its tracks. To find these moments requires discipline and intentionality. The essential things come this way. But they do come, genuinely.

I love how she expresses it: “Through solitude and silence I began to find an inner music, a love song being sung in the spaces of my own heart.” The mysteries of the soul are concealed by clutter and discord. Too often there is little left to give but trivial observations, superficial utterances and flat experiences that leave us with no story to tell. Sadly, we eventually stop knowing ourselves. The most exquisite parts of who we are become overshadowed by the best of nothing.

Untapped we sit, and soon expire.

Our hope rises when we share more stories, when we take note of the metaphors chanting songs of the Spiritual world all around us. Each piece pulls back the curtain of revelation. We must stop talking and listen. Stop surging forward and contemplate the colors, sounds and smells of the Earth. Let your story flood you with healing. Who you were is not who you are. And who you are is not who you will always be.

You are a living, moving, unfolding picture of restoration. Listen to what comes only in silence. As Sue Monk Kidd interprets, “In the crucible of story we become artists of meaning. There we find God most surely.”

Andrew Wyeth Reminds Me of God

I love the amazing and profoundly unique, Andrew Wyeth. Though he died only a few years ago, his presence will always be palpable to those of us who love his paintings and who grew up driving the same roads and observing the same landscapes.

Muted colors characterize his style and the faces of those he paints are captured and recorded forever. It’s as close as I will ever be to Christina Olson and Karl Kuerner. Andrew loved to sit with these friends, talk to them, know them, enjoy their company and in the meantime, preserve the beauty of their souls in a two-dimensional masterpiece.



What is most intriguing about Wyeth is that in many ways he was elusive and impossible to capture. Yet somehow he was unparalleled at taking the mystery of the most ordinary people and capturing their lives with a pose, a paintbrush and a series of sketches. The wrinkles by their eyes, a furrowed brow, the expressions that speak of a hard lived life, the tattered clothes, the sullen stares and the simple rooms in simple homes...

He saw everything. He noticed what the average man would never see. Andrew’s gaze automatically observed a curtain blowing just so, water dripping from a tipped, tin bucket, a strand of wheat pointed a certain way and a drift of snow on a rolling Pennsylvania hill. He, himself, said he could live another 40 lifetimes in Brandywine, PA and never exhaust its beauty. I envy such a mind. To see, to genuinely see beyond what seems so simple and to eventually unveil something so grand. I consider life this way; I think of the glory of God this way. Day upon day passes and we miss the miracles of beauty, the scattered about symbols of His presence. We look right over top the most profound examples of God’s markings and the affirmation of His goodness. Andrew Wyeth saw mystery and striking beauty in the common things. Sounds just like God...He dresses the fields with simple flowers, takes notice of the most regular birds;He picked unschooled men, and described Himself as a Shepherd and His Word as a little seed...

In our hectic, running, spinning lives, we miss Him all the time. We ache for Him and verbalize the frustration that our God appears distant and removed from His people. But we are too distracted to see.  Yet Andrew, and his father before him, took note of hidden treasures and shaped the most priceless paintings from dusty attics, and cold, drab kitchens, making masterpieces out of objects we wander right by. Maybe the God of the universe is concealed in the common. Just maybe the glimpses of Himself will come where we are just not looking. Apparently He is not in the glitter and gold. That was never His mode of entry.

Evening at the Kuerners, one of my favorites.








(Thanks Christina for encouraging me to write when not inspired...)

Jesus Sits in the Passenger's Seat of My Car

The grand piano in our living room was set in front of a huge picture window looking out over the woods behind our house. It was always quiet in there and the sun made it so warm in the winter.  The furniture blocked off the piano so that I could hide between the back of our couch and the window. No one knew I was there and I would sit down, lean against the back of the couch, cross my legs under the piano bench and look out the picture window. The truth is, I wasn’t just being introverted. I wasn’t trying to hide. I was meeting Jesus. In my mind’s eye, I had Him sitting on the floor across from me, leaning up against the window, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a tattered, red baseball hat. Strange, but true. This was the time Jesus became so real to me. These “visits” taught me how to engage Him, be honest with Him and relate with Him like I did a tangible person.

A friend of mine was recently telling me about how much she is learning concerning Jesus and His divine power. We marvel together at His authority over the entire universe and find it fascinating that angels attend Him and do His bidding. His position is that of King and His glorious presence cannot be contained. So I’m not sure about the reverence of the jeans and t-shirt. Here is what I have realized over these years of learning to relate to an invisible, holy, personal God. In order to be able to approach Him, bear my honest heartache and joy to Him...in order to simply talk to Him, I must know Him as friend. He told the disciples that He no longer called them servants, but rather friends. The King, on the throne, whose robe fills them temple is high and holy. I have found that I must know Him as a friend in order to approach Him with confidence in His position as King. I must be humbled, aware of His might and glory, while also knowing I will not be dismissed, destroyed or condemned.

My imagination has been quite a help to me at times, especially when it comes to relating to Jesus. There are days when I’m driving along, and I glance over, picturing Jesus in the passenger’s seat, strapped in, with me. Out loud, I’ll explain how I feel, what I am stressed about or how grateful I am for such and such. I tell myself, “Either you are certifiably crazy, or someone actually hears you.” That’s how it is when you talk out loud in your car, by yourself. One day last week, I needed to talk to Him. I peered over and jumbled on my passenger’s seat were snacks, a sweater, a purse, a messenger bag and a water bottle.  It was chaos, and I thought to myself, “Whew, that looks a bit like my life right now.” Strange, I know, but for a second I thought Jesus wouldn’t be able to sit there with all my mess of stuff. I smiled, catching myself confused between reality and imagination. But a thought spun through my mind reminding me that Jesus has no problem bringing the two together, “You know I can sit here and hold all this stuff...”

In His supernatural wisdom, this was the ideal response to my odd little situation, and a perfect picture for me. All that mess, confusion and chaos...He can hold it, and gladly He does. Every once in awhile my life collects stacks of burdens and bag-fulls of despair. Strangely these can feel more real than God Himself. If I am not careful, they take over my view and I begin to think they squeeze Him out of range. But He is strong and organized. He not only holds it all for me, He replaces it with Himself, His peace, His truth, His goodness and His hope.

One thing is for sure, I would most certainly rather HIM sit next to me than a pile of tangled worries.

Comfortable in the Chaos.

I had heard about her room.

And then last Wednesday I headed uptown to get coffee with her for a visit and I got a text: “Come see my house! I’m only a block away from The Sunflower...and you can see my room!” It almost sounded like it would be a monumental moment, one I shouldn’t pass up.

But I’ve seen messy rooms.

I have mentored many high school girls over the years and somewhere between a winsome sense of humor, those deep theological questions and the unique personalities, there is an upturned, clothes-everywhere, unkempt room. My eyes would dart around as if trying to solve a murder mystery, looking for that missing candlestick to piece together the last of the clues.

Typically, I am in awe. But not in a positive way.

Julia’s room was a sight. I was being baited as she walked me through her cute, classic Elizabeth-area house. The porch swing, the tattered bookshelves, the rustic art and comfy couches. This was a cute, post-college house and I liked the feel of it. One by one, as if building up momentum, Julia showed me the sitting area, the kitchen and each bedroom, saving her’s for last. To be sure, this would be the grand finale.

As if this unveiling were happening in slow motion, she opened the door and I peered in.  A 10 second, hour-long pause had me stuck in a glazed over state of shock. What could my first word possibly be? I am rarely speechless, but I was speechless indeed.

Like splashes of color everywhere, her clothes were strewn about disordered. There was little floor to see and even less in her bathroom. My jaw dropped and I couldn’t tell if I needed to run, immediately start cleaning, or just sit and take it in as if I was witnessing one of the 7 Wonders of the World. Tucked away within the explosion of stuff were books, sentimental markers from her life, and rather impressive attempts at decorating that were somewhat lost behind the swirl of everything scattered everywhere.

Though I can’t be in an environment like that for more than 8 minutes, this is an endearing side of Julia. She opened the door like she was giving me a long-awaited gift. Her smile was ear to ear as she stepped back and watched me stop dead in my tracks. And as I reflect, this seemingly insignificant moment speaks much about life. To know someone and truly love them, seems only authentically possible when we see the mess. Maybe she would fully believe she is loved if she is loved in her mess. Seems right.

Later I told her I just can’t help but want to clean it and go crazy organizing it. Her response was that the best way to help her is to sit on her bed and talk to her while she does the daunting, one shirt at a time, one shoe at a time task. To just keep her company... "that is the best way for me to clean it up.”

It’s just what we want, just what we need. This is the design of true friendship, to sit in the thrown-about, tossed-everywhere chaos, to not fear it or hate it, but to help someone put things back in order. As I consider it more, it’s just what Jesus does...as I sit, He cleans the disorder I have wrecked across the pages of my life and the lives of those around me. One misplaced motive, one selfish act, one prideful response at a time...He cleans me up.

After the initial consternation wore off, I asked Julia a simple question as I projected myself into her circumstance, “Don’t you feel like if you cleaned this room up really well, and it was organized that your stress would lessen a bit?”

“It’s strange actually, when I do clean it, I feel really uncomfortable for a few days. I feel better when it’s messy.”

There’s something profound hidden in her casual response. She seems to say far more about life than just about her tornado-twisted room. We are comfortable and settled in our patterns, those habits and ways of relating, those systems and mis-matched building blocks we have stacked up completely wrong. To clean up the room is uncomfortable. To order our disorder feels like it alters what we have controlled for so long. Paul speaks of it as the “sin that so easily entangles us.” I guess we can live like the man in the tombs for years surrounded by death, like being in prison for so long that freedom feels a bit awkward and strange.

A messy room, can start to feel a bit too much like a cozy, comfortable chair instead of chaos and confusion. Someone needs to help us clean it all up and set it all right. Someone needs to close the drawers, fold the clothes and make up the bed with all the pillows stacked straight.

Competition for the Throne...

Who of these two 

 Do I reflect in one’s view?

 I fear what the answer will be… 

The Christ who served willing, with nothing to gain, 

Or the enemy driven by destruction and pain? 

At first glance there’s no question, 

For Christ holds my affection. 

He’s the truest desire within. 

But look deeper and see 

There’s an evil in me 

Where my soul is tangled in sickness and greed. 

And though salvation is mine, 

Sin still has a bind, 

A deficit deep with no limit to find. 

There’s a competition under heaven 

For the throne of perfection 

Yet only One winner will be. 

And though Jesus is king
Something dark stirs in me

As I grope for that seat all day.

When I awake in the morning I seek my own glory, 

And forget that I bear His name. 

So remember the garden And the war that was started, 

When evil stepped onto the stage? 

Satan wanted the throne 

And still does, I know, 

But I’ve joined in the race to be king…

A thought from a friend on the passing of Winter and the expectation of Spring...

Here is a journal entry from a friend of mine who I work with...I love her mind and her sensitivity to the intricacies of creation and life around us. We love the seasons and this is a reflection she wrote that I thought I would share...Enjoy.

There’s a part of me that hates to see winter go.
It is so strange that it robs our daytime hours, makes us shiver to the bone, slows down our drive, and yet when it nears its end, I find myself being loyal to it.
I go outside on an almost spring night and am gladdened by the coolness and the clear evening sky. I can see planets that don’t appear on a summer’s eve. I almost like the deadened trees and feel as though they don’t expect anything of me. They need no care, and they seem to rest so peacefully. They make no effort to provide shade from the hot summer sun and they just rest.
Winter seems to require low expectations. Maybe it is so we sleep, so we slow down. Nature gives us an opportunity to let go and slow down, yet in this golden opportunity, we decide to press on, to be productive and to not allow ourselves the freedom to merely exist.
So when winter decides to pass its torch on to the awakening of spring, we grasp onto the last remnants and wonder if we accomplished what she gave us purpose to do, that being rest. We know we somewhat failed her so we are saddened that we won’t have that chance again until next year.
And that is when we let her go. We accept the longer days, the blooms on the trees, the shedding of clothing, and the risen expectations for us to produce, cultivate and prosper again.
Good-bye winter. You served us well. It is never your fault that we don’t know how to take the gift you give. So maybe next year I will learn to better accept you and take advantage of what you bring, whether it is dreary days spent reading, sleeping late on days off, gazing at your clear and brilliant sky, watching snow flurries with my face up to the sky or merely sitting at my laptop and writing what’s on my heart.
Welcome spring. I hope I do better at learning from you.
March 6, 2012

These old churches still standing...

I love driving around Pennsylvania. Not long ago a friend told me how much he loved Pennsylvania, saying he thinks it is one of the most pleasing states. I agree. To be true to myself, I can't help but highlight one of the best businesses of all time, thankfully standing every few miles as we drive down the winding roads; we have to grab a Wawa coffee as we go.

The sites never get old to me: the verdant stretches of open farm land, the tall and towering trees, the stone walls lining the properties of picturesque rustic homes and the old churches that have represented milestones over years and years of time. This last trip home, we drove around point by point, taking photos of these statuesque buildings that have stood the test of much change. It was especially quiet as I walked through some of their simple, delicate chapels, or wandered row by row through the seemingly endless cemeteries. It almost seemed surreal to take it all in, tombstones dating back to the 1800's and even some going further back. Who were these people and what were their stories? Oh to sit and hear what life was like from a firsthand perspective. Truthfully, I would given anything to know what they valued and how they spent their time. I would ask about family routines, books they read, how they saw the world. What if we could go back? What if we could be less tied to so much technology and the distractions that keep us from living real life? To simply walk outside, to feel the ground sink under my feet, to hear the birds and even the trees, to actually notice the Earth...this is how we come more fully alive. This is what we have lost.


So take a look at these buildings that retain the stories of so many who have gone before us. Look at their delightful frames and the unique features that still stand strong and alluring. Meditate on something so real as this.


This was my Great Grandmother's church, founded in 1715...

This headstone reads 1765...









Here is the chapel in Valley Forge, it is the Washington Chapel...








This church was founded in 1711...






Here is another beautiful, old church where my brother proposed to his wife...

Remembering Whitney...Remembering the Gospel.

By the fire, I sat and watched the entire funeral service for Whitney Houston. It was slated for two hours and instead went almost four. It was hard to turn it off. In tenth grade, I saw Whitney Houston in concert at the Philadelphia Spectrum. Dazzled, and mesmerized by her strong and steady voice, rising higher than us and seemingly effortless, we were all hoping it would never end. As I took in every story, every memory, and every song lifted in her honor, I wished I could recall that night in the Spectrum. My mind hasn’t retained any details except just this: that emotions were high and excitement was thrilling around me as I was watching and hearing one of my all-time favorite pop-stars, Whitney Houston! This was dreamlike for my young life, as I had splurged many times on magazines about her, went to every movie she starred in and of course owned all her CDs. Alone, in my car, and still to this day, I will sing along with that voice at the top of my lungs and depending upon the length of the road trip, have even lost my voice on a few occasions. Her songs never get old and somehow each one links back to memories and emotions from my days of high school, college and on...

There was no question, I had to watch this funeral. If for no other reason, I wanted to know more of her. The personal stories would be a window into the life of this woman who had been a part of so many lives and who has suffered so much with her own darkness. Frankly, I was hoping beyond hope for some evidence that her faith, starting in New Hope Baptist Church, in Newark, NJ, had been real, that her body and soul were genuinely free, in the presence of Jesus. Her post-Bobby Brown days left all of her admirers sad and discouraged with how he seemed to be the catalyst for a downward spiral. The top stories regarding Whitney were no longer about the next top hit that followed the last top hit, but instead rumors of abuse in her marriage and the war raging within her between wholeness and drug addiction. She seemed to be hijacked into a dark reservoir, and in some ways she drifted into the backs of our minds, distant. The life of this star became a mystery to us, but to those who knew her and loved her she was well known. These were the words coming from the pulpit of her childhood church. Such words remain, and even dispel the question marks regarding her war-torn soul.

In reflection, I am reminded again of the gospel. What a celebration it is that sinners have hope! Humbled, we all stand before the throne of Heaven and find mercy, forgiveness and salvation, undeserved. So we don’t hail Whitney Houston as an example of success, we can hail her as an example of brokenness. In the midst of all her money, all her fame, all her record-breaking, grammy-award winning take-aways, there is ONLY one meaningful piece of this sad story: the state of a soul. We will remember her accolades, but that one split second after death tells the true story.

There is only One who knows Whitney. He took the hit for all of her sin and He took the hit for mine. But more than just stepping in the way of a death blow to our souls, Jesus actually met the measurement of justice. This was a legal act. And as Paul says in Romans 3:19-21, “...every mouth [will] be stopped, and the whole world accountable before God. For by the works of the law no human being will be justified in his sight, since through the law comes the knowledge of sin. BUT NOW the righteousness of God has been manifested apart from the law...” That’s it. We are guilty and will have not one word to speak in our own defense. Silent before Him. And this is why we celebrate verse 21, “But now...” A way has been made where there was no way. It is a theme throughout all of Scripture. What is impossible for us to accomplish, is made possible by God, through Christ. It is clear that Whitney had no way to fix her life. There is nothing she brings to the cross of salvation. I can say the same for myself. Our silence will turn into utter worship before the King of Kings.

So we can celebrate Whitney only because we celebrate Jesus. We can celebrate her life, because we celebrate His death. We are utterly without hope and without ultimate healing unless He raised from the dead. This was what she was taught all her days. This is what her mom preached to her all her life. And as some who knew her well said of her, that though she felt shadowed by her own darkness, she knew well that the Lord was by her side, that He would be her help. Tyler Perry spoke of her well-worn Bible, marked with her words and highlights. These statements give us pause. They remind us of One who is higher, who forgives, who sustains, and who redeems us from the lowest place. Praise be to the Lord Jesus Christ.