Living Within God's Story

Providence Road

2010-09-18T17:19:00.000-07:00

Providence Road leads me on towards toil and rest. It is a beautiful respite, but the view of Southern brick and draped foliage cannot disguise my heart's discontent. Once again, the 30-minute drive assumes the role of a confessional.

The tank is near empty, but I am rushed and unable to stop at the next station for fear of the timeclock clicking past 6:45. I contemplate numbers in my head and am assured I will make it to work on ample fumes. My thoughts tend to bounce in random trajectories on these evenings. Prayers are uttered, but the windshield offers distractions that evade my amens. Half prayers: a testament to the weakness of the flesh and human mind. Silly distractions pulling us away from a divine blessing. I detest the weakness.

But Lord, tonight, my presence will be missed. He'll wash and dry the dishes, he'll supervise bath-time bubble wars, she'll snuggle with him while she drinks her warmed milk. He'll enter bed alone.

He forgives my absentmindedness. Grace abounds as I begin to count each green banner displayed alongside the journey, as if this arterial stretch was named so for my sanctification only. His providence is evident in this moment, on this road we are traveling. He assures me that oneness is not sacrificed, failure is not inevitable, our home is protected under much greater power than our own. Yes, He understands this heart beating within me. He knows. Tomorrow morning, I will return and find rest.

Saturday Morning Pancakes

2010-09-11T19:33:00.000-07:00

His task is essential this morning. Soft, sift-able powder joined with carefully measured milk and water, a sunny yolk, a drop of vanilla, and a shake or two of cinnamon. Eager mouthes anxiously await the end product: Saturday morning pancakes. He acknowledges her pleading gaze, "What color sprinkles today, Josie?" She spins the container filled with a rainbow of tiny candies and chooses her favorite colors for the week - purple and yellow. They melt quickly against the cooking batter, and splashes of color adorn her pancake medallions.

A simple prayer escapes among the scent of syrup and butter, among the sounds of squealing children and crisping bacon, among the quickened pace of feet on the kitchen floor. I capture the moment and hold on, if even for a second.

One day it will be a picture, just a snapshot, stored in the attic space of an elderly mind. But today... today I yearn for the ability to soak in the present, to bask in the glories unfolding, to rejoice in love. For He gives to me many simple joys - like sprinkles on Saturday morning pancakes.

Salty Mission

2010-06-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

The food was salty. If it was salted in an attempt at preservation, it would have had a half-life of a couple decades. If it was for taste, it was simply overpowering.

In reaction, I puckered my face and began to think. The phrase flashed across my mind, “You are the salt of the earth.” Are we meant for preservation or taste? Are these the qualities Jesus meant to describe his followers? His declaration in Matthew 5 means far more than the common interpretation that we as Christians merely season the world with goodness or flavor. The primary purpose of salt wasn’t for taste or preservation, it was for something more.

Jesus says in Luke 14 that “Salt is good, but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is of no use either for the soil or for the manure pile. It is thrown away.” The soil and manure pile? Not as glamorous as its purpose in adorning my favorite Mexican pork, Puerco Pibil. Jesus was not referring to flavor or preservation, rather he pointed out its purpose in cultivation. On the soil, salt brought fertility, bringing life to an area devoid of it.

Jesus, in praying for us, says, “And this is eternal life, that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.” Jesus’ mission was to bring eternal life by revealing the God whom humanity rebelled against. He then took on humanity’s penalty. Now he calls us to participate in making the true God known to a rebellious humanity, going to areas without eternal life and bringing the Gospel. To be salt of the earth. Salting our everyday lives in Gospel truths - in our home, our work, our church, our neighborhoods, and our community. In the depravity of these areas, we know the Gospel intrudes, penetrates, and brings true vitality. The Gospel fertilizes and cultivates the dead areas.

As a church, we take His call seriously. We are salt in an area lush in luxury but bankrupt of the Gospel. We send missionaries to be salt in areas like Bulgaria and Africa. We are sending out the Jones family to be salt in an area filled with religion but empty of the Gospel. We support churches in other cities that are taking the Gospel and bringing life.

In discovering God’s call to my family, we are prayerfully exploring where he might be leading us to salt the dead areas with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. In the next season, we will be considering Gospel opportunities outside of Grace Community Church as we seek to discover his call. We will continue to pray for the congregation of Grace as it continues to salt the area of Marvin and South Charlotte.

On behalf of my family, I want to thank you for the support and love of Christ that you have demonstrated to me and my wife. We ask for continued prayer as we seek God’s call to our family to live out of our identity in Jesus Christ, as His salt of the earth.

written for this week's gracenotes

92 Degrees

2010-06-06T11:14:00.002-07:00

The summer befriended us, so we basked in its bountiful offerings. Those two wheels, propelled by chain and pedals, they were my lifeline to youthful ventures as I grew up under a Californian sun. We were fish in the creek, each afternoon visiting famed spots with ropes and swings placed conveniently for our amusement. The Bear Hole almost claimed me the last summer. The old lava flow from Shasta created an exhilarating slide of water that led to entrapping currents. The undertow fought hard to keep me, but the Lord fought harder.

Our feet were scorched from boiling pavement in competitions to see who could withstand the burn longer. From climbing roofs to throw pine cones on the cars passing below to roaming the foothills of the Sierras without direction and knowledge of its inhabitants. We were foolish and reckless, but at the moment, we captured life and encapsulated the memories of childhood.

The vacuum of heat greets me as I open the back door; it is my reminder. The weatherman says it will climb to 92 degrees today. Hot and memorable.

I do not mourn my memories or find disappointment in my childish ways. For a child to be a child is only natural and logical. Children believe in the invincible; consequences are only real when they become real. If they become real.

I pray under the sun as she squeals and runs on bean-pole legs adorned with bruises, scrapes, and the like. The Lord must be smiling at my new reality, as I stare at my child and ponder the memories she has yet to create, the dangers yet to be encountered, the grace she will one day rejoice in.

Score of Redemption

2010-06-02T19:43:00.000-07:00

They are just lines, circles, and dots upon paper. Artistically, they don't make sense; they don't communicate. But it sprawled the page, fragile enough to be destroyed by a tear, crumble, or rip.

They sit lifeless on the page, unable to do anything. Each mark connected to the next, part of an unfolding progression eagerly awaiting a receptor. Each mark awaits for a falling hammer.

The result is not found in the notes themselves. The music was never intended to be constrained to an inanimate, lifeless page; it misses the experiential dimension. The various notes produce empty sound if they merely stay on the page. They indicate something more, with the power to envelop the listener and even elicit tears. It could never be a complete work without a falling hammer.

It began as a soft solo, a divine promise. It unfolded, slowly crescendoing more and more. Growing louder as others joined the chorus in resounding forte. The musical notes in the Score of Redemption found their finale and completion in Christ, on whose hands the hammer fell.

Household Armageddon

2010-05-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

The scary stuff in the Bible seemed to have been prophesying our household that afternoon. It seemed that nothing was going right; Armageddon was ensuing. The kids were screaming, the house was in disarray, and everyone had an angry, nervous tick of the eye. The Doomsday Clock was at 11:59 and if given the chance, anyone in the house would’ve pushed the red button.

After some tears and talks, we understood that we were enacting our own improvisation that was playing out very poorly. The daily dredge of life began to take its toll. The long hours, the monotony, and the routine became the central focus. We were distracted and began living solely out of our roles, rather than living out of our identity in Christ.

We all play many different roles: father, mother, husband, wife, son, daughter, employer, employee, teacher, student, etc. We find comfort and ease in merely performing the role rather than living out our identity in Christ. The role is easy because it can be successful and even bear fruit. However, the fruit produced from living out of our roles are no different than if we were merely to staple some apples and oranges to an oak tree. It looks good and won’t go bad right away, but the fruit is superficial. Eventually, it will rot. That is where we found ourselves that afternoon. Our roles alone could not sustain the vitality of our family’s unity, relationship, and love.

Enter repentance. Within the Drama of Redemption, it is essential to the people of God. Repentance is the acknowledgement that we are in sin, living life apart from God by confining ourselves into our roles. Like Adam and Eve, we believe that we will reach our full potential outside of our relationship with God. However, this lie only results in sin, pain, and brokenness (e.g. near-apocalyptic meltdowns). To live out of our identity is to embrace our union with Christ, which will result in a loving and gracious posture in whatever role we perform. Repentance is the two-fold act of leaving behind our self-centered nature that rebels against God and embracing our new identity within God’s story.

The vignette our family played that afternoon was a microcosm of the larger narrative. Just as our family dynamic and peace was broken by our sinful actions, so also this entire world is estranged by the results of sin. The only cure possible for the world and our home is by the love and grace of God in Christ. For the Father lovingly sent His Son into the midst of the chaos, monotony, and dredge of life to communicate His love. The Son identified with the broken world, and in love, he gladly paid the penalty for our sin to give us a new identity in his name. His identity enables us to fulfill our roles, bear fruit for His Glory, and incarnate the Gospel every day.

written for this week's gracenotes

Daily Bread

2010-05-06T03:55:00.000-07:00

A simple wafer brings salt to flood my thoughts. In remembrance - of fish and bread in baskets, a woman with a meager coin, of falling provision in the desert; from prayer to sustenance.

Unable to excuse the disobedience, Israel, you gathered more than the imperative. Precious to the fearful eye and the glutton, provision arrived each morning, but just enough. You stored the wealth of miracle bread in lack of trust and faith. My judgment is boastful, yet it ricochets and impacts this greedy heart. I too am storing manna, only to find it rotten and devoured the next morning. I confess: I am wandering in fear, in anxiety, in sin.

In remembrance - of living to every other Friday, nearing the red, in absent view of the next set of numbers. No extra plush to fill foolish desires. I confess: I still long for a storehouse.

In remembrance - of prayer to the Father who art in heaven, give us this day our daily bread. Thankful to not know real weakness or hunger, for a pantry stocked with Campbell's soup, pasta, to M&Ms, fine vinegar and oil, to the absurdity of bottled water.

In remembrance - of the body, the Bread of Life, broken. Sufficient for the day in absolving the fear and worry in trifling under the sun. Sufficient for the day in covering my sins. Broken for us to partake of presence, of substitution, of communion.

Together we lift miniature plastic cups filled to the brim with royal tinted juice. The palate is cleansed and the heart is reminded of daily bread, the Bread of Life.

Creativity to Creativity

2010-05-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

How this pen and paper intrigues the wondering mind. Majestic trees authored by the hand of God, now whittled down to little more than a remarkably thin and flimsy platform of expression. Creativity to creativity. I could peel away the bark and discover, to utter disgust, a dozen crawling species of varying brilliance and size. My initial reaction would be natural: twitching in fear of hidden entities finding ways to travel under my skin. Vanity and a reverence for sterility would necessarily neglect the strange beauty and awe of the balance revealed in these unseen communities. They call it ecosystems and evolution, claiming survival of the fittest; secular to religious, civilization bonds in these basics. But there is not one hidden creature that does not stand in the glory. Sewn and woven into a harmonious rhythm, a rhythm revealed in the seemingly trivial and unnoticed utterances of life. Even the weeds find purpose in the terra cotta pot, if only to create a healthy struggle and sanctification for the weakling seeds and the inpatient gardener. This chickenscratch offers little beauty in comparison to the calligraphy that makes up the very essence, nature, and foundation of the material world. That He could grant me the literacy to read his love letter, penned on all that is visible to these blind eyes.

The Empty Bassinet

2010-04-27T05:31:00.001-07:00

I stare down the egg carton, a package of hot dogs, and a bag of conveniently shredded cheese. It's 4:30 am - I am committed to the cheddar, but have yet to determine it's partner. The fridge and I share an indecisive sigh, as cold air briskly escapes its confinement. Circadian rhythms and a "regular" diet are mere hypotheses proven false by this walking science experiment.

Decisions ultimately get made, and a cheese dog comforts me in these early hours. Thoughts spin around my sleep-deprived mind, and I find that darkness and the still of dawn make for a good time to talk to God.

I have not seen it, but my mind envisions as the neonatal ICU nurse had described: a man, intimidating in height and absent emotion, pushes an empty bassinet with a neatly folded, white blanket atop a fitted sheet. The blanket is coarse; I know the texture too well. The 3 lb figure is clothed in a onesie chosen by his mother. He wants it naked, but the nurses refuse. They advocate for his cold body, he need not be made cooler. Decency must be given in credit to his difficult battle. A tent is made with that neatly folded white blanket, the coarse one. I am pleased to hear he is covered as the tall man pushes him away. Apparently, the wheels squeak. Like nails on a chalkboard, I assume.

The nurses helped her bathe him for the first time. She needed rest, so they took pictures. He was posed lovingly in the infant poses that should have been. They smiled as they snapped dozens of mementos for her, just as she had requested. He existed now without tubes attached; his perfect face was unobstructed.

Sorrow for the early born, who fought hard.

For the heartbroken mother, who could not spend each second by his side.

For the weary nurse, who labored for his health.

For the tall man, who by necessity, voided all human emotion for the task at hand.

I eat the cheese dog as I talk to God.

For a moment, King David sat across from me, nodding in shared understanding of the stinging pain and raw despair that can characterize the human experience. No easy answers to the unfair string of questions, but the Lord listened. I acknowledge that it is by common grace that we can even express sympathy, loss, hope, and love; reflections of what is extended to us by a good Creator and Father.

Nevertheless, momentary comfort is not granted as tears fall upon my plate. Sorrow overwhelms, but the mere fact that I speak to God in prayer illuminates the necessary faith and hope required to persevere within this fallen world. So, at the end, I thank him as I rinse the dishes.

Wildflower and Daisy

2010-04-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

Fertilization and planting.

Just a seed

floating in water,

mixed with nutrients and electrolytes and such.

Eve, did the same organic wonderment distract you as well?

Or, might you have considered the miracle and simply rejoiced.

A wildflower first.

Confident, but cautious.

Reaching tall toward heaven.

Stubborn, will you surrender your will?

Slender beauty,

contagious joy.

Indeed, my flower,you may be as wild as your name suggests,

but natural compassion radiates from your every bone.

Sarah, did you also ponder your child and the nations to come?

Or, might you have recognized the lineage,

and rejoiced at the descendent to be raised.

A daisy second.

Peaceful and still.

Fixed with curiosity.

Will you be content with mystery?

Inquisitive and studious,

Patient as the sun.

Indeed, my flower, you may be as beautiful as your name suggests,

but those charming eyes provide the window to a precious spirit.

Mary, you held faith in the Father for who your Son was.

You cherished His moments and rejoiced at His ascension.

Finding favor with God, a mother to the end.

That I too might live in wisdom,

acknowledging the garden I tender.

Remember, my dears,

the roots from which you stand,

the holy water poured upon your head.

You will grow, my daughters.

Please, stay within your Shepherd's field.

Matrimony

2010-04-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

Dowels flew across the air. Screws rolled imprecise paths down the carpet.

Flathead?
No, Phillips please.

Step-by-step directions were announced in declaration.

Are you sure?
Yes, I read directly from the instructions.

Playful bickering ensued, and stubborn assertions sparked debate. Four hands busily twisted, hammered, turned, and lifted. A bookcase, boxed in pieces at first, was arranged correctly after an hour and a half.

My childhood fantasies had been bound haphazardly in a three-ring binder. Tedious hours were spent glued to the floor with photo clippets from Good Housekeeping and Country Living acting as my tangible windows to the future. I eagerly pasted the dreams onto paper. The simple illustration of a kitchen dinette surrounded by rays of sun and holding support to a bowl of fruit sparked thoughts of treasured mornings spent with a family of my own.

Visions of a man resided in the binder; he changed alongside me. The child in me yearned for a friend, the teenager added the physical necessities (at first, a blond), and the maturing woman envisioned a leader. No, I could not picture him yet, but God knew him, and He was arranging the union behind the scenes.

At fifteen, the Lord joined my path with his: a dark-haired, rebellious drummer in a punk-rock band, a born leader, a believer in Jesus Christ. There was no record of such a man within the confines of my picturesque binder, but I am sure the Lord knew the distracting binder would perish, or get lost - as I confess it did. Naturally, we heard and acted on the Genesis command.

So two became one: one body, one life.

Thoughts of theological foundations and reflections spin in my head: covenant, the Bridegroom, redemption. Impractical to a woman who can barely see past the end of the 24 hour day. But then, there is french toast at 5pm, for the night shift nurse who just awoke from a daylight embraced sleep; cloth diapers hang on a wooden rack, washed, rinsed, and stripped for the baby on the floor; Chai tea, a necessary surge of caffeine, was bought and placed lovingly in the fridge door.

A messy, but blessed, life. Pieces lie on the ground, like an un-built bookcase. I stare at it now, this bookcase, the fruit of our labor. Indeed, one life is to be lived.

A Family's Hidden Ministry

2010-04-14T20:26:00.000-07:00

The sweet moments in life come within a short distance and, upon approach, are deflected. A protection of sorts, I guess. Although not an evolutionist, I often ponder the survival mechanisms that force this exhausted body to propel forward. As a means of compensating the energy spent, the heart and soul of living closes the door to those usually welcomed emotions of love and compassion. A heart is hardened.

He attempts to rub my shoulder, and she reaches for my back pocket; little efforts seeking reciprocity, my attention. They must not understand that the driving fuel within me is empty, and I am on my knees trying to push onward to recharge. I sigh and bite my tongue. Seconds slip by, as well as a testament to a valid list of excuses.

It is not by choice, I am assuming. Arguments containing rhetoric, the Enemy, fatigue, and bodily defenses distract me. I neglect the truth. Dare I treat my family as the heat that is causing me to shrivel and retreat?

A window separates me from a Southern sunset and warm breeze. From my perspective on the bed, I can only catch its beautiful effects on the dusk embraced evening. With sixteen breaths per minute, I attempt to open the pores of this heart to soak it in. Admittedly, ten minutes prior, realization of my erroneous state came to light. The quiet moment initiates a desire to pray, the first humble prayer not spoken in bitter anger or frustration in weeks.

No, it must not be Lord.

He lovingly responds to the forfeiture of the perceived power I held on my heart. And so the Holy Spirit reveals: this family is the water that nourishes, not the scorching heat that withers this sorry rose. He ministers to me through my children as they reach eagerly for their mother's gaze; He ministers to me through my husband, who softly touches my shoulder with an understanding hand as I let the pasta water boil over onto the stove. He ministers to me in sweet, hidden ways. Thankfully, my family is willing; they accept His advances as the Holy Spirit works in them to work through me.

It wasn't the sunset, it wasn't the frustration, it wasn't a theological knowledge of the founding principles of marriage or family. It is a Father, who with persistent patience, waits for His daughter and promises, "Knock, dear one, and I will open the door for you. Seek and you will find me." He illuminates the selfish sins, the elusive excuses, and the hurtful responses.

He works to heal, to teach, to provide. To forgive. To love.

I learn they are still downstairs with eager, open arms at the end of each day.

And I know that, amidst the chaos I create, He remains lovingly present.

The Quotidian

2010-04-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

Kathleen Norris speaks of the “Quotidian Mysteries”, the correlation between living everyday and the living God. And so I display my ramblings of The Quotidian Mysteries...

quo·tid·i·an 1 : occurring every day 2 a : belonging to each day : everyday b : commonplace, ordinary

It is the mundane. The ordinary. The quotidian. I despise it. The constant work that is never done. The daily drudge of life. In a sense, tedious repetition.

But, that is life under the sun: mundane and ordinary. That is what it’s supposed to be. It’s not that we can, or are meant to, glorify these menial events or make them greater than what they are. No matter how hard I try, taking out the trash will always be taking out the trash. The dirty dishes will always be dirty dishes. Genesis tells us it’s the curse. But like so many curses there is a redemptive element. A friend says that it is the subtext that gives it meaning. We encounter God in the quotidian; it is in these moments we realize that life is undergirded by God.

I tend to approach spiritual maturity and growth wrongly with a gnostic attitude, believing that experiencing God and spiritual growth occur in escapism, or in pristine woods, landscapes, or oceans. We see Him clearly in the highs of retreats, sermons, and church, in smoky studies with elbow patched tweed jackets. I envision my spiritual development as a picturesque one-time act. I want to write it. I want to be god in it. It is incomprehensible to envision our spirituality developing alongside the quotidian as we dive through a sea of dirty dishes, or hike along the wilderness of periodicals in attempts to conquer term papers, or in the heights of soiled diapers and the cacophony of rowdy children.

But Babel reminds us of our innate tendency to desire escape of this world and redemption through our own efforts. We cannot escape, we cannot achieve, and we cannot raise ourselves above the trivial aspects of life. This world that we cannot transcend is the theater Christ entered. Just like redemption, growth and sanctification do not occur abstractly outside of this world, they happen amidst the quotidian by means of a heavenly condescension. Patterned after a story of rescued slaves, a virgin birth, a life lived and died in my place in the milieu of quotidian.

But that is where He meets us. It’s what transforms us. It is the menial and ordinary that is the gestation for the fruit of the Spirit. In the long obedience of Gospel living, Gospel repenting, and Gospel clinging we live in the quotidian. It is the pain of looking back at the end of the day, sometimes with tears, sometimes with laughter, and asking “God, what are you doing?”

In looking back at the quotidian we witness what He has done, is doing, and are assured of what He will do. It’s what makes the quotidian redemptive, sacramental, and indeed mysterious.

Palm Sunday

2010-03-29T04:29:00.001-07:00

I pruned the rose bush last week.

My inexperienced hands snipped carefully.

I waited too long, maybe,

its branches would not begin anew.

Careless ponderings under the sun as

thorny twigs scattered around my feet.

I imagine

the plant was rejoiced at the work.

Heaviness lifted after winter's frost.

Less energy would be spent in maintaining its weight.

The yoke, easier.

The burden, lighter

as the dead avenues were cut off.

Revelation in the Sunday sermon.

Undisguised, simple truth of an ironic chapter.

A donkey foal trodden down ancient and foreseen road.

Carrying paradox within the Man on its back.

Soon to hold the sin of the world,

the Servant-King, the righteousness of God.

"Hosanna!" they proclaimed in false assumption

of a deliverance of circumstance.

Bitter sorrow, as celebration preceded the final act

that would crown the Passion.

Oh, that He would have been greeted in honest praise.

Might His suffering have been lessened?

The garden not tainted with dripping blood?

The forceful execution of the Lamb be less barbaric?

That the forsaken Son not felt the Father's wrath as He died?

He heard their selfish praises.

He saw their filthy robes.

As the foal shifted its weight

with each burdened step,

shuffling through the symbolic

greenery that covered the road to Calvary.

As He entered the Holy week,

He held the cup purposefully.

Circumstance is distracting.

The necessary pruning is an unnecessary focus.

That I would stand on the side in humility,

placing a palm before His feet and proclaim,

"Hosanna in the highest!"

not in response to life's circumstance,

but for sin's debt paid.

The thorn drew blood,

I quickly dropped the branch

back to where it lay previously before me.

A sharp blunt of pain penetrated the skin.

Pruning is indeed painful,

the scars will remind me.

But fruit will come.

He did see me that day alongside the wearied road.

Sin clearly covered and tainted this heart.

Yet, he journeyed onward

to the cross.

Extended Family

2010-03-27T03:53:00.000-07:00

This green couch

it rests idly,

beckoning shared relaxation.

It has enjoyed too many

warm bathes in sunlight.

Splotches of mispronounced floral design,

alternating shades of green;

Faded from use and rays.

An injury to a stationary arm,

a candle once bled wax.

Uneven distribution creates

valley and mountain in cushion.

I stop at the mountain to recharge;

an uncomfortable reminder to keep moving.

I rest in the valley when I am done.

dishes, laundry, and dust

beg in unison for attention.

But this silent friend,

its perseverance over the years

overwhelms

We curl up.

I fancy the design

with a still fingertip.

"I like this couch"

Yes, and I do.

It mops up tears,

It endures naps,

It is a beacon to stumbling infantile feet,

It withstands cuddling,

It embraces for toddler jumps,

It prevails in time.

Yes, I do like this couch.

A symbol and marker

for this tired family.

Cussing Laughingly and Baptisms

2010-03-26T11:49:00.000-07:00

...Laugh when you are tempted to cuss...

Some recently solicited advice from a mentor in the faith. Good advice.

Recently, we had both of our girls baptized, both of whom are considerably older than when most Presbyterians baptize their infant children.

Our daughters stayed with us during worship. They actively participated in the only way they knew how. The older one was in the back rehearsing her run-in-circles/spin-in-circles routine. The younger was practicing grabbing and pulling everything within reach.

Laugh. Well at least they are getting it out of their system now...

We received the cue to come forward, the eldest adamantly protested. Then when she realized she must go on stage, she stubbornly refused to be carried. When we got to the stage she had either a melt-down or a Pauline conversion.

Laugh.

Our youngest got baptized first. The water fell on her head, dripping down blessing and lavishing promise. I say a quick prayer of thanksgiving silently.

Next it was time for the eldest. I smiled in anticipation of the next few minutes. I wondered if the Pastor had a squirt gun hidden so in case she took off running he could "quick draw," firing a head shot of blessing and promise before she was out of range.

He reached over and picked her up; she immediately relaxed and calmed down. She received the sacrament and stayed in the Pastor's arms quietly during the prayer. It was a wonderful moment. A theologian wrote, "In baptism itself we are neither promising God that we will do something, nor are we asking God to do something, we are watching him do something." In the midst of God doing something, a father's pride was shattered and His daughter was brought into the covenant community. We thank God for doing a twofold-something in this family through the simple act of baptism. God revealed that His blessings, promises, and Gospel are greater than the actions of misbehaved children and their misdirected parents.

In the midst of wanting to cuss, we laugh.

Prayer

2010-03-18T17:20:00.000-07:00

Infants babble: squeaks and squeals, mums and dahs. Complex mechanics of exhaled air and vibrating tissue lighten the room. Her primal utterings are assertive, declaring both individuality and a born desire for community. The resulting discordant noise, seemingly pointless, dances above my level of intellect. Strings of simple consonants form meaningless wonders.

Beautiful paradox in the mold of a child. Milestones hinge youth and maturity, infant and adult. Her joyful proclamations present a hidden purpose, a mother hears and understands. I accept the offering of a window into her budding spirit; a glimpse into the created heart, my created child. Woven by the hands of God.

Babbling away silently: asserting my own voice, humbly, but boldly. Mechanics of undeserving conversation, undeserving of attention. A desire for the original community that bonded man and Creator. He perceives my inward most thoughts. He loves me despite. An infant in knowledge, in understanding, in wisdom; as a child, I speak to my Father as my children speak to me.

A Full-Time Opportunity

2010-03-16T19:42:00.000-07:00

"Oh no, Mama! A bug!"

With overwelming enthusiasm, she anounced the worst: a bug, a tiny beetle, was roaming the floor. It breached our walls, and I assumed it had grand plans of a reproductive attack, so I squashed the worry with a paper towel. My daughter's eyes were wide and ever too observent. A second later, I contemplate whether I committed some travesty or, at the mininum, desensitized my toddler to the overarching concepts of life, death, and mercy. A humane approach couldn't hurt, I assume. Next time I'll try the paper plate trick and send it soaring into the rose bush. At the very least, she'll be entertained by it.

Ever on the look out, another opportunity approaches. These days she understands much, and very little, of sharing. Her younger sister, far different in manner but identical in feature, is anxious to reach, to discover, to play. At first these intentions were discouraged, but now they are strictly fobrbidden by the first born. In under five seconds: a protest, a tug, a shriek, a few tears. Behaviorism will eventually unveil sour hearts, so I focus on the root issue: sin. I proclaim a short bit containing Jesus' word, love, and kindness. At two and a half years, an apology surfaces after a mimicked prayer is spoken. I glance at the clock and realize 7 minutes has elapsed, and the faucet was left running.

Later, a scientific discovery ensued in the kitchen. Air and liquid together equal a bubbling inferno, and laughter. The experiment ends with apple juice coating the tile and wood work. Frustration and utter annoyance exits my mouth. She is confused, she cries; I recognize my error, I am humbled. I lower to eye level, "Mama is sorry for getting angry and yelling." Pathetically, she replies, "Josie sorry for angry yelling." I smile and squeeze my child, politely correcting her. Together we soak up the sticky spilled mess.

Examples of opportunities embraced. To each one that is embraced, many more have passed by when I am too busy to take notice, too hurried to pause, and frankly, to lazy to care.

Minute-by-minute interactions containing Dr. Seuss, wooden cookies, and tea parties. Countless episodes of tickle monster, hide-and-seek, and playing house. Hidden in the entertainment lie moments to be savored. Moments to pray for guidance as I guide my children. Moments to pray for forgiveness when my sin is directed on them. Moments to pray for the patience necessary to parent.

Each day contains lessons in parenting.

Lessons in life.

May God help me embrace my children each day with undistracted love.

Slumps and Scripture

2010-03-13T18:58:00.000-08:00

“Oh No! Not a slump!” she exclaimed. My toddler’s voice was distraught as she sat uneasy in my lap. She was eager to change the environment just as the protagonist in the story was ready to leave the slump. Enveloped by narrative, in that moment her reality extended as far as the page, the slump.

In contrast, I approach the text like an autopsy. Cut, open, and dissect. Impersonal and mechanical motions: I take it apart, analyze it, sew it up, make a judgment and walk away. I wash my hands and am done.

I think about how I read Scripture, the unfolding Drama of Christ, redemptive history. The story of a triune God bringing His wayward creation back into relationship and restoration, back into communion. As I read the account, the fall, patriarchs, law, kings, exile, I see the names and events scrolling across like a marquee at the DMV. They might be related to what is happening, but the text is not real to me and it does not affect me. I don’t get distraught when I see the story unraveling.

Story is not intended to be treated as such. Story is meant to carry the reader away into a world constructed by carefully placed words (and sometimes pictures). The reader encounters drama and meets new characters; all of the elements are woven together carefully by its author. Yet, I settle on being an observer. Disconnected, I neglect God’s reality unfolding around me. I don’t feel the emotion, as a two year old does when she encounters a lurch, slump, or wocket displayed on the page.

Yet Jesus says that isn’t how I am to read His Word. He says all Scripture is about Him (Luke 24). When I read His testimony I should be seeing the glory of Christ, the Gospel. My reality is to extend as far as the page because the page is anchored in a deeper reality, an eternal reality, a heavenly reality; it is the reality that incarnated in history and is recorded in Scripture. Scripture is present not for us to merely know God, but to participate, to commune, and to enjoy Him.

Lord, envelope us in the narrative as we read your Word, pray your Word, meditate on your Word, and live your Word.

Bold Profession

2010-03-06T19:51:00.000-08:00

My watch read 6:41 pm as I briskly walked across the first of three crowded sky-bridges on my trek to work. The parking garage seems an eternity away from my unit at the hospital, and on this night, a craving for caffeine forced me to stop at the Starbucks. Now I was racing the next four minutes.

“Thank you for your prayers.” A voice speaking to another emerged from the corner of a hallway. My pace was abruptly weighted. “I felt them today. I have cried myself dry, but I am feeling overwhelming peace from the Lord. He hears our prayers.”

She spoke with confident assurance, rash honesty, and unforgiving boldness.

She spoke with faith.

The Southern accent was weak and saddened, the tone detailed exhaustion, and yet a resilient hope resonated from her words. She stands among the marginalized, who quietly and boldly profess their faith. A woman, weak from blood loss, struggles to reach among the crowd, yet she fights to extend her arm just for the slightest touch of His garment. A make-shift cot is dangerously lowered from a roof in desperate attempts for Him to lay eyes upon a crippled man. A distraught father leaves the bedside of his dying daughter; He travels long distances just to speak to Him face-to-face. A weeping woman stares down the impossible; all eyes are set on the tomb.

They won’t accept. Their faith propels them forward: to act, to proclaim, to glorify. They seek, and they will find, as He promises. The outcome is not significant, it is faith in His love that descends and covers the heart and its fear and worry. It is the acceptance of His goodness, His unfailing love, and the everlasting hope in His resurrection. I often forget the wonder found in the blessed gift of belief. So much mystery and beauty is beyond the surface of man’s capability to understand, yet we live in assurance of the truth He has, is, and will be revealing to creation.

The voice trailed off as I reluctantly increased my distance. My intentions were not to eavesdrop, not even to appease curiosity. I slowed to accept an invitation to hear unashamed faith proclaimed by a stranger.

And I was blessed in the moment.

I said a prayer for the women: a silent plea for perseverance and unwavering stance in faith for her, and for me; that our Lord God would continue to bless us with increasing faith in the midst of the hardest moments in life; that He alone would be glorified by the little ways we demonstrate our faith in Him.

“He hears our prayers.” I heard the woman echo in my thoughts. It is so. I boldly confess:

Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. (Rom 8:34)

Unexpected Obscurity

2010-02-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

The restaurant was busier than we thought it would be for a midweek lunch. The one-woman waitress/hostess/bartender was hussling to and fro while all the customers shared a common understanding that our meal might not be exactly right. In the middle of wrong soups, incorrect portions, and missing salads was our family circus. Our cast took turns performing and alternating roles to entertain and appease our child audience, hoping that we would not draw attention from the other patrons consumed in their own world.

In one such world, in the corner booth, was a solitary girl in her twenties with a glass of white wine and a book. She occasionally scribbled with a pen and turned the pages back and forth. A Bible. She sat there alone during our 45 minute performance savoring her wine and Bible. Three thousand miles from our own home, we came across a solitary woman in an obscure Bavarian tourist town: a fellow believer. Although the odds are far from remarkable or extraordinary, it lingered and confused me.

Ok, God I’ll bite. Where is the Gospel in this vignette of a woman with wine reading the Bible? The obscure “walk-on” or “extra” in my story.

There it is.

The reality is that I am as obscure to her as she is to me. We were that “walk-on” in her story. Although more than that, it is not about my, or her, story. Like every other obscure Christian (pastor, man, mother, or child) who lived within the past 2,000 years, time and history will forget our story. At first this seemed depressing, but then this realization became rather liberating.

The woman’s story, and mine, forms the opaque black curtain in the Drama of Redemption where Christ performs and plays. Living our existance as a “walk-on”, “extra,” or black curtain in God’s Story is not only satisfying and meaningful, it is liberating. It’s far more empowering than writing, starring, and directing a one-man show where I hold the spotlight on myself. God, however, loves me, and her, enough to cast us in His drama. He loves us enough to allow us to participate with Him in His story. He loves us enough to care how well we play these roles. He loves us enough to be glorified through these awkward, obscure, “walk-on”, or black curtain parts; just like the glory He received from a solitary female in a corner booth with a glass of white wine and a Bible.

It made me realize that leaving a staff position in a famous mega-church to becoming an intern in a small Southern church, on the outskirts of an small Southern city, as I prepare for what will surely be an obscure ministry, is a God-glorifying role.

It is glorifying because He called me to fulfill this role. My obscure role is an obscurely ordained one.

And it is against this backdrop, a black curtain that contains all of us obscure Christians, where I pray Christ will be magnified as the hero in the Drama of Redemption. Where Christ eclipses our story and envelopes us in His. I am no longer burdened by carrying the storyline forward, for He has, is, and will carry the story to completion. I, thankfully, am invited to participate in the celebratory outworking of His story in the messiness of life.

Another Memory

2010-02-24T19:44:00.000-08:00

Four women with four stories met in a moment. Three sisters and their mother expecting nothing from each other except the possibility of disappointment. The youngest, not quite teen, searched to find personal identity apart from genetics and family personality. The mother, leading in age and energy, basked in parental glee and pride. The elder sister, a seasoned tourist, separated time ago in distance and connection. In visitor status for the first time, I juggled thoughts of nostalgic memories and pride.

Spontaneity was the driving force. With the turn of the key, the ignition sparked and our generational group set out on mission for laughter, support, and a reminder of roots. Distinct reminders and distinct roots. Each woman would learn and grow in uniqueness through the experience.

A rarity for Seattle in mid-winter: a glimpse into spring. A slight breeze lifted heavy clouds across crystal skies. The sun was pleasant to touch as we settled around an iron table tasting wine and lemonade and indulging in chocolate delicacies. Our conversations, seasoned with giggles and silly chatter, disguised our differences. An assortment of words slipped, creating “cheese toes” and rolling laughter and tears. A sweet picnic at an immaculate winery removed my preconceived notions and judgments of how each woman should be living her life. I enjoyed the company, I packed away a memory.

A travel across highway and salt water led us to the historic market. Smelling of flying fish and local produce, tourists and natives alike busily pushed and prodded through a thick lane of human traffic. We lost one another time and again amidst the chaos of diversity, so we learned to hold on to each other by the backs of our jackets. Our four cab train was effective and efficient. A picture of overarching reality: an intriguing image of how life pulls apart and disrupts natural relationships that tie a family together. To navigate through life in such a way is far more challenging. At the time, I simply smiled and packed away another memory.

Our departure home began in darkness and silence after a fierce argument over a Seattle downpour, reduced visibility, and road rage. But life can move too quickly on a stretch of road at 60 mph. A clumsy, but honest, apology surfaced from the depths of my heart. Hurdles of pride and stubbornness stood in its path, but God knew it was necessary in order to soften this persistently hardened heart. I broke family taboo in that moment; to apologize is to create awkward moments. We grew up with water under the bridges and that sort of thing. We recovered well, and laughed some more. Another memory was packed away.

It was the perfect way to end a cherished day. If I had left with hardness in my heart, I would have deflected any attempts of God to teach me through the experience.

Four women came together and departed with different stories, and four women returned to different lives. But I was reminded of roots. I had forgotten that in the thickest moments, when I cannot see through the dense fog ahead, when I am too weak to match the pace of traffic around me, they are there, they pull me forward. Arms are readily extended, back up tears are available to share, ears are open, and laughter provides contagious medicine. They are indeed my family, although we vary greatly in beliefs and values. I arrived with a repertoire of judgment and unsolicited advice, a prideful and selfish use of wisdom; I was prepared to deal it out. The Lord blessed me with restraint and a quiet soul that rested and shared in gracious love: true wisdom in the moment. Nostalgia will remind me: another memory packed away.

Sixty-Two Years and Eternity

2010-02-14T07:06:00.001-08:00

I received a thought-provoking letter penned by my dear great aunt, a letter filled with contagious emotions in just a few chosen words. She wrote of how life carries on after 62 years of marriage. It pressed on my mind, and so it began: a weeks-long obsession of analyzing the elements of 62 years. It became a back-and-forth struggle of meditation, the Lord as my referee, my moderator. Initially clips of life fast-forwarded remarkably in my head. Beautiful clips sparking giggles, smiles, and tears. I basked in the future memories. No doubt, I will be older in 62 years. My mind will have loosened its tightly woven thought processes, my hands will be shaky and weak, and my hair will be grayed and uncontrollable. My stomach will detest Greg's treasured Mexican pork.

Father, how do I live in light of 62 years? I am unable to comprehend, so I let my thoughts stew.

But sin emerges and muddles my reminiscing of generations past, generations established, and generations cherished. Like at the Fall, I trade a beautiful moment for a selfish blaming game. The world becomes my enemy, my attention becomes less joyful as I peer outwards. My sinful speculations spread viciously out of a passion for marriage and a deep sadness for the world and its treatment of God's grace to us in establishing this blessed arrangement. Increasingly I doubt man's capacity to love; our sin is thick and it too often takes over. My hope dwindles.

Love and bitterness combined: engagements paired with divorce and sacrificial love paired with infatuation. Our definition of love is simplified and too encompassing. Our interpretation exists as a fleeting mirage, discrediting the innate properties within us for lasting companionship that we inherit as image-bearers of God. With such a high rate of dissolving marriage and an obsolete definition of covenant, how am I not to understand our attempts at love as hypocrisy?

Judging and grumbling while I write; complaints saturated with cynicism. Marriage, a God-given blessed arrangement founded on the strongest form of connection gifted to us, a blessed covenant, struggling to survive. I internalize it, bitterly...sinfully.

Father, show me how to live in light of 62 years.

He changes my thoughts of 62 years to thoughts of eternity.

If love was defined by man, I could find no hope. Our feeble comprehension of love originates from God. Trinitarian in nature; three persons in one, in presence, communication, companionship, in complete knowledge of the other. Connected and existing in a mystery that offers hope as we seek to understand love and relationship. Our own desire and yearning for the same originates from innate elements given to humanity. Part of our souls must remember man's creation; we were created to possess a relational covenant with God, one that reflected the Holy community found within Himself. An eternal God, demonstrating an eternal love, within three eternal persons.

Sixty-two years would be exhausting if I submerged myself in passionate bitterness. My mind is cluttered by a nasty cobweb, threaded together by strings of sin: of pride, mockery, anger, mistrust, and a false outlet of hope. Thankfully, the Lord is good. He reveals the cobweb that has dirtied my heart and is helping to sweep it away. The remnants remain, however, they always will as a I struggle to see His presence in the tragedy of modern, covenantal marriage.

But I have thoughts of eternity. I will continue to fight hard to see how He has defined love in the historical account of redemption: the sending of His Son, who out of love for the Father, was obedient to glorify. We see Christ's love, painful at times to swallow, but beautiful to experience in salvation. I fight hard to internalize the sacrificial groom returning to the sinful bride on the wedding day. And when my mind is clear, for even just a moment, He offers lasting hope.

I am grateful to the Lord. All I can comprehend of 62 years is a marriage with my best-friend that finds joy in reflecting God's eternal goodness.

honest rebellion

2010-02-04T21:31:00.000-08:00

The day, the hour, the minute arrived unexpectedly. She awoke with a declaration: quiet, but booming within her. Something about potty, bathroom, and diaper sandwiched among an assortment of words spoken to quickly and slurred to be understood, even by her mother. She'd spoken them before, but her words were overshadowed by a parent's, to be precise, my preoccupations.

This morning was different. There was something...sure, confident, bittersweet. Memories yet to be had, yet to be missed. I envision years down the road. A young girl with helmet in hand, open asphalt, pursuing an open horizon, firmly grasped to the handles of a new bike. A soon-to-be teenager boldly requesting privacy as she talks fashion and movies excitedly with her best friend. Or the days of learning permits, shaking hands, and an occasional nervous jerk of the wheel. This morning was different.

She had clear intentions, or as much as can be built up in the mind of a toddler. She had a glow of determination, so I thought, gleaming from her curious and inquisitive stare, anxiously awaiting her mother's response and approval. Well it certainly wasn't jotted down in my planner; life is too hectic for potty training. But I guess the inevitable chases us down. An array of articles, parenting manuals, and noisy women all swirling in my head, telling me what to do. The pediatric nurse in me questioning her physical readiness: urinary retention, muscle, and nerve sensations.

A million thoughts and a quick second later, "Let's go to the potty!"

I reflect back, a mere 48 hours later. Frustrated just a little, tired beyond description, analyzing pointlessly. A mother letting out sighs filled with too many emotions to list.

A milestone, surely a monumental feat in the life of an Elmo-loving child. Not even the squeaky voice exiting the furry creature can persuade her to complete what we set out to do. A porcelain white throne, a stubborn princess. Admittedly, it must truly be a challenging and arduous task. Cold, hard glass-like substance against the back of her legs. Stage fright, also a new quest to conquer. Mom and dad cheering, clapping, dancing the potty dance annoyingly. Too much too soon, I guess.

She is sensitive, careful, shy. Lovely attributes for a lovely child. I am not ashamed; I smile proudly, but quietly I applaud her valiant efforts. I am encouraged by her initiative, but she teaches her perfectionist mother so much more. When to stop, when to say "no, I'm not quite ready", when to know your limits. At the end of the day, she shook her head, not out of rebellion, not for control, but in honesty to her self. And I wholeheartedly believe her.

A mother smiles contently; another day, another hour, another moment when my little girl never ceases to amaze.

Chapter 3: Stepping Backwards, Pressing Forward

2010-02-04T20:28:00.000-08:00

Well intended avenues: a digital platform, stage, studio, or pulpit. A chorus proclaiming and voicing, rebuking and shunning, teaching and lecturing; noises in unison, all together distracting. I too desire to speak among the crowd, but I am drowned by the volume. Bitterness swelling greatly; it is a wave of sin pouring over what the Spirit is yielding within me. I wrote for hours of vision, plans, great hopes: hopes of successful change to a boisterous electronic community. Ignorantly stepping backwards in my own futile attempts, ignoring the necessity of Christ, the perfector of faith, working within.

I wish to inspire. I wish to embark on a quest for change. It is an outpouring of my heart to spread the joys of Christ’s evidences in our lives.

Not my platform, Father, but yours to speak in each of us.

Not my stage, Father, but yours to sing a glorious song of redemption in a fallen world through poetic words.

Not my studio, Father, but your common grace to us found in how we can creatively and universally share your goodness.

Not my pulpit, Father, but yours, for Christ is our High Priest.

Hope is swelling greatly, pouring over my sinfully based attempts. I am lifted up, not to inspire, but because I am inspired. Obediently pressing forward amidst well intended avenues. Prayerfully writing in hopes to bring about a creative outlet of acknowledging God’s presence and the Holy Spirit’s careful unraveling of my nature. I ask for a quietness in my thoughts to unearth the hidden mess within me. Creatively inspire us Lord to acknowledge your presence in life with full obedience and joy.

Chapter 2: Transformation Within The Margins

2010-02-04T04:15:00.001-08:00

Here I am. Life is chaotic, busy at best. Blindly I walk through the distractions that take me away from the Lord I know and love. I am lost in an unmarked forest, unable to see the horizon, but feeling the warmth of the Lord pulling me forward in the right direction. He is ever present, among what I consider to be the mundane parts of life. While cooking in the kitchen, scrambling to prepare that 5-star meal for my eager family; while peeking around the corner when I play hide-and-seek with my daughter; while honking my horn when the car next to me cuts me off. He is there. He is real, and so are my sinful responses to what occurs in this thing called life.

Recently, as if handing me the key to an unlocked part of my soul, He has helped me, through writing, understand myself and more importantly, know Him. On each handwritten page I write, I see my heart transformed, visibly, through each edit and draft. A literal transformation in clear sight. It is as if sanctification can be mapped in hindsight. Patiently, I write and assess my thoughts, my story, in light of the larger drama unfolding in God's eyes. In these moments, He meets me. I cannot help but share what he is teaching, what he is doing, in the moments where I sit praying and writing. The continual process of sanctification is indeed painful, but it is a precious sight to see it unravel in the margins of the paper.

Chapter 1: God's Story

2010-02-02T19:20:00.000-08:00

Eternal questions and eternal answers. Created man fiercely searching for meaning, value, and identity. It is a struggle long withstanding man's introduction to creation and the Creator God. In what context do we live? Frantically reaching up toward a holy, omnipotent Lord; pridefully consuming the common blessings given to our dying world. Confusion and false teachers taint our understanding. Culture, doctrine, and religion all fighting to instill the true definition of our God and our relationship to Him.

It is but one aspect of a beautifully and perfectly written story by the hand of God; the aspect that tells of man's involvement, participation, and ultimate downfall. When we were but seedlings not yet created, existing only in the mind of a Trinitarian God, it was planned. The perfect story: a loving Creator, a fallen man, a sacrificial servant. Redemption. A timeless tragedy, an enchanting love story. A wedding culminating the mystery of man's creation. Words cannot adequately describe its glory, His glory.

As if engulfed in a fantastic novel, we drown in the beauty of the tale. Then it happens. Yanked forcefully away by life and its details. We live amidst the lines of a schedule, the links on a blog, the numbers on a cell phone - living life maintained by electronic distractions. We neglect our part, our character, our identity.

And yet we forget: His story lies open on the table, and we are still dancing among its pages. It is not appropriate for us to attempt in works to reach up toward God in futile acts of glorifying him through false powers within us. It is not appropriate to sit, idly awaiting a mighty hand to pluck us from the chaos. We are to live by the Spirit in recognition that the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is real, is present, is engaged. Descending from a heavenly throne, Christ is living throughout history. He reaches down and allows man, by His grace, to be lifted up. An intersection of time, a heavenly intrusion, an interaction between created man and its Creator. As Christians we live in this beautiful realm: a vivid life in the context of God's story.