Celebration of Discipline: Prayer (for the right-brainer)

Confession time:  When I hear people say they experience "the power of prayer," I'm envious.  Most of the time, I feel like I'm talking to myself.  I try to devote part of my morning quiet time to prayer, but I rarely seem to get past, "Lord, thank you for this day."  Then my mind wanders to some lines from hymns or psalms, and then I'm officially distracted by "what should I do next?"  

Meditation and contemplation come more easily.  Praying with a friend or small group comes more easily, as does shooting up brief arrows of prayer in moments of need.  Is there something I am missing in personal prayer?  I suspect it is the discipline of it, like exercising a muscle that only becomes stronger with use.  

Richard Foster, in his chapter on the discipline of prayer, gives me two very useful tools for personal prayer.  First, he suggests engaging the imagination by asking God for pictures during prayer.  I'm guessing that Foster is a right-brainer, like me, opposed to prayer check lists and daily guides, and more inspired by art and metaphor.

I tried it out this week, and as I prayed for my son, God gave me a picture of a shield around this beloved young man.  I smiled, thinking of Noah's recent performance in Camelot as King Arthur, bearing a sword and shield.  This picture was further confirmed by my subsequent reading of Psalm 5 that morning, which ends with "For you bless the godly, O LORD, surrounding them with your shield of love."  Big smile!

This was a glimpse into the power of prayer.  A picture.  A scripture to confirm it.  A rush of gratitude in response.  The prayer muscle strengthened.  

The second tool is to pray expectantly.  I so often pray half-heartedly, using sacred powerful words like bless, help, protect, and guide in a routine way, as if I'm reciting from some bank of acceptable prayer words.  But if I slow down and picture an actual hand of blessing on a person, a literal grip of help, a strong shield of protection, and a guiding light upon a dark path, now there is something different.  If I become specific in my desires and as bold as the psalmists, now there is power.  If I devote myself to listening and watching for clues that God is working and answering the cries of my heart, now there is the key to unlock the mystery of the power of prayer.

Celebration of Discipline Part 1: My First Lesson

Discipline:  Meditation

"The history of religion is the story of an almost desperate scramble to have a king, a mediator, a priest, a pastor, a go-between.  In this way, we do not need to go to God ourselves."  

-Richard Foster

And I wonder, do I run to a go-between?  Ah, yes.  Books.  Blogs.  How much comfort and intrigue I find in reading other people's thoughts on spiritual matters.  Too much time with my head in their words, however, does not leave me much time to practice the Christian disciplines and make them my own.  

As I read Richard Foster's guiding words on the first inward discipline of meditation, I realize I need to close my books, switch off the computer, open the curtains to reveal a windowful of created inspiration, quiet my heart, center my prayer, and breathe. 

Unlike eastern meditation, in which the goal is detachment from the material world, Christian meditation is meant to form an attachment to God, to linger in the quiet space long enough to make that mental pilgrimage to the throne room.  

Pick a space.  Make it pretty and comfortable.  Tell the kids about it so they are thoughtful and gentle with their inevitable interruptions.  Better yet, rise before they awake.  Here is mine...

Employ the imagination.  Jesus made constant appeals to our imagination when he taught through image-driven parables.  One morning I pictured a shield around my son, who is often in my prayers as he navigates new territory.  I drew the image in my journal and found corresponding psalms to pray for him.  Oh, the fruit of meditation.

I am drawn to the art of lectio divina, or sacred reading, to guide my meditation.  Slow, deliberate, searching, reflective, responsive.  Some people are motivated by reading through their Bibles in a year, but I've found this disheartening and empty.  Others love inductive study, looking up word roots and cross-references.  I would rather approach my time in the Word like Bonhoeffer, completely enveloped in one verse for a week, over skimming four chapters a day or flipping around in my Bible.  But this is just a personal preference at this point in my life.  

Otium sanctum means holy leisure, and I've found that it can be employed in a busy life by first setting aside time to meditate and by cultivating an attitude of prayer throughout the day.

"There is a way of ordering our mental life on more than one level at once.  On one level we may be thinking, discussing, seeing, calculating, meeting all the demands of external affairs.  But deep within, behind the scenes, at a profounder level, we may also be in prayer and adoration, song and worship, and a gentle receptiveness to divine breathings."

-Thomas Kelly

Time for me to close the books, turn off the laptop, and practice.  

Discipline. A Celebration? Really?

As I grabbed books from boxes and speed sorted them like a librarian onto the rummage sale table, I paused when my hand held the book Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster.  I was working at a fundraising rummage sale sorting hundreds of donated books last Friday, chuckling at prizes like Wisdom for the 1987 Graduate, which was in a box with a half-opened package of male Depends (which promptly sold, by the way!) and not seeing much to capture my attention... until this moment.  

Richard Foster, the modern Quaker theologian contemplative, is a voice in the desert for me.  I've read his words just about every morning for months as I've worked my way through Classic Devotions and Spiritual Classics, books in which he has selected and commented on numerous classic writings.  Do you know when a voice is like a cold drink of water on a sweltering day?  That's how his voice is to me.  I drink it up as he introduces me to the writings of the classic saints and mystics and deep spiritual thinkers.  Sometimes I scratch my head and wonder what I just read from some 12th century monk, and then Foster sweeps in to illuminate the timeless heart of the message, and I say, "ohhhhhhh, I get it."

I've been wanting to read Celebration of Discipline for a long time, but frankly, the title scares me.  I am SO not disciplined.  I am creative, spontaneous, artistic (words I like) along with being a weak finisher of my grand ideas, a leaper from this to that, and an expert of nothing (words I dislike.)  But here was the book in my hand for a mere $1, and I thought...it's now or never.

So I'm going to take you along on this journey and interpret what I read through the lens of a 21st century wife, mother, homeschooler, songwriter, comfort lover, sinner, quitter.  Here is your "I might quit half way through" warning.  If that's the case, I will make it through the #6 discipline of solitude and then just quietly disappear by some lake in Northern Minnesota, and you'll understand.  You can go get your own book at that point.

Will this really be a celebration?  Time will tell.

Spirituality and Service: Inseparable Twins

My friends and I often refer to Marys and Marthas.  In the well-known story from Luke 10, the sisters choose differently in responding to a visit from Jesus.  Mary sits with him and soaks in his presence.  Martha tends to everyone's physical needs.  

We sometimes debate who was right, which is silly, because both are right, both are needed, both are a sign of maturity.  Spirituality and service are inseparable twins that need to rest at the heart of each of us.  My best days are spent being Mary in the early morning hours and Martha the rest of the day.  If I sit in quietness and pray God will show me how to meet people's needs the rest of the day, I must be careful not to begrudge the opportunities to serve.  

And each thing is an opportunity:  to quiet the children's quarreling, to be the teacher and cab driver, the encourager of friends, the helping hands for those in physical need, the open purse for those in financial need.  The key is not to let the pendulum swing too far to either side so that we exhaust ourselves in service or cloister ourselves in self-care.

We need to teach and model this for our kids.  Some are natural servants, others must be forced into it.  Some are inclined toward spiritual things, others must be taught the discipline of it.  Both are rewarded in the end because they are taught what matters to God.  Growth in these areas is a process requiring much diligence and grace...for all of us.  Don't shame them for their perceived inadequacy in either area.  Always encourage!  (I'm telling this to myself, first!) 

Last week I had the privilege of serving my beautiful friend, Emma.  As I and many others painted walls in her new home, we talked about her vision for her home, where it could be a gathering place and a stop-by-anytime kind of home.  I know it will be like that.  She sits and listens to you like Mary, but she makes sure you have coffee in your cup like Martha.  She does all this while living with breast cancer's harsh effects on her mind and body.  

I love the bothness and oneness of God's design for our lives.  

Listen then to this wonder!  How wonderful it is to be both outside and inside, to seize and to be seized, to see and at the same time to be what is seen, to hold and to be held. 
-Meister Eckhart

The Great Divide

That is the greatest divide in life:  from the point where we either go toward a more dilatory and useless type of Christian life; or we become more and more ablaze for the glory of God.  

-Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

Photo by Dave Pearson, Colorado Rockies at sunrise

On Teaching Children to Be Magnanimous

In our homeschool, we have spent much time discussing new words we encounter in books, reviewing science terms, and using vocabulary cartoons.  I encourage my kids to come up with better words than "that thing-y over there" and to name the emotions that they're feeling during some weeping and gnashing of teeth session.  In writing, we grab thesauruses.  In reading, we pull up online dictionaries.  

Every now and then I come upon a word that is so loaded with meaning and import that it becomes a devotional for the day.  Today the word is magnanimous.  We came across it as I read during lunch yesterday from Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court and I kind of stumbled over the pronunciation and skipped the discussion.  Today I plan to readdress it.  

A magnanimous person is high-minded and big-hearted.  He is chivalrous and generous of spirit.  She has a high moral code and is not easily offended.  Forgiveness comes quickly.  The word encompasses a sense of dignity, a delight in benevolence, a humility in victory, and a refusal to be petty. As I address character flaws in myself and my children, I think the quality of magnanimity is worthy of aspiration.  

And, of course, it is an excellent description of Christ.  

CS Lewis says the chest of a man is the seat of magnanimity.  

Now that just makes me breathe a little deeper and stand a little taller.

When Facebook is on the Altar for Lent

Lent in Olde English, means "spring."

It's Latin equivalent, quadragesima, means "40th."

I'm always curious about the etymology of religious words we throw around.  Lent is a tradition in many churches of fasting for the 40 days before Easter, commencing on Ash Wednesday and finishing on Good Friday.

My church is not on the list of churches that observe Lent, but personal fasting is encouraged, and I happen to think Lent makes sense.  To fast in honor of Christ's 40-day fast in the desert and to prepare my heart for Holy Week, I have often chosen to observe it.

I did not abstain from a food this time around.  I decided to lay Facebook on the altar.  I miss it.  It's part of my daily morning drink coffee, read e-mail, check Facebook routine.  I want to know what my friends are up to, because their posts will often be the basis of conversations the next time we meet.  I want to put my little thoughts and activities out there and see what friends will say.

But let's get real and confessional.  I like controling my virtual image.  I like to think you're saying, "Oh that Jill, she's so witty and fun."  I can present myself anyway I'd like, but I can never flesh out the real me in two sentences of a  post.  Facebook often saves me from the hard work of real relatinoship.  It even competes for my time to have my real face in the real Book.  

Pretty much the same thing goes for blogging.  I'm creating an image, and even though I try to dig deeper and be honest, I'm still in control of the information you read. 

I'm not sure God likes it.  Like so many things, it's a virtue and vice.  It connects and disconnects.  It's a ministry and an idol.  It's real and pretend.  It's thumbs up and thumbs down.

And not surprisingly, I caved twice and checked people's status updates.  I allowed myself to post my blog links out to FB, and much of the time I used to spend on it was redirected to working on my blog and browsing Pinterest.  How quickly we swap idols.  

But fasting is NOT about celebrating an accomplishment.  It's about recognizing and owning our personal deficit.  When you realize how hard it is to give up something you love but you try anyway, your roots grow a little deeper and your arms stretch a little higher and you know more of God and more of man.  

Money, Sex, Power, and the Pope

I was part of a conversation last night that included two lovely Catholic women who were abuzz with the news that a new pope had been selected.  The whole papal selection process has been interesting to watch on the news, with the conclave of red-robed cardinals gathering in the magnificent Sistine Chapel, amid all the secrecy and pomp, and the providential seagull perched on the smokestack.  I especially love the interviews of the various priests, who've been overflowing with eager exuberance.  I remember one particular comment made by a bishop when asked if he would prefer a pope who had great organizational and political skill or who was a great evangelist.

"Always the evangelist," said the grinning man. 

Pope Francis

Known for simplicity and humility

My interest in all of this will wane but for one thing...the religious writings of the ancients, who were, surprise, all Catholic brothers and sisters.  My children and I just wrapped up our study of ancient Rome and will finish the year with a study in Medieval and Renaissance times.  Catholic religion mingles with every aspect of this study, from the rise of the Church to the Crusades to the growth in monastic living.  It's fascinating and often heartbreaking.

Over the years, I've read many writings of the ancients, mostly excerpts selected by one of my favorite authors, Richard Foster, a contemporary Quaker author, professor, and contemplative.  Mr. Foster has taught me how to gently reflect on these writings in the books "Devotional Classics" and "Spiritual Classics."  He is so smart and authentic and thoughtful.  

While I appreciate many modern day authors, I especially love the enduring quality of writing by people like St. Augustine, the prodigal who did not return to Christ until his 30's.  This is why he could write the timeless phrase, "I am restless til I rest in Thee."  

These men and women took on the three great ethical issues of human life:  money, sex, and power.  They did this by taking the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.  Church history sadly shows that these besetting sins are not completely inescapable, but I appreciate how the  Catholics recognize them and attempt to deal with them.  My personal faith allows me to rest in God's grace and to live in His power, but as Mr. Foster aptly observes:

We too must give an answer to how we will live in relationship to the three great issues of life.  My own answer, in brief, is this:  in response to the issue of money, we learn to live in simplicity; in response to the issue of sex, we learn to live in fidelity; in response to the issue of power, we learn to live in service.  What would your answer be? -Richard Foster, Spiritual Disciplines

Ashes

Today is Ash Wednesday.  I remember once accompanying a college friend to her Catholic church to feel the warm finger of the priest smear a cross of ash on my forehead.  It's not something we do in my church tradition, but each Ash Wednesday, my mind always travels back that small act of identification with Christ.  

There is power in symbolism.  Today I plan to have the kids write a letter of confession to God.  Then we will burn them to ash and cross our foreheads.  I want to take them on a journey to the cross, honoring God in the Lenten tradition of sacrificing, fasting, and giving to the poor.  I too rarely pause in my activity to do more than a quick devotion and prayer.  Sometimes not even that much.  But I have 40 days until Easter to pause, reflect, fail, and recognize my need for a Savior.  And then there are all those days after Easter....

In Joel, the people are called to "rend your hearts."  To rend is to rip in pieces.  I don' think this can happen in haste, in the funnel cloud of my life.  This happens only when I step into His presence and face the cross in all its severe glory and grace, to feel the tear, to feel the healing.  To know the truth that sets me free.

Life is War

John Piper nailed me today.  He pointed out that I fail to think of life as war and instead move happily through my day in pursuit of peace, harmony, beauty, and a catchy little song.  I'm a born optimist, it's true, but optimism makes my prayer life weak.  This quote from the book, Let the Nations be Glad, woke me up this morning.

Life is war.  That's not all it is.  But it is always that.  Our weakness in prayer is owing largely to our neglect of this truth.  Prayer is primarily a wartime walkie-talkie for the mission of the church as it advances against the powers of darkness and unbelief.  It is not surprising that prayer malfunctions when we try to make it a domestic intercom to call upstairs for more comforts in the den. -John Piper

Oh my. Forgive me for my lack of insight.  Even as I see death and destruction around me, I still recline in my comfortable, insulated life and forget that a spiritual battle rages.  Darkness wants my children.  It wants all our children.  It woos them with promises of comfort, acceptance, excitement.  Now right there is a war worth praying over.  

Possessing Nothing

My mind keeps wandering to a hospital room.  To a family gathered around their son.  To the aching decision to pull the plug.  I can barely put myself there in my mind, and yet my friend has lived it the last week, watching her 29-year-old son, who was hit by a drunk driver, struggle for life and lose the battle.  

Just weeks ago, I sat next to her planning a children's musical.  Now her life is forever marked by tragedy.  I am stunned by the speed in which a person's story can change.  

When I read A.W. Tozer's devotional today, about how God pried Abraham's fingers from his son, Isaac, in the second most painful act of sacrifice in the Bible, I thought of all the things I clutch to my chest.  My husband and children, my home, my stuff, my time, my will.  They are beautiful gifts from God, but they can be His rivals in my heart.  

I can't call this story of Abraham allegory or history.  I can't say, "I'm glad I'm not in Abraham's shoes,"  because God says, "You are Abraham.  You have the same two alternatives.  Possess the world and everything in it, or possess nothing."  Tozer calls it the blessedness of possessing nothing.

I pray for Becky and her family, that they run to a deep and bottomless well of grace.  

And I pray that I continually learn the lesson of possessing nothing to gain everything.  

Recommended reading, The Pursuit of God by A.W. Tozer

Holy Determination

I read the first chapter of Ruth this morning.  I've read her story many times, but it struck me differently today; perhaps because I am looking for people who do radical things.

Ruth was radical.  She was determined to cling to Naomi at her own personal sacrifice, at her own peril, and probably against her better judgement.  She saw in Naomi a worthy cause, and she didn't care what other people would think.  Her determination silenced Naomi's protests.

The story is scary to me.  It makes me ask some hard questions about safety, security, sanity, and sacrifice.  It makes me evaluate what I cling to...my cozy home, my family, my comfortable faith.  Honestly, who or what is my Naomi?  The right answer is Christ, but do my choices reflect that?

Ten of us gathered recently to explore this idea.  There was a spirit of holy determination to better live out this faith we profess, to give it teeth and nails.  But mingling with determination was fear and doubt about how successful we will really be in leaving our holy huddle and entering the wilderness.

Just as Naomi tried to dissuade Ruth from leaving her safe home, Jesus tried to talk his disciples out of following him by pointing out all they would be sacrificing: comforts, relationships, respect.  Will we take his warnings and say, "Um, alrighty then, I think I'll stay put here on my soft couch and thank you kindly for my salvation."  Or will we take the challenge?  

I have no plan.  I am, instead, trying to be fertile ground, asking God to plant seeds that will take root, change the landscape, prevent erosion, and bear fruit.  I'm praying the fruit will be unrecognizable to me; completely new and wonderful, sticky and dripping with the glory of God.  

Holy Discontent

My sweet friend sat in the chair, verbalizing an emotion that is difficult to articulate.  She didn't want to sound ungrateful , but she was dissastisfied.  What should she be doing with her time?  What will count?  What will matter to the Kingdom of God?  She was pent up with frustration and ambivalence, unsure of her next step.  

A few comments were tossed to her from the group of ladies...enjoy this peaceful time...pray for contentment.  They came with good intentions, trying to ease her internal struggle.

But I recognized her angst.  I have felt it, too, in recent months: seeing so much need and recognizing my own well of resources, but feeling paralyzed, not wanting to jump into just anything.  I gave her a word for her emotion:  holy discontent.  Those of us who have become dissatisfied with our quest of the American Dream, with our lovely homes, our cozy little family times, our beautiful churches complete with fine coffee, giant screens, and mega sound boards, our Christian conferences and Bible studies where we fill up but don't do much to pour out because we're too busy investing in our American Dream and our pretty churches.  

Ministries that were once monumental efforts to me, like parenting, homeschooling, and music ministry, are now comfortable as God has blessed me with skill and resources.  When I was on the learning curve, trusting God in my weakness, I felt smack in the center of His will.  I'm certainly not an expert at any of these things, but as I've developed a certain amount of proficiency and can say, "I know how to do this pretty well," I think it's time to venture into deeper waters, beyond safe pastures.  

Enter "holy discontent."  

So my prayer is this:

God, I see needs that far exceed my ability to meet.  Don't let me rest until I've done something.  Send me into deep waters.  Send others with me.  

May God break my heart so completely that the whole world falls in.  -Mother Teresa

Unplowed Ground

There is was.  In black and white with the little bitty numbers on the onion skin paper.  God knocking me over the head.  Again.  

"Break up your unplowed ground."  

I mean Jeremiah had a ton to say this morning about evil and sin and mocking God.  He would never have been voted president by shaking his finger at the camera and saying, "America, you have grown fat and sleek, and your evil deeds have no limits."  Jer 5:27-28, minus "America."  

Eyeroll.  Change the channel.  Ah, there, a rerun of Friends.

But when you open the Bible with the attitude that God IS going to tell you something you NEED to hear, and that the message with supercede time and culture, then you can see truth bleeding all over the page and into the present age.  Into your life.  

"Break up your unplowed ground."  

OK, where am I hard, dense, packed down, trampled on, thorny, bristly, apathetic?  

The sharp blade severs the soil, cutting all those weedy roots woven like a tiny prison, turning up fresh loam, loosening what was tight like a gag.  But only because I consent.  Because I'm tired of claiming only the comfy parts of the Bible like blessing and unconditional love and grace, thinking I can write my songs, and homeschool my children, and make my home a haven, and serve when it is convenient.  

David Platt in Radical and Jen Hatmaker in Seven and Katie Davis in Kisses from Katie point out my unplowed ground.  What am I doing?  What am I planting?  Why is this faith of mine so easy?  What is the point of all this accumulated stuff?   Where shall I go?  How messy shall I get?  How much shall I spend?  

How bright might I shine?  

How much might grow?

Lessons from the Superior Trail

Last Thursday, Dave and I embarked on an adventure to the North Shore, beginning with a lovely night at the Inn at Palisades, complete with a breakfast of blueberry scones, smoked salmon, and a gorgeous view of Lake Superior.  This was the sunrise that greeted us Friday morning...

Before we left for the trail head, I combed the river rock beach for smooth stones to bring home for the kids.   I tried to memorize the color of the lake, like turquoise jewelry, with glints of sapphire and sparks of diamond, framed by fire-red sugar maples and weathered rock outcroppings.  This was a sign of good things to come.

I soon traded thick down-comforters, bay window seats, and scones, for the few things I could fit in my backpack.  First, a mummy bag for sleeping in 30 degree temperatures.  We just studied the life of Queen Hatshepsut of ancient Egypt, the female pharaoh who wore a beard and called herself "him."  I wonder if she ever laid in her sarcophagus before she died.  That's what a mummy bag feels like. But it's warm, thank goodness.

I packed my sleeping mat, a few layers of clothes, wool socks, a towel, a water bladder, a book by Anne Lamott, which I didn't read but used for pressing colorful little leaves, a deck of cards, biodegradable toilet paper, and a water filter.  I still can't believe I drank liters of water that trickled brown and skanky in narrow creek beds.  My one luxury was Megan's furry Minnetonka moccasins for walking around the campsites.  Oh, and a pack of Big Red.  And Trader Joe's dark chocolate.    I carried the tent poles, but Dave carried the rest, including all the food and cooking supplies.

Lesson #1:  You don't need much.

We were only backpacking for 2 nights and 3 days, mind you.  But we met a young woman who hiked the entire 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail with the same stuff we brought. Jesus tries to teach us to love things less and lean on each other more.  Think how lightly he traveled.  Why are we so convinced this is a bad 
idea?

Lesson #2:  What you do need is:  water, food, shelter.

Christ promised to provide these things.  Better yet, he promised to be the spiritual versions of these things.  But like silly putty, we stretch our basic needs into misshapen and bloated wants, and suddenly they weigh us down, make us fat, become like chains around our wrists.  What if I counted every individual item in my house?  Every book, every plate, every art supply and piece of clothing.  I think I would get discouraged and quit after one closet.  Walking for 3 days with my bare essentials on my back proved something I choose to ignore.  I am a glutton.

Lesson #3:  Never say, "It's downhill from here."

I lost track of how many times I thought we had climbed the last hill of the day, only to round a bend and face another rugged ascent and equally precarious descent. Imagine climbing up and down and around the bluffs of Winona.  Yeah, it's like that.

Occasionally there were actual wood or stone steps, but more often the surface of the trail was composed of tumbled rock, tree roots, or slippery gravel and leaves.  Best not to get cocky and comfortable about your next step in life.  Stay alert.  But don't forget to stop for the view.  The higher the climb, the better the view.

Lesson #4:  Love the ones you're with.

Some people backpack alone, like our new friend, Ellie, who was on her 14th day of hiking the entire 200+ miles of the trail, but Dave and I leaned hard on each other for every task, from cooking to setting up camp, to closing hard-to-reach zippers, to guarding open-air latrines.  He was full of gratitude that I consented to join him on this adventure, and I was full of appreciation for all his planning and confidence.  At home we often settle into our roles and forget how much we need each other.  The wilderness erased that.  For a few days, at least.

Lesson #5:  Close your eyes and memorize.

This is a relatively new practice I've adopted.  It started on the 4th of July a couple of years ago.  I came home that night and wrote a song about memorizing the details of that breezy, balmy, firefly-rich, laughterful night with friends.  Now I purposefully stop and close my eyes in certain moments, memorizing sounds, smells, textures, emotions; breathing deeply and chanting in my head, "Memorize this.  Memorize this."  It makes a difference.  

I suppose I should stop here, though I'm sure I could dig deeper and wax on.  A final thought...Whenever we are in the car together, my Boy Becoming Man and I listen to the audio recording of Do Hard Things by Josh Harris.  This wilderness trek was a hard thing.  But, frankly, the harder thing is to apply the lessons I've learned on the trail to my comfortable, habitual, excessive, everyday life.  Oh, to be who God created me to be by loving the things of this world less and the people of this world more.

I Will Not Be Moved

I will not be moved.

That phrase keeps rising, like bubbles breaking on the surface, from songs and scripture and readings I've done recently.  

It's what I've needed to embrace after a season of wrestling with God and myself about a multitude of things.  

Psalm 125:1-2 Those who trust in the LORD are like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abides forever.  As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the LORD surrounds his people, from this time on and forevermore.


I think back to my trips this summer, where 90% of my time involved setting my feet on rocks and being surrounded by mountains.  And yet spiritually, I felt I was floundering in the water, like my daughter who panicked in the deep Canadian lake waters and had to be rescued.  By me.  

Does God feel the same kind of pleasure/relief that I felt setting my shaking daughter's feet on the rock?  When he hears me say "I will not be moved," does He sing for joy, and rouse the angels for a chorus of glee?  
⁷ 
For the Lord your God is living among you.  He is a mighty savior.  He will take delight in you with gladness.  With his love he will calm all your fears.  He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.
-Zephaniah 3:17



I was part of a healing prayer on Sunday.  My friend, Kelly, just learned that her breast cancer is back.  Stage 4. I was privileged to touch her knee and plead with God on her behalf.  On her children's behalf.  

I don't know if God will choose to miraculously heal her.  I promised Him that I would tell the story and sing the song, no matter what.  But I can tell you that something healed in me during those 2 hours.  The Rock beneath my feet rose up, a tectonic force pushing upward the great, heavy crust of my faith to form a mountain.  I rose up.  God came low.  The space between us was imperceptible.  I poured every passion and plea I had into Kelly, because, if nothing else, I wanted her feet to be firmly planted on the Rock of her Salvation, too.  


This song has spoken deeply to me.  Take a moment to listen.  

A Way to Build Up a Woman

My friends and family heard me call it a mid-life crisis.  I described it as being a tangled thread with no notion of how to tend the knot.  I wrote a morose song about it that no one needs to hear. 

It was a summer of juxtaposition for me.  I had two wonderful vacations in the most rugged of God's landscapes...to a remote island on a glorious lake in Canada, and to the open-air cathedral of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. 

So much rock and water and beauty this summer.  God was near in my encounters with nature. 

He sent me symbols of reassurance:  a dragonfly molting to its final, winged phase of life...an ancient symbol of maturity and depth of character; and a geode...nothing outwardly beautiful, but a treasure of gleaming surprises within. 

I had clarity on my vacations, but each time I returned home, I felt that familiar knot of discontent and ambivalence.  I read books about others feeling similar angst. Guess what...they were 40-something. 

Do you know what was more meaningful than dragonflies and geodes and a sweet, patient husband?  This (abridged) email: 

Late one night last week, thoughts were coming to me about ideas I should send to you in an email...

Here's my prayer for you from Isaiah 41:9-10,

"'You are my servant'; I have chosen you and have not rejected you.
So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

Praying for you,
Gwen

I wrote the scripture on a notecard, and each time I read it, I feel God speaking into my internal snarl.  You see, a consequence of this struggle is that I've barely cracked open my Bible this summer.  I was even in a Bible study in June and managed to avoid reading the Word.  There is a wall built up, so I have been looking for human wisdom in biographies and novels.  They are thought-provoking, but ultimately lacking.

God managed to circumvent my belligerent attitude by quickening the spirit of a faithful woman, who obeyed the prompting to relay His message.  The wall is crumbling, because I know He is strengthening me and helping me, and calling me back.  He's told me so.

Let's take the time to do this for each other.  It's how we build each other up and break down strongholds.  Be God's voice into a woman's life.

Graffiti Grace

Their story captivated me.  How creative you have to be when you live in a country where 3% of the population is Christian and God has called you to be a missionary there. 

"How do we do this, God?"

"Graffiti," God answers.

And so began their campaign to erase the prolific graffiti from the public surfaces in their town in Spain.  It was a brilliant plan.  What city and neighborhood leaders wouldn't back a plan to beautify their environment? 

My favorite part of the story:  a tunnel, a mural, an artist.  First they paint black over the graffitied walls of the tunnel.  Then the artist on their team begins to paint his beautiful vision.  Who should wander up but three young, delinquent, graffiti artists and taggers, curious about this project.  (Why does the number 3 always make the story better?)

In a stroke of inspiration, the artist puts the boys to work helping with the mural.  It catches the attention of the newspaper.  In the end, there is a community celebration and private prayers that the tiny seeds planted along the way would lodge and grow in hearts and eventually grow into a church. 

I love a good story, but when it rainbows a bigger truth, I am truly moved.  God takes the grimy, graffiti-stained walls of my life and paints them fresh and blank.  He gives vision and community to slowly, faithfully paint the mural, which tells the story, which is meant to be shared and celebrated.

My life mural is not finished until my last breath, but there are milestones to be celebrated as portions of the picture are completed.  When He brings unlikely people and circumstances to contribute to the painting, doubt and resistance flare up, and I must remember He is there in the tunnel holding the completed sketch and nodding approval, as He reassuringly whispers, "It's OK.  You think they are going to wreck your painting, but actually, they are painting the most beautiful parts, and they are making you a better artist."

Because I loved their story so much, Rob and Nancy, the missionaries from Spain, left an envelope for me on my music stand with the words "Thank You" written in crayon.  Inside was this pastel drawing by the artist in their story. 

My eyes blurred with tears when I saw it.  COME, He says.  Be fully in this story and trust Me all the way.

Imago Dei....What I Saw at Bluewater

I looked up from my shady spot under the tall red pine to watch a young boy and an older woman dipped back into the cool lake waters.  They had come before this group to declare their devotion to Christ through the ceremony of baptism.  In God's immense creativity, He designed a beautiful symbol that will forever be a step in the Christian faith: descending into the waters of death, then bursting forth new and sputtering and dripping with life. 

I remember Dave standing next to me, smiling a nervous, encouraging grin as we took the same drenching journey almost 20 years ago.  Our dabbling, half-hearted interest in Christianity had taken a dramatic turn into full-blown faith, and baptism was our way of saying, "No turning back.  No turning back."  Since then, God has slowly, steadily taken over my eyes, as I've honestly sung and believed the words "Be Thou My Vision." 

What I was really paying attention to as I stood under the pine last Saturday was not the baptism, but something that caused a sting of tears in my eyes. Four children from four different families were all within feet of each other.

Joswe sat on the ledge.  He is the son of missionaries from Spain.  He has a chromosomal anomaly which you don't notice until he tries to communicate with you and is difficult to understand.  He makes you listen more intently than you listen to others, because you find that you can understand him if you make the effort.  He is enraptured by rhythm.  I had asked him to play the djembe drum during one of our worship songs and he was perfectly amazing. 

Near him sat Ariana.  She has a physical malformation that renders her small arms permanently bent and out of proportion with her body.  But God gave her a tender sweetness, a self-determination, and a servant's heart.  Earlier, I had watched her wash the tables in the dining hall.  To move the wet cloth, she had to have her cheek nearly on the table, and I wonder how far we are willing to bend to serve others. 

Young Levi is the pastor's son.  He also has a chromosomal issue and is difficult to understand.  But I loved his fresh, unfiltered comments.  "You're strong," he told me, looking at my bare arms.  "I lift weights," I told him.  He nodded, approvingly.  That sealed our friendship for the weekend.  He wants to have 9 children when he grows up.  Six boys and three girls. 

Next to Levi was Mariah, moving in her dance-like way.  Her seizures got so serious that Mayo doctors severed her corpus-callosum, which connects the two sides of her brain.  It corrected her seizures, but it makes her a handful for her two amazing parents.  Kind of like a permanent 2 year old in a 9 year old body.  My goal was to persuade a smile out of her over the weekend.  I didn't quite accomplish that, but I did take a damp towel and ran it gently over her warm, sweaty face, and she looked at me squarely with her large gray eyes with something like a thank you.

I'm not sure that anyone else noticed these four special kids so near each other in the crowd.  But I believe I was meant to notice, because in my vision, they were glowing and the phrase imago dei was flooding my mind.  Image of God.

These child-souls were drenched in the image of God.  Washed in the glow.  Baptized in sacred love.

Since I Turned 40

Since I turned 40 in April, I have sensed a tightening, like the dragonfly on the dock in Canada, confined by a dark, hard exoskeleton, while pushing her bright green head out the tiny opening. 

I watched her molt all morning, emerging, growing, brightening, spreading, until she was many times larger than the shell she would leave behind.  Then she was gone.  Maybe she was the one who landed on the slat bench next to me on the last day of vacation, reveling in her next chapter.  I was envious.

There is a knot that needs untangling.  I haven't been talking about it.  Or praying.  Or writing.  Or thinking, really, but it's not going to untangle itself.  It will have to be written smooth, because most of the problem solving in my life happens internally, spilling into written words.  Such is the way of the introvert writer.

When a woman has everything to be thankful for, like a faithful God, a rock solid husband,  healthy, cheerful kids, good friends, and a lovely home, she takes that nebulous angst and palms it like a ball of clay, making it as small as possible.  Then she swallows it and lives with the pit in her stomach.  Sue Monk Kidd calls it "an obscure longing for something I cannot name." 

The Bible says that "while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened."  2 Cor 5:4  There is a groaning in me that cannot be ignored, a nameless burden.  Is it a longing for heaven?  Is it an invitation to a new chapter or bigger wings?  I don't have an inkling of the root or the purpose, but I suspect it's a univeral experience, and that, like Lady Dragonfly, I am simply molting.