The Opposite of Faith is Fear

“The lamp of the body is the eye. If therefore your eye is good, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in you is darkness, how great is that darkness!

“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will be loyal to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon.

“Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

“Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?

“…But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Matthew 6:22-27, 33-34

I read this morning that the opposite of faith is fear. That fear is the notion that God’s love will end. That it will not be enough. I read also that the true disciple is the grateful one. That eucharisteo always precedes the miracle. “Thanks is what builds trust” (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts).

It is so true, all of it. And why then, am I so slow to trust, to build my life on thankfulness and rest? I can look back on a long journey of moving from worry to worry, fear to fear. At every single point You provided, You answered with love. Some of the seeing took longer to come, true. But can I not hold every one of those memories now and say You were there, loving me as always, holding me tight as always?

Yet here I sit this morning bound up by fears and worries.

I will not have the strength for today. I’m just too tired.
Sylvia is NEVER going to sleep!
I’m failing my kids. How will I ever get this right?
I can’t get it all done.
I have taken on too much work. How will I ever grade all those papers AND care for the kids AND do the housework AND AND AND…?
I am not serving enough, loving enough, doing enough.

ENOUGH! Aren’t these fears all bound up in future moments, today and years from now? Am I not saying that the God who has been enough for me through all the yesterdays will somehow fail me today, tomorrow?

My eye is full of darkness. The light that is in me is not light at all. It is heavy, a weight, an oppressive burden.

I gaze out the window at the majestic snow-covered peak that still takes my breath. I will lift up my eyes unto the hills. From where does my help come?

I can hear the morning song of birds, rejoicing in spring. Two of them flit about in the yard, oblivious to my gaze, full of life and busyness. They are fully in the moment. Do the birds sit around worrying that tomorrow they will not have enough? Do they allow an uncertain future to steal today’s song? And why is it so hard for me to learn the trust that is theirs so naturally?

Worry does not add one cubit to my stature. It diminishes me and all those around me. Thankfulness builds me up, turns my gaze back to the One who has promised to always, always be enough.

Thank you that each day of Ben’s month-long absence, I have had enough for the kids. Even when I felt I was not going to make it, I did.
Thank You that You always give me just enough sleep.
Thank You for extra summer jobs that provide…and for the time and energy to complete them.
Thank you for the forgiveness of my kids, their simple trust and love.
Thank you that just when I most needed to hear from my husband, he called…even though he wasn’t supposed to call until next week.
Thank you that I do not have to worry about tomorrow or even today. There is only the now, living fully in You each moment.
Thank you for grace for this falling, failing child.

Ann Voskamp says that trust is a discipline. It is reining in the wild fears, taming the mind. A moment-by-moment work. This is why we are commanded to give thanks at all times. If the opposite of faith is fear, the pathway from fear to faith is gratitude. And I am learning that gratitude is a discipline, not an emotion, a way of seeing that requires choice.

I will choose You this moment. Let my path become one of trust instead of worry, thanks instead of fear.

Spring Snow

May 11, and the snow is falling in buckets. I have been watching it all day, heavy and wet, blanketing everything in thick white promise.

A few days ago we were wearing shorts and sunscreen, splashing around in the river, anticipating summer. Now I’m hauling out the shovel and snow boots.

Maybe I should be frustrated and annoyed. More winter? Haven’t we had enough? But I am filled instead with a strange, quiet gladness. Looking out the window, I sense this from the earth, too—she is offering herself up, accepting this cold blessing as a promise of what is to come. I can almost feel the soil greedily absorbing every snowflake. And the trees almost seem to be raising arms in praise as they are clothed in purest beauty. I can feel life pulsing, rejoicing, ready to burst through into eternity. The bird singing in the tree outside my window feels it, too.

We will plow and shovel, wade through slush and slop, deal with the ensuing mud and mess, putting away the shorts for another day. In a few days this quiet gift will be gone and the world will come roaring and spitting back to life around me. But it will be softer, greener, more robust and alive than ever.

Good Friday

And so You hung, God, suspended over all our sin, blood dripping scarlet onto the blackness of this broken world. And Your heart broke even as our sin split You open—we split You open, God, the God who dreamed us up in love and breathed His own breath into our lungs. And so You came, not willing to be the tyrant, for that would go against Your very self, and that would force us to bow, fearful subjects rather than willing worshippers. You came the only way You could come, in love, becoming one of us.

Outside the wind howls as I survey my domain: on the counter the remains of lunch, a box of band-aids from doctoring a finger, items from yesterday's shopping. On the table some discarded clothing, a puzzle, a dirty plate, a sticky note. On the coffee table a dirty diaper, a bottle of medicine, books, school papers, a box of crayons. Floor littered with kid-made, mom-made, dog-made clutter. I fight the daily feeling that this physical clutter is what matters. I sit on the couch in the little sliver of afternoon sunshine, and I find Malachi's paper.

He pulled it from his backpack the other day, said casually, "Want to see what I did at school today?"

I read in his careful, scrawling, just-learned cursive the words to 2 Chronicles 7:14: "If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land."

"This is very good," I say, still not fully engaged. "Did you all do this together?"

"No, I just found that verse in my book at free time and decided to copy it."

He has my attention. "What made you want to do that?"

"Oh, I just like that verse and I want to hang it in my room to remember it."

"Do you know what this verse means, son?"

"Yeah." Still in that bright, confident, first-grade voice. "It means that if we confess our sins to God and ask for forgiveness, He will forgive us and heal us."

My eyes are filling with tears now. I grab him in a hug, tell him how glad I am that he loves God's word and wants to remember it.

My seven year-old used his free time to copy scripture. While his friends were playing, chattering, or dreaming, he found a verse he liked and wrote it down, just because. And he fully believes that verse, fully expects it to be true.

Once again Malachi is God's messenger to me. All these moments are His. There is grace for every sinner, faith for the smallest child, peace for the most harried mother. The wind is howling outside, but I am sitting in warm sunshine.

The Need for Newness

The new year sneaked in when I wasn't looking. Somewhere in the midst of potty training, diaper changing, dish washing, clutter cleaning, the clock kept turning, bringing the inevitable.

I have always made new year's resolutions and rarely kept any of them. This year I didn't bother, and New Year's Day passed like any other in my life. Why worry about it, since nothing in my life today is any different than it was yesterday? I wake up to the same list of chores, the same routine, the same challenges and fears.

I was wrong. I need newness. We celebrate the ending of the old, the beginning of the new, because we need fresh starts. We need hope. We need to dream, set goals, think about what could be. I need a new journal with fresh, blank pages. I need a calendar with twelve empty months in which to dream and hope and plan.

I need the newness of each day, the renewed promise of a fresh start, another chance.

I am wrong to take newness for granted.

I am wrong not to hope.

I climb out of bed late this morning, greeted with dirty dishes and shouting children and clutter and chaos. Determined to start the day right, I open my Bible randomly.

"O, you afflicted one,
Tossed with tempest, and not comforted,
Behold, I will lay your stones with colorful gems,
And lay your foundations with sapphires.
I will make your pinnacles of rubies,
Your gates of crystal,
And all your walls of precious stones.
All your children shall be taught by the Lord,
And great shall be the peace of your children.
In righteousness you shall be established;
You shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear;
And from terror, for it shall not come near you." (Is. 54:11-14)

The promises shower down upon me one after the other, breaking in upon all my attempts to be gloomy. My Lord loves the joy of hope. He delights in "wills" and "shalls" and in making all things new.

I will plant my new year's resolutions like seeds of hope, watching to see the faithfulness of God.

The Holy among Us

Wrapped in swaddling cloths, my squirming, kicking five-month old makes a ridiculous Baby Jesus. Adorable, yes, but she is all girl with those rosy cheeks and delicate eyelashes. And newborn she is definitely not, as evidenced by her ever-moving, chubby appendages and bright, curious eyes. And who am I to think I could pretend to be the Mother Mary?

Yet here we stand before a plywood stable in a warm indoor garden, "Silent Night" playing in the background as we wait for the hundreds of onlookers to travel through a theatrical Bethlehem in search of the Baby Jesus. I feel anything but holy as Ben and I joke with the teenaged Roman guard. Sylvia, perhaps sensing the seriousness of the moment more than her mother does, promptly falls asleep in the manger, naked arms spread in peace.

Suddenly it has begun. The first onlookers arrive and I hear Ben reciting his lines of welcome and see the look that comes over their faces as they view the child. I open my mouth to say my only line, "He is our precious gift from God," and my voice catches in a sob.

Our precious gift from God.

The holy bursts in upon me with a force that brings the tears to my eyes. I--who so long have loved Mary's heart and story, who so often yearn to have her gentle and quiet spirit--I should have been ready for Christ to come. But I was not looking for Him, and now here He is, quietly closing around me and taking my breath away with His love.

The people coming through our little stable do not see my bouncing baby Sylvia. Looking upon my sleeping child, they see Jesus. Because they are looking for Him. They have come this night to escape the bustle and glitter and clamor and noise, to be reminded of What It's All About. And there in the manger sleeps a perfect little baby, and they don't see my baby but another Baby who was also God.

The wonder and ridiculousness of it makes me laugh even as I am crying. That God would use a harried, exhausted couple and their too-big baby and a fake manger scene in a modern church garden...It's almost as ridiculous as God using a real teenage girl and her fiance and a real manger scene on a real night in Bethlehem.

He is our precious gift from God. The holy has come among us.

I must admit that I love the traditions of Christmas. I love the decorations, the gifts, the cookies, the carols, the family gatherings--all of it. And though I piously agree with all who say that the true meaning of Christmas is Christ among us, I secretly think it just wouldn't be the same without all those other things. I know this is because my heart does not long for Him fully enough, does not look for Him intently enough. Though I long for Him to be my All in All, I must shamefully admit that He is not.

What would happen, I wonder, if I put all the Christmas things away, forsook the gift giving, forgot the food, and truly focused on Him? Would it be Christmas?

I want to want only Him. I had a glimpse of Him that night as I held my baby in my arms and imagined holding God. A God who would give Himself to us in such a way is surely worthy of my all.

Daddy Loves Me

Precious pigtails frame her pixie face, brown eyes laughing slyly at me even as her mouth forms a pout. She is determined to get her way and to have fun doing it, at whatever cost to my sanity. She knows cuteness is on her side.

Fortunately this morning, in spite of her readiness to rebel, harmony reigns, and we sit on the couch reading books, her favorite pastime and one I particularly delight in…when I slow myself down and take the time. Lately I have been distracted and discouraged, feeling far from God and therefore disconnected with everyone else. As usual, the tasks of each day seem to swallow up all my good intentions to simply be a blessing to my kids.

I’m reading the same book for the fourth time, mouth working but mind elsewhere, when she suddenly stands up and looks out the window. “Where’s my Daddy? Where’s my Daddy?” she demands, as if suddenly and painfully aware of his absence.

My heart twinges as I think of her Daddy, coming in after work each day to sweep her up in his arms. They sit on the floor and cuddle, talk, and wrestle while the house fills with her giggles. He is intentional in his delight of her.

“You love your Daddy, don’t you?” I ask.

She smiles a slow smile, full of more meaning than it seems a two-year old could comprehend. “My Daddy loves me,” she whispers.

The tears come readily to my eyes. She knows she is delighted in. She is so confident that her Daddy cherishes her, and her mission each day is to wait for that moment when Daddy comes home.

This is how it is, my Abba whispers to my heart. Though you would deny my love, it is there for you. I delight in you. You are my girl.

What is stopping me? How can I be like my little girl, delighting in the love of her Father? I need only to believe that His love sees me as precious and prized. I need only to come and sit with Him on the floor, forgetting everything else in the joy of being loved.

The following words were written a week ago, and I'm publishing them here in an attempt to jump start my writing and find my way out of this spiritual slump. I recognize that they are self-absorbed and obsessive, but bear with me...

“You need to find your identity. You need to know who you are in Christ.”
Thus I told myself in the darkness of a depression over circumstances that had, I thought, robbed me of who I was. I had never before given much thought to my identity. I simply was, a person living on this planet, accepting life as it came to me, enjoying what I enjoyed and taking pride in what I could do well.
Those things I could do well, I suppose they were what defined me. I was glad that I generally pleased people, that people were happy with what I did and did not do. And overall, I was happy with myself.

And then suddenly those things I did well, I couldn’t do anymore. Couldn’t run, hike, climb, bike with my husband. Some days I couldn’t even open a jar of baby food. Couldn’t bounce out of bed in the morning ready to conquer the day. Couldn’t keep up with the list of the day’s demands or with people’s expectations. And the disease that claimed my body seeped into my soul. My thoughts and actions were no longer pleasing but ugly, twisted, hurt and angry. The weight of my myriad failures pulled me ever deeper into the darkness of despair.

The day I finally decided to climb out of that hole, I told myself I needed to know who I REALLY was. “Find your identity in Christ” sounded like the right answer. Trouble was, I had no idea what that really meant. To me the phrase evoked the picture of an army of little Christ-clones, identical in piety and purpose, but sadly faceless, voiceless, and passionless. Like the hordes of stick-soldiers in Star Wars destroyed willy-nilly by every weapon raised against them. I knew that this was an inaccurate picture, but the real version eluded me.

The truth was that I was now defined by my disease, and the idea of “finding who I was in Christ” was a pathetic attempt to accept the “new me,” the sad, weak, pitiful me. It was my conciliatory gesture toward a God who, in my mind, had effectively stripped away anything in me that was of any worth, commanding that I be “complete” in Him. Only now I saw myself as second-hand goods, on the path to becoming “holy,” perhaps, but much less “me.” And much less interesting. I had nothing to offer anyone, not even myself. I was ugly, boring, empty. This is what Christ wanted?

I set about trying to discover what it meant to find my identity in Christ, inwardly loathing the words. Trying to accept who He said I now was. Only I was not listening to Him. I was hearing what I had always heard and thought was true.

You are not worthy.

You are nothing but a wretch.

You will always be nothing but a wretch, and you’d better be glad that God loves you anyway.

Before, I had always been able to cover my inner wretchedness with a layer of pleasing performance. I may have been a wretch, but I was a competent wretch. I could handle life. And maybe God didn’t really see me as so wretched when I was doing so well.

But now I was exposed. And angry. God, if I am nothing but a wretch, why bother? I’m glad You love me, but I do not understand this kind of love, a love that loves without any reason to love. Why would You want to love a wretch? Why would You go to the trouble to create a world full of wretches and then love them, making sure we all know how wretched we are and how little we deserve Your love?

This is the problem I was refusing to face, putting my fingers in my ears each time it whispered. I didn’t want to blame God for creating me a wretch and then loving me, but in my heart of hearts I believed that was so. I knew my sin was to blame as well, but underneath the sin, the wretchedness was still there. I didn’t know if I wanted to be loved by a God who just thought of me as a wretch.

I do not know how or why I believed this of myself or of God. I think maybe many of us do. But then the Scriptures began to speak:

You are beloved.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

You are holy.

You are royal.

You are chosen.

You are My friend.

You are very good.

You are delightful.

I could not find the words, “You are a wretch.” “You are ugly.” “You are worthless.” Sure, I am a sinner. My heart of darkness has infinitely separated me from the God of love. But the truth is that I am valuable. I am priceless, precious, prized. God looks at me and His heart swells with love, because I am beautiful, unique, a sacred, holy creation. He is not sighing, rolling His eyes, and saying, “Well, yes, you are a wretch, but I’ll love you anyway.” He is delighting in me, singing over me, holding me in His arms and stroking my hair, kissing my cheek, whispering in my ear. I am His girl. Because I am beautiful.
Not sure I believe all of this quite yet. I still want to be the old me. Still have a hard time seeing how this new me is better. But maybe I am trusting more. Maybe I see that God grieves the losses as much as I do, but He sees some hidden beauty I do not. Some part of me He wants to unveil. I want to believe that the new me is the Princess Me, the one created before the foundation of the world, the one destined to grace the hallways of heaven and to make the heart of my Father smile.

Be Strong and of Good Courage

Last night Malachi and one other kindergarten student, as the best readers in their class, were chosen to go to the open house for next year's prospective students and parents to display their reading skills. About an hour before we left, Malachi's excitement suddenly turned to fear: "I don't want to go, Mom. Mom, I'm scared! Mom, I can't do it!"

I pulled out the Bible and turned to Joshua 1. What did God tell the Israelites when they were about to enter the promised land? "Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go." We prayed together for Malachi to be strong and of good courage and to remember that the Lord was with him. He still kept crying about how afraid he was.

As I went to my bedroom to get ready to leave, I found myself wishing Malachi could see the upcoming night as I saw it. I knew that he knew the words in his book by heart. I knew that the parents who would be there were harmless and loving, that if he messed up (which was unlikely), no one would care. In short, I knew there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything would be just fine.

Suddenly I heard the Lord's voice whisper to me, "Don't you know that's how I feel about you? I just wish you would trust me when I say that everything will be fine." I thought about the fears I daily dwell upon: What if I don't get an online job next year? What if we don't make enough money? How are we going to get by? What if people let me down? What if I don't get everything done today? How AM I going to get it all done, anyway? And on and on...

We went to the open house. Malachi and Maggie stood up to read. It took them about a minute to get through their little book, and they performed almost perfectly. It turned out fine, just as I said it would.

All my fears must sound as silly to the Lord's ears as Malachi's fears do to mine. I wonder why I have such a hard time trusting that the One who made the galaxies and the mountains, the One who rules nations and kings, the One who knows me intimately and has numbered all my days, would not be able to handle my fears. They seem so daunting to me, but they are so little to Him.

Let my children see me resting in You, so they will learn to rest and not be afraid.

The Waterfall

Abby,
One year. One year without your face, your voice, your hugs, your funny emails. One year without hearing you ask how I am doing, without our prayers together, without your voice uplifted in song. One year that you have gotten to look upon the face of Jesus, to dance in His arms, to glory in the fulfillment of all your heart’s desires.
I still think of you every time I worship. I think of you when I drive past THE SPOT in Granite. I think of you when I see your mother every day at work, when I hug her and wonder how I can relieve her sorrow. I think of you when I see flowers, when I wear the necklace you gave me, when I’m in the shower using the sponge you put in my birthday gift last year. I think of you when I see Brandon and know that he wishes he would have told you how much he loved you. I think of you when I see the last email you sent me, still in my inbox because I just can’t delete it. I think of you when I visit your Facebook page and see how everyone still pours their hearts out to you daily.
I am so glad I think of you. So glad your presence is still so real in my life. And now that one year has passed, the sharp edge of sorrow has become an ache that fits into my heart somehow, as if it has found a rightful place there, where it will always remain. The sorrow of your death is like a seed that is beginning to sprout new life. Through your death I have become friends with Echo (a miracle, definitely) and have watched her struggle to come to grips with loss and rage and doubt and loneliness. God has opened to me the hearts of Karlee and Brooke, and I am growing to love them like little sisters, watching them grow in their own ways. Our Girls Group which you started still gets together, and your spirit is there among us, drawing us heavenward. Your amazing mother still ministers to others more than she is ministered to, but I see seeds of hope sprouting and I am praying for flowers.
I see only a few of the sprouts, Abby, and there are thousands more, all over this town, all over the world. From your perspective I know you are watching a garden bloom. I suppose there can be no true life without death, and hope is all the sweeter because of the pain of its coming.
In church you were remembered and mentioned, and I began to cry as we worshiped, hearing only your voice singing those songs. I’ll admit that lately I’ve felt distant from God, disconnected and discontent. (Alas, I have not had our dates with God that we so often discussed.) But as we worshiped and I thought of you, God suddenly met me. I understood, in a way I have not in a long time, His AWESOMENESS. He was just so suddenly THERE, so real, and so overwhelming. My heart was broken because of its smallness, its inability to grasp His greatness. There He was, overflowing like a waterfall, and I could only stand a few droplets. But oh, how I wanted more.
Oh Abby, I believe this is what you discovered before you died. I saw it in you. You KNEW. You had plunged into the waterfall. And yesterday I knew with certainty that God had to have you with Him because He just couldn’t stand to watch you long for Him any longer. That thought brought me such comfort, because, idiot that I sometimes am, I had been doubting His love, not feeling it, not believing it was as real and big and all-encompassing as He says. But the thought of you plunging into that waterfall and God smiling in delight as He pulled you to Himself—I knew then that is what He wants for all of us. And we all have such small, shrunken hearts, such a noisy world, such deaf ears. We are numb with apathy and boredom and are desperately filling up our souls with distractions. We no longer know how to search for God, how to grope for Him, as the Bible says, though He is not far from each of us and is waiting for us to reach out so He can find us.
God, I want the waterfall. Not for myself only. For my husband, my children, my poor, misled students, for all of Your children bleating with meaninglessness, for this lost, lost world in its suffering. Please come. Please come in Your power, with your presence, and flood our hearts with Your love. Break down our walls of distraction and apathy and anger and suffering. Let us truly know You, as much as we are able. Undo us, ravish us, revive us into the children You long to see, the children who delight Your heart and dance with You in joy.
Thank you, Abby, for your love. I will never forget it. It will remain a precious treasure in my life. I miss you so much. I cannot wait to see you again. Thank you for teaching me so much, for living so passionately and openly before us all. Happy anniversary. I love you.

Come, Abide

I was telling a friend about my lifegiver resolutions, my convictions to tend to my home and to focus my energies and priorities more on where I should. “But whom are you relying on?” she asked me. “You can’t do that by yourself.” I agreed with her, of course, and gave a vague answer about how I need to spend more time with God. Then I spent the rest of the day feverishly working, not giving God much thought at all.
I had grand plans for my week, plans to begin restoring my home to order. My plans did not include Ben getting a violent stomach bug Monday night and Mikayla refusing to sleep for no apparent reason. I was up all night, resulting in a yesterday of chaos, disorder, grumpiness, and little of productive value. In the middle of the day, as I cried out to God for the hundredth time, my friend’s words came back to me. I smiled in spite of myself. Maybe this was God’s way of reminding me that I really can’t do any of this on my own.
The theme of my life lately seems to be “abide.” John 15 keeps popping up in all kinds of ways. “As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.” Point taken. “Without Me you can do nothing.” Must I always be the living example?
“He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit…If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, you will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you.” Do any of us really know what it means to abide? To dwell. To stay. To remain. To rest. The concept of abiding presupposes that I am with the Lord, that I have come to Him and consciously chosen to stay there. First I must come.

Giving Life

I am leading a Bible study called "Five Aspects of Woman" with two amazing young women that God has brought my way. This is my fourth time through the study, and one would think that by now I have absorbed all of its teachings. Alas. Now I know why God wanted me to do it a fourth time.

The study examines the idea of Biblical femininity--what IS a woman, according to God? Five "aspects" or "roles" are presented, and we study each for three weeks. Currently we are studying the "Lifegiver" role. All women, mothers or not, are called to give life, physically and spiritually. We are to guard and protect the "inner domains": virginity, the womb, and the home, among others. We give life through these inner domains.

Today's study challenged us to examine the ways we give life. Who has God brought into our lives, and how do we give life to them? The author presented us with categories to consider: words, education, church life, holiday and social life, culture and the arts, heritage and traditions.

And today I finally stopped and came face to face with the fact I have been pushing away, refusing to deal with. Today I allowed it to become real. I have sacrificed the precious domain of home for the outer domain of work. I have focused on giving life to my students to the neglect of my family. I did not do this purposefully, of course. In my mind I have always said "family first." And I have done enough to make our home functional, to make sure my children are fed and clothed and that they receive adequate attention.

But this weekend God began revealing to me my neglect, neglect which I believe has amounted to sin. Much of my home is in chaos. Things are not put away. Pictures have fallen off the walls and have not been replaced. My office, the only room in the house off-limits to children, has become the stopping place for all the clutter and chaos I have not had time to deal with. Our puppy has destroyed the backyard, and I have not cleaned it up. I have years and years worth of pictures that are sitting in boxes or on my computer. Meals are planned at the last minute or pulled from the freezer. I have not taken care of my own body or soul for months, and thus I am usually grumpy. This blog is the perfect illustration of my neglect--I have not written since September?!? My heart, and thus our home, is not a place of beauty, rest, or refuge.

The maddening thing is that this is not who I am. My personality loves and craves order, peace, home. I have always longed to create a beautiful, safe, peaceful, happy home for my family. But I have allowed the clamoring voices to creep in and take over. One can take on so many good things that in the end none of them are good at all.

I realize that I could keep going, keep functioning and maintaining, keeping my head above water and surviving. Many, many mothers do. But what do I want my children to remember? That mom was always working, that our house was a mess, that I spent all my free time trying to keep house?

I write this here as a confession and a challenge to myself. I do not like to reveal such ugliness. But maybe if I say it now, maybe if I face it in its reality, things will begin to change. Maybe I will finally give myself, my work, my family, to God and allow God to work HIS purposes. Pray for me to do this. Pray that God will lead the way, and that I will be a lifegiver, not a mere survivor.

The Beginning of True Faith

“The beginning of anxiety is the end of faith. The beginning of true faith is the end of anxiety." --George Muller

Too, too, too long since I have journaled. So much has been going on within me, such a tempest of feelings and ideas and anxieties. The quote above summarizes much of what God is doing. How needlessly I carry around the burden of anxiety that only grows larger day after day. It bows me down, slows my progress, makes me oh so weary, cripples my effectiveness. I’ve been lugging it my whole life, and it never has done me any good.

I told a friend the other day that I am so used to waking up to an instant weight of anxiety and guilt that when I don’t have anything to feel guilty about, I feel guilty. I NEVER have nothing to be anxious about.

Everything around me has seemed to be in such chaos for so long. I worry about Malachi, about his tender spirit, about his soul, about my relationship with him, about Ben’s relationship with him. I worry about Ben. I worry about my schedule and my mountain of tasks. I worry about my weight. I worry about the friends I am failing to reach out to, about the projects I never seem to get done. I worry about house cleaning. I worry about teaching. I worry about money. I worry about my family members who don’t know Christ. On and on and on…

Oh, Abba! I know you want to take this from me. I know that TRUE faith trusts You so completely, surrenders all and walks in peace and confidence. I have had moments of that. I want the real thing, the constant presence. Forgive me my worry and my guilt. I worry because I refuse to give up control. I feel guilty because I do not accept Your forgiveness and grace.

Now let us begin anew. NOW help me to lay it all down, to unclench these fists, to breathe, to smile, to lie back in Your arms.

“For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
Than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
The Lord will give grace and glory;
No good thing will He withhold
From those who walk uprightly.”

Ps. 84:10-11

Ben is teaching on this passage this week at Deer Valley. We were discussing its significance. If you could have 1,000 days to do whatever you wanted, would you really rather spend just one day in the presence of God?

Our concept of You is so small. Our experience of You is so limited. Yet these things are our own fault. You long to reveal Yourself to us; You do so in thousands of ways, all day long, every day. You long for us to experience You; You call us to Yourself over and over. We are so busy with our little lives, letting the weight of the world eat up our moments, walking hunched with our eyes fixed on the ground in front of us. Just get through the day. Just finish this project. Just get the kids to bed. Just get the house clean. When I finish these things, then Lord…

Yet the psalmist knew the joy of You. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God…

My God. He had tasted you, and he wanted more. “How lovely is Your tabernacle, O Lord of hosts! My soul longs, yes, even faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God” (v. 1).

Yesterday I met with Debbie D., a woman who radiates Your peace and presence. She is becoming a sort of mentor to me. She reminded me again that the most important thing is time with You. The way she spoke of You, as if she talks to You all day long and listens to You even more (she does)—I know this can only come from time at Your feet, dwelling in Your courts.

“Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
They will still be praising You.
Blessed is the man whose strength is in You,
Whose heart is set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baca,
They make it a spring;
The rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
Every one of them appears before God in Zion.”

Ps. 84: 4-8

I love the word pilgrimage. I love that this life is a sacred journey whose end is Your presence. Every step matters. You didn’t promise I wouldn’t go through the Valley of Weeping, but You did promise to (eventually) make it a spring. You did promise to take me from strength to strength. And best of all, You promised that one day I will appear before You. You are my sun and shield. You give me grace and glory. You give me all good things. I need to spend a day on each of these thoughts, drinking them in and understanding.

Oh Abba, we know so little of You. You long to do so much. Teach me what it all means. Draw me further up and further in. Let me know You.

The psalmist ends this way:

“O Lord of hosts,
Blessed is the man who trusts in You!” (v. 12)

Learning that complete trust, the trust that brings peace and rest, comes from dwelling in Your courts. As always, I think of Abby. That was her secret, and it radiated from her as it does from Debbie. She dwelt in Your courts; she didn’t just visit. Oh, she knew the secret of her Abba’s love, and she reveled in it. She had so much joy to share, so much love to give, because she gave herself to YOU first.

I’ve been catching glimpses of that glory, but I don’t want the trickle, I want the waterfall. Let it begin today. Let me dwell with You today. I trust You to carve out the time for me to sit at Your feet each day. Help me to see and to seize those moments.

“O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
Give ear, O God of Jacob!
O God, behold our shield,
And look upon the face of Your anointed.” (vv. 8-9)

The tablet of the human heart

Just returned from the East Coast, where my family spent a week with my brother and his wife. I was privileged to witness Scott's graduation from Princeton University, where he received his doctorate in Music Composition. It was hard not to be overawed by the prestige and reputation of the Ivy League school. My mom overheard other parents discussing their children's futures as assistants to important politicians, doing "important" work for the country. As I wandered the beautiful campus, taking in its grandeur and size, I felt small and unimportant in comparison, just a small town mountain girl with her two kids and her job at a tiny school no one has ever heard of.

And yet, as the week passed and I absorbed more of this culture my brother lives in, I felt an emptiness around me. Though I was surrounded by prosperity, affluence, and success, much of it felt meaningless. I do not necessarily say this about Scott, who seems amazingly happy and content, though only he can tell whether his work brings him meaning, and I am convinced he will never find his true purpose without Christ. But as I observed the people around me, I was struck over and over by our human drive to find purpose and fulfillment in what we do . . . and in the futility of trying to find it apart from our identity in God. So much of what I saw was a form of reaching out, a searching cry for meaning, and as I listened, I heard only chaos, or worse, silence.

Yet I was in one of the cultural centers of our modern world, the heart of all that is considered "enlightened" and "free" and "tolerant." I was surrounded by art and music and learning and big ideas. Everything goes, everything is acceptable, and it all is supposed to have meaning because you make it mean something, you apply your own personal standard, and you never, never judge. And yet we are so careful not to offend, not to pass judgment or attempt to define truth. But without definable truth there is no meaning. And without meaning there is no purpose. And without purpose we are lost.

During the week, God drew me over and over to the first five chapters of 2 Corinthians, where Paul defends his own purpose as a "minister of the new covenant." The reason my brother and so many have turned away, I am convinced, is that they know only the message of the letter that kills, the "ministry of death," engraved on stones and bringing condemnation. But Paul speaks passionately of the letter of Christ, "written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart." And it is this letter that is glorious and beautiful and true and bold. This letter is of the Spirit, and "where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."

He is showing me, over and over, that freedom is only found in Him, in the truth of this message. Why has it become so twisted, to the point that my own brother and so many others believe it is a lie and a trap? What have we done wrong? May my message be one of meaning and hope, not of condemnation. May it be a "treasure in an earthen vessel," and may it bring life. And oh, God, may the fragrance of Christ reveal clearly the death that is apart from You. And may my brother, and all those seeking purpose and meaning, find it in You.

Letting go of the suitcase

So here it is at last. I've gone digital. Driven by swollen fingers that no longer like to hold a pen for long periods, I'm attempting this online form of journaling. I'm encouraged by reading the blogs of my friends; this kind of community reflection can be inspiring. Don't know if I will inspire anyone. My main goal is to be a more faithful chronicler of the daily barrage of words that flood my head but never find their way to paper--or in this case, computer. Who knows, maybe this will be the beginning of a revolution in my life, a getting done of all the projects I long to do but don't have time, or make time, for.

I was telling God about this just this morning, pulling out my mental list of wishful to-dos that get pushed back by the necessary ones. So many desires living in the shadow of my responsibilities. I often feel that I must give up so much of who I really am in order to be who I am supposed to be. How does one balance job, home, kids, husband, friends, family, exercise, spiritual life...and still have time for hobbies and dreams?

I love all--okay, most--of the aspects of my daily life. But I am tired of lugging around my mental suitcase, filled with the lists I keep making and filing away for later. Those lists are heavy! But this morning as I mentioned this to God, He asked me why I'm lugging the suitcase around anyway. That's not what He wants for me. I was reminded of something that I heard on Sunday: the one and only secret to living a life of freedom in Christ is trust. Whatever I am in bondage over is what I am not trusting Him with. Ever the gentle prodder, God brought this to mind this morning.

Sometimes, for me at least, it's easier to trust God with the big things than the small ones. Maybe that's because I realize it's absurd of me to think I'm actually in charge of my future or my kids or my marriage. But the small things get me, because I want to control them. Especially time. I want to squeeze all these tasks into the smallest possible number of minutes to get as much as I possibly can done each day. And each day I fail in this. But why do I think I need time? As my dear friend Debbie reminded me, I don't need time, I need my God. My God can give me time, if that's what I need. But what He told me this morning is that I need to trust. I need to let go of all these small things and just rest in the moment. In the end, what matters most is how I have lived the moments God gives, and I want to live them with peace, joy, and rest. But I can't do that when my fists are clenched around the handle of my suitcase, now can I?