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."

Hide-and-Seek

You're lying in the dirt under the prickly leaves of a bush in the backyard. The torrential rain is pouring down and the soft dirt is quickly turning to oozing mud. Something brushes past your arm, sending a shiver up your spine. Spider! You stifle a scream, flail frantically looking for a stick and flick it far away - or so you hope. But then there's another hanging only inches from your face. The flashlight of someone looking for you passes by every once in awhile, stinging and blinding your eyes that have adjusted to the thick blackness. A voice calls, "Where are you, child? Why are you hiding?". You don't dare answer, certain you will be rejected and condemned if the voice discovers where you've been hiding and what a mess you are. Your heart races and your whole body shakes every time you hear footsteps disturb the eerie silence. Is it the seeker or a wanted criminal? You most certainly don't want to be found, but you would rather face the stinging, blinding flashlight and hear your name called, even condemningly, than be carried off deeper into the night.

Fear takes hold and you have to act, so you crawl out from your dingy hiding place and hesitatingly present yourself to the seeker. Matted hair, skin scratched by thorns, clothes caked with mud and torn by jagged rocks. You stand there blinded by comforting light as the pain of leaving the thorny bush's cold embrace slowly eases. You're ashamed to stand there in such a deplorable state. You say, "This is where I've been hiding. It's cold, wet, dirty, painful, and frightening. I thought hiding there was a good idea, but I realize, now, it wasn't. I want to go inside now." Love says, "I'm so glad you came out. I've been waiting for you a long time. Come get warm, dry, and clean. It's safe and comfortable inside."

But then, "It won't be easy to get clean, warm, and dry," you think. "I'm such a mess. Cleaning these scratches will hurt. No, I'd better not go inside." You've forgotten how awful it was in your hiding place and all about your fear of the wanted criminal. So you turn around and scramble back under the thorny bush. Back to the mud, cold, spiders, wet, and black of night.

But... you just don't do that when you're playing hide-and-seek. You can't. Why? Because you just told the seeker where you are hiding. You can't hide anymore! Your ugly has been brought into the light. Love saw it and love also saw when you went back into hiding. And love doesn't let you hide because of your ugly without a hard fight. Love will fight for you to go inside and be made warm and dry, clean and healed, safe and comfortable.

Love runs after you to your hiding place and says, "Beloved, I know where you are. Hiding will only hurt you more. I long for you to be made whole. Please, beloved. Come out. Come inside the house with me."

You say to yourself like you did before, "If I just wait, the spiders and wanted criminal will go away. I'll become clean and dry and warm, eventually. These scratches will heal. If I leave my hiding place, I'll be hated and condemned. Yes, I'll just wait here and everything will get better, and then I'll come out and no one will ever know I was cold and dirty and wet and scared and scratched. Everything will be fine if I just stay."

It's a lie. A blatant one, really, but you can't see it for what it is. If you lie in the mud, how will you get clean? If you remain in the prickly embrace of thorns, how will your scratches heal?  If you stay outside in the cold and rain, how will you get warm and dry? If you stay outside in the dark, how will you be safe from spiders and criminals on the loose? The truth is, staying in hiding will only make you more dirty, more cold and wet, more wounded, more scared, and more endangered.

Love is waiting with outstretched arms. Love is fighting for you. Love is yearning for you. Love won't condemn you. Love won't reject you. Love will make you whole. 

You don't have to hide. Run back to love.

The Conductor

His hand guides the baton gliding through the air in steady strokes. 1-2-3, 1-2-3.  He breathes, I breathe with him.  He moves, I move with him.  It’s a dance.  Can you feel it?  We all move and breathe as one and the music flows through.  There is a connection unlike any other between people through whom music washes.  Everything you are is invested in the other musicians and in letting the music free.  How many times has a conductor said, “You must play as one person.  You must sound like one instrument.”?  I couldn’t possibly count.  Complete unison is impossible to accomplish without the connection.  The musicians speak silently, saying, “Come, let’s build the intensity – the storm is coming.  Softly, softly now – don’t wake the children sleeping.  Grieve the loss.  Rejoice in the triumph.  Climb the mountain with me.” 

And the conductor leads.  He gently guides.  He feels the music’s excitement and knows to quicken the tempo – he shows us and we follow.  The music yearns to be cherished and held until the last possible moment.  He feels it, he shows us, and we follow.

This conductor, though, is more than he seems.  The podium is only half of his station.  Yes, he is much more.  He is the composer.  The music is a song that sprang from his soul.  It is a part of him, he knows it inside out.  He knows before it swells like the waves and when it will ease to a gentle lapping along the shore.  Nothing about it surprises him.  He needs no score to conduct.  Surely the definitive black marks on the page would only inhibit the music, hold it back from its full potential.  How could the techniques and dynamics denoted express all that the music is?  One can play a piece perfectly, obeying the command of every masterfully placed accent and tempo marking, but if the ink on the page is all you see, the music is dead.  It cannot live and flow freely.  No one can conduct the music like the one who first set it free.

Because the music belongs to him, the musicians follow without question.  He may decide to slow unexpectedly or repeat a section played before while the audience listens intently, held in rapt attention.  When he directs an unexpected change, it doesn’t always make sense.  Sometimes, the musicians don’t understand why.  But they know that he is their leader, the music is his, and he knows what he is doing.  And so, when the musicians understand that their conductor is also the composer, they trust and they follow, and the music flows through. 

This is the key.  The musicians must know their conductor.  They have to learn how he conducts.  What is that wave of his hand?  What does it mean when his right eyebrow arches slightly?  As we learn, we make mistakes.  He moves his hand and it looks to us like a cutoff so we arrest the movement, but he was only asking the violas to play out a little more.  When we make music together, I can’t bury my head in the written music.  How will I know what the conductor is doing?  What if he signals a cutoff, repeat, decrescendo, accelerando?  How will I know?  I can only ascertain his movements, then, from the sound of the orchestra.  And if he directs a cutoff and I’m not watching, I’ll certainly hear it, but it will be too late for me to stop with all the rest. 

As I play, I see him always before me.  I can trace the path of his gliding baton.  Often, that is enough to get by.  The music will survive.  But, when a difficult passage comes along, it’s easy to lose sight of the conductor – to stare fixedly at the notes that may easily cause you to stumble.  Then what?  You have shut out the only person truly able to guide you through it, to let the music continue to flow. 

Sometimes, a musician becomes filled with pride.  They croon within, “I’m the one who really knows how the music goes.  I don’t need a conductor, I can set it free on my own.”  What then?  That pride causes discord as its intents collide with the music in its purest form.  It clouds and confuses the song of the composer’s heart, and the beauty of the dance, following the lead, is lost.

Simply being aware of his movement out of the corner of one’s eye is often sufficient to keep the music alive, but surely we desire the music to thrive.  When a transition comes, peripheral vision does not suffice.  At that time, the musicians must fix their eyes on the conductor and drink in every movement.  Can they see the nod of his head, the expression on his face, out of the corner of their eyes?  Certainly not.  Music is played most beautifully when the musicians have practiced well with their conductor.  They know the movement of the music and are able to watch their conductor through every phrase.  Can you feel his heartbeat if you are too caught up in the notes in front of you to hold him in your gaze?  If the music is the song of his heart, how can you set it free without his guidance?  The musicians who spend time with their conductor build a deep relationship with him and the musicians know their conductor will lead them through the music, and even the most difficult parts will be made beautiful.  They trust him because he is the composer, also, and he knows what is done, what is being brought into being, and what is to come.  The reward of knowing and following the conductor is the beauty of the music set free together.  And… every now and then when your gaze is fixed on him, his eyes meet yours and nothing in the world can compare to the joy and affirmation in his eyes when you have followed well.    

 

All He Is > All I Wish For

I wish I could be faithful and that my love were steadfast...
but I'm thankful that He is always faithful and His steadfast love pursues me anyway.

I wish everyone who has poured into my life could always be close to me...
but I'm thankful that God blessed me through them and He is always with me AND He will finish the work He began in me, even if they're not nearby.

I wish life could be easy, sweet, and comfortable...
but I'm thankful for the strife, bitter tears, and pain because I know He is refining me, our hardships help us relate to others, these things push me to press in to Him, and He works all things for His glory and my good. Always.

I wish I could go to Moody and BCOM and the Honor Academy and Impact ME and everywhere else my sisters are going next year.  Every place.  At the same time.  Because then I could be with all of them...
but I'm thankful that His plan is perfect, He will remain with each of us, and He is more than enough.

I wish time differences didn't exist and separating distances could be freely spanned in seconds...
but I'm thankful that the Lord gave me friends - from Seattle, Dallas, South Dakota, Pennsylvania, Florida, Johannesburg, Zambia, Seoul, and so many other places - to be with for certain seasons; for letters, cell phones, and the internet; and that His plan is perfect.

I wish I knew how everyone I met in Africa is doing - Lesogo, Maggie, Abdul, Prudence, Piason, and all the others - and that I could be there to encourage them, pray with them, and walk through life with them...
but I'm thankful that prayer spans thousands of miles, He knew them before they came into being, He loves them with an everlasting love, and He has a perfect plan for each of them. 

I wish I didn't break His heart so often...
but I'm thankful that His love is steadfast and His power is made perfect in weakness.

I wish sin were never part of human existence...
but I'm thankful for the cross and God's astounding grace.

I wish I had all the answers to my questions and everyone else's...
but I'm thankful that in His abounding grace, God has revealed His character to us, and He is good and just and holy and faithful, His love endures forever, and He does all things well.

I wish I knew what tomorrow holds and every day after...
but I'm thankful that the Lord knows all things, His power is absolute, and He cares for me.

Wow.  He is so good.  He deserves more than all the praise we could ever give.  Imagine how much more we would praise Him if we set our eyes on all He is and all He has done for us rather than mourning what we do not have.  My foolish heart wears sackcloth and ashes too often, passing over the joy He gives.  We have so much to be thankful for.  If I wish for something I do not have, I am missing something greater that He is to me.  He is far more than enough to satisfy each need.

One night in South Africa, our Project Director asked us to think of all the good things that happened that day and thank God for them.  And then she said, "If you can't think of anything good that happened today, remember the cross."  See, there is always at least one thing to be thankful for. If we have nothing - if we lay dying with no friends, no family, no possessions, no wealth, no happy memories, no great accomplishments, no recognition - we should yet remember the cross, and that alone would still be enough to occupy our every word and thought with thanksgiving, if we set our eyes not on what we do not have, but on all He is.

For this and much more, I thank Him.  All He is > All I wish for.  Always.

"I give thanks to you, O Lord my God, with my whole heart,
and I will glorify your name forever.
For great is your steadfast love toward me;
you have delivered my soul from the depths of Sheol."
~ Psalm 86:12-13

What are you thankful for?  What has He done for you?

Africa #10 ~ Mulungu/Muzungu Anikonda? ... Both.

Twelve beautiful Zambian children are lined up for lunch. "Mulungu anikonda, mulungu anikonda," they chant. Big smiles. Yes, He loves each of you more deeply than you can ever know. Gideon's face leans out of line. Mischievous smile. "Muzungu anikonda, muzungu anikonda." He leads and the others grin and make the small change in their joyful chant. Mind racing. What?? Muzungu means "white person" in Nyanja. After speaking Zulu for a month in South Africa, I am bound to confuse mulungu and muzungu every once in awhile. Mulungu means "white person" in Zulu, but "God" in Nyanja. This is your language, though! How did you get them confused?
... "Ohhhh!!" They mean I love them. Oops, that was obvious. "Yes! Nikukonda! I love you, too!" I earnestly and giddily blurt.

This is possibly my favorite Camp Hope memory. In a situation with a fairly formidable language barrier, age gap, and cultural contrast, one wonders how much gets across. Do they understand? Do they believe what they hear? Do they see through the stories in the Bible and their experiences that God loves them? Do they know that I love them? Or is this all for nothing? I saw in their faces that my twelve twelve-year-olds really understood that their Creator, the Almighty God, their Father, loves them. That in itself was more than enough to make my heart leap for joy. Then they also let me know that they know I love them, too. Yes, this strange muzungu who butchers phrases in Nyanja and songs in Bemba, who thinks it's hot when all of you are freezing, who sings while we walk and march and dance and run until she has no breath left to make a sound... yes. She loves you. I love each of you very much.