His Story, Not Mine

Often, life seems like a mess of tangled yarn. There are many threads running through my days. Many lessons, many events, many feelings, dreams, ideas. But... every once in awhile, the threads pull taut and everything is put in order. All that seemed random and unrelated suddenly collides and makes sense and I see. I see my life. I see the One who speaks and orders my days and guides my footsteps. He opens my eyes and I see clearly. My mind, and I understand. April 17th was one such day. It happened quietly, softly.

April 17, 2013

I'm sitting up above the ocean. Doors locked, windows sealed tight, the sound of its rolling waves still reaches my ears clearly. I used to go down to the ocean. I used to walk in and feel cold silk as it murmured against my legs. Why am I up here?I see the place I have often gone - in storms, in the sunshine, at sunset, early on Christmas morning.  Part of me longs to be there, to surrender. But I am stubborn and self-centered and I hold myself back. I don't want to get my feet wet. I don't want to be cold. I don't want to get in trouble for tracking sand into the house. That's it. Before Africa, when I came back, I chose to surrender as fully as I knew how. When did I change? Why? It seems I care more about my own comfort and others' opinions than my Reason for living. That simply should not be.

A train rumbles by between my locked doors and the ocean. It shakes the ground, making a mighty noise and blowing its whistle. But you know what? If I listen closely, I can still faintly hear the rolling waves. I can see them. They still call my name. A train and the ocean get in a fight. Who wins? Yes, that's right. The ocean. Even though the train looks unsurpassable in power, the ocean would swallow it whole and it would rust in the depths.  No matter how hard it pounds the waters, it can't hurt the ocean. The train obscures my view of the ocean, but it's right there. Always. The ocean is a constant reality. It moves, but it doesn't move. It will always be right here, until this earth passes away.

So what does one do when she realizes she is holding herself back like a child keeping a lollipop out of her brother's reach? She gets down on her face and thanks her Father for His grace and asks that He would change her heart and give her the will and the courage to let go. Let go. Death grip relaxed. Hands open. Let it go. He knows how to care for your fragile heart. He is more than enough. He whispers love to my soul.

The existence, character, and importance of the ocean becomes harder and harder to deny or distort. Over time not only does the sound of the waves pass through these walls, but the smell of the salty air slowly seeps in. The air within the walls cools to match that which lies outside. It is impossible to remain unchanged in His presence.

I drove home and, on a whim, decided to check the mailbox although I was certain someone would have picked the mail up much earlier. I was waiting for a letter. A letter to affirm my path and cement my plans. No one had picked the mail up, it was still there. I picked up the stack and casually flipped through it. There it was, right in the middle. Moody Bible Institute. Emily Hall. I hadn't really expected it to be there. I thought I would have to wait until I got home from my weekend choir trip. Down the driveway, into the garage. The moment of truth.  I was fully aware that I might not have been admitted. Happy, but nervous, I opened it. As I read, the first thing I noticed was that the letter didn't begin the way acceptance letters usually do, with a big "Congratulations! Welcome to _____! You're a _____! We can't wait to see you on campus!" Nope. None of that. But it didn't sound like a rejection letter, either. There it was. The black ink congratulated me on my acceptance to Moody. But... there was no more space in Chicago. I could either go to the Spokane campus or do 1+3 FYOP (First Year Online Program). If I went to Spokane, I could reapply to Chicago after my first year. With 1+3 FYOP, I would complete my first year online and then I would be guaranteed transfer to Chicago for the next three years.

The world stopped. I wasn't crushed, but I didn't understand what had just happened. I expected something nice and neat. Acceptance or rejection. Yes or no. Clean, easy, final. Apparently, that wasn't the plan.

"I'm not going to Chicago." Disappointment started to creep in. And then I laughed. Oh Lord. You never cease to amaze me. No conversation with You is random or irrelevant or inapplicable. "Surrender. Do you believe I am who I say I am? Do you believe I love you? Do you believe I have a plan and  that I have led you here?" He's asking me if I will trust Him even when His plan isn't exactly what I expected, not exactly what I wanted. "I have not changed. My plan for you has not changed. I just want to lead you on a bit of a different route. I know you didn't expect this, but I knew all along. Will you trust me, little one?"

In Africa, my sisters and I often spoke of dangerous prayers - praying for things like patience and faith and boldness. These prayers are "dangerous" because He answers by giving us opportunities to be patient, to exercise faith, to step out boldly. These situations are not easy or even necessarily safe by the world's standards sometimes. That is why we pray for these things - to be able to glorify God in the hard places. Dangerous prayers are so good. We grow, we cut down fear, we see lives change because God gave us opportunities, the desire, and the strength to choose the hard options, practicing what we prayed for. On April 17th, up above the ocean, I prayed for the courage to let go, to surrender. Not ten minutes later, He placed an opportunity right in my lap. Literally. Oh Daddy.

I am not disappointed. I am not crushed. My world has not been turned upside down. My idea of what my life should be has not been ripped to shreds. This is not what I expected but... you know what? I'm okay with that. I am glad I have this opportunity to say "I trust You", to surrender, to be obedient, to do these things and not just say them. To demonstrate that I mean what I say.

I see my life up to this point, a jumble, a mess, and so many things make sense. I see struggle and faith and fear and lessons learned and Africa and Mexico and conversations and tears and plans, and they have all collided and fallen into line, everything orchestrated by the Most High God, the One who sees me. Last year, I wasn't ready for wherever I am going, but last year prepared me for this year and I am more ready than I was before. If we wait until we feel qualified and ready, we'll never get anywhere or do anything. If we choose to follow Him and take the first step in faith, He is faithful to lead us and prepare us on the way.

I have chosen to be a part of 1+3 FYOP. I see so many good things I believe He has in store for this year. I have so many things to experience, many more lessons to learn, and He knows this is the best way.  Lead me where You will, Lord.  This is not my story.  It's Yours.

This is the year for trust and surrender and belief. This is the year to rise up, Faithfull. For you know He who called is faithful and He will finish it.

Words of Hope

Words.  Words are powerful.  They build up and tear down.  They inspire fear, anger, awe, and hope.
Hope.  Hope is mysterious.  Trusting that a yet unseen reality is or somehow will be.  It's crazy, it's wonderful, it... changes everything.  Hope offers a reason to live, a reason to fight, a reason to be joyful.  Of course, there is the ultimate hope of seeing Christ glorified in all the earth and spending eternity with Him, but He also plants seeds of hope for things along the way.

Someone said something to me once.  I realize that happens to each of us thousands of times a day, but this was different.  In a moment of despair, the words caused my heart to leap and flutter in joyful, surprised anxiety.  Could it be true?  Could that ever be?

Has anyone ever spoken words to you that inspired crazy hope like that?  It seems so unlikely, so far out there, but everything in me yearns for it to be true.  For this reason, it rests nestled in my heart.  We know our ultimate hope is true.  He who has promised is faithful.  The hope of the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ should be shouted from the rooftops.  This little hope, though, is different.  It may be realized, it may not.  I do so want it to be.  So for now, it is not to be spoken.  It's delicate and treasured and I will wait and see, though it may take a lifetime to be realized.

May we use our words to build up.  May we use our words to inspire hope.  May we use our words to point to Jesus.

May we treasure the Gospel.  May our hearts leap at the name of Jesus.  May we shout from the rooftops of His glory, love, and grace.  He is worthy.  

Tale of a Broken Pot

The broken pot sits on the shelf among countless others. There is a large crack through her base from the time she was dropped, a gaping hole in her side from the day she rolled off the wooden table and fell to the hard ground. She is chipped and punctured and scraped.

Every day, she squirms as close as possible to the wall and angles herself so only the most whole part shows. The gaping hole to the wall, the jagged crack to the shelf. Now the other pots won't see her brokenness. Now the Potter won't see her - He'll forget and let her be, right? Safe, right?

All the other pots are radiant. They're shiny and beautiful. If they could see, surely they would laugh, mock her, snub her, shove her off the shelf to be dashed into countless fragments on the cold, stone floor.

The pots around her worry. She stays aloof. She's hard, solid, unyielding. "What's wrong? Why are you hiding back there?" they gently inquire.

"Nothing. Why would anything be wrong? I'm fine. Everything's alright."

She is made keenly aware by their questions of the chips, scratches, and holes in even her most whole side. She twists and turns, trying to position herself so the light and shadows conceal them as completely as possible.

One day as she hides in the dark corner, she hears the purposeful steps of the Potter. She shrinks back as far as possible and hopes He will pass over her and take a different pot - a radiant pot from the front of the shelf. Surely that is what He wants.

But today is not like other days. He calls her name and she trembles violently. He begins to reach for her and she desperately fights to become one with the wall, but to no avail. She is afraid. What will the Potter do with her? Surely a broken pot is detestable to Him. Every day she watches Him put beautiful, new, radiant pots on the shelf. She dare not think about what is coming. Not sitting here in His strong hands. The One who makes such glorious vessels must utterly despise such a disgrace as herself.

But as He gently cradles her in His hands, He whispers, "Remember." And she does. She remembers the day she lay empty, broken, abandoned, dirty on the ground. He knelt in the dirt by her side and picked her up, even as He was scraped and abused by her jagged, broken pieces. That day, He washed her with His tears and carried her to His own house, where He watched over her day after day.

He knows her thoughts. "Why are you ashamed? Why are you afraid? I love you. I brought you into my own house. You are safe and secure and accepted."

A trembling whisper."I don't know"

"I did something else the day I took you in. You've forgotten. Let me show you."
He begins to turn the broken, little pot in His hands and she fights and screams and kicks. "No! No! Don't do that! It's broken! It's ugly!"

All of a sudden, she's facing a mirror and it's so incredibly bright, she can barely stand to look at it. "Ack! What is that?!?!" she cries and averts her eyes.

"Look," He urges. "Look."

Slowly, ever so slowly, she turns her gaze upon the shining mirror and... what is that? She knows that scar. Yes, and that crack. And that chip. And that... gaping hole! "But how... ?"

"You're beautiful," He sings.

And it all floods back. He picked her up, He bore her abuse, He washed her with His own tears, He brought her into His own home, and then. Then He put a great treasure inside of her, a shining treasure of indescribable worth.

She remembers. She had sat in His hand that day and marveled at its splendor. It was perfect. And He had given it to her! She had known that day that she was beautiful because the shining treasure within made her so.

"Who told you that you were ugly? Who made you ashamed of your brokenness? It's through your brokenness that the great treasure shines through. Every day you hid your cracks and holes, you tried to hide the glory, the indescribable beauty I gave you to hold within."

There lay the truth. Her best attempt to hide her ugliness had never made her beautiful. It had hidden the one thing that could make her beautiful.

As she stared intently at her reflection, she saw she was more broken than she ever imagined... but she was also more beautiful than she ever could have dreamed.

"Forgive me. Break my pride. You make this little broken pot beautiful."

"No more hiding, you beautiful, little pot. Let your light shine before men."