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.

Winter: Death is Alive.

There is a silence in the cold, frost-ridden, barren trees and brown landscape. It seems, in every way, dead. There is a forced isolation and with it, a redemptive promise of things to come. As I have driven around the back roads of Pennsylvania, my mind has contemplated the deeper message of this particular season. Even now, as I look outside, it snows. Understandably, most are waiting for Winter to pass. Signs of Spring are spinning in the minds of those who can’t feel their hands when they walk outside, where temperatures drop so low that the bite in the air is fierce and pinching. We look out the windows and see what seems like the bare bones left on the ridges of the creation all around us. In a way, it steals something from the vibrance of daily life.


Oddly enough Winter is my favorite season. Foolish I appear to those who hear me say it, and as I have lived in the south now for 15 years, I have come to love it, even crave it, more than I used to. Winter brings something unique that is often skipped or rushed through if one is not proactive to seek the treasure it offers. Death may line the surface, but so much more lingers below. Winter demands a waiting. Not only does it require this hectic society to stop and sit by the fire, it actually invites us into the wonder of stillness, warmth, community and delight found only in times of waiting and rest.

Waiting feels pointless, unproductive, and, more or less, a hassle to the accomplishments of the day. All in all, we have very little patience and almost no concept of redeeming the time for the development of our minds and souls. Always, the destination is the goal, while in the meantime we have lost a value for the journey. This season, this cold, barren land, whispers of a journey, a process, and a maturity at work. There are hidden pearls that must be sought after and pined for. It is uncovered only in active, purposeful waiting. In these moments there is a death to the plan, a death to control, a death to power. Forced inside, forced to stand longer, forced to sit longer, forced to think, forced to feel, forced to remember, forced to listen…These are lost values. As a matter of fact, we are afraid to think and feel for there arises regret and distress, memories we want to erase and voices that tell us lies we don’t want to believe. So, we stay busy, running, packing our days full with non-stop activity and unnecessary distractions. The rise of technology has created a numbness. There is now a way, with our phones, itouches, Blackberries, and other instant internet machines, to never have to wrestle through idle time. Now, when we linger in line, we can talk, email, search the web or just distract ourselves with a game. We don’t even have to engage another human being. What wealth do we miss that waiting has to offer? Maybe what we fear in stillness is essentially a passage to a surge of life, and an expansion of personal depth and meaning. Maybe the waiting is a ticket to overcoming and emptying all that gets trapped inside us: the pain, the suppression of darkness and the hurt long left unattended to.



The blustery wind tosses the chimes outside our door, leaving a delicate sound in my ears. The lake behind us, half frozen, has been the landing spot for a flock of Canadian Geese. The view of the weathered bird feeder outside the kitchen window has the most striking background of white snow highlighting the stark crimson of the Cardinal who frequents there. My eyes scan for these fortunes. These gifts are found in the waiting. A red fox scurries in the bare woods behind us, spotted so clearly. He ducks and dodges as if he knows our eyes have caught him. What still moves below the frozen lake? What is waiting under the white, frozen landscape behind us and all around? What buds of life linger in the trees so brittle and tall? The sun still comes up for a reason and these creatures still find food on what seems like a dead earth. Life is here, but hidden. Life is growing, but behind the scenes where we can’t observe. I love Winter for this reason. Beauty and movement and growth is constant, but in secret. Real life is most often this way. We miss what is cultivating and changing because we want to pass right through those dark spots, those lonely moments, those periods of lifelessness and death.




Not only have we been almost programmed today to skip over the “hard stuff,” but we also naturally detest pain and struggle and the taxing, twisting emotional work life requires for us to stay healthy. One of the most common experiences of the entire human race is the thorn of loneliness. Like Winter, it feels like a grave, leaving us isolated, cold and oftentimes hopeless about life. Loneliness is deep, at certain times more than other times, but it always settles like a mist around each and every one of us. Married, single, old, young, in the midst of loss, right after birth, well fed, or hungry, loneliness is present and raging. We hate it, run from it, throw distractions over it, make a phone call, drink too much, listen to music, stay online, talk ourselves out of it, and wish for that one accomplishment or arrival point that we believe will take it all away forever and ever. This particular universal norm, is steady and piercing. Like Winter, it breathes traces of stark landscapes and damp darkness. On the surface, and without much reflection, it is pointless and empty, only silent and cold. It bites like death.



The years passing reveal patterns. The young still believe they can find a missing key this side of eternity. Like we all did, they think it is possible to avoid loneliness and pain. As I interact with them every day at the high school where I work, I can see them pining for solutions, plans, goals and grades that will secure them from Winter ever coming. Sobering it is to me now that I thought this way, but I did. Maybe a best friend, the approval of that teacher, repairs made with my dad, a perfect career that fits all my gifts and passions, a solid paycheck, a spouse with a great look, a great job, and a heart like a hero...the list is long and keeps growing. The ache from Winter, the expiration of unmet expectations and desires still pulsing, blanket all of humanity like freshly fallen snow. Loneliness is inevitable and maybe for a reason. Maybe it’s good, like Winter. Maybe it’s necessary like the dying of the earth before the birth of Spring. I am learning slowly that it is a gift to the soul, one delivered in pain and loss. A process, not immediate...a season, not a moment.



It is true, that a life lived in, and embracing the reality of loneliness, instead of fighting it and running from it, is a life of depth, beauty and sacrifice. Hoping always for the first sighting of the daffodil means we miss the solemn beauty in grey skies, silver ice lining tree branches, calming silence, crunching sounds of snow boots on packed snow, sunsets through barren trees and the wind that howls outside while a fire rages in the living room. There is a sweetness here. One of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen, speaks often of the solitude that must be sought after and deliberately chosen in order to find peace. We hate it, but if we did not fear it so much, maybe we would allow ourselves to sit in it for a time and settle in, anticipating the comfort that eventually comes. Active waiting, purposeful embracing of the chills that initially strike sharp, lead to the freedom we all long for. The freedom to be alone or not, to be still or active, to be quiet or conversing, to be in silence or surrounded by company. This is freedom: to be content and at peace with either as it comes.

Mental space is a foreign concept in many people these days. The fight against loneliness and the fear of suppressed thought rising up, keeps us moving and maxed out. This lifestyle saps us and shallows us. But Winter stills. Time alone opens up space and develops the depth of us. What we all long for in relationships is impossible without isolation, meditation, and contemplation. We enter our relationships with demands, and bleeding wounds for filling. Loneliness can inappropriately drive us where we have nothing to offer but our needs, nothing to give to our friends but our hallow, underdeveloped selves. But beauty arises in friendships when we offer one another the gifts that come from solitude. Like Winter, we offer the possibility of Spring. For how will we speak with wisdom, how we will know the truth about life, God and ourselves if we sprint with no breaks, if we never listen to what surfaces so we can replant it in the earth? Winter can’t last forever, it won’t. But it must come. It must stay for a time. The colors of flowers are more beautiful after living in the gray for a spell.

Her Soul, a Storm

The sky sometimes resembles the soul. It looks beautiful when it looks wild. Though years have passed, I still remember watching the storms roll in from the east, over the small town of Eddystone where my grandparents lived throughout all my childhood years. The skyline from the city behind us and the row homes across the street served as a backdrop to these unruly clouds. We sat, stomachs turning, waiting for these storms. They hit with vengeance, like the rush of a roller coaster ride. We screamed and beckoned for it to come. We clambered to stay dry, fighting for spots next to the wall, in from the edges of the exposed porch. The fierce wind came as if in slow motion, moving toward us and blowing every which way. Lightening blazed just a few towns over, followed by deep cracks of thunder. We were in a torrential downpour. Maybe, if we were lucky, it would last all afternoon. Sometimes the rain would hit us sideways and the clouds would mask the day as night, clouds that turned from gray to black to blue to white, all mixed together, dark and ominous, but mysterious and satisfying.

The truth is we loved every thunderstorm that barreled down and across Eddystone Avenue. Always, they fascinated us. What choice did we have but to submit to such clout? On the one hand, this power was scary, on the other it was good to know that big storms meant a bigger power presiding over me. Dark clouds still loom from time to time, but always, I am mesmerized by them, taken by them and comforted under their canopy.

The soul desperate in fear, wondering, doubting or confused is a picture-perfect blue, black sky. Turning in rhyme with the wind and moving forward with a vengeance, the dark night of heartbreak, its losses stacked upon losses, feels less like grandeur and more like the fiercest storm. I’ve seen it in the face of one I know. To her, this raging tempest has carved out a meaningless void, a mismatch of dark experiences and thoughtless words from those who mattered most. As I listen and watch her eyes, I see something in her far different from what she sees. The sky that seems dark and erie, that overshadows any grain-of-sand-sized hope is the start of a tapestry that she cannot yet perceive. And the sky that falls heavy with gloom? It is also a mysterious strength. Can a tattered spirit be exquisite? I’m finding it can, here, in her. This somber sky is one I love. Its depth, radiance, quality unmeasured and peace are a backdrop to her perplexing pain. Life is always this way, and it is this way in her. She can only feel the turning rage and the billows of clouds tossed out of control. Still, like the storms I saw years ago, her soul is captivating and radiant, admirable in its own right, and a storehouse of abundance.

This sky, this storm, is true fortune, untamed.

A lesson from a tiny bird.

Creation tells stories. All the time, in many ways, with strong, natural colors mixed with subtle, strange sounds. It groans in anticipation of the return of the King and it whispers of His presence here, now. My perception has gotten more keen over the years. I guess in a way, I have trained myself to “pay attention.” Annie Dillard, one of the finest writers, sees nature around her as a scrapbook, telling the tales of the making of the Kingdom of God. In her view, it both reveals and obscures Him. Both, and simultaneously. Wonder of wonders, mystery, complexity and beauty all wrapped into this One God. It propels us to search, and keeps us always looking for more.

I saw a small, hopping-about bird on my patio yesterday. Standing at the window I took the time to just notice. After discreet observation, I actually noted his efficient eating pattern, and gradually I saw right through him, into a bigger allusion. There surfaced a sermon, a theological truth fleshed out in this tiny, puffy, bird.

There hangs, in the bush outside our sliding glass door, an unsteady, unwieldy bird-feeder. I fill it almost every other day with popular sunflower seeds. Always hoping for a redbird, instead a grey, mechanical-looking Tufted Titmouse carefully landed on a branch and jumped onto the swinging feeder, looking for a convenient bite to eat. Quickly, he darted into an opening in the bush, and looked around, making sure all was private and secured. With a successive and redundant motion, he took the sunflower seed, smashed it on the branch, cracked it open, and enjoyed his small seed. Keeping his eyes on watch alert, he sat for a moment, and darted back to the feeder for more treats! After a time, it seemed to me like such hard work. And he kept going, repeating what was laborious and tedious. All for food!

I read an interesting quote today from the book Life With God by Richard Foster: “The opposite of grace is works, but not effort.” Our theology can sometimes lead us down a road veering off from the intended course. We are told to “Wait on God.” We are told to be still, that He will fight for us, and that apart from Him, we can do nothing. All of this is true, biblical and sound in doctrine. Yet somewhere along the timeline of our reformed faith, we started to believe that we are hamstrung, capable of only sin, wanting for everything, and therefore waiting exclusively on Him. I learned a lesson from the Tufted Titmouse: work hard. Search, seek, dig, find, endure and sweat for something of value.

Foster talks about God-ordained means of transformation. As people in such dire need for ultimate salvation and daily rescue from ourselves, we must participate in this faith. Meditation, fasting, prayer, study, solitude and silence, community and confession lead us into His transforming presence and life-giving resources.

So with a motivated heart, and with an expectant, watchful eye, submit to Peter’s bold command in the first chapter of his second letter,

His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature, having escaped the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But whoever does not have them is nearsighted and blind, forgetting that they have been cleansed from their past sins.Therefore, my brothers and sisters, make every effort to confirm your calling and election. For if you do these things, you will never stumble, and you will receive a rich welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Obsessed with Comfort...

I sat with a woman named Grace for a few hours. At 72 years old, she is full of wisdom, perspective and humility. Life has sifted out all the unimportant scraps and has left a list of what really matters. The two can often be confused for us today.

Near the end of our time, we talked about how beautiful her screened-in porch was and the nice breeze that came through on a rather hot, North Carolina afternoon. Her response has stuck with me, “I don’t really turn my air conditioner on much. You know, there was a day not too long ago when we didn’t have it. People seem to think all of us in the south were dying by the millions down here in the heat.” She laughed as she said it, but her point was strong. We hate being uncomfortable. Despise it, really. And at all costs attempt to find a way around it’s sharp sting.

As a culture we have “advanced,” or so we think. Stepping back and evaluating, I wonder just how driven we are by the idea of comfort. It dazzles us, in the distance, ahead of us, and tells us that peace is promised with just the right amount of certain stuff. Almost every new gadget, every upgrade and every better model, is meant to bring more ease, more comfort or more time. But for what? Our motivation is to arrive at a place of rest, and all the while we are working harder and longer hours, never learning what it means to be quiet and still, connected all the time. Ironically, we are more wealthy than any other country, and yet a population of more people with anxiety disorders than any other country. Since 1988, with all our “advancements,” antidepressant prescriptions have doubled every three years in America. Driven by and consumed with comfort, we are left wanting. Desperate and hollow.

Essentially, we are seeking what we are made for, “blessing” from the Lord. This is what He does, this is who He is. Throughout scripture it has always been His theme, to pour out blessing to His people. Our definition becomes the problem. I have often wondered what Jesus really meant when He promised that those who follow Him will be “blessed.” Repeated over and over in Matthew 5 in The Beatitudes, Jesus uses this particular word. However, the situations that lead to blessing, are quite the opposite of what we think of today. Here are Jesus’ words based upon the New International Version:

3 “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
4 Blessed are those who mourn,
   for they will be comforted.
5 Blessed are the meek,
   for they will inherit the earth.
6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
   for they will be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful,
   for they will be shown mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
   for they will see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers,
   for they will be called children of God.
10 Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
   11 “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. 12 Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Each verse uses a phrase we would hardly admit to as a personal goal. And yet according to the way of the Kingdom, life-changing blessing comes from such seemingly upside down traits. It is not uncommon to hear people refer to America as a “blessed nation,” and as I have reflected more on scripture, the life of Jesus and the insatiable drive our materialism creates in us, I would firmly disagree. If blessing meant, “a lot of stuff,” than America would absolutely be considered blessed, but according to the biblical definition we must rethink this statement altogether.

I work in a private, Christian school where most of our families are financially in the upper bracket of society. Over many years of observation, I have noticed that the kids who seem to have the most materially, are in fact the least content. There is an unsettledness in them, an emptiness that plays out with a demanding response to circumstances that have not quite gone as they hoped. When they slam up against an unexpected roadblock, they become angry and frustrated. Their goal of comfort and avoidance of pain, were not met. They are floundering. There is no question, we all struggle with disappointments, and yet scripture speaks to a life-changing reality: this is not our home. Often Jesus reminds us of the fallen state of the world and the pain that comes along with it. In John 16:33 Jesus says, “In this world you WILL have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world.” We would be hard pressed to find anything in scripture that speaks of comfort and ease as a promise this side of heaven; it is quite the opposite. The path to the cross would be a brutal one tangled with physical pain, spiritual darkness and personal betrayal. Nothing about the story of salvation would be easy, and as His followers, He promises we will endure the same.

With careful observation, one can see the stories of the gospels are fierce and drizzled with blood, fear, and loss. Salvation itself would come to mankind through the horrific death of Jesus. His words shatter any hint that His objective would be our comfort: “Take up your cross daily and follow me.” Essentially, He is telling us to die to comfort, worldly success and the consumption of stuff that we think will buffer our lives from pain. He calls us to die to ourselves. And yet, if you or I sit in front of the T.V. for even thirty minutes, or skim through a magazine in the rack, we will be amazed at the push for the pursuit and obsession with personal comfort. We have forgotten our higher calling and in turn have narrowed it down to nice cars, stylish clothes, and a neighborhood with a name. Slowly and subtly, we want to take over the throne. Our personal comfort becomes our driving force, our top priority and over time, we have formed an idol that in turn will destroy us. We have subtly gotten off track by misplaced desire. Tim Keller put it this way in a recent quote on Twitter:

You've distorted your deepest wish by trying to make it into your savior, and now that you finally have it, it's turned on you.

Idolatry leads to a slow, dark transformation, changing our values and stealing our peace, joy, purpose and hope. Instead, the call is for us to worship the Creator of all good things, and to experience His goodness here as He intended. Our eternity starts now, inklings of Heaven are all about us, and yet we have lived each day for smaller, selfishly motivated gratification. We have settled in and inevitably, when things don’t provide us pleasure, we cave into fear and anxiety. I want my students to know fullness here and now, and not by obsessing on personal comfort, but by obsessing on their part in the distribution of the Spirit here. This was the gift Jesus gave to His people when He departed, the Spirit, to go and impart His presence to every human being. To be a part of change and purpose so powerful, that comfort and personal happiness are no longer the goal, but a by-product of tilling the sacred soil around us.

Jesus calls us to know Him and experience Him here, to be ambassadors of His, to bring His continued presence here; to redeem, transform and unveil Him to the furthest corners of the earth. Jesus seeks to bless us, to truly bless us. We will experience authentic satisfaction when we redefine what matters and when we stop seeking personal comfort as our most valuable end. We are reminded of a higher goal: His Kingdom. His promise is clear, “blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

The Springton Reservoir: A Childhood Treasure Chest.

The woods behind my house are splintered with my memories. They swipe across my mind like the overgrown branches swipe cross my cheek as I walk the path again. Old bottles we thought were antiques left by old pioneers and fisherman from the early 20th century. Scanning the piles of leaves and broken down trees for left antlers after falling off adult deer that roamed behind our house at dusk and dawn. We found old bones and pieces of more bones from dead animals either fighting to their death or fading away from old age and disease. I can recall, in the dim places of my memories, the enormous nests of Canadian Geese, the towering rock we would climb on like it was a mountain range high, the still water with Blue Gill and Bass we hoped to catch. Winter was serene. Soft, like a dusting of peace, there was snow everywhere. Crunching broke the silence, but we still knew we were alone. The ice clinked like a song when pierced by our tossed rocks, and when it was thick enough, we would be brave, and careless, riding our bikes across the lake believing it was firm enough to hold our middle-school selves...or at least we hoped. Tuned to the sounds around us, our ears were sharp and alert, ready for a display, a sliver of God’s goodness and beauty. We waited and anticipated, until all of nature would birth for us a moment from the bowels of the spiritual world. Inevitably, it would come, like turning the corner at just the right time.

Like a stroke of a brush, these sights, sounds and stories have painted the colors of my story and the framed snapshots of a childhood preserved. Closing my eyes, I can go back in a moment. Walking those paths: I am back in elementary school, middle school, high school, visits home from college, and in from North Carolina over Christmas break. My blood runs rich with these recollections.

My thoughts will begin to turn, and with ache and longing, I desire to sketch this picture for everyone, to walk those paths in their own histories and to have built the same forts in their younger years. In many ways, it is quite sweet and even sacred. For no one really knows except Kim, Mark, Tim and me...we share the sights, sounds, colors, treasures, and stirring that is brought to the surface when any one of us wanders down with the boys, or alone...and faintly, in our thoughts, like a distant echo, we hear the bell ringing again, and mom calling us home for dinner.

Twitter is spiritual....well, that's a stretch.

Embarrassing, I know, but I have a Twitter account (dawnpoulterer) and a range of people/news that I follow and keep up with, providing me snippets of information. Just enough to keep me distracted and aware. I only check it a few times a day and so most of the time, I breeze through it. Like taking shots of truth, I follow daily quotes by the brilliant men of history and the present: C.S Lewis, A.W. Tozer, Spurgeon, Luther, R.C. Ryle, Mark Driscoll, Tim Keller and many others who share random, insightful thoughts. Scrolling, I have found some inspiring quotes that have stopped me with thought and meditation.

A quote that someone tweeted not long ago is one of my favorites. It is made up with just a few words, but chapters of theology. G.K Chesterton is one who can seem to me too deep to grasp. I have not even ventured into the pages of Orthodoxy, but I have been often tempted. So here it is...a reminder to me that even one of the most amazing scholars, when he truly knows Jesus and has understood the reality of the gospel, will be a picture of the humility of Christ. It is clear in this short quote:

When asked what was wrong with the world, G.K Chesterton said, "I am."

A Love Affair with My Books!

I spent all day yesterday going from shelf, to other shelf, to other shelf, reorganizing and cleaning out my books! It haunts me to ever move again, as in the back of my mind I know..."Those books are going to be the death of me!" By far, they will be the biggest thing for me to lug to the next local.

But I have no qualms about that. As many conversations as have been had, I still have not gotten a Kindle or a Nook, and am just not sure I can do it. If you sneak in the room at just the right time, you may catch me with my nose stuffed in the middle, smelling the pages. If I had it my way, I would crawl up in there and live out the rest of my days IN a book!

So, this summer I went up North where the market is high for used items: books, clothes and anything thrift! It's hard to find used bookstores in Charlotte. Not much of a market for them it seems. But in Lancaster, PA my sister, mother and I went from shop to shop and looking for the deals we always seem to land. Inevitably they would be ready for the next place and wandering about only to finally find me tarrying in the section with all the books. As usual, I found some classic treasures, and as usual, I couldn't resist the purchase! They would roll their eyes as I walked out with another small stack. As I packed my car to head back to Charlotte, I stuffed every last crevice with another good read!

In light of my purchases, I went on a cleaning frenzy a few days after my return. At the end of it all, I had two high stacks of "get-rid-of-em" books, and it felt so good. Painfully, I weeded out the ones I would never read again, or those simply of no use to me now as I have changed my taste. All Henri Nouwen books need to be on the shelf next to my bed; all counseling books need to be set up on the red bookshelf personally made for me; all my Charles Spurgeon, A.W. Tozer, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Andrew Murry, Mother Teresa, C.S. Lewis, Martin Luther, and Brennan Manning need to line up next to each other on the big bookshelf downstairs so that as I walk by I am reminded of my heroes and what Kingdom living is all about! The titles alone still melt me, "The Pursuit of God," "Glimpses of Jesus," "Musings of Heaven," "The Cost of Discipleship..." They lived with one foot always in the eternal, supernatural world. They seemed to look at life with purpose that is lost today in the chapters of narrow, shallow books that are now stacked on the shelves of the Christian Bookstores. On any given day, I could pick up any one of those books and read a page and be left with much musing and inspiration...like opening a treasure for the soul.

So, today I spent some time in the Gospel of Mark. As always, amazed with the authority of Jesus and His manner of speaking with boldness. I wandered by one of my bookshelves and saw this title whispering my name..."The Imitation of Christ," by Thomas a Kempis. Another classic, and I knew, "If I open this book up, I will be more freed by its content than if I left it alone." So here are a few nuggets I read that I will leave with your worn out, weary soul...

"Grant me, O sweet and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above all creatures, above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtilty, above all riches and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all fame and praise, above all sweetness and comfort, above all hope and promise, above all desert and desire: Above all gifts and presents that thou canst give and impart unto us, above all mirth and jubilation that the mind of man can receive and feel...

Because thou, O Lord, my God, art supremely good above all; thou alone art most high, thou alone most powerful, thou alone most full and sufficient, thou alone most sweet and most full of consolation...

Come, oh come; for without thee I shall have no joyful day nor hour; for thou art my joy, and without thee my table is empty...

For there is none like unto thee in all whatever is wonderful in heaven and earth. Thy works are very good, thy judgments true, and by thy providence the universe is governed. Praise therefore, and glory be unto thee, O Wisdom of the Father: let my mouth, my soul, and all creatures together, praise and bless thee."

from chapter 21

Luke 6:45 reads, "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks."

Be good to your soul and to those around you, read some of the classics...

A Visit on the Porch with Grace.

Shade trees surrounded the screened-in porch; the breeze was pleasant. We sipped coffee from Honduras and chatted about life from each angle of our own experiences, broad and yet similar, finding our common ground: Jesus. On Sunday my friend Christine asked me if I wanted to meet for coffee with a beautiful woman, 72 years old, who had been mentoring a college-aged girl, mutually connected through the Fellows program. There was no hesitation. Immediately I knew I wanted time with her and to inevitably leave refreshed and revived.

I’m so lost without the bedrock faith of those who have traveled for so long before me. As I sat, I hung on every word she spoke and in turn expressed my own thoughts to see if she agreed. Her faith has been her lifeline for more years than I can fathom and has stood the test of time, tragedy and change. The truth is, faith like that becomes the very core of a person, like that barbed wire that grows into the tree after years of living alongside one another through seasons of growth and weather. I can trust the faith of a woman like this and I can see all the truths I have learned solidified in her journey of years and years. What confidence and what peace this brings. Stories such a hers become a sign that what we believe is real and lasting. What started with the prophets and was embraced by the disciples, apostles and on through the ages of church history, shows up on a screened-in porch in a southern home in the life of Grace.

I find myself quite nervous that the generations before us, who still teach us of the rich experiences of life lived without technology, air conditioning and the self-esteem movement, will disappear and we will flounder in the waves of nothing special and all things superficial. There will be those few who separate from the tyranny of the urgent and not-so-important, and who will swim upstream and thankfully leave their wisdom behind for us like morsels on a dirt road leading to hidden treasure. But I fear there will be only a few. Unfortunately, we have placed ourselves, our accomplishments and our own inventions in the center of the universe. In turn, we have become dull and arrogant.

I guess in the end, I am inspired and motivated to be different from that. To sell everything I have to go buy the treasure in the field and to live my life by such a cost. Truth is, I can only ask that this be given to me by the Spirit. For in and of myself, there is nothing but dust to offer.

One of the richest days. Natalie's Story...

Every once in awhile I am invited into a secret place, hidden in the deepest, fragile spot of a soul. I never take it lightly and sometimes I’m left, like this time, mysteriously changed. My Natalie and I stood at the headstone of her brother: 1989-1999, it read. Stark and bold. His name and these short dates hold an unfathomable story of loss, one that needed to be told again...

I’ve learned that stories shape us as they bend and turn us around and into becoming a certain type of someone. It’s true that we will gladly retell the tales of bountiful moments, full of joy when we laughed and smiled and celebrated. To be sure, if it were up to us, we would set up camp there, on days when the sun shined bright and terror felt a million miles away. Tossed upside down unexpectedly, and undone by dark clouds, torrents of rain and wind; this too is our reality. Try as we may, there is no secure shelter from such trauma, and we run, tiring, until it finally reaches and sweeps over us.

There was nothing awkward about this day. We stood, as if it just made sense to be there together. Over a year ago, she told me, with no warning, that she had lost her little brother to leukemia. Silent, I sat, looking at her eyes fill with tears and stunned that I had taught this girl for months and never knew that she had endured such a tragic loss. Conversation opened up and she shared an abbreviated version of the whirlwind that swept through the life of her family. Words never work. They don’t rightly settle the questions, emotions and raw experiences such as this one placed before me. Like a treasure, I tucked it away.

Strangely, I will admit, now and then I wander around this same cemetery only a few miles from my house. Looking up and all around, immediate perspective spins into view. Headstones to my right and left, in front and behind, rows and rows and rows, remind me that I have one life, a short time, and no warning as to when it will be snatched up. In seconds all the superficial entanglements fall away like dross. Sobering, is how it feels. Inspiring in a way, but heavy on my heart. I wanted to know where Natalie’s brother was buried and she welcomed my request to go with me and show me. Essentially I was asking her to reenter a painful place, and to allow me the privilege to step nearer to her heart. I knew she understood what I was asking, though neither of us acknowledged it initially. Saying yes to my request was saying yes to this rare level of vulnerability. Every part of me was grateful and humbled.

Her hair was back and braided, her riding boots high and to her knee, she stood with a sweet smile on her face. Leaning over she sat her Nalgene bottle on the ledge of the headstone and we walked back through the memories sealed inside of her mind, like a trap door. Five and so small, Natalie was changed, broken by loss and rebuilt over time but never who she was before. “He died almost on his birthday, “ she said. His little body seemed to bruise easily, and after tested with positive results they up and moved to Duke, living away from home, her dad taking a leave of absence from work and the whole family walking a dark road together. Natalie doesn’t remember many details, but feelings of confusion were messy yet real; something big was changing her entire family, and she was feeling the surge rushing over them. Under the surface, my sense has always been that Natalie is deep and genuine; she glides along with thoughts most people never ponder.















As I stood next to her, with all my questions and curious contemplations, I wondered if she understood what I understood: this trauma, though in some ways full of hazy details, has molded and shaped the core of who she is. Like a small seed, growing and turning around every part of her mind, heart, and soul, spreading into her desires, perspectives, dreams and fears. I told her this realization and while I did, something welled inside of me, like a rush of emotion that transported from that five year old tiny girl, and straight into me. I fought it, but couldn’t. The power of her story left a dusting over me that day. I left sad and thankful all at the same time.




Who would Natalie be if she never had this brother who came for ten short years? Her parents, who would they be? Her sister? In talking, she got it. She knows it’s true. Though so young, Natalie speaks a language no one else her age quite gets; too often she shuts it away, unless asked.

I'm so very glad I asked. It's one of the richest days that I will never forget. "I hope this crack in your life turns you toward Jesus and not away from Him," I said through my tears. "It already has, I know it has. Watching my parents handle this the way they have has been so good for me."

I’ll go back there on my own again soon. I'll pray for Natalie.
The ripple from this surge never stops. It never, ever stops.