Trusting Again

Our Yes to God Bible study chapter this week, Learning to Trust Again, reminded me of this post from the archives...

God is putting a ribbon around my finger. He is whispering, ever so softly, in my ear: Remember.

Lately, I have led a charmed life. Just in little things, mind you, like traffic lights and sunny walks and scheduling. It seems all I have to do is think a thing, a little thing, and it comes to me. He is tying the ribbon.

Perhaps these little happenings are mere coincidences. Perhaps I am making too much of small things. Forgive me for taking simple delight in tiny pleasures that have often eluded me.

I have never been the lucky one.

I learned at an early age that people and circumstances were not to be trusted.

As a child I was mislaid, like an extra pair of reading glasses, never thought of until a need to see more clearly arose.

This did not happen by accident, for the Lord ordained this time to draw me to Him, using my emptiness to demonstrate His great comfort. I learned that when this world fails, He is ever present. He delivered me from that time of brokenness and artfully transformed my pain into strength and compassion.

Lately, however, I have been that mislaid little girl once again. My heart has been feeling the pull of the past. My emotions have returned to that time of brokenness. For, there are some big changes taking place in my life right now. Changes that require trust and confidence. Two things that my past assured I would have difficulty mastering.

I am the child I was back then: vulnerable and needy, longing in vain to feel comforting arms around me. My heart is tremulous and easily bruised, my steps tentative. Do I dare to trust?

There comes a time when we must leave our pasts behind us. A time when we must choose to believe the Great Love that is spoken of in the Bible. For me, this time happens over and over again, and I often need reminded that I am a new creation.

And so He has been busy tying the ribbon around my finger. He has gifted me with these little reminders. My child, He tenderly whispers, have I ever let you down before? With each little incidence of fortune, He has breathed over me a memory of a larger past deliverance. In the sweetest of ways He shows me that I can trust Him: by taking care of even the smallest detail. And with each detail He carefully and lovingly attends to, I am reminded of His faithfulness.

When human hands fail, there is One who can be trusted. He dwelleth not in temples made with hands. When my heart is broken, he covers me with His wings. Scripture tells me He knows the number of hairs on my head; He catches my tears in His wineskin. When my trust in man is disappointed, I can trust the author of my life to write the end of the story. And with Him, there is always a happy ending.

Tell His Story

We have reached our final post for our High Calling Blogs book club book: Make the Impossible Possible by Bill Strickland. (Thank goodness).

For the most part, I have enjoyed this read. It is inspiring and motivates me to reach…but by the end, I grew weary of the grandiose talk and the amazing goals Mr. Strickland was able to accomplish in his life. Some of his experiences ring hollow in my ears. His pursuits seem selfish and, like Erica, I found myself wondering if this man had a family that he left behind on all these dream chasing excursions.

Following a dream is a worthy path, but if I were to suddenly decide I wanted to pursue my commercial pilot’s license (as Mr. Strickland did), some of the dreams of my family members would suffer in that process.

Making the impossible possible seemed even more impossible to me after reading this book. Married with children would have difficulty going to the lengths this gentleman did to make the dream happen.

But I simplify. Mr. Strickland’s story is an amazing one, and he attempts to generalize his success to smaller scale goals in the last chapters as he drives home his philosophy that to have a meaningful life, one must pursue that which evokes passion.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts how Mr. Strickland made the most of his opportunities not only through passion, but by working with others and plain ‘ol perseverance. He mentions something else in the last chapters that contributed to his success.

It’s called “Tell your story”, and it comes from the jazz phrase of the same words, meaning, “…a way of playing that not only displays your virtuosity but also gives the audience a glimpse of your soul.”

Bill Strickland applies “Tell your story” to life. He states, “…the more clearly and convincingly you are able to tell your story, the better your chance of attracting the people who can best help you move your story forward, and in whose own stories you can play a productive part.”

These words reminded me of a similar exhortation:

“…Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have…” (1 Peter 3:15) (see, Nancy? I knew I could work faith in here somewhere!)

Strickland’s advice about “Tell your story” is aptly applied to our testimonies as Christians. In fact, most of what he says about passion, dreaming, and perseverance is Biblical. And so is this little tidbit I found on page 166: “Struggle is part of the equation when you bet your hopes on a passion, but the passion also makes the effort worthwhile.”

Do I feel this way about my faith?

In truth, the answer shames me. Too often my passion takes a back seat to obligation.

Bill Srickland has a lot to say about that.

This book, that did not mention God one time (not that I caught anyway), opens my eyes to a whole new way of viewing faith. Or is it an old one? Perhaps the one that I started out with that has been forgotten under a pile of potluck dinners and Sunday school lessons?

Passion.

My faith is my dream. I want to pursue it with abandon.

I want to tell His story in a way that "attracts people" and "moves" His story forward. I want my telling to glorify Him and give others a glimpse of my soul that is so in love with Jesus.

Then I truly will be flying in the clouds.

No license necessary.

Heartsong

Before I have the chance to absorb the fact that his chest is now broad enough for me to rest my head on, I catch the faint thrumming underneath.

He prattles on--our pillow talk.

“Shhh,” I say, softly, pressing cheek into warm softness.

He is very still, and, it seems, the thrumming grows stronger for the listening.

The doctors tell me there is a murmur in there somewhere. I strain, but all I hear is a steady beat.

I turn my face so I can see his.

“Your heart is beating,” I whisper.

His smile illuminated by closet light cascade.

“I know.”

I return ear to that small place and close my eyes, soothed by this song of life.

And the miracle of it makes me all soft inside.

Fear verses Faith

Yes to God Bible Study: An Untroubled Heart by Micca Campbell

Chapter Five: Family Matters

This week’s reading went down like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold wintry day.

I don’t know what it is about being a mother that fills me with fear and insecurities. Sometimes I love these two little people that came from my body so much that it fills me with panic.

What if I do this all wrong?

Micca asks us at the end of this chapter, “Would you describe yourself as a faith-driven parent or a fear-driven parent?”

It was difficult for me to look inside and honestly answer this question.

The truth is, the older my boys get--the more I seem to be filled with fears about their future.

They were so easy when they were soft and round and pink. I look back on those days of the scent of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo with longing now. They were so…

Pliable.

Now, they seem to have this thing called an opinion about everything. They have desires and interests. They have grown into their own little personalities.

For the most part, these developments fill me with joy and anticipation.

I like the people my little guys are becoming. It has been a wonderful gift from God to watch them grow and see them experience life.

But too many times I have let my expectations interfere with their healthy development. I could really relate to Micca’s statement about her son, Mitch, after he got a tattoo.

“My son, who I thought was made in my image, actually had dreams and a God-given purpose of his own. I had to let go of my own dreams, expectations, and fears and accept him as he was, tattoo and all.”

Micca reminded me throughout this chapter (and this is the sweetness of the hot chocolate going down) of God’s promises to me.

Choosing to trust in Him rather than give in to fear is a gift that I can give my children.

As long as they always do what I want them to do.

Just kidding.

Really.

They were His first.

I’m trying to trust Him with them. Even when I don’t understand the path He chooses for them.

Amen.

The Power of Beauty

We've been in and out of town this past week, taking advantage of spring break with our boys. Thanks for being patient with me as I go about this business of life...getting the most out each moment with these small people who seem to be getting bigger every day...

It billowed through the window, spilling over everything in its path: blinding, dazzling sunlight. The atmosphere in my bedroom was golden, and for a moment, I stood frozen by beauty.

Beauty has that power.

To still the chaos of a busy morning.

To inspire a dream so achingly real that one has no choice but to pursue it.

That is what Bill Strickland discovered when he saw his first orchid: the power of beauty.

In chapter six of Make the Impossible Possible, Strickland relates how the beauty of one flower led to the creation of the highly successful greenhouse run by Manchester Bidwell students and staff.

In my reading this week I was struck by Strickland’s immense ability to see and appreciate beauty.

About his first orchid, received as a gift, Strickland writes:

“I set it on a window ledge in my dining room and saw right away there was magic in that flower. It glowed in the daylight. At night if filled the room with a radiance of its own. The quality of that light, and the complex, mysterious beauty of that flower, did more than add beauty to the dining room; it transformed something fundamental in the room’s reality, reorganized the energy of that room according to some new principle, some new priority that’ impossible to put into words.”

That is power.

Can we harness that power? The power of beauty?

Strickland did.

By holding on to the feeling evoked by that orchid, he traversed seven years of planning and networking to realize the dream of building his greenhouse.

What this chapter reminded me to do is to surround myself with beauty. To never forget its value and power.

Power to heal.

Power to inspire.

Power to move.

Move toward my dream.

Please visit High Calling Blogs for more thoughts on this chapter.

A Quick Note...

Going to visit the relatives today…

Looking forward to a roadtrip with my boys.

Just a quick overnight and back. Time will pass quickly as we scuttle from one house to the next.
Due to the holiday, I haven’t had time to put together a cohesive post for my Monday High Calling Blogs book club, but I would like to leave you with this:

“…the first step in living a great life is to live a worthwhile life, and that’s something each one of us can do. It’s something we must do if we want our lives to matter and to make a difference.”
---Bill Strickland, Make the Impossible Possible

A post from the archives today. This exchange with my youngest son still takes my breath away...

A post from the archives today. This exchange with my youngest son still takes my breath away...

The Friday of Lamentation

Today is the day of the feast. My heart is ready. I have spread the banquet. My love is here. I rejoice on this Friday of Lamentation, because I know how the story ends. But my heart is tender, nonetheless.

Last night, we read Matthew’s account of Jesus’ prayers in the Garden and His arrest. I explained to the boys what Nisan 15 was, and how we know that on the night of Jesus’ arrest, there was a full moon. We parted the curtains and stared in awe at the same moon that witnessed the events of that night.

How do you think they felt when they saw Him taken away?

Quiet. Somber. Downcast eyes.

And then later, a flood of tears.

Why do you cry? I asked.

I don’t know, he said.

More tears, trembling, gasping tears.

I wrapped him in my arms.

Whispered softly in his ear: It’s Jesus.

There’s so much love, he said.

I know.
 

I know.

Becoming

Image by lars hammar via Flickr

We pass his body from hand to hand—mouth to mouth.

Lift chalice; drink his blood.

Some reach eagerly. Greedily.

Others…haltingly, reluctantly.

Am I worthy?

It is warm going down.

Mixed with salty tears.

I feel it inside of me.

Spreading.

Becoming him.

Do this in remembrance of me.

It vibrates like a song inside of me.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Eager. Greedy. Reluctant. Unworthy. Warm. Mixed. Salty.

Becoming Him.

I will remember.

The Service of the Shadows

Image via Wikipedia

They’ve taken my Lord away!

They’ve bound Him and taken Him away!

As the Light is carried away from me, I feel my chest collapse as all the air leaves my body. The despair, so thick, fills my lungs.

It feels as if I will never breathe again.

They’ve taken my Lord away!

And then, out, into the dusk.

We move like shadows.

Silence.

But the birds continue to sing. The wind continues to blow. And the sun continues to sink lower in the sky, coloring the horizon red. The moon, full and round, hangs low, giving date to this sacred night. Nisan fifteen. The Feast of Unleavened Bread.

But they’ve taken Him away.

What will become of us?

ABCs of the Word, “I”

“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.” (John 13:34)

“The word Maundy is derived through Middle English, and Old French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word of the phrase ‘Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos’ (‘A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you’), the statement by Jesus in the Gospel of John (13:34) by which Jesus explained to the Apostles the significance of his action of washing their feet.” (Wikipedia)

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Mom-portrait, week 3...Visit Forever in Blue Jeans for more!

Black and White

Church

Image via Wikipedia

We were standing on the perimeter of the sanctuary.

Just passing through, we had stopped in Gulfport, Mississippi to visit our Pastor-friend on our way to Pensacola Beach.

Our friend was in a meeting and we were told to show ourselves around while we waited for him.

We teetered on the edge, feeling shy to enter into this stillness. As we peered in, sunlight sifted through stained glass, flooding that sacred place with a kaleidoscope of color.

I stepped in.

He followed.

“Why do all Presbyterian churches look the same?”

I heard the humor in his voice, and something else—disdain?

I breathed in and smelled a familiar smell.

It smelled like home.

I wondered—is this the smell of hundreds of hearts and shoulders rubbing up against one another? The smell of many bodies becoming One?

I sat down in the front pew and raised face to glowing cross, sunshine falling through glass.

I didn’t see what he saw.

“I love church.”

I said it with my eyes closed—feeling Him there--loving the light and glass, polished wood and shining brass.

“I don’t,” he said, smiling that smile.

“I love bars and coffee houses.”

And he does.

He is just as uncomfortable in church as he was on the day he was baptized, three years ago.

These walls do not fold him closer to God, as they do me.

They hem him in. Trap him.

But as I look up at him through filtered sunbeams, dust particles illuminated as they suspend in air…I see that he is beginning to understand why.

Why I love church.

Later, as we walk along the seashore…my hand in his…wind lashing hair about faces…I am overcome by the beauty of the moment.

I close my eyes and breathe in a familiar smell. I feel Him there, too—large and powerful like the waves; soft and tender like my husband’s hand.

“This is so…”

I struggle for words.

And then it is my turn to touch on the beginning of understanding.

“This is church.”

He smiles down at me, squeezes my hand.

Wherever we are, He meets us there, Beloved.

Large and powerful, soft and tender.

Such are the ways of our God.

Visionary

In chapter four of Bill Strickland’s Make the Impossible Possible, I begin to believe that I can.

The High Calling Blogs Book Club has been reading this amazing story and sharing thoughts. Check out more reflections here.

This week’s chapter perfectly illustrated to me what the term visionary means.

The story of how Strickland marries the Bidwell Training Center and the Craftsman Guild—how he campaigns and succeeds in raising millions of dollars to build a new facility to house these two struggling programs—makes me believe anything can happen.

When I look deeper into the process by which Strickland obtained the means to realize his dream, I see that there were some pretty significant mitigating factors involved.

Strickland worked for years building a reputation as a man who cares about his mission and who could be trusted.

He never would have gotten far with donors if he hadn’t lived a life of honorable intentions up until that point.

Strickland surrounded himself with good people, talented people, people who caught the contagion of his dream.

We can’t do it alone, friends. It’s one of the most debilitating characteristics of our culture, individualism. To realize a dream—to truly make a difference in this world—we must work with others. It’s just too big a job for one person. Strickland’s humility and willingness to bring others alongside him gave him inroads he would not have otherwise had.

Strickland did not give up.

I seem to keep saying this, but this is huge.

In the midst of frequent “demoralizing failures”, of defeating environments and short-sighted authorities…Strickland held on to his dream with “dogged tenacity”. He found the courage to move forward, one step at a time, and in the process learned this valuable lesson: “Trust your passion, identify your dreams, and find the courage to share them with others, no matter how many times they call you a fool.”

What is your dream, friend?

Do you have a vision that just won’t leave you alone?

Don’t give up.

Give hope a home in your heart.

Follow Bill Strickland’s example and move forward—one shaky step at a time.

For Such a Time...

We had our last session of our Esther Bible study yesterday morning.

What an incredible journey it has been. Beth Moore made the characters of this familiar story come alive for us—we all were swept up in the story of the unlikely queen. It was made new for us through her vivid imagination and burning passion.

The end of a Bible study is always bittersweet for me.

It’s difficult to say goodbye to the characters I have spent my mornings with for many weeks. I find I need some time to reflect on what I have learned—to hear what God is speaking to me.

The content of the lesson yesterday was very timely for me. Having just celebrated my fortieth birthday (have I mentioned that? :), it seems that lately I am reminded at every turn of the fleeting nature of beauty.

A few days before my birthday, I received a card of well wishes from my health insurance company.

This would have been very thoughtful if it hadn’t listed all the tests and medical procedures they recommend a woman my age to go through.

I mean, really.

That's just rude.

Then, a couple days later, I received this in the mail:

It was made to look like someone ripped a page out of a magazine, apparently prompted to think of my aging skin when stumbling across the ad.

This world preys on our insecurities.

Yes, it is tough being a woman.

Yesterday, Beth reminded us that although “In man’s realm, time diminishes beauty”, but “In God’s realm…time perfects beauty.”

I don’t know about you, but this is something I needed to hear.

It’s no mistake that the older we get, the more comfortable we are with ourselves.

“If I had known then what I know now…”

Hmmm. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?

He has set eternity in our hearts, ladies. We were created for more than this world.

Does that give you a thrill as it does me?

I’m camping there in the coming week.

Each time I look in the mirror and notice how that skin is getting thin and papery under my eyes, I’m going to think of God’s calendar. Not mine.

I am beautiful in His eyes.

Amen.

Wanted to share a little of the celebration we shared to say goodbye to Esther. Part of our Bible study group was able to gather together to have a makeshift Purim feast.

Our sweet host and hostess made lamb kabobs and latkes. We all brought some traditional foods to share.

I made the Hamantashen (Haman’s Ears cookies).

Man were they ugly.

Then we watched the Veggie Tales version of Esther (those veggie tales writers are amazingly creative!) to get our hearts warmed up for the main feature. We shared some giggles and more than one hearty laugh.

Then we watched One Night with the King, which we all agreed was kind of the Disney version of the Esther story. But, who knows? Maybe it did happen that way. Sure was a swooner. There was even a great silhouetted kiss at the end.

It was a pretty special evening.

Here’s our group:

Aren't we beautiful?

You may wonder what I’m wearing.

One thing we learned that was during Purim, the Jewish people sometimes dress up as some of the characters from the Esther story. This was the closest I could get to royal robes!

Anyway…

I leave this study reminded that I am a woman of influence…that I was placed here, in this little corner of the world, for such a time as this.

Thank you, Beth. You always inspire.

Love is a Hurricane

It was the spring of 1992 and I was falling in love.

Jeff and I had met several months before and had started our courtship with a cautious friendship. But the more time we spent together, the more we knew we didn’t want time to pass without being together.

Among the sweetest memories from that time is the first road trip we took together.

Jeff had spent a year on internship in Jackson, Mississippi--just a stone’s throw from Louisiana. During that year he became quite enamored with New Orleans—her culture, her history, her music, and especially her food.

And so, this is where we went on our first road trip together: The Crescent City--New Orleans.

Perhaps it was because our love was new and still shivered under a fresh bloom, but we were captivated with this Grand Lady of the Mississippi.

Our days were full of color. We walked all over the French Quarter…went on a Sternwheeler River Cruise…toured the garden district and old plantations…

And the food.

I had never tasted such scrumptious dishes.

At night, the streets were alive with magic.

Music wafted out of doors and spilled into the streets. Street musicians and artists filled the corners with eye-goggling stuff.

We found a little club on Bourbon Street called the Cajun Cabin that had good food and even better music.

We danced until the wee hours of the morning—much to the delight of the house band.

“Is ye all Cajun?” The washboard player asked excitedly, his thick accent giving his own origins away.

“No, we’s hillbilly!” We laughed.

The music was our common language.

Year after year we returned to that little tavern on Bourbon Street. The same band was always there…they remembered us and greeted us like old friends. The last year we went I was eight weeks pregnant with our first child.

“I hope you have a little girl as pretty as you,” the guitar player told me. (too bad for that).

Yes, New Orleans was full of charm.

Then, in late August of 2005, I watched the television in horror as Hurricane Katrina bore down on that beautiful city that we love. We hadn’t been there in nine years, but as familiar landmarks flashed across the screen, I felt my heart fall.

It felt personal—this loss, this sinking beauty.

But when the fury of the storm had passed, it was not what lay underneath the muddy waters seeping over tattered levees that brought dismay.

Nay, not that which was covered over.

It was what the storm laid bare that left my conscience writhing and a pit in my stomach.

I stared in stunned silence at that city’s poor…being rescued from rooftops, looting abandoned businesses, seeking refuge in the superdome…

This was not the New Orleans I knew.

Jeff and I did now know if we would ever go back. We felt partially responsible for the plight of these people.

Aren’t we all responsible for one another in the end? Hadn’t we, as tourists, turned a blind eye to this dirty secret of the Crescent City?

Our church sent a mission group down to the Gulf of Mississippi to help with rebuilding there. We collected money and tools and necessary items. Many other organizations did the same. (My friend Chris recently participated on a mission trip there--check out his blog here.)

The rebuilding began.

Almost four years after Katrina, Jeff and I were curious what we would find when we returned to New Orleans last week.

As we crossed Lake Pontchartrain, I snapped pictures through the windshield of the cityscape in the distance.

But as we descended upon the Slidell area, I lowered my camera.

Many of the houses in this part of town were still boarded up, abandoned. A tall hotel stood empty, windows shattered, brick frontage splintered in places.

We were silent as we drew near.

There was death in the air.

We did not know if people died here. But most certainly something else did.

What was washed from the streets of that city with the spilled mud of the Mississippi and the churning waters of the Gulf was...a way of life.

But as we strolled through the streets of New Orleans, there was evidence of rebirth.

These are a resilient people.

Still, the air felt different to me.

Our bartender at the Crescent City Brewhouse said it simply. We bellied up beside him as he shucked oysters.

His face a marriage of grief and optimism.

“It will never be the same again.”

Then he smiled a crooked smile and said, “That may not be all that bad.”

Perhaps it is I that has changed. I know I will never again look at this city in the same way I did all those years ago. I can’t look at the beauty without seeing the loss now.

And somehow, that makes the beauty all the more sweet.

As we ambled through this Grand Lady last week, I felt the years that had passed since we last did so. Not only me, but this great Dame--her streets, her personality—seemed matured.

Love has a way of coloring how we see our world, our surroundings. The newly blossomed love of our first visit to New Orleans…the deeper, more tender love of now…These loves met each other last week in the streets of New Orleans.

And beauty abounded.

It has been said that memories are the only investment that grow exponentially in value over the years.

A guaranteed investment.

I treasure mine.

As long as there is love, Dear Ones, there is always the possibility of resurrection.

Don’t give up on love, Dear Ones. Don’t give up.

ABCs of the Word “H”

I will praise you, O LORD, among the nations;
I will sing of you among the peoples.

For great is your love, higher than the heavens;
your faithfulness reaches to the skies.

Be exalted, O God, above the heavens,
and let your glory be over all the earth. (Psalm 108:3-5)

Click here to see more ABCs of the word!

And here’s my self-portrait for Forever in Blue Jeans’ mom in the picture challenge: (week 2)

Looking out at the Atlantic on Pensacola Beach.

Life as Poetry

So I am slowly coming down from the mountain.

Kicking and screaming.

Coming home was so sweet at first. I missed my boys so much that I even enjoyed folding their underwear for a couple days.

The honeymoon is over, and I’m knee-deep in real life again.

Which brings to mind the question: Why can’t we live perpetually in the carefree state of mind we inhabit during times of holiday?

I’ll tell you why.

Cause there are floors that need cleaning.

And children that need fed.

Appointments that need shuttled to.

And underwear that needs folded.

Sometimes real life steals my joy.

I struggle with keeping my mind on “…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable…anything…excellent or praiseworthy…” as good ‘ol Paul exhorts me to.

Has anyone else been there?

I’ve had to be deliberate about my seeing these past couple days. Looking for beauty at each turn, so my heart will be happy with the every day. Letting eyes feast on the least noticed—which is sometimes where beauty rests.

This exercise has led me to thinking of poetry, and L.L.’s latest challenge. I’m late on the pick-up, but here is my offering.

Life is Poetry

Life is poetry

or poetry is life

This breathing in

and out

damp breath fanning

on cheeks

and necks

and shoulders

Folding underwear

gives soft

lumpy

joy

The chop

chop

chop

of knife

gives rhythm

and sizzle

of butter

in pan

a song to

dance to

Smooth skin

of my young

smells like

sunshine

as downy covers

surround our

heads

The day drips

this meter of

time

if only God

gives

eyes to see

Life as poetry.

And here are a few pieces of beauty that I found had bloomed out while I was away on birthday trip.

God give me eyes to see…