How to be part of a miracle

Disciple. You've declared yourself one of His--or rather He declared you one, and you followed. Ever since, you've been following Him all over the countryside as He starts this crazy revival. He touches the diseased, He walks among the people, He sleeps wherever His head lands. He says the craziest, most confusing, most wonderful things--and everywhere He goes, hope springs up like flowers in the sun. 

And now you're standing in the middle of a village, gulping down your fear, and you're telling the world. You're reaching out tentative hands and you're watching as His power heals those you touch. You're becoming part of something you never dreamed of, and His hope carries you like a tidal wave all the way back to His love. 

You all come back together and He pulls you away for a rest. He grins and listens as the stories pour forth, all of you with bright eyes telling of the wonder. Revival. Hope. The world is waking to the possibility of His kingdom here, now, right among them. And here you are, right in the midst.

The people find you and follow. They come and come and come, just coming, just waiting for that hope to rain on them again. And Jesus, He stands up to welcome them. 

Amazing how quickly the glow fades. We love serving You, Jesus, but enough already. Your own stomach betrays you. You're hungry. You're tired. The crowd is growing restless. It's time to be done. 

Send them away, Jesus, so they can eat. It's a reasonable request. It's been a long day. But Jesus just looks at you with that grin on His face. 

You feed them. 

There's a lot of people. Thousands of them. You suddenly remember that you're just a fisherman. 

He just stands there, waiting and looking at you. You all look at each other. Jesus, we have only this. You hold up your paltry loaves and fish.

You have only this small thing. You are not enough. 

Jesus shakes His head at you and He's still grinning. Give me what you have. Somehow you feel foolish as you hand it over. 

The crowds sit, and as Jesus just keeps breaking bread and grinning at you, you walk among these hope-starved people and you put this miracle into their upheld hands. And you wonder how you got to be a part of this at all, you, with your doubts and your insecurities and your ignorance. You give and you give, and you have enough. And after it's all over, you each pick up a basketful of much more than you started with. 

He doesn't say anything, but His look asks if you get it yet. 

He already gave you His authority. And His authority is always enough. How quickly we forget. 

You looked at the bread in your hands, and you looked at the crowd, and it wasn't sufficient. But Jesus took the bread and looked to His Father, and it was more than enough to meet all the need and overflow back into your own life. And even later, when you step out of a tiny boat in the midst of a raging storm and you look at the waves, you sink. But when you look at His face and you take His outstretched hand, you walk on water. 

He didn't call you for nothing. You haven't spent all this time following Him around only to sit on the sidelines. 

What has He called you to? He always gives you enough for whatever He asks of you. You already have His authority. Take a look at those little loaves in your hand and remember Jesus grinning at you in delight, waiting to watch you be part of His miracle. 

Anything

My husband stepped down from his job yesterday.

And so the world changes just like that. The discussions and tears, the many, many words and wonderings, the prayers offered up from conflicted hearts—they have all led to this. We step out from all we have known for twelve years, and we step onto a path that is still dark to us, aside from the next small piece.  Beyond the next space of quietness and reflection, we have no idea where God is taking us. But we know He has led us to this.

Grief squeezes my heart and a part of me wants to cry out no, no, this is a mistake, we didn’t mean it. I look at all the labor, all the memories, all the faces and hearts we love, this space where we have struggled and failed and triumphed for so many years. And I don’t want to let go.

But I know it is time. I hear Ben talk about how grateful he is for what he has learned and how he has grown, but he knows there is a new call on his life. I look at what God has done in us this year, and I know He is moving us on.

It’s terrifying.

Those stories about faith are easier to believe when they are just stories. Abraham and Sarah walking away from a rich life to wander in the wild, just because God told them to. Moses walking from the wild back to face his nightmares, only to go into the wild again with a whole nation trailing behind him. David picking up those little rocks and looking into the face of a giant. Two young men walking away from their nets and their livelihood to follow a man into a life they cannot imagine.

So many stories, Lord. You give us those stories so we will know. You are faithful. You have great plans for us. You’re working all things for our good.

Imagine if Abraham had never left his home. If Moses had remained a shepherd in that sleepy corner of the world. If David had never stepped out to fight. If Your disciples had stayed where it was safe and comfortable.

I’m sure you would have accomplished your purposes anyway. But they never would have seen the power, love, wonder of their God. They never would have known you as they did in the end. And they never would have been a part of your great story.

I promised You anything. I have begged to know you. I have said I want to be part of your story. And here I stand on the threshold of an unknown future. We step out into . . . what? I have no idea, beyond the next few months. You could be leading us anywhere. Into anything.

It’s so easy to be afraid. Are we doing the right thing? What if we fail? What if we can’t find good jobs? What if we never figure out what we are supposed to do? What are people here going to say about us? What will they think? Will the things we worked so hard for—and still love—die?

But.

But I don’t want to get to the end of my life full of regret that I didn’t believe. That I didn’t follow you. And that I missed all the blessing you wanted to pour out, all the beauty you wanted to show me, all the miracles you wanted me to be a part of.

If I really believe you, then I don't need to be afraid. I don't need to wonder what's next, because I know the One who holds my every moment in His hands, who knew all the days that were written for me before I was born. I can trust you with my days and the days of those I love.

I’m ready.

I want your anything. And if this is the way, I will go.

Just be still

My youngest daughter’s first full sentence was, “Do it myself, Mom.” I love her tenacity. But there have been times when tenacity crossed that line into jaw-clenching, win-at-all-costs stubbornness. Like when she insisted on riding the big-girl bike for the first time by herself. Or when she decided she could ski to the bottom without my help, pointed her skis down the hill, and took off, only to crash spectacularly. Or when she walked to the edge of the pool and leaped in, confident she already knew how to swim. She’s always trying to prove to me that she’s big enough and smart enough to do it herself. And so many times I want to tell her:

Just be still.

Those words come often to my heart often these days.

Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10).

What does that even mean, God? How can I be still when there is SO MUCH TO DO???

I just want to fix all these problems in my life, you know? I mean, some people around me just need to be fixed. And big decisions hover overhead, waiting for someone to decide. And there is just always, always so much to do. Don’t even get me started on my own problems. I know I need fixing more than anyone else. In fact, I’m kind of obsessed about that.

But there’s this thing about all the people I want to be like. There’s this thing about all those people in the Bible who just seem to get it.

They know God.

And yep, their lives are defined by stillness. They know how to stop. To wait. To listen. To be with God.

That word for “be still,” raphah, it means “to sink down” or “to relax.” In the Bible it is translated variously as “alone,” “cease,” “become helpless,” “feeble,” “forsake,” “fall limp,” “let go,” “slack,” “weak,” “wait” “cease striving,” “desist.”

The question is, do I want to know God in the midst of all this, or do I just want to get it done? Or, let’s be honest, do I just want to prove that I can do it myself?

Because it looks like there is just one way to know God.

My daughter cannot know the truth of her mama’s care for her as long as she is trying to do it all herself. She cannot know that I am sufficient, that I love her, and that I will do what is best. Her pride, fear, and stubbornness will insist upon her own way, and she will miss out on what the experience with me could be.

Relax, and know that I am God.

Be alone, and know that I am God.

Cease, and know that I am God.

Become helpless, and know that I am God.

Forsake it all, and know that I am God.

There is no knowing God without stillness. This requires humility. And time. And a lot of trust. But I cannot experience his love, power, sufficiency, and grace until I stop and let him in.

Not dead enough

We got a bad batch of wood. 

The tree had been dead for a long time--or so we thought--and the split wood looks like it should burn nicely. That's what we need considering we rely on the heat of our wood stove for eight months of the year. But that's not what we got. 

The wood catches fire all right. The inside of the stove lights up with a promising yellow glow. But the fire gives no heat. The flames sputter as the wood sizzles and pops from the sap still lingering within. Eventually the wood burns up without ever warming our home. 

What a waste. What a disappointment to huddle before a fire that offers no warmth. What a frustration to sit in my cold house and watch all that promising timber burn itself out for nothing.

Honestly, lately life seems to resemble that wood. I often feel I am doing everything "right," everyone around me is doing everything "right," but life is a flame with no heat, a fire that pops and sizzles and never offers any true or lasting warmth. 

Am I being too melodramatic? Probably. But I can't help feeling there is some truth here. 

Be honest. Don't you ever feel, like I do, that you are just sort of smoldering? Like we're all going crazy trying to get this thing right and all we ever get is some smoke and some sparks, but no heat? And why are we going so hard, burning ourselves up for nothing? 
 
The best firewood comes from trees that are really dead, but not rotten. Our wood still holds too much of its own life to take in the life of the fire. It burns, but it burns without heat because of the sap inside.

Our wood isn't dead enough.

Bear with me here. Maybe it's a stretch to make this comparison, but I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I've been thinking about all the ways I feel stuck in life, in my faith, in relationships, and about the idea that God asks us to die to ourselves. Not just once, but every single day. 

He says the best kind of life--the only life, really--comes from death. We have to die in order to find that life. But we have this idea of death being the end. We cling to life and we try to pack every single thing we can into it before death takes us. 

But what if death is a beginning? What if we have to die to our own idea of life before we can understand God's? And what if we started looking for ways to die so that new beginnings could spring up? 

Maybe we aren't dead enough. Maybe we are trying to burn bright and hot for God, but we are clinging to a life he wants us to let go of. The old life in our core keeps us from taking on the new life of the fire. 

Maybe we are just afraid. We want the fire, but we don't really want to burn. Because then, really, what is left but ashes? And so we try to burn our own way, and the fire runs sappy with life that shouldn't be there, and in the end we are left with ashes anyway. 

Do we believe that God brings beauty from ashes, as he promises? What if we really trusted that true life comes through death after all? What if we believed our death to self would accomplish a beautiful life beyond imagining?

And if we never burn at all? We end up dead anyway, rotting away in the despair of this world, useless to everyone. 

Maybe this is a crazy metaphor. I only know that I am longing for heat. For the blaze of God's presence. I don't want to just smoke and smolder. I want to burn with him. I want to learn what is holding me back, what life I am clinging to that keeps me from going all in. 

Our God is a consuming fire (Heb. 12:29). I want to be consumed by him. 

This morning I stepped into the cold darkness of the living room and built the fire as I always do. I didn't have much hope. But for whatever reason, this wood began to burn bright and hot. My living room filled with warmth, and sleepy children gathered around, and this became a refuge, a warm, welcoming sanctuary from the cold outside. 

We could be that sanctuary, I think. We could burn hot and draw in a world weary with the cold. The question is, do we really want to?

Get your toes wet

Early morning. Too early for two tousled-hair girls to be awake, disturbing my few moments of quiet before a busy day. But here they are, one on each side of me on the couch, squirming and expectant. Waiting for whatever I have to give.

But I have nothing to give them this morning. I struggle with the resentment that comes from the stretched- too-thin, running-on-empty, don't-know-what-to-do prayers they interrupted. Here is another need I feel helpless to meet.

Wearily I open The Jesus Storybook Bible and start to read. "Moses and God's people escaped out of Egypt and into the wilderness. They didn't know the way, but God knew the way and he would show them."

I read without paying much attention until I reach page two. "What were God's people going to do? In front of them was a big sea. It was so big there was no way around it. But there was no way through it--it was too deep. They didn't have any boats so they couldn't sail across. And they couldn't swim across because it was too far and they would drown. And they couldn't turn back because Pharaoh was chasing them."

This is beginning to sound familiar.

"They could see the flashing swords now, glinting in the baking sun, and the dust clouds, and chariot after scary chariot surging towards them. So they did the only thing that was left to do--PANIC!"

How many times have I read this story in my life? Yet have I ever really understood that place, standing on the thin strip of faith between death and destruction? That place where my own strength can do nothing, IS nothing, and there is nowhere to go. Where panic grips the heart and I long for the safety of slavery again.

"'We're going to die!' they shrieked.

"'Don't be afraid!' Moses said.

"'But there's nothing we can do!' they screamed.

"God knows you can't do anything!' Moses said. 'God will do it for you. Trust him. And watch!'"

In the Biblical account in Exodus 14, Moses says to the people, "Do not be afraid. Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will accomplish for you today." But God says to Moses, "Why do you cry to me? Tell the children of Israel to go forward."

Oh, of course, God. Go forward. Right into all that churning water. Right into the sea of fear that will swallow me up forever.

If God were the sarcastic type, I could see him rolling his eyes. "Don't you get it yet? Is that how little you really trust me?"

Why does God's deliverance so often take us to the wilderness instead of straight to the Promised Land? I wonder. If the Israelites had not had this experience (and the thousands of other experiences of God's faithfulness), if they had not had to walk right up to the sea and get their toes wet, would they have ever really known God? Would they have ever truly understood what He wants to set us free from?

Slavery, yes. Oppression, yes. Doubt and crippling fear, yes.

Psalm 106:8 says, "He saved them for his name's sake, that he might make his mighty power known."

He wants us to know him, and so he's in the business of making himself known. And when we know him, we are set free from more than we ever thought possible. And when that sea opens up right there before us and our feet trod the muddy path of grace through death, we begin to know the power of this crazy love.

Maybe I need to get off the couch of desperate prayers and get my toes wet. Walk into that sea and watch God work.

Too much growth can kill you

We have four apple trees in our backyard. Years ago they produced a bounty of red, but this year I can count the number of apples on one hand. At least this year there ARE a few apples. We didn't know anything about apple trees when we moved here, and so we didn't know about pruning. When we did finally prune the trees, we cut them back too far, and I feared we had killed them. They didn't bear fruit after that. So I quit pruning them altogether.

This year the trees grew with a vengeance, and in the spring the branches were laden with promising white flowers. But the apples never came. And when I looked through the tangle of branches to the center of the trunk, I saw that the trees were dying inside. While the outside of the tree was heavy with green growth, the center was becoming brown and dead, and the branches couldn't get the food they needed.

I see now why pruning is necessary. I let the trees have too much of a good thing, and now there are so many branches that the center of the tree cannot get the light or nourishment it needs. With all those branches to feed, bearing fruit is almost impossible. I must prune the trees regularly and make sure I cut away just enough but not too much. And sometimes that means cutting away the good branches to let the light in. Too many good branches means not enough fruit.

I am amazed at how God keeps using those trees to show me my life. This time last year I was emerging from a season of craziness and chaos and too-much-ness, and I spent 31 days writing about abiding. That was a season of pruning followed by so much growth. And yet now here I am again, emerging from another summer just like the previous one, with so many branches I am trying to feed that I sometimes feel like I am dying in the center. I can take on so many things and make it look from the outside that I am thriving, but at my core I am starved for sunlight. And I don't have what it takes to truly bear fruit. 

Thank goodness for a Gardner who knows just what to do when the tree will let Him. Sometimes the pruning is the cutting away of dead things. But sometimes the pruning is cutting back the tangled mess of growth to allow the good things to thrive. To keep me from choking and dying from the inside out. 

And we have the choice to come to Him or not, because we are more than just trees; we are His beloved. I find myself back at this lesson on abiding all over again, and that's OK, because I want to remember how to rest. How to be still. How to be filled with His love instead of with my own drive to constantly do, to find my significance in things that only choke the life away. 

I can rest because I can believe. 

He is good. Always. And coming back to Him always reminds me that I am right where I want to be. I just have to stay there.

A little kingdom of one

God. 

It's all the prayer I can manage. This morning my heart is clogged with resentment and weariness and fear. I’m reliving painful moments and even inventing new ones just to prolong the resentment. And I finding that I want to be frustrated and angry, not just with the present situation, but with all my circumstances.

I’m fuming.

And then I read the devotional where the guy says he was irritated with his wife because she got in the way of his getting what he wanted. [1]

No fair, God. I was enjoying my pity party.

But you’re right. I want things. I want a lot of things, and to me they seem like good things. Even necessary things. And when people or circumstances get in the way of getting those things, I get grumpy.

Really, really grumpy.

Tripp writes about David, the author of Psalm 51. Some things had gotten in his way, too. So he just removed them.

Trouble is, removing the people and circumstances wasn’t the problem—it actually created much bigger problems, problems that were soon going to heave his world apart.

The problem was David’s heart.

The problem was David wanted things. Things that were all about him.

And David, realizing his problem—or rather, having his problem pointed out to him (isn't that just how it is with us?)--was quick to run back to God. Quick to confess that his heart had gone amuck.

“Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions” (v. 1).

His confession (you should really spend some time studying it; it's remarkable) isn’t the groveling of a slave before its master, pitiful words meant to ward off wrath. It’s the homecoming of a prodigal. The turning back of a son to his Father.

David humbles himself before the Father he trusts. He remembers God’s “unfailing love” and “great compassion.” This is the God he loves. The God he has spent hours and days with. The God who has rescued him over and over, who pulled him from the mire, who raised him up and made him king. He has sat at the feet of this God. He knows this God.

He trusts this God.

David turns from his own ways because he knows that God’s ways are better.

“True confession always results in living for something bigger” (Tripp).

The question hangs there, looking at me.

Do I trust that His ways are bigger?

Do I believe God’s love is unfailing? That His mercy is better than my agenda? That He will take care 

of me better than I take care of myself?

Well, that would require knowing God. Actually being with God. A lot.

“And so David, once obsessed with the temporary and impure pleasures of his claustrophobic little kingdom of one, now becomes excited with and engaged in the transcendent purposes of God’s big-sky kingdom” (Tripp).

Little kingdom of one.

OK, God. Really, I get it.

I say that I want to go deeper, know You more, and yet my hands keep clutching the familiar. Maybe those things I want and think I need are exactly the things keeping me from knowing You.

In worshipping his kingdom of one, David feared losing God himself.

“Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me” (vv. 11-12).

Do I fear losing God more than I fear losing my desires?

Grant me a willing spirit. To sustain me when my desires rear up like dragons and tell me to turn away. Make me willing to sacrifice my broken spirit, my contrite heart (v. 17).

Then I will teach transgressors Your ways (v. 13). Then my lips will open to speak Your praise (v. 15). Then You will delight (v. 19).

When it’s not all about me.

When I can look through the frustration and see You.

And I see that I do not know how to do this, not at all, and I go back to David’s plea.

“Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me” (v. 10).

You create. You renew. I only come and sit at Your feet.

Unclutch these hands. Help me raise these palms to You. If I cannot release this little kingdom, take it away, again and again, until I finally have You forever.

---

[1] Tripp, Paul David. Whiter Than Snow: Meditations on Sin and Mercy. Crossway, 2008.