A visit to the cemetery does my life good...

I did something strange today. The confused looks on peoples' faces startle me whenever I choose to admit it to someone, “I went to the cemetery.”

As I think back I don’t usually give people a chance to respond, mainly because I feel so awkward and wonder if they do too. Fumbling to explain, I try to put words to the fact that I periodically wander around this particular cemetery with the intention of adjusting my rather “off” perspective about life. To be honest, it happens rather quickly once I pass through the towering brick entrance. In a matter of moments, my mind races with essential things, with eternal things, with the meaning and value of deep and significant people, with the purpose of life and the reality of death. All of it comes racing to the front of my mind and quickly pushes out the illusory things around me that continue to make promises they can’t keep.

Life is short and unpredictable. I saw a handful of headstones for people only 20 years old. I saw a plate of a girl born the same year I was and died only three years ago as a mother of three. My eyes would look out and see rows of white, black and gray stones, all of which carry stories of loss, tears, unresolved conflicts, final words left unspoken and dreams cut short. As I sat on a tree stump and prayed, I wondered at who these people were and what their lives looked like. Who cries for them still? What did they do with the days they had? What would they tell us if they could speak to the living? What regrets did they have? What, at the end, would they say mattered more than anything else? What didn’t matter at all?

I sat still. Looking. Thinking. Praying. I told the Lord, “I do not want to live for myself.”

I continued, “I surrender to You, and I want to want the things that matter most to You. Will You carefully change every desire that is not of You and form it into Your pure desires? And above all else, will You do whatever it takes to spread the Kingdom of God through me?”

I meant it. I don’t want to die and to have had no higher purpose than a career, or an accomplishment that bore me certain recognition, or cute hair, nice clothes and a car that made people look. I don’t want to build my life on a foundation that goes no further than my own small name on my own little corner of a vast universe. I begged God to spare me such anxious and self-absorbed living. “Stop me, if need me,” I whispered.

Quite baffling it is to even consider that this tiny dot on the universe could be a part of the building of a Kingdom. But it is very true. What makes the most sense, and what makes it possible in the first place, is that this is not about me or my ability to lay one brick on top of another; this is about the Spirit of God, who raised Jesus from the dead, and who also lives in me!

To live outside of this Kingdom purpose, to live for smaller, more hollow things seems like an early, living death. Too often, the way we live our lives, chasing shallow, external, selfishly motivated ends, is slowly turning us in to the walking dead. If you are observant, you can almost see it in people as they pass by. These lonely people have nothing to offer to the rest of the world. Every motivation, desire and drive is turned toward self. It is the atrophy of all things good. It is death.

So, as it was said, “Consider the lilies, they neither toil or spin,” and yet our Father cares for every need they have. It is not in our own hands to make our lives worth something, it happens because of surrender. It happens because we shift our gaze upward. It happens because we allow Him to love us and in turn we leave a trail of His aroma, not ours (and there is a rather significant difference!), as we go.

This is the spreading of the Kingdom, it starts with the simple scent of humility, selflessness and the worship of Someone far bigger than ourselves.

"Dawn, you need to meet someone..."

It seems like pieces of Jesus were imparted into each of us when we were forming in the womb. Frankly, the more I think on this, the more aware I become that this is quite true, and so utterly beautiful. Life provides the platform of many stories that seem to prove this, but I have one very personal one: my sister, Kim. It feels like my heart leaves shavings scattered on I-95 between Pennsylvania and North Carolina from every time I leave her. But this last trip home reminded me again of just how remarkable she is in every way. From the time she was in high school she has made it her personal mission to dignify people who are often considered the social discards of our society. Now, for those of us who have grandparents or great aunts and uncles we have loved, we shutter at the thought that they are no longer considered a part of the accomplished and thriving population of the day. For Kim, every soul matters, no matter what age or physical ability or mental capacity. She looks them in the eye and touches them with the warm, supernatural grace of God. Sometimes it comes through simple, human means. Like Kim.

My mom and I were picking her up to head to Lancaster, PA for a girls afternoon so we stopped in Linden Halls. A nursing home. Long hallways lined with a few wheelchairs and the sounds of T.V. game shows spilling out of each dimly lit room. To me, to you...it almost seems like waiting for death. But for Kim, this is opportunity to love, to honor and to glean from those who have walked many more miles than we thought were possible.

“Dawn, come down here. I want you to meet a woman who is 105. When will you ever meet someone 105?”

At that moment, she thought about my basic need. A lost value for such an interaction as this. And she was right, and I felt a scared moment come upon me. Leaning down, I touched her hand. I looked her in the eye, hoping for a connection. It may sound strange, but with no exaggeration, I felt as if I were in the presence of someone famous, but even more than that. 105. A gift I never knew I wanted, and Kim saw the need, the essential value for me to meet with someone who has lived my life more than twice over. I didn’t say much, just asked her if she loved my sister as much as I did, to which she managed to say she did.

I forgot about the pointless things that in other moments take up too much space. It didn’t matter what I was wearing or who I knew or what my paycheck was. It didn’t matter if I was short or tall, if I had on my make-up correctly, or if I knew how to blog well. My degree was not a topic, nor the school I attended. I was staring in the face of someone who had one thing to consider: the culmination of many years, and what that produced in her final days. I didn’t ask her about her GPA or her most favorite place to shop. I was glad she knew my sister loved her. And I know it mattered that I looked her in the eye and touched her hand.

She died not long after I saw her. My sister told me. It mattered that I met a lady who was 105 years old.

My sister sits with people who are sitting on the edge, anticipating the end and reflecting on all that was. What an honor and a privilege. Few could do this. But see, that is what I love about Kim. She has always loved them. She isn’t afraid of them or intimidated by their needs. And to put it mildly, they love her. They smile when they see her. I guess they would tip her if it were money that ultimately mattered. But somewhere along the time line core values seem to shift quite a bit. So Kim seems a lot like Jesus to me, caring for the least, caring for those who are alone in the corner of a dim room, in a stiff chair and with no conversation. She lights them up, and she does the same for me.

Truth be told, she always has.

P.S. The woman in the picture is Mildred...she is not the lady I was speaking of. My sister still loves on her all the time! She's so cute.

A hard thought.

It's more than praying a "salvation" prayer...that was the easy part. Faith seems simple, like a step, until it starts to look like death and costs you everything you have.

www.rosamariacecilia.blogspot.com

Did He really die on a cross just for us to be nice people, with cute clothes and a whole lot of money??

What would be worse than waking up in the morning, rushing through an entire day, and laying down to sleep again only to stop quietly before drifting off into the night, not knowing the purpose of why you awoke in the first place? I simply cannot imagine. Truth be told, I fear this almost more than anything else. The difference between a life Paul calls, “selfish ambition and vain conceit,” and a life lived for the Kingdom seem so many worlds apart, and yet I wonder if such a distinctiveness is ever that clear.

I live in the Bible belt. With no exaggeration, I think about this question every day. How do Christians have nothing better to do than what everyone else is doing? No higher thoughts, no more sacrificial decisions, no less racism, no loser grip on their money, no more hope, no deeper-rooted desires, nothing greater to worship beyond self. Left almost speechless, I was in a two-hour conversation with a man today who also lives here. He owns a coffee shop and is quite the perceptive observer of people who come in. I am often taken by his descriptions of the “Christians” who enter his shop. There are those who make him want it, and sadly he can name them on one or two hands. However, there are many more who have made him truly question if Christianity is anything more than a label to hide behind and an image to decorate. I agree wholeheartedly. The mega church, which has the loudest voice around here, oftentimes doesn’t help. Signs, shirts, flags, colors, videos, big sound, big names, high tech equipment, blogs, bumperstickers, and tweets...Somewhere along the way, we felt like we needed to help Him make His name great. We all look good, feel good, and live good. We all love being Christians and rarely think about the call of the gospels that would split us open if we let it. Jesus on my t-shirt, or Jesus piercing my soul? We prefer the former all too often it seems.

I’ll say it straight up and wonder all the while if I should. I am lost in a world of pointless Christianity. I am discouraged by a lack of everything in every area of life. There is more. Let’s hope the cross was worth more than a title for us to claim. Please let it be that a sacrifice so great wasn’t just for us to look like nice people with neat ideas to discuss over coffee. Do we need a Savior, or do we need an image?

My brother Mark is teaching me a lot about living for this Kingdom. He is doing it in a way that hurts. He is walking the path of death to self. I am humbled by his choices, inspired by his story and embarrassed with my own shallow faith all at the same time. He is in Peru with his family, picking up his newly adopted daughter. If you read his blog, you will know what I mean when I describe him as I do. He looks more and more like Jesus each year. I’m thankful to call him brother.

Oh, and just so you know....the only reason he started this blog, was to recount the story of the power of the Kingdom. That’s what I love. He doesn’t even have a TV. Here it is if you want to be inspired to something higher than a new phone, a new car, or new pair of cool jeans.

http://rosamariacecilia.blogspot.com/

Jane Cassidy...my grandmother. My Hero.

Is heaven too far for a carrier pigeon to soar? He may be too fat, or just not strong enough, but what if I could find one brave and healthy for the trip? A small piece of paper in his beak or rolled tight in the grip of his claws would suffice for me if he could reach her. The wind would be a tough fight and the snow this winter would stall him quite a bit. The truth is, it would be a risk for me to be limited to a few, precious words to write and just a mere hope of it getting there. It seems impossible to condense my heart and yet I’d be so thankful that she could have some simple lines connecting us again. It’s been too long since I saw her or felt the warmth she brought to my heart like no other person ever did. Her smile, her soft skin, her tender, humble heart. She was poor growing up and a trail of deep losses followed her; as a result she was profoundly aware of the more important matters in life. And this is why I was addicted to my grandmother’s presence. All in all, she loved Jesus, and had very few other concerns but that of knowing Him and loving Him.

I wear her watch that doesn’t tick. Maybe I would write this to her. It’s a reminder of who I want to be, to pray for the same humility and to aspire to the Kingdom as she did. I hated losing her. It was so trying to see her in pain. Always amazed, I noticed that her words never crossed into despair, negativity, or frustration. Over the many years she thought so often of the suffering of Jesus and thanked Him every night by her bedside on her knees. Her pain, she knew, could not compare to His sacrifice. And the future glory she awaited made it not worth focusing on what was ultimately so temporal; once she arrived she knew it would all make sense. A day never passed where her gaze was not upward or her heart not expectant for what was to come. This place was never her home.

So what would I write? What would matter to her? What in all the world do I want her to know?

“I miss every single thing about you being here. It’s not too long before I am with you again. I know you prayed on your knees even when it hurt. So know this, I daily swim in His mercy and thrive because of His grace. I know of no other Savior. I saw Him in you and found Him to be so real. Will you wait for me? Is Jesus near you? Tell Aunt Eleanor I cried for her last week. This separation is hard, but prompts that longing to reunite and to ache for what is eternal.

Please both greet me soon.”