Christmas in the Family

We watch the world go by at speed limit, all in two rows, shoulder to shoulder as if we were connected there. Because we are connected there. And hearts glow like the stars outside, and mouths move and out comes one joy, then another.

Youngest sister dodges sleep; little head leaning light, little hand on my arm. Pretty as the ice-coated night. The rest discuss the favored Soprano during Messiah, (the first one in red, please) the old Tenor who stoops more than he did last year-- and we hope he has many more years in the Methodist choir. (He, our general favorite.) 

We giggle re-dwelling the funniest antics on the rink, discuss the performance of the less experienced (stellar), decide whether or not to spend the balance of the evening making bagels in the classic country kitchen warm as summer. That is, if the power is actually on at home...

We stop where the wires are down across the road, turn around to find another way home. Shout "Thank YOU" out open car window to the utility men who'll be here wrangling icy copper until daybreak and beyond.

And once again, the holy joy that makes a day a holiday is wound around this beautiful gift, family. 

We don't deserve it. Them. But here we are, loved, loving...

- - -

And right into the middle of this warm-heartedness this word sinks like a cold dagger-- 

Abandoned. 

And not that He was... (He was.)

But that He did.

That He walked away from the adoring, from everything and everyone familiar... That He left companionship. That comfy spot between beloved shoulders... The little hand on His arm, the little head, the perfect sleepy face, the warm chatter, the laughter at the end of an unblemished day, He left it. 

He told them to scoot in to fill the gap, to be the pillow He'd been. Stood up and walked to the gate, swung it open, waited for the click, walked way into the universe to spend His first Christmas all alone.

So we could have Christmas at all.

Sympathy with Humanity

I wasn't complaining. Though it sounds a bit like it now...
On a peninsula of rock jutting like a castle between a gorge and a vale I stood, breathless from the scramble. Hands in my pockets and with eager step, if heavy heart.

Perhaps a few will understand when I say I carry on my heart at any given time a thousand reasons to laugh, and a thousand reasons to weep. Most all of them with first and last names.
Such is the cost of loving humanity, I suppose.

Anyway, this post isn't about me.

I'd just gained the crest, just finished a brief review comparing the power at my disposal with my far-too-often dismal performance, just realized afresh how deep mercy reaches, and—

It's not fair, You know? I deserve the lot of the criminal, but here I stand in converse with The Infinite, while people I love slowly die in the clutches of fear....

Can you see why happiness means nothing to me when it's mine alone?

...So, it's all or nothing.

Either I am to be completely at Your disposal to help the weak, comfort the wounded, and actually lift, and heal, and effect a lasting change, or...

Or, I want out right. now. 

Because it hurts too much to be in sympathy with humanity.

Ever have you been in that place or time when suddenly every tree in the wood seemed to drop its jaw and gape? and you wonder:

what did I do. What did I just say?

The only answer is this electric silence.

I glance one way and the other. Wait.

He never says. But suddenly it's as if every snowflake has recovered from shock and found a voice.

He would know.

He would know just exactly how much it hurts to be in sympathy with humanity. And He chose it, over the alternative, not because there was no alternative. For Him, there's no "out."

For Him, there's no wanting out.

"For we have not an High Priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities."  Hebrews 4:15 

Thanksgiving

It's the morning after Thanksgiving.
I miss it already.

So I'm going to keep it going another day, another week, another month...

We compare notes around the hearth and it turns out we're all thankful for more than circumstances...
We're thankful for the sunshine. And we're thankful for the shadows, which always prove that there is a sun up there.
We're thankful for happiness. And we're thankful for strength, gained at the cost of ease.
We're thankful for uncomplicated communion, and for friendship tempered by tears.
We're thankful for sympathy, a gift best given by a heart that knows what it is to hurt...

We're thankful that He sees beyond this moment and hands us what we'd choose had we His eyes, His heart. We're thankful that He condescends to suffer humanity to share His joy, His tears. We're humbled at the confidence he bestows upon erring mortals when he gives us His Name, His reputation...

Let the chime stay in the kitchen another day, a reminder to express Gratitude.
And let Thanksgiving never end.

Forty-Four Words

If God ever fails to do something good, be sure it is for one of two reasons.

One, He is working on something better.
Or two, His arm is being restrained by my failure to intercede.

Let me never be guilty of the latter.

Holy Ground

My steps slow at the threshold of this little hollow around which two trees hold their arms like parents in a perpetual embrace. This space between, this sheltered cove, like their child, eternally living in the safety of their shadows. Wind sings through needles and boughs, and I bow.

History holds in her hands the tales of two classes of men. 
Those who have given their souls away to be used and abused by Darkness in exchange for a little gold, a little lust, a little glamor...
And those who have given their lives away so someone else could live.

Like a man spilling his life blood for someone paler, to find it filled again, or not.  

I press palms into mat of pine needles and press my soul into the door.

I want to be the second kind of man. I beg You to make me through and through, the second kind of man...

-    -    -

I rise, back slowly away from the place. Look down for my shoes.
I sit to slip them back on, and while I do, I steal a glance back towards the cove embraced by the cedars.

And that, is when I thought of you.

And this warrior in me, this fighter that is sometimes a stranger and doesn't fit in my skin, this thunder that must come from elsewhere because I don't have the spark to ignite it, it suddenly flashed and roared like the end of the world. And then it was gone. But it left a burn, a throbbing ache. And a breathlessness, and a racing heart.
And this prayer:

Let each of us find in this life ground so holy that shod feet never step there.  


Never, oh never be satisfied till you have found your burning bush.  

And What If The Sun Didn't Rise?

It's a corner of the neighborhood that I don't spend much time in.
Some folk endure worst case scenario whether or not it is an accurate reflection of reality. (It usually isn't.)

You know, "what if...?"

Well, I'm going to step out of character momentarily, and ask you to dwell on a what if for a moment. Really go there.

What if the sun didn't rise tomorrow?




I know, I know. But enter in with me. I have a reason.

You keep looking at your watch, your computer, every clock in the house, for they surely must be wrong. But hours tick by and the stars don't move. The moon doesn't seem to move either. Truth be told, the earth has stopped spinning.
Oh, and panic strikes. And crime spikes. And governments crack down to try to control fear so deep it abolishes reason. But their fears run deep too, and they can't help themselves, much less their citizens. Power plants churn out the megawatts at max capacity, to fuel a world which is accustomed to sleeping at night. And people sit huddled in their houses, trying to get cable. But every satellite in the heavens kept spinning when we stopped. So there's no telecom. Every flight in the air, and every ship in the sea wanders till there's no fuel to wander farther. Because there's no GPS either.
After a week, those who have survived fear's urges to self-destruction start counting the days until the sun will rise. --In six months, when we get around to the other side of the sun.
Oh, but we'll never get there. It's already so cold. So cold. The middle of this night is becoming like a wind-swept antarctic. Every green leaf is withering, and with it a planet's life-giving supply of oxygen. We'll run out of air, and then freeze white through, before the sun shines again.

What if the sun didn't rise tomorrow?

Those in eternal noon fare little better. Over there it's oh, so hot. They can breathe this steamy atmosphere, but they are broiling alive. And the steamy part will only last so long...

Stop there.

I take it for granted that the sun will rise tomorrow. And I don't have the foggiest idea of all that would ensue if it didn't. I live in full confidence of the fact.

The sun will rise. That's what matters.

And something else will happen too, something even more certain.
In the morning when you rise, God will be awake, waiting for you to stir.

He always is.

But let me ask you another question.

What if He wasn't there tomorrow?

I'm not even going to go there. That apocalypse would make my above description seem like yogurt for breakfast. Utterly routine.

He's always there. That's what matters.

But wait, really? 
Is that really all that matters?

We rise and run into our day, shoot something that is supposed to be gratitude His way, while taking Him utterly for granted.

Perhaps partly because we've never stopped to consider what would be, if He disappeared.

If some morning He failed to knock on your heart's door when you woke up, would you even miss Him?
Or did you skip Him this morning anyway, so it wouldn't make a difference?

And what did you say would happen if the sun didn't rise...?


He's there. He's promised always to be.
Always reaching His beautiful hand towards a stirring creation.

So, one more question:

Am I?

This I Can Do

Meander is a good word.
I've gone to answer a silent call unmistakable. Over two fences and down a sandy draw.
Wherever my gaze wanders, my feet follow. From rock to creek to giant anthill and back.
These are the best hours of the day, and they belong to God...

But you know, it is most often in the very cradle of these moments, --these hours that slip away into eternity leaving behind them a quiet deep and peace so sweet-- it is in these selfsame that I experience the worst agitations, and the deepest discontent.

Because on the heels of every happiness comes the agony that is the reality of another's pain.
Someone said love and pain go together. How right they were.

Every time I taste the sweeter sweet, I suddenly start up, all taken by this wild desire to distribute.
And that wouldn't be so bad, if every starving soul would actually take it!!


Maybe that's why I pace. From creek to anthill and back.
From joy to yearning and back.

Finally, this:

The very best you can do to bring the beautiful hungry to realize the fullness of joy that is in Christ,
is to be constantly realizing that joy yourself. 

You seek. They'll find. 

The Key

Once again the truth is pressed home hard on my consciousness.


I shuffle. As if through stacks of mental paperwork on the desk of my mind, searching for the keys. Keys apparently hidden somewhere in the fine print ten thousand words long?

No, not there. The key is here.

Here in plain sight. Written in plain english.

"I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life."

The road, the destination, and the journey on that road, to that destination.

Everything.

There you have it.
The key lies in Jesus being everything.

Words With the Father

That moment when the endless empty makes you realize how small you are, how big the world is, (much less the universe.) and how unreasonably kind God is for still having eyes for me.

"Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!

If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.

If I say, 'Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,'

even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.

How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you.

Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts!

And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!"

(Psalms 139:7-12, 17-18, 23-24. ESV)

Two Secrets

"We fill our lives with what we love most."

I was recently asked how it is a life comes to be full of God.
Well I am no expert. But I do have this confidence.
I have an insatiable appetite for holy joy, adamant hopefulness, and unshakable confidence. And I know where these come from.
So, this is my defense.

- - -

Failure is no stranger to me. And there is altogether too much in my soul that competes for God's place. 

But this I can say: with ever passing day I want less of the world, and more of Christ. 

And this transformation is not hard work, it is a simple gift, which He bestows to all who long to love Him first. 

I will tell you two secrets though-- Two secrets that I am learning form the basis of every success I have ever attained. And two things that certainly involve consistent and tenacious effort. 

1. Love does the footwork. God does the rest. I make the room.

The heart will follow what it loves. Love God, and following Him is no struggle. Love the world, and you will forever have to fight to give God anything.
Good news: We were wired to love God. There's no complicated formula.
Bad news: We're prone to re-wiring. And the world is only too eager to help. Pleasure, convenience, compromise, popularity, lust, excitement, even friends?… These glitter like gold because they parade as substitutes for God. And we too often fall for it.

In order to learn to love God, God must live in the heart. We come to love best what we hold closest. (No, it's true. We're duped into holding close what is actually entirely unlovely, and  so come to love our worst enemy best of all.) The reciprocal is also true.

So, the thing to remember is that I only have one heart to give away. I can't sprinkle God on top of pleasure. Guilty pleasure gets a foothold by kicking God out. I give God a foothold by kicking guilty pleasure out. (And that's work.)

2. My happiness is proportional to the abandon with which I relinquish my right to myself.

This is undiluted joy. It matters very little how much effort it requires. 

So I repeatedly relinquish my "right" to myself.
That is, my right to direct my own steps, seek my own pleasure, pursue my own glory, fulfill my own dreams...
 

Because I've proven to myself (by repeated failure) that choosing pleasure over principle never, never, never, never leads to happiness in the end. 

And I'm thoroughly tired of being disappointed. 

Now when faced with a choice, I am gently reminded that I have given myself to the Almighty, and that whether or not I understand Him, I can draw contentment from allegiance. 

Then, I no longer sit there forever begging for power. (I used to.) I get up and go. Because He's already given us enough power to actuate obedience. And He never gives again power we already possess. 

Thus He adds another block to the empire He's building in the souls of His servants, and I'm perfectly satisfied.

So satisfied, that I become daily more likely to chose Him over any substitute.

And as long as I keep allowing Him to crowd out of my life everything unlike Himself, I get happier. 

The moment I refuse Him, He is crowded off His rightful throne, and I'm at the mercy of a selfish rottenness that has power only because I give it such.

Which power all the host of heroes on white horses defies.

For what it's worth... I'm sticking with them. 

Believing is Everything?

Minnows flee the froth while they tumble out of the boats and splash ashore, this exuberant rabble.
They've been looking for the miracle worker that baked 25,000 barley loaves (not including what wife and kids ate) without an oven yesterday, and they've just found Him.

He doesn't answer their first question at all, rather gently reminds them what alone is really worth pursuing.

"Labour not for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life, which the Son of man shall give unto you."

(John 6:27 KJV)

Whether or not they actually understand what He's saying, they are plainly intrigued. So they ask another question. The answer to which has me positively intrigued...

"Then said they unto him, What shall we do, that we might work the works of God? Jesus answered and said unto them, This is the work of God, that ye believe..."

(John 6:28-29 KJV emphasis added)

Belief changes everything.

Because if Christ really came, then God is really good, and self-love is really a lie, and sin is really a destroyer, and who wants to die anyway?

I have some news for you.
Christ came. (Matchless condescension.)
And He comes again, every time a dark heart opens its door. (Again, matchless condescension.)
What more proof do we need of His benevolence?

And if He is benevolent, then where's the controversy?

Believing is everything.

We only ever hesitate to serve a God whose character we question.

Jesus Knows

I wonder if you, like me, have ever stood in the doorway of the tabernacle* and felt like you were totally out of place there...

-  -  -  -

I stand on the threshold. This is God's home. And it's a place that feels as though it has been at times more familiar to me than it is at this moment. 

His eyes hold only love. 

My head is bowed though, because my mind cradles memories fresh of petty wanderings I'd like to forget.

"Welcome home."

"Thank You, Sir.

       

But-- [with trembling, and wonder, and a bit of incredulity, and still a bowed head] 

Does Your Lordship know what it feels like to be a betrayer and a murderer?"

I know. The inane questions I ask sometimes.

He just looks at me, lets me stand there a minute. And His face is kind, and grave, and silent. But suddenly His Spirit leads me back to truth 2,000 years old. I hear, I remember. I look up at His face. 

"Yes, actually... I died carrying the sins of Judas too."

Oh. That's right. (and so horribly wrong.)

You Who knew no sin, accepted the sin of the betrayer. 

And it killed You, so I could live.

And this is why you can welcome me home.

Let me never hesitate.

Jesus knows. 

*metaphorically speaking, you understand.

No Substitute

I'm as sure as the sunrise. This is the secret...

I stand at my front door and watch Africa stir, listen to the jungle morning. But my thoughts are far away. I cry and He answers. And though we better our acquaintance daily, most days He still catches me off guard. And some days when I'm only half done with my rant he silences me with one word, burned in silence across the wall of my soul.


"... And say I not well that I am 'a Samaritan'?
Say I not well that Thou deservest more and better?--"

"Say I not well that there is only one of you in the world, and in My heart you're irreplaceable?"


There is one thing that binds me to the cross. One thing that is to be thanked for any progress, any strength, any accomplishment.
And that one thing is not my commitment, my abandonment, my faith, my hope, my experience, my choice, my will, my power, or my surrender.

It is the mercy of Christ.

The love that doesn't want "more and better" as a substitute for broken me.

The Stuff of the Brave

Consumed as I've been of late with strategies to arm next generation's young heroes with this generation's arsenal of lessons learned, I think I'm justified in my excitement.

Aren't you? Maybe you didn't read what I read this morning.

...About the way stone walls can either make us slaves, or make us like themselves. Invincible.

"It is written of Joseph in the dungeon that 'the iron entered into his soul.'" - (Streams in the Desert, September 8)

The let us neither bemoan the ruggedness of the way, nor the apparent strength of the enemy.

Let us rather gather always strength from our surroundings. And let the battlements we break through become in us the stuff of steel that the brave men and women of the cross are made of.

We can't lose.

Plenty Full

I esteem that audacity which leads brave men to "crave the fire's embrace," if only through it they might come to know God...

(For it is true that a day of hardship imparts more strength to the soul than a month of sunshine.)

But after today, I've had a change of mind as concerns just how men (and women) should pursue the treasure imparted by tears. Once, that is, faith has made them steel enough to do so.

Pray not for pain or hardship.
The world is plenty full of both.

Pray you'll have the heart to suffer with another's.

When their hardship becomes my pain, then God can heal the both of us.

We Fly

We fly.
To old friends, and new lands.
We leave. People we love. Life in progress...
But only for a few weeks.

Mean time, for those we leave, and for where we're headed, we claim the same assurance.

"The path where God leads the way may lie through the desert or the sea, but it is a safe path." (PP 290)

Pray us on our way!

Europe and Africa, here we come.

Believe the Impossible?

"Who against hope believed in hope, that he might become the father of many nations. . . He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God."* 

See, that's the essence of triumphant faith to me. And the reason why Abraham received the impossible.

Because he believed the impossible. 
Hope against hope.

You've heard perhaps that "God will be everything we let Him be..."?

Maybe God can't work what's impossible, because I only believe what's reasonable.

*see Romans 4

Sleeping Before Gethsemane

In my mind I think that nothing would have persuaded me to sleep that night...

I should think I would have been too afraid. 

They watched Him, walked with Him. He, having just given what He knew to be His last words-- His last will and testament. Now He is gripped by a sadness such as they have never seen before. The Healer stumbles and sways into the garden, and more than once they have to hold Him up so He does not topple to the cold ground. 

Can you enter in to just how frightening that must have been?

Cold night; stricken Savior. 

He, who’d never stumbled? Not once?

Perhaps the 8 of them were glad to be left near the gate of the garden. Maybe sleep would erase all memory of this dread they could not understand? 

I don’t know, I wasn’t there.

What I do know is, they slept. 

The three closest ones, they followed Him till He told them to stay. But did anybody look unreservedly into His face? Did anyone dare ask why He was sorrowful unto death? Did no one cling to Him and insist He share the burden that was crushing out His life? Did any say “I’ll watch with you. I’ll go with you. Wherever. Only entreat me not to leave You...”

Or with pounding hearts did they pray, for a few minutes, that it would just go away...

I wasn’t there. 

But these two things I know: they neglected to share (or shrank from sharing) His heart because its burdens were unknown, awkward and fearful. 

And when the moment of truth burst upon them, they scattered.

Might I venture to say that had they stopped and just looked into His face, accepted the dreadful reality written there in bloody sweat, and sought to share its grief, 

they would have read there the truth about the moments to come? 

Or at least, they would not have been shocked by them. 

Jesus knew. 

I wonder: Could not they have known a little too?

In my mind I think that nothing would have persuaded me to sleep that night... 

I should have been too afraid. 

But then, what of His burdens in the overflowing eyes of this people His flesh and blood? His bride?

Don’t I sometimes neglect to share them, or shrink from them because they are fearful, awkward, unknown?

Do I ever pray, rather than that I might share them, that they might just go away?

Oh Jesus... Perhaps I would have slept too? 

PC and post: Nathan Lee Westbrook

God of the Open Door

Good morning world.

This one thought has me tingling this morning, so I'm here to shout from the [blog]top before I run out the door.

I've spent much of my week working the problem of addictions. (as is my business.)
One big, scary word, little scientific consensus within the mental health community when it comes to definitions and limitations.

And I'm not about to jump into the ring and argue what is and what isn't.
Anyway, definitions have never made anyone free.

Here's the word of the day.

"Behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it..."

The God creative and redemptive, merciful and authoritative, sacrificial and strong, fearful and wonderful, perfect and beautiful, righteous and wroth--

He's the God of the Open Door.

If there were no other reason to serve Him, that one would be enough.
It's enough for me.

Strong to Save [When God Goes to War] Part II

You know the story isn't over.
It could be. I mean, wouldn't it be enough if He swooped in as the Hero of every rescue mission, and picked up broken pieces again, and took them home to heal?
That's already more than we deserve.

(read part 1 here.)

But that's not the end of the story. Or the chapter.

He is the Hero of every rescue mission. And there's a reason His exploits come first...

But keep reading till the end of the tale.

He saves the afflicted, simultaneously putting the adversary in his place.
And then!--

He lights a candle. A little flame of light atop a stick of wax strung out.
Fresh home from the smoke and dust of battle, He shares His life.
He puts in the soul a fire, out of Himself, a part of Himself, and with that fire comes all the power that is His. Power to live. Power to overcome. The same power that just sent hills and hoodlums scurrying.

And watch the servant. Watch the flame suddenly catch on, as if he was all oil inside. Watch him fly into the darkness, like an arrow himself. Burning as he goes, consumed, but . . . not consumed.

Watch him run right through the midst of the garrison of darkness, setting the place ablaze. Watch his enemies come to their senses, pick themselves up to follow hard in the trail of smoke. Watch him get to the end-- the dead end. And just when the pursuers think they'll have vengeance at last, watch him leap. Watch him sail over what should have been his death sentence. While his enemies remain, confined by their own fortifications.

Watch him stop on the far side, catch his breath, raise one hand to heaven and say:

"As for God, His way is perfect:
the word of the Lord is tried:
He is a buckler to all those that trust in Him.
For who is God, save the Lord?. . .

It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect.
He maketh my feet like hinds' feet. . .
He teacheth my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms. . .

Thy right hand hath holden me up,
And thy gentleness hath made me great.
Thou has enlarged my steps under me, that my feet did not slip.

I have pursued mine enemies, and overtaken them:. . .
I have wounded them that they were not able to rise:
they are fallen under my feet.

For Thou has girded me with strength unto the battle. . ."

(Ps. 18:30-39, emphasis mine.)

How can it logically be said that even with unlimited access to unlimited power, we must accept the prospect of limited progress, and perpetual setbacks?

I don't get that.

What I do get, is that when I am His, then I am strong.
And under no other circumstances.

Read part 1

Strong to Save [When God Goes to War] Part I

I have no tolerance for the idea that defeat must be regarded as at least occasionally inevitable. Absolutely none.

As if every third day or so the angels trade sides for an hour and evil somehow becomes omnipotent. Really?

I think it would be good if we all made it a habit to regularly review Psalm 18. To me it's the ultimate drama of faltering servant, and faithful God. No wonder it's one of my favorites...

But I guess you realize it requires more than the simple existence of Omnipotent God to keep me from falling... Well, herein lies that secret too. In the first four words of the chapter. The spark that heralds a storm of Divinity.--

"I will love Thee..."

I Will. My little part to play. So simple, so absolutely necessary. Whole sermon right here...
Love. Because love will move my heart, my head, and my hands. The way work won't...
Thee. Because love is actually inevitable. You were wired for it. It's not if, it's who. And only this Master has life to give away...

In other words, I'm Yours. Head, heart, and whole.

And then do you see what happens?
Hear a few verses later when David bleeds out this distress of sorrows and death--

The servant cries, and the whole earth reels in the thunder from his chariot wheels.
Hills and rills run out of the way, because He is wroth.
Breath of life and creative Word come out of mouth and nose as smoke and fire.
His chariot is alive. An angel with wind for his wings.
He arrives at His war room --a secret pavilion carved out of darkness-- in the midst of the earthquake.
Walks in under escort of raining fire and ice.

He stands in the midst of His council of war, utters words that cut atmospheres. More thunder...
And His speech gets the whole host moving.

Next thing you know, "his arrows," the very best of His fighting force, they shoot out from the place, wreak havoc on the enemy.
Seemingly out of nowhere.
And when the scattering seems complete, He sends lightnings after them.

Then all at once the agenda, the fortifications, the vulnerabilities of the enemy are laid wide open.
And He calmly walks in and picks up His servant, and carries him out.

"With the merciful thou wilt shew thyself merciful;
with the upright man thou wilt shew thyself upright;
with the pure thou wilt shew thyself pure;
and with the froward thou wilt shew thyself froward." Ps. 18:25, 26

I'm not making it up. That's what the Book says.

I have no tolerance for the idea that defeat must be regarded as at least occasionally inevitable. Absolutely none.

Perhaps I must be regarded as at least occasionally (or much more often) failing to call for help, or surrendering my arms voluntarily...
 

(to be continued...)

The Power of the Personal Gospel

"There are some themes, some messages that stir me to the depths of my soul, and cause me to be gripped with a great quiet... Almost immobilized by the weight of truth; driven to my knees to simply be before God, utterly silent. 

There are themes that bring silent tears to my eager eyes, make my soul soar as if on wings of eagles... 


There are some themes that call forth an exultation so overpowering my fist shoots up and it is all I can do to get it down again.

And then there are those themes that awaken in me at once a passionate dissatisfaction, and a steel-clad resolve; words that invariably get me out of my seat to pace back and forth like a caged lion in my office. From french doors to bookshelf and back, on my knees, on my feet, on my face...

And I'm just warning you, this is one of those.


You see, I have this thought: (overly simple as it may seem--)

That God has a right to that which belongs to Him.

That after all He has suffered, after all He has lost, He's worthy of receiving His own with interest. 
That His beautiful dreams-- (which are all for the happiness of others, by the way) --there is no reason why He should be denied them; 
Why the universe should be denied them....

But you know, God is often denied what is due Him. 

Perhaps most notably, by those who call themselves His friends..."

______________________________

I don't preach anything I don't first love. 

But this truth is my absolute all-time favorite. 

The Power of the Personal Gospel (AudioVerse)

Anything For You

Maybe I'm a bit naïve.
(Hey, that's better than cynical, right?)

Maybe I find the risk of trusting lower than the cost of suspecting.
Anyway, such is certainly the case if you're my friend...

"Hey, can you do me a favor?"

Yes I can. And if I trust you, I won't even ask what it is first. If it lies within my power (or anywhere near it) I want to serve you.

My girls are trusted. And by reflex I almost always answer them one way when asked:
     "Hey, can you..."
            "Anything for you, dear."

Little words so often spoken they are almost playthings.
But one morning they strike me as carrying with them two powerful implications--

I trust you not to ask of me something I can't give.
And I love you. So what I can give, is yours.

-  -  -  -  -

You've probably heard it said that it is a struggle to stand. That to live is to fight...
Truth.
But I have wondered of late, if the agony of being torn between two opinions, one the violation of conscience, and the other the perceived violation of my rights to myself, isn't a war I myself too often drag out long after it might have been won.

I wonder that when I look at the cross, see my Friend bleeding.
Hear Him whisper "Abba;" receive no reply.
I wonder because He's the embodiment of Love. And what could be more trustworthy?

And I say I trust Him not to ask of me anything I can't give.
And I love Him. So what I can give, is His...

So why doesn't every morning start with
"Anything for You..."?

I don't know. But this morning did.

-  -  -  -  -

We rein in after the eighth mile, and I'm satisfied.
Satisfied that my new pre-run stretching routine is worth more than an extra month of training.
Satisfied that if you're going to have a good run, you need a good start.

And the best start is falling on my face before sunrise, telling Him in no uncertain terms:

I don't know what You'll ask of me today. 
What You'll ask me to surrender. 
What You'll ask me to make right. 

But whatever it is, the answer is yes.

Triumph [Like a Pearl]

It is the triumph of the Christian faith that it enables its followers to suffer and be strong...

To maintain a grip of steel, then willingly give.
To love, and lose, and dare to love again.
To believe in promises while relinquishing the right to personal claims.
To accept tears as glittering gifts.

To believe that I am perfectly loved, even when suffered to drink anguish.
To perfectly love what (Who) I don't understand.

It is triumph.
To suffer softly. To remember that His feet are washed best with tears. To remember He has never once made a mistake. To remember there is a reason I am trusted with every sorrow.
To remember His name is made great when His children love Him anyway.

-  -  -

Now it's my turn. My turn to stand in the bottom of the grave and help tuck in the treasure. Me thinking this is the worst kind of personal loss-- watching some of "my people" lose something beloved. We work in silence. Wind blows and dust flies, and just like her name, around a speck of a thought layer after layer of luster is laid, while I contemplate Love.

I remember the last group ride; remember my turn on the brilliant beast while the trusted friend worked a kink out of her older sister. They're both gone now, the Diamond and the Pearl, sister jewels black as stellar space.

Like a little boy about Christmas time my mind scratches at the cold blast of circumstances has build on the windows-- the windows of my heart. The boy might be wondering the price of the Christmas Lionel caboose. I'm looking for the same thing I always look for first. Searching for where love might be hiding its best, right about now.

Silent and strong as always, friend-more-like-brother works on the other side of the cavernous hole, till the job is done.
Our girls, out little sisters; they've lost their friends, also sisters. (is that what makes us family?)

Later, after thoughts and words and prayers and tears have finished their work for the day, what is left is a lesson worthy of the gift through which it came.

But of course; Faith doesn't mean that if I believe hard enough, pray hard enough, I'll love the outcome.

 Faith is believing I'm loved, regardless of the outcome.

Thanks girls. For all kinds of beautiful memories, and for standing up tall and graceful.
And trusting Merciful God. Again.
And thanks friend, for letting me love her too.

My Everything

Stars swim outside windows high. Like pinpoints of light on ripples of water. Through water?

He hangs up the phone. We know what it means already.
Nobody calls at 0200 for no reason. And seldom for a happy one.

Anyway, what follows prayers in the dark are these words burning like fire.
The reason I love anyway--

"Every beautiful thing you have ever been given to love has been given first for this purpose: 
That when the hour of sacrifice is come, you might have something to put on the altar."

I see in my mind's eye the young faces of the friends to whom I gave those very words months ago; feel this resolve of mine to love turning to steel again.

"What we do, we do for Christ. Only Christ.
And for Him, we give away our everything.
Because He is everything."

A Gift Called "Together"

We heave and breathe and pour sweat, and bump fists.
And we chant audacity (in the form of "oh yes you can!") and mouth corners upturn under flaming cheeks. And we cut another minute off the mile, add another mile to the course.

We flop down in green grass and laugh.

And I realize that what I once said would never be, is.
What I always said I'd do only for the sake of relentlessness, I do now for the love of the doing...

Together.
That changes everything, you know?

I soak up blue sky and run fingers through grass while we stretch; listen to the student of strides give us the latest science; quip that we need a team dietician.

And running isn't anything like it used to be.
It used to be heart-pounding, step-sounding solitude where the only one there to believe I could was myself.

But it isn't the love or the running that strikes me so deep.

It's that together word.
That's the gift.

Apart, some are fast, some are slow.
Others never try. Never know what they're made of.

Oh, and don't get me wrong. There's a place for solitude. I was born a loner, after all...

But I've been given a gift I hope to spend the rest of my life passing on to people around me who've never tried. Or who've quit believing.

And I dare you to do the same.
To be the same.

To the lonely soul; To the trembling child; To the one who wants, but is afraid to dare; To the one who would, if one soul would care--

I want to be together.

Because together, everyone gets stronger.