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.