High School English Class Revisted...and good for my soul.

It’s been 22 years since I sat in my American Literature class in high school.

Miss Morrison. In so many ways, I am a product of her long-term investment. Who I am now in 2011, mirrors so much of who she is. However, I, a lesser version her, continue to want to be more like her in every way.

Pacing slowly back and forth in the front of the room, slowly, and with intentional eye contact. I can picture her back in my class, arms enfolded over her literature book, sitting just so. Perfectly timed questions provoking thought and inspiration string through the lesson. Years have passed and I still recall my own experience. It’s quite true, though odd, but I never wanted the bell to ring. A piece of me came alive in that hour and it has never died. Every day, her explanations on whatever work we were examining seemed to me so truly profound. The meaning of words, the deeper descriptions of images, the themes tied to each new scenario on each new page, images dissected in the lines of every stanza, the color motifs, the underlying messages telling the tales of the human race...I discovered this: literature is art. I recall having this distinct epiphany. It happened with short stories, poetry and, most effectively with The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Digging with deliberate watchfulness, like opening a treasure chest, we were taught to explore.

I have since not been the same.

She inspired me again today. Drifting back to those years. I sat in a small desk in the back right corner, set to listen. Yet now with an advanced mind and 22 more years of real life. Combined, these make a profound adjustment to the intake and judgment of a poem. Unfortunately, I have lost some sharpness to my insights, yet have gained real life and the gut-wrenching humility that comes with failure. In this way, years later, I certainly have more in common with those who penned those timeless lines, and that seems to matter quite a bit concerning interpretation.

Jealous, I sat. Seems strange, but I would go back if I could. Not to return to the long, self-focused years of High School. But instead to hear, to contemplate, to learn, to understand, to be taught the meaning of the lines of the poem, the novel or the essay at hand. In the end, I would love to go back and see how I am like the Romantics, the Puritans or the Revolutionists. Their words, their insights, adorations and contemplations would be more like shaping tools instead of test material or just pointless information. Human beings passing down messages that are altogether timeless and essential to us in our lost, modern world. They, in quiet rooms, trapped in cold, New England winters or looking out over miles of vacant hills and verdant valleys in undeveloped lands, spoke what is often unspeakable. Lost in the vast, deep of creation. Nature sang to poets in ways it still cries out today. Her words are hidden in sounds and colors and landscape and wind. But we hide in dark rooms with wires and plugs and speakers and sounds of cars and guns, or digital guitars and drums. A made up, virtual world that has secretly stolen the real engagement of adventure and the true lessons found in defeat. It’s never a real battle, it’s not a true cause, it’s not hands-on training, testing, or falling; no risking, not hurting, no planning, no true loss. It is nothing like authentic life. These games are a weak substitute for fresh air, damp dirt, and cool grass.

Walt Whitman, in Song of Myself, sat still in a field, smelled the air coming over valleys and through the leaves on tress, sweeping across his cheeks. Quiet and alone, filled with thoughts leading to other thoughts, settling into discoveries and valuable observations. He writes...and then questions us who are lost inside our four walls and closed windows:

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through
the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

Whitman means for us to take hold and breathe in the air, and touch the grass and feel the wind, and smell the leaves. First hand is better, he says. Alive our senses come, and this we were meant for. Ironically, we think ourselves advanced with the expansion of technology, broad pages of information with images from across the world. Sound bites, photos and a disconnected, distant experience is stealing the full development of who we are.

But instead, to sit under the shade of a tree in an open field, to breathe in the outdoors and stare straight up into the vast, blue universe...these pieces of living art pump our veins with warm blood, alive.

Desperate Whitman is, in a way I often feel:

I am mad for [Nature] to be in contact with me.

It’s much more than just the beauty for our eyes, or the oxygen it brings to our lungs. If we listen carefully, we can also hear the beckoning of trumpets. Paul said it well, “We know that the whole creation is groaning...” And likewise, we groan, “longing to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling.” The Romantics understood the seduction of Heaven whether they named it as such or not. Our days, our vision, our dreams are atrophied by black boxes and high tech screens. Walt Whitman spoke a different language, a universal expression of what sits inside all of us, waiting to be ignited.

Lisa Morrison taught me such language in a high school classroom 22 years ago. She lives in front of me still. I hope to speak it today in my own classroom. The truth is, words are limited, yet only for a short time. The sky will split, and what the poets fought to announce to the ages, we will echo with them, in perfect rhyme and meter.

Sad but True...just a thought to share.

Most Christians live as if they need another Savior. Like Jesus doesn't work so maybe buying a lot of stuff will.

We're not really all that...

Sometimes I hate intellectual banter.

Honestly, it can smell of such arrogance and sound a bit like we’re “playing God.” We are silly and small. We know very little and yet act as if we have the corner on the deepest, most obscure thoughts that no one has ever had. Essentially, we think far too much of ourselves. We admire people like C.S. Lewis and hear stories of him and the Inklings sitting around in their Oxford pub speaking about fantasies and theology and the webbings of life. Ironic it is. We mimic them and somehow think we are the same, and yet the image of being smart and clever is far more motivating than truly learning from one another. We discuss topic after topic and comment on every new wave of thought as if we are the masters of words and opinions, thinking we have finally made a point no one else has ever made. It’s the world of the internet, free range thought and late night postings. Sadly, we have come to believe we are smarter than God Himself, and somewhere along the way we became arrogant enough to think we can more effectively speak for Him since He can’t quite make His own defense with enough clarity for the human race to be at ease.

Danger lurks around these platforms. Worship is misplaced. We begin to bow down to our own minds, and our personal, sophisticated creativity and have come to assume we are worth “following” on our blog, Twitter, or Facebook. Our goal, as Tim Keller says in his new book, The King’s Cross, is to get the rest of the world to “orbit” around us; instead of pointing them to “orbit” around someone far bigger. Now, of course I hesitate and have to consider my own participation in this, the writing world. Truth be told, I hate the tension that steals most of the experience from me. Underneath, deep inside of me, are many thoughts rolling around, and some that I wholeheartedly believe are worth sharing. However, I delay the delivery of these words all the time. Throwing my words, opinions and thoughts under my personal microscope, I critique my motives and discipline my intentions like a child who is wandering far off to do what he wants, void of all consideration and wisdom, narrowed by only the thought of self. I, too often, become the person who I am so frustrated with and as fear tangles around me, I restrain myself.

Those “thinkers” who are long gone, who we admired so much, were drenched in humility. Men like C.S. Lewis did not think highly of himself, he thought because he was a genuine intellect. He did not chase an image, he chased the truth. He did not chase a name, he chased clarity. A.W. Tozer taught himself by reading and re-reading, searching and thinking. He was quiet, awkward and mild. Charles Spurgeon preached to 10,000 people at a time on any given Sunday and yet lived hidden in the power of secret prayer. It seems their goals were different than the goals of the 21st century writers. We want a name. Many budding writers think our own minds are wells of inspiration and hidden theory and we thrive on our pulpit of self-promotion. This pride is our greatest barrier to truth. Our insights are clouded with cynicism and arrogance.

So I’m not sure about the balance. We who love to write, are called to write. Those who love to sing, must sing. The artist must paint. The dancer must dance. Our goals, our motives, our reason for doing what we do, must first take the stand and come under question. We must face our own cross-examination. Pride steals. It makes us ineffective in what we say and do. Human beings can smell it a mile away. C.S. Lewis said this of pride,

There is one vice of which no man in the world is free; which every one in the world loathes when he sees it in someone else; and of which hardly any people, except Christians, ever imagine that they are guilty themselves. I have heard people admit that they are bad-tempered, or that they cannot keep their heads about girls or drink, or even that they are cowards. I do not think I have ever heard anyone who was not a Christian accuse himself of this vice. And at the same time I have very seldom met anyone, who was not a Christian, who showed the slightest mercy to it in others. There is no fault which makes a man more unpopular, and no fault which we are more unconscious of in ourselves. And the more we have it ourselves, the more we dislike it in others.

So to those who write: Weigh your words carefully. But more than that, weigh why you do what you do. We are, and never were meant to be the center, that place is reserved for One.

His Promise Kept....

"Isn't it funny how day by day nothing changes but when you look back everything is different...." --Prince Caspian (C.S. Lewis)

I've held on to this hope. My counselor told me one time, "Dawn, it is a gift that you have friends who have known you long enough to be able to tell you that you are a different person than you were years ago, but the truth is, you are different whether you 'feel' it or not, or whether your friends can tell you or not. Jesus promises, and has made a commitment to you, to change you. He is doing it each day. It is a fact."

What a significant, and truly restful thought. The anxiety I feel at times over my own soul and my own state is appeased by this truth: He is making me more like Jesus and it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with His promises.

Hold on to this when you fall. Keep focused on this fact when you see the same strongholds creep in again. Everything is truly different. And the greatest hope is that one day, the veil will be removed and what we see now in part we will one day soon see in whole! This is the hope of Heaven. This is another promise we cling to.

I Corinthians 13:12---
Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.

El Morro...

It means “Fortress.” In Old San Juan, Puerto Rico there stood beyond rolling, green hills a tall, stout fortress. Its walls high and its image one of strength and might. People peppered all about with kites and chairs and food. Kids rolling down the inclines and playing round after round of hide-and-go-seek. Behind all the activity, stands a powerful image of warfare. Defense. Protection. Resolute resistance. Back in the 19th century there was no frolic or play, laughter was scare and fear intensified every moment of reprieve, stealing any potential lightheartedness. War colored everything. Land was the goal, ownership and power were the driving force of the time. As I walked through the rooms and looked out over the rough waves rolling in from the North, I began to wander into the spiritual world. Peter calls it a war over our souls. He goes on to say that the Devil prowls around like a lion, seeking to kill. He is subtle, crafty, pointed, fixed on a goal of destruction. Troops led under his fierce command are enraged with his imparted fury and nothing or no one gets in his way.

Except one.

There is a force unstoppable and in place, a ready shield. There is a power that stands high above the ocean, thick walls of barbaric stone unbreakable, unbeatable and guarded day and night. Nations rise up, people strategize attacks, evil is vigilant and harsh in its movement toward the Kingdom of God and all its followers. This is war. This is conflict and combat. With much precision and detailed method, our authorities advise, collect data, observe enemy patterns and set up for the ensuing battle. Bloodshed is necessary and expected. Losses are inevitable. All precautions must be taken for each and every individual. A Commander will instruct, but cannot demand his platoon to obey; he can give credible counsel and delegate necessary procedure, but he cannot make one engage in the fight. Or better said, he will not.

In this war where the platform is unseen and the enemy invisible, we must prepare with different strategy. As I walked through El Morro and turned in a full circle around me, walls bordered every side and canons were set up at each post, ready to blast out the enemy coming in at night, in secret, concealed in the loud rage of the ocean. They were hard to spot, and as they ventured in they hit a barrier of great might, and it still stands centuries later. It remains in tact and strong. The spiritual battle is altogether unconventional and yet vaguely familiar to those who have fought these historic battles for land and sea. New eyes, new senses, unique and distinct plans. Strange measures must be made. This is an exotic, raging war over the souls of all mankind. He prowls in wait. This enemy is real, his death wish is the warrant on our lives.

Towers of concrete and wide walls are not needed in this battle on this plane. Paul spells it out in Ephesians: “Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all the strategies of the devil.” The protection we are to wear is quite mismatched from the strong site I saw in old San Juan. Truth, Readiness, God’s righteousness, Peace, Faith, Salvation, and the Word of God. No guns, helmets, swords, or grenades; no arrows, spears, chain mail or tanks. Everything is different. And in no way more simple, or less scary. The fight is executed in a realm unseen by human eyes and it cuts with a sharp and steady blow. We are to be engaged and we are to be ready. We are all participants, those with the name of Christ written on their souls are to be cautiously prepared for dispatch.

That’s you. That’s me. Each of us who take a place in the Body of Christ. So when I stood, so small, at the base of such a monstrous palace of protection I knew that this was a shadow of one much bigger, wider, more steady, more solid, more sturdy and more sure than any earthly stronghold. Understanding the battle is foundational to preparing for it. Who is our enemy, how does he fight, what are his patterns, what are our fears, what makes us crawl back, what makes us motivated, what are the weapons fashioned against us, who is fighting alongside of us, and who ultimately has our back? What does it look like for me to be a part of this invisible, but very real, attack against the people of God and the reign of His Kingdom?


We are vulnerable. There are weapons forged against us. If we sit still and hope for an arrow to miss us, or for the enemy not to notice us in our secret spot, we will soon be overtaken. Our enemy is smarter than us. The tools and ammunition must never sit in the closet useless and rotting. Instead these means of defense must be employed and unlocked or we sit helpless on enemy ground. Many have learned, with little time, to use weaponry, to shoot a gun and dodge a bullet. But what about the use of Truth, or Peace...what does it mean to fight with the Spirit of God?

“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a treasure that a man discovered hidden in a field. In his excitement, he hid it again and sold everything he owned to get enough money to buy the field.”

Work, labor, toil, sweat, seeking, engaging, listening, sitting, reading, memorizing, re-reading, studying... “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” ALL YOUR HEART. This battle is not for the faint of heart or the lazy, fearful and aimless. There is nothing about walking into a battle with a passive demeanor or response. There is clear direction. There is a means, a detailed and often painful process. Jesus called us to be a part of a Kingdom vision. It is not small.

So the weapons we fight with are not of this tangible world and yet we are to learn to engage them with vigor and hard work. He is the one to equip us and ready us; He is the one to send us out with supernatural aptitude and skill. He builds into us all of what we need. So arise, go ahead with confidence, tap into the potential that sits in full supply. Beware of the loss of shrinking back or forgetting the One who mounts His Horse with all authority. For you ride under His lead, you advance with His course of action, you are shielded by His wings. So, fear not. The Kingdom is within you. All that you need to fight, is all that you have already. Seek truth, righteousness, peace, salvation, and above all else, may His Word be our food.

Don't let your eyes rest, you may miss Him.

It is always refreshing to read the words of the saints. Have you ever sat with the writings of Charles Spurgeon or contemplated the thoughts of A.W. Tozer or Francis Feneoln? They were each so bold. So focused on one thing. Inspiring, to say the least.

I have some back issues, to put it lightly. The honest description is that I feel like an 80 year old trapped in this body. Some days are worse than others, but none without pain. In the end, I would say, though at times it is hard for me to really believe it: pain is a driving force, a sharpening tool, a humbling push, a necessary thing. I say that, while at the same exact time I can tell you boldly that I hate it. My mind wanders to a saint who lived above and in spite of her wrenching pain: Amy Carmichael. Look her up. Read a few of her thoughts and you will unearth some higher perspective. I just have a few lines of something I read today from a collection of her writings named, I Come Quietly to Meet You.

In one of the apocryphal books it is written: “Go your way, and see beauty and greatness...as much as your eyes are able to see” (II Esdras 10:55)...as much as your eyes are able to see. It is only when we look and look and look that we really see. And the more we know of the object we are looking at, the more we see in it...It is the I in you and me that blinds our eyes. The loss of I--that I may know Him, see Him with new clearness in all creation...even in the souls of the unlovable and unbeautiful. I want more and more to see His is goodness and His beauty. Not vaguely, nor just from time to time. I want to see Him truly, continually, in His work, in those who love Him, in His book, in Himself...

Not just from time to time...we settle for that every single day.

Amy Carmichael sat bedridden for many years suffering with intense neurological pain from a fall. She was expected to recover and never did. These were the years, in her bed, that she wrote of the treasures of the spiritual world. She came alive when her body was quite useless. But from ashes of pain came the beauty of her pen.

So today, as I am in pain, as are many, I look to Amy as a reminder of the beauty around me, all the time. Ash Wednesday approaches and leads us into a season of Lent. Let it be that we look for as much as our eyes can see....

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.”

The Healing Command of Repentance--it's a long one!

Repentance. I have not really thought of it as a command, but scripture speaks of it this way. God always commands things with the intention of our freedom. His commandments are good and right and healing. The wisdom of Spurgeon, in his sermon “Faith and Repentance Inseprable,” brings clarity to a familiar word. He reforms and redefines and corrects the false ideas around the critical topic of repentance. Too often our minds check out and go numb to critical and evaluative thinking. Those who have been in the “Christian” world for many years simply stop thinking. If we are not careful and proactive about study, meditations and reflection, we will stop growing. In summary, we have forgotten about the necessity of repentance, and the gift of grace it is to us.

Spurgeon explains the meaning he extracts from the Greek word for repentance used in Scripture. The Greek actually has two words for repentance, one is less intense, “changing your mind,” and one the other is more thought-provoking. This definition is very helpful to our understanding the critical nature of repentance. It means “aftercare,” which is linked to the idea of sorrow or anxiety. The unrepentant heart is an anxious heart. By definition this is a heart full, and stuffed with angst and dark splinters, slowly hardening and missing out on the healing, unlocking power of grace. Spurgeon actually speaks of repentance as, “a blessed grace of the Holy Spirit.” A Grace. Reflection surfaces the question, “How is repentance a gift of grace?” The truth is, it is wrenching to think about my offenses. However, I long to consider how this is true and seek to measure the insights and confident statements of Charles Spurgeon.

There are two closely linked means of missing out on grace. One Spurgeon mentions first is to have the subtle mentality that these sins, these depressing and shameful sins, are beyond the pardon of God. This temptation is very real. In essence Spurgeon names this approach to sin a “sin” in and of itself. I do not usually think of this as sin...but with more contemplation it makes sense: If I weigh my sins as too big and too offensive and too overwhelming, I am making the cross small and the blood of Jesus impotent. God makes a promise to take all sin and cast it as far as the east is from the west, to forgive it and erase it and even use it for my personal redemption. With an honest look at such sins, I struggle deeply to believe the punishment for my sin is paid for. These sins carry with them a burdensome weight of consequence. How, in the name of justice and common sense, can they be pardoned? This is grace. This is the gift forgotten, misunderstood, and dismissed. A costly gift we daily set aside.

Spurgeon describes this thought in a way only he can, “[Jesus] can save you; be you as black as hell he can save you; and it is a wicked falsehood, and a high insult against the majesty of divine love when you are tempted to believe that you are past the mercy of God.”


The other angle of repentance that he addresses in his sermon is also quite tempting to settle into and takes the previous point to another level. All too often we find ourselves living in the despair that results from sin which essentially hardens the heart. Here is a hopelessness that takes root and begins to twist a life into a state of isolation from God and the grace He gives. In many ways, it “feels” right to despair and to sit locked in the dark room of my consequences. It “feels” right to have deep regret and misery. But too much despair leads to a resignation, a throwing in the towel. On the other hand, true repentance brings a softening of the heart, not hardening it with fear, angst, or hopelessness. These are natural responses to offending or hurting, so they seem “right.” But Spurgeon describes it this way,

If they could once get the thought that God would forgive them, their hearts would flow in rivers of repentance; but no; they feel a kind of regret that they did wrong, but yet they go on in it all the same, feeling that there is no hope, and that they may as well continue to live as they were, and get the pleasures of sin since they cannot, as they think, have the pleasures of grace. Now that is not repentance. It is a fire that hardens, and not the Lord’s fire which melts...

This is how I live my life. Desperation and hopelessness follow like a shadow behind me and sometimes in front of me. But always near. I am attached to the regret of my sin, but I am failing to dwell in the freedom and grace of forgiveness. Repent and rejoice. These two are linked and produce true repentance in the heart. Regret feels right, and initially is healthy. But it cannot stay in that place or despondency sets in. It is all too common, and one of Satan’s goals, to keep one stuck in the destructive patterns of sin since lines have already been crossed. But here is the neglect of grace. The dismissal of the greatest gift of freedom. This is the failure to rejoice in the power of the cross. A slap in the face. A sin of the worst kind. Making the cross small, insignificant and pointless. To keep on sinning, to stop fighting, to embrace and get comfortable with dark pleasure is to cheapen grace and live in bondage. This is a crisis, a failure of belief that this gift is real and effective for change and hope.

Repentance unlocks the chains around our souls. Seems strange and backwards at first thought. Seems easier to ignore sin, pretend that it didn’t happen, or resign to its power. I always thought that would be freedom. But grace comes in strange ways and unexpectedly. Grace falls on us by the acknowledgement, confession, and sorrow over sin. Here is where we not only realize how valuable the cross is, but also what it means that Jesus takes it, and tosses it so very far away. Gone. Not stuffed down and left dark and festering. Gone. Forgotten. Freedom; a true freedom. Pretending that these offenses are not inside us, does not make them disappear. Instead they simply stay hidden, and grow in power. We turn the other way while they wrap themselves around our souls. So He commands us to repent. He commands this simply because He loves us so. Let the sins that easily weigh us down and harden our hearts be extracted from the deepest places within us. Lay them before the Healer and Forgiver, let Him take them and toss them.

Let Him anoint you with grace.

Looking through old Christmas reflections and I found this one...

Nothing compares to Jesus. Over the course of 37 years living and breathing, I can testify that this is true. And it is not a feeling. It is a state of belief and in the truest sense, a relationship that is more full than any other. It is Christmas 2008. I am in PA and sitting by myself, not sure where everyone even is…but I am thankful for the unexpected time in solitude. It is hard to come by in a house of 9 around the holidays. It has been fun and loud…so many gifts and so much food. And little time for silence.
So in some ways Jesus has felt as far away as the rest of the universe. I have some things that weigh on me and it is hard to give them to Him when I can’t find Him for the handoff. But this is the problem…we can pray and thank Him for His birth, we can claim Him to be the reason we celebrate Christmas, we can mention Him in passing and listen to music that highlights His birth…but if we don’t choose Him and sit silent before Him, we will remain here in the physical world and the physical world will be our home. My last few years have left me thinking about the idea of the Kingdom of God. It is not what is around us. It is not the tangible. It is not the loud, technological advancements. I realize with so many others like Henri Nouwen and Thomas Merton and Brennan Manning…it is silence that ushers in the Spirit in such an array of colors that it stirs my soul with supernatural traces. The noise keeps Him out. The chatter and constant movement are like a wall between us and Him. But He waits. And He promises to come to us…but His mode and method are not like that of this world.
So this morning…I thought about Jesus. I thought about how He calms me. I thought about how the only hope I have is hope in Him. I was thinking about how much He matters when I feel overwhelming fear or disappointment. I was remembering how often my life has been straightened out or refreshed only in His presence. I was thinking about how apart from Him there is NO GOOD THING. I was recalling how my perspective is so skewed and leads me in a downward spiral of thought when I am disconnected from Him. I was thinking about how even creation is not as vibrant if not through the lens of God—knowing truly it was made for me to enjoy and to point me back to His power and might. He is it. He is all there is. He is the fountain of life, the healing balm, the resurrection of the dead, the peace that passes understanding, the hope of all nations, the beginning and the end, the reality of the supernatural, the motivation of the saints, the anchor for our wandering souls, the answer to all the questions, the rock when all around us is unstable, the purpose in all pleasure, the only One who knows us fully and loves us completely.
He came so that we could be with Him, live along side of Him, talk to Him, cry with Him, cling to Him…but somehow, we live as if He never came. We don’t really talk to Him that much, we don’t listen for His voice, we don’t get quiet and wait for Him to reveal Himself, we don’t seek out our answers from Him, we keep the TV on, we keep our ipods hooked up, we stay on our cell phones, we surround ourselves with people, we talk about meaningless things, we hope in money, we seek rest in the wrong places, we eat too much, drink too much, and shop too much. We look for more every day but we rarely go to the well of LIVING water that He has always promised to be. We are starving even though we are maxed out. We hunger in such a deep place and yet we keep eating the wrong substance. We are walking dead, living with so much less than what we have access to. We have been told so many lies and we live by them as if they were true. But they kill us every day. They steal from our souls and leave us empty again and again. We have forgotten Jesus. We live like He never came. We turn our eyes and hopes toward shallow things. We live like Christmas never happened, but we celebrate it every year with such vigor, we rejoice over a King born who came to save us, but we never really talk to Him.
So here I sit. Wondering what my next year will look like. So many people in harsh pain around me, and I am in pain myself. Give me Jesus today. Give me all the He is and all that He wants to be for me. Give me a heart to bow down to Him. Give me silence to hear Him, give me a voice to speak to Him, give me Jesus.
“For the people walking in darkness have seen a great light….”
Isaiah 40: all…
1 Comfort, comfort my people,
says your God.
2 Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and proclaim to her
that her hard service has been completed,
that her sin has been paid for,
that she has received from the LORD's hand
double for all her sins.
3 A voice of one calling:
"In the desert prepare
the way for the LORD [a] ;
make straight in the wilderness
a highway for our God. [b]
4 Every valley shall be raised up,
every mountain and hill made low;
the rough ground shall become level,
the rugged places a plain.
5 And the glory of the LORD will be revealed,
and all mankind together will see it.
For the mouth of the LORD has spoken."
6 A voice says, "Cry out."
And I said, "What shall I cry?"
"All men are like grass,
and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.
7 The grass withers and the flowers fall,
because the breath of the LORD blows on them.
Surely the people are grass.
8 The grass withers and the flowers fall,
but the word of our God stands forever."
9 You who bring good tidings to Zion,
go up on a high mountain.
You who bring good tidings to Jerusalem, [c]
lift up your voice with a shout,
lift it up, do not be afraid;
say to the towns of Judah,
"Here is your God!"
10 See, the Sovereign LORD comes with power,
and his arm rules for him.
See, his reward is with him,
and his recompense accompanies him.
11 He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.
12 Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand,
or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens?
Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket,
or weighed the mountains on the scales
and the hills in a balance?
13 Who has understood the mind [d] of the LORD,
or instructed him as his counselor?
14 Whom did the LORD consult to enlighten him,
and who taught him the right way?
Who was it that taught him knowledge
or showed him the path of understanding?
15 Surely the nations are like a drop in a bucket;
they are regarded as dust on the scales;
he weighs the islands as though they were fine dust.
16 Lebanon is not sufficient for altar fires,
nor its animals enough for burnt offerings.
17 Before him all the nations are as nothing;
they are regarded by him as worthless
and less than nothing.
18 To whom, then, will you compare God?
What image will you compare him to?
19 As for an idol, a craftsman casts it,
and a goldsmith overlays it with gold
and fashions silver chains for it.
20 A man too poor to present such an offering
selects wood that will not rot.
He looks for a skilled craftsman
to set up an idol that will not topple.
21 Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood since the earth was founded?
22 He sits enthroned above the circle of the earth,
and its people are like grasshoppers.
He stretches out the heavens like a canopy,
and spreads them out like a tent to live in.
23 He brings princes to naught
and reduces the rulers of this world to nothing.
24 No sooner are they planted,
no sooner are they sown,
no sooner do they take root in the ground,
than he blows on them and they wither,
and a whirlwind sweeps them away like chaff.
25 "To whom will you compare me?
Or who is my equal?" says the Holy One.
26 Lift your eyes and look to the heavens:
Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one,
and calls them each by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
not one of them is missing.
27 Why do you say, O Jacob,
and complain, O Israel,
"My way is hidden from the LORD;
my cause is disregarded by my God"?
28 Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.
29 He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.
30 Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;
31 but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

Be a Gardener...

"There is a treasure in the earth
that is a food tasty and pleasing
to the Lord.

Be a gardener.
Dig and ditch,
toil and sweat,
and turn the earth upside down
and seek the deepness
and water the plants in time.
Continue this labor
and make sweet floods to run
and noble and abundant fruits
to spring.
Take this food and drink
and carry it to God
as your true worship."

--Julian of Norwich


Since when did we think faith was about the rush...the emotional return and the satisfaction of our ego? Since when was it all about us, instead of laboring as an act of worship for Him?

Lord, save us from such shallow faith and self-absorbed, lazy Christianity. You modeled something so very different.

A real prayer from a real heart of contemplation...

I'm studying a bit on prayer. I am humbled with how little I get regarding this great mystery and I am reminded that I truly have no idea what it is to be a "praying woman." I hate that my prayer time consists of moments here and there, turning off the radio, praying while I put on make-up, or taking a shower. Now, don't get me wrong, I think the constant communion is a very significant part of being truly connected to Jesus. But what about the monks, the puritans, and people like Luther, Tozer and Spurgeon...they prayed for hours. They taught it AND they lived it. I ask for the Lord to mold and shape prayer into me...I guess after I write this, it would be best to just go do the very thing I am talking about. Here is a prayer by Thomas Merton that I love and relate so much too...enjoy.

My Lord God
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following
your will does not mean
that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that my desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope that I have that desire
in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything
apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this
you will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always
though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear,
for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me
to face my perils alone.
- Thomas Merton (1915-1968)

"We still need to mop up here..."

A Young Life camp sits in the center of a circle of beautiful, misty mountains. Windy Gap is not far from Asheville, NC and is the spot for our annual high school retreat. As we caravan four tour buses full of almost three hundred students, we kick off the school year with the hopes that our kids will have the right vision of what lies ahead. I don't necessarily look forward to it like I used to when I was younger, but the truth is every year I end up loving the time with the kids and relishing in spontaneous conversations with spiritually hungry teenagers. It is worth every minute.

My other responsibility every year is taking the seniors to the middle school retreat were we serve them as the work crew. I would love to try to explain the nature of this trip and why I love it more than the previous one described, but it would be hard to summarize. As I drove home and reflected, I knew I needed to write a little bit about this time as it is always so special, but this year was extra ordinary. It is telling enough if I just say, that I didn't want to leave and I wish I was headed back again this week with the same kids. That actually says a lot.

So what made it so sweet? Why in the world would I want to go back to scraping dirty plates covered in middle school grime and milk spilled on pancakes and rice splattered all over the floor and dirty napkins stuck to tables from syrup? Why would I want to lift chairs, sweep floors and empty trash cans filled with soured , old food? What would make me miss late nights, early mornings and giggly girls? How in the world can I be sitting outside on my deck with a glass of wine and a soft bed awaiting me and wish I were in a bunk bed, with 11 other girls and a hard, long day ahead of manual, tiring labor? "Why do you always have to be the one to chaperon that trip Dawn? Why don't they get someone else, you do it every year?" Good question. And every year I battle the same hesitation and it gets a little harder to be motivated to go. My back aches, I want good sleep, and I am in charge of too many girls, many of whom have no work ethic. It's like a woman saying she wants to go through labor again. Absurd. Right?

This year was like no other. Hope comes to mind. After many years of coming home feeling like it was worth it because any investment into kids who seem to have no anchor, is worth it. But this year reminded me that there are classes and individual kids that are in a good place. Respect for authority, work ethic, willingness to do whatever is asked. Being proactive in what needs to be done. Humor with no compromise. The rare question of, "What can I do now?" A random group getting along like they are all friends. Hardly any complaining. Laughter. Fun. Singing. Dancing. Taking picture after picture. Talking late at night on blankets under the stars and wishing I could bottle it up so as to never lose it.

I wonder what it was. I do know these particular kids are a unique group. I know most of them have some qualities that make them exceptional in many ways. It is also clear that the mix of kids is not typical. It was a story unfolding. It was in many ways, though they would never see this, a picture of the gospel. The evidence of Jesus. Serving is the key to joy and true satisfaction. Working together to do a hard job and to see it come to pass. Getting dirty, having sticky hands, breaking backs, long hours and no thanks...sounds like Jesus a little bit. Sounds like the life He calls us to. I know at the end of the day, this trip with the seniors is always the more rich one. The first trip to Windy Gap is to serve the kids...a speaker, good food, fun games and free time to hang out...the other one is to serve messy, immature, loud kids...sweat, early mornings and one more task, followed by one more task. It is the grunt work, the washing of dishes with steaming hot water, emptying trash cans full of nasty liquid and going to bed only to wake up with aching feet to do the next job, the next day.

Serving others. Spending yourself. It's not what our culture is telling us. I think it both fascinating and disturbing that there is a small business that actually cleans up your dog poop in the yard. People are paying for this to be done because they don't want to do it themselves. We have lost the rewarding reality of hard work, of dirty, humbling work. Smiles were on the faces of the kids in the kitchen. Laughter was coming for the ones breaking their backs and mopping the floors. The upside down Kingdom. We taste it every once in awhile. We want it all the time...

Just a convert or actually following?

We have a book we are reading this summer as a staff at the school where I work. Some years are better than others, but most of the books our Head of School chooses, I have loved and benefited from quite a bit. It I had a better memory, I'm sure my life would be applying more of the content not only in my counseling office and my classroom, but also in my life! This year we are reading a book by a brilliant man, a man with such obvious humility and wisdom that is combined with a genuine love for the Lord. The book is called The Great Omission by Dallas Willard. I don't want to expound on anything too much, but instead to just leave a few quotes for you to ponder...the premise of the book is that there is a great difference between those who are converted to Christianity and those who are disciples of Jesus. To say you believe in Him as a fact is not the same as following His life and becoming more like Him. So here are a few nuggets:

"Jesus is actually looking for people he can trust with His power. He knows that otherwise we remain largely helpless in the face of the organized and disorganized evils around us..."

"However we may understand the details, there can be no doubt, on the biblical picture of human life, that we were meant to be inhabited by God, and to live by a power beyond ourselves. Human problems cannot be solved by human means...but only constant students of Jesus will be given adequate power to fulfill their calling to be God's person for their time and their place in this world. They are the only ones who develop the character which makes it safe to have such power."


"In our culture, and among Christians as well, Jesus Christ is automatically disassociated from brilliance or intellectual capacity. Not one in a thousand will spontaneously think of Him in conjunction with words such as 'well informed,' 'brilliant,' or 'smart.'...What lies at the heart of the astonishing disregard of Jesus found in the moment-to-moment existence of multitudes of professing Christians is a simple lack of respect for Him. He is not seriously taken to be a person of great ability."

One more thought I appreciated is his firm stance on our responsibility in this transformation. In our becoming more like Jesus, we must make an effort and be a part of the relationship. To often we falsely believe that God must just drop down His power, motivation and inspiration down upon our heads...then we will be mighty Christians who leave a transforming ripple effect on the universe. Wrong. Nothing in life works this way. In this, he addresses the disciplines of the faith. In a clarifying statement he says,

"The emphasis in this dimension of spiritual transformation is upon our efforts. True, we are given much, and without grace we can do nothing, but our action is also required. 'Try your hardest,' Peter directs us (II Peter 1:5)...We should not only want to be merciful, kind, unassuming, and patient persons but also making plans to become so. We are to find out, that is, what prevents and what promotes mercifulness and kindness and patience in our souls, and we are meant to remove hindrances to them as much as possible, carefully substituting that which assists Christ-likeness."

"We will come to understand that for the most part our hurry is really based upon pride, self-importance, fear, and lack of faith, and rarely upon the production of anything of true value for anyone."

Wow. It seems we can be on the same track for years of our life and never stop and ask some of these invaluable questions. It is like we don't even know what it means to follow Jesus. No wonder the watching world is not really that drawn to us, and more importantly to Him. We are living like atheists. It's quite sad. But we have access to life-giving, life-changing power. He has promised abundant life and we settle for dull colors and a bland existence. Ask for more...Put effort into it. Eat of the richest of fare.

What does it mean to rest?

To stare at this picture brings a sense of solace, doesn't it? To actually go to a place like this and sit still as you gaze and meditate on beauty changes you on the inside. It's hard to explain. My brother has spent most summers in the Adirondack Mountains and this summer he is here at home. I heard him down by the lake last night with his friend looking for deer. He told me today over a cup of coffee, "I just need to be outside. I start to feel crazy and angry when I am not outdoors. I grew up in the woods every year and I can't live without it." I sat for a second and thought how cool that was. It was only two summers ago that I first went to Alaska and I remember having the conscious thought that being outside is being more in touch with God. I actually experienced a new level of spiritual connection when I simply threw my head back, felt the breeze, took in the clean air and set my eyes on images that are hardly able to be explained. My soul found water. My heart was at peace. I guess in a way it was because I was tasting and seeing the biggness of God. When I would cast my vision up at mountains so towering or I find myself gazing at water with a deep emerald tone, I was subsequently finding perspective. A new view and a calming wave would come over me.

So I contrast this with loud commentators on Fox News, the rush of trucks on the highway, the sound of video games, sirens, music on the radio and the overall sounds of voices talking over one another and the crazy busyness in my head. The truth is, I have to stop or I will think constant, spinning noise is ok. The T.V., like a constant voice in the background can stay on in some homes all day. We rarely drive in silence. Our phones are constantly alerting us to messages, and life stays so loud. We forget silence. We think noise going all the time is just the way life is. But look back at that picture. Imagine in your mind what it would be like to sit in front of that lake for an hour of total quiet. And pay attention the the thoughts that surface that you have tried to resist for the last five or ten years. We are afraid. And every year we have to work harder to keep them at bay. What does freedom look like? True freedom...what does it look like to actually live and not survive. What does it mean to actually thrive and not just pass time with pointless conversations and shopping? What does it actually mean to be a satisfied person? This summer figure it out. Find a spot. Sit still. Wait on the Lord and He will shower Himself down onto your weary, dry, and hurried soul.

Waiting well reveals the health of my soul...

I love Henri Nouwen. He is one of the most profound thinkers of our day and so spiritually in tune with the Spirit of God. His words can turn a moment upside down for me. I can be in despair and after reading some of his words, my entire perspective can change. My goal would be to think like Jesus, but second to that, I would like to think as Henri Nouwen thinks. If you have not read his writings, search him online or buy any one of his books and you will want more and more. Here is one excerpt from his thoughts on waiting. I struggle so much with this and it seems in some areas of my life I have been waiting for a long time...I love how he shifts my manner of thought:

Waiting is patient
But there is none of this passivity in Scripture. Those who are waiting are waiting very actively. They know that what they are waiting for is growing from the ground on which they are standing. That’s the secret. The secret of waiting is the faith that the seed has been planted, that something has begun. Active waiting means to be present fully to the moment, in the conviction that something is happening. A waiting person is a patient person. The word “patience” means the willingness to stay where we are and life the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us. Impatient people are always expecting the real thing to happen somewhere else and therefore want to go elsewhere. The moment is empty. But patient people dare to stay where they are. Patient living means to live actively in the present and wait there.

Jenel, Odlin, and Ben.

These boys have changed me....they live in Haiti and in my heart.