faith | chatting at the sky

first comes love

April 4, 2012

On Monday, I asked you to share your first thoughts about how you feel when you do that thing that makes you come alive, or when you are living your life in a way that pleases you. Your words and images were stunning. Here are a few of them that were said several times.Some of you said scared or desperate or terrified. And all of those were followed up with hope. Like many of you, I’ve been reading about the arrest of Jesus this Holy Week – about his conversation with Pilate, his cross-carrying, his burden-bearing, his death.

As I read our words describing how it feels when we are living life fully, my mind kept pushing me toward the word resurrection. How appropriate that living with our souls awake carry hints of the resurrection life. When we embrace our true design, we experience little tastes of the resurrection, of Jesus coming alive in us, of us coming alive within ourselves.

But new life is only possible when the old life dies. We look at Jesus, his feet walking the one way dusty road to death. He had to die before anything was resurrected.

Mourning precedes morning; death comes before the dream. We long for the magic, the freedom, the glory and the joy. But are we willing to embrace the death that must come first?

We are all walking our own dusty roads. We are none of us exempt from the prerequisites of a joyful release – death, surrender, and humility. But the cross is beautiful because those heavy companions do not come alone. We do not have to bear their weight.

From that first death in the Garden when God gave Adam and Eve coverings for their shame, when he punished another with the punishment meant for them,

From generation to generation, where the lineage of Jesus was carried by invisible hands through floods and wars and betrayal and fear and mess and triumph,

From the love words from the angel to the young virgin who said yes, from the man who accepted her even though he could have left, from the stable to the temple to the hillside to the water-wine to the garden to the cross …

first comes love.

God left a love-trail through history, and it all points to the resurrection. And even though death precedes new life, love came first to pave the way. Love is the invisible hand of God made visible on the cross, in the tomb, through the resurrection.

I have felt that death within myself as I’ve grasped for creativity or influence or joy. I am learning how Christ’s love-sacrifice of death holds hands with my longing for importance, and how his rising to new life sets me free from myself. Especially, lately, in the area of creativity.

And so anything we do on earth that brings any kind of joy or delight or fullness was made possible by death, because first comes love.

5 reasons why hope is bright today

March 29, 2012

Browsing on Facebook, I saw a picture of a lovely girl I graduated with from my high school in Michigan. Her husband died last year, leaving her with three young kids to bring up in the world. This keeps me up at night sometimes, this fear. Yet there she was, perhaps not even having passed the first anniversary of his death, and in that photo she was so beautiful; smiling on a plane to Disney World with her parents and her babies around her in the seat, holding a Starbucks cup.

After death, there is still life. Disney and family and coffee and smiling are for the living. She was living, is living. I know it’s maybe ridiculous for me to even be writing this from such an outside perspective, but seeing her face and the faces of her children gave me great hope – that even when the worst has happened, there are still gifts. Hope. Life.

And so today, there is bright hope because:

1. This great big world has not stopped spinning.

2. The sky remains firmly overhead.

3. The mountains have not fallen into the sea, at least not yet today.

4. Trees and ground and garden are bursting with life and color here in the States, and it isn’t because a politician signed a paper and said they could.

5. It’s because God moves through nature and souls like a whisper on water and he cannot be held back. It’s upside down and it doesn’t make sense and it goes against all that seems normal and sane. But life shoots up straight out of death and no one can make it stop.

What is your bright hope today?

Tagged thankfulness Filed Under faith 37 Comments

the secret life of trees

March 21, 2012

He said he wanted to plant a tree in the center of our cul-de-sac. He talked about it for weeks, stared into the nothing with only his imagination to advise him. But then one day, he pulled into the cozy circle where we do life with a small tree in the back of a pick up truck. When my brother-in-law gets an idea, there is rarely much time before action.

He worked hard to dig a hole, not even to his knees if he stood straight in it. Then he hoisted that small tree onto his shoulder and dropped it strong into that hole in the ground. We all watered, watched, wished for it to grow.

We spread blankets around her skinny trunk in the heat of that first summer, wishing she were big enough to offer leafy arms for shade and relief. She watched hot days roll by as kids played around her – lemonade stands, Barbies in the grass, not-quite-cartwheels turning her upside down.

My father-in-law was still living that summer, and even though he didn’t easily say the deeper things out loud, he seemed pleased that his son chose to plant a tree. He’d mosey slow through the yard, across the street, and with fingers touching around her small trunk, he’d say, “Take a picture with it every year at the same time. You won’t believe how fast it grows.”

She has blush white buds now, four years later. And those flowers will turn to leaves in no time, leaves that will hold on ’til October, leaves that promise picnics. Shade. Life. I think that’s why he planted it, why anyone would ever plant anything that will last. We look at that young tree and know it will long out-live us. But not before it bears witness to our lives, our living.

It will watch as the brothers stand near and remember, as the girls play sing-song hand-clap games, as the fathers play ball with their sons and the sisters-in-law cross lawns to trade sorrows and stories of their daughters driving off with their friends. It will watch, long into the night as the neighbors lay sleeping and the dogs bark at nothing and the families live our family lives one day at a time. That tree will grow silently and watch our lives spin by. And the seasons will move around her, shape her, change her.

She will surrender her leaves again, but she will still stand tall. And after that, the blushing buds that burst forth green will come whether or not we’re here to see it.

She is a gift because she reminds us of our lives past and our lives to come. She reminds us that God is and that he will be.

She reminds us that we are small.

And that is how it should be.

Tagged thankfulness Filed Under faith 41 Comments

one thing that changes life

March 9, 2012

The automatic doors on the minivan quit working sometime before Christmas. I pull the door closed and walk inside to do the dishes, only to discover the sink has clogged and the water won’t go down. My favorite leggings have a hole but I wear them anyway because every other option is dirty. I sit to do work, and as soon as I meet one deadline, three more show up in my inbox.

He says a word that is dismissive.

I feel like an idiot in her presence.

They had an expectation that I failed to meet.

Again.

Even these minor annoyances serve to remind us that we’re all on the road to death. And we walk this Lenten road whether we know or not that each of our steps is closer to sharing in his suffering. There may not be nail holes in our wrists, but aren’t there still holes?

We are offended when we are hurt. We are offended when they misunderstand. We are offended when they don’t acknowledge our feelings.

We are only offended because we forget we have died.

If there’s one thing certain to change life, it’s death.

Your old life is dead. Your new life, which is your real life – even though invisible to spectators – is with Christ in God. He is your life.

Colossians 3:3, The Message

We live false lives when we hold on to the old and refuse to acknowledge our death, when we grasp the threads of our Saturday lives, when we try to make second things first, when we hang on to our warm coffee mugs and our worn out offenses. She hurt me, you say. I have a right to my offenses.

Except that you don’t.

Death doesn’t always look like a tragedy. Sometimes death is a slowly dripping faucet. And even though these things can’t be compared to real danger or true poverty, disappointment and weariness can drip the life right out. Slow. Quiet. Drip.

No matter how much I feel called to write about art and grace and beauty, it can’t be ignored: the life of Christ was a one way road to death.

I know I often speak of desire here, of knowing what you really want to do and then finding the courage to do it, of discovering the shape of your own unique worship and then living as if you were truly alive. I know when I speak of desire there is a risk that I will be dangerously misunderstood. Hawaiian beaches and Paris strolls are not the desires I speak of. Making a difference for difference sake is not the desire I speak of. True desire doesn’t search for escape or fame or adoration. True desire is born out of death, of knowing I no longer live, but Christ.

His desire was that all people might live. And the fulfillment of his desire was only realized through death. Who am I to think that the road to realizing my own true desire would be paved with anything different? And so leading up to Easter, we often say things like, Jesus died so I didn’t have to, it’s actually much worse. The truth is, Jesus died and so did I.

But the worse morphs into better when we remember Jesus didn’t stay dead. And neither do we. Let the dying moments remind us where to find the living.

Here is the place where the ordinary peers through the glass dimly, where even though I stand alone in my kitchen or sit waiting on the phone or stretch out on top of the covers, I can be there at the cross. That even though I am offended, I do not have to take offense. Instead of standing up tall and tensing my shoulders, I can bow down low and remember I have died. And in that quiet, lowly place, I see a small blade, green and strong, born from the death of a seed. And life shoots up from broken earth carrying truth, joy, freedom. Because if I have died, then what have I to fear? And so from death, I live!

These words may not resonate with you right now. But maybe next week or next month or tomorrow, when the way she speaks to you is so shocking it makes your eyes cross, when the kids disrespect you so blatantly you can’t stand, when your boss blames you for that thing you had nothing to do with, maybe you will remember these words. This is what it feels like to die. And it hurts and is painful and doesn’t seem to have a point. Maybe it won’t have a point unless you demand it does, unless you insist on squeezing the death out of the moment until the life shows up, be it through gratitude, through acceptance, through belief.

“It matters not what my abilities may be then, provided that I possess you, Lord. Do what you will with this insignificant creature. Whether it be that I should work, or become inspired, or be the recipient of your impressions, it is all the same. Everything is yours, everything is from you and for you … Mine is to be satisfied with your work and not to demand the choice of action or condition, but to leave everything to your good pleasure.”

Jean-Pierre deCaussade, The Joy of Full Surrender

Tagged faith Filed Under faith 50 Comments

so what’s it like to have a book published?

March 5, 2012

As more bloggers begin to write books, more blog readers are seeing photos of computers with coffee and pastry and time. And our captions say something like, “Finally tackling these edits!” Forgive us if it seems obnoxious – making it look like the business of book writing is all about lattes and leisure time in cozy coffee shops. It isn’t. But sometimes the work is so tedious and the resistance so powerful that we simply have to document when we see the scene around us looking even remotely familiar to what we always imagined. This, we say, is how I thought it would be.

It’s not as fun to take a picture of the laundry mound, of the family headed off to the movies without us, of the fight we just had last night because we forgot to sign the homework papers, of the uninspired meal we’re making again tonight, of the misunderstanding looks we get from people who wonder why we can’t do things during working hours since we “don’t have jobs.”

Over the past six months, I’ve had many people ask me what it’s like to have a book published. I never know how to answer that question. Everyone who has a book published would answer that question very differently. For me, I can tell you with great confidence that writing the second book was easier. Not because of the content, but because I am learning a bit better how to balance the writing life with just plain life.

Most of the things that have changed are invisible things. My rhythms are wiser. I feel more alive. I am learning to see criticism differently. I know I can actually finish something. The fear has faded (slightly). I laugh more often. I am learning to celebrate my smallness in tangible ways.

But there is more. Now, I have easy conversations with people about things that used to be private. Having a blog is like that to an extent, but in my case, the things I wrote in the book are ten shades more personal than the things I write on this blog. So when I stand in the hallway at church and have a twenty-something single guy tell me he’s reading my book because his girlfriend asked him to, it’s a gift I never expected.

But I’m not gonna lie. As thankful as I am for gifts like these, there is always a temptation during those kinds of conversations for my inner introvert to turn me into a hallucinating Ally McBeal. And in my imagination, my eyes pop straight out of my face, my knees turn into stretchable clay, my body twists around itself in one graceful swoop, and I disappear in a swirling blur of color, right there in the middle of the church hallway with nothing but fairy dust left in my place. When I reappear, I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom closet with a fuzzy blanket and a blindfold on. Maybe if I can’t see, then I can’t be seen.

This is what happens in my head sometimes.

Just this weekend, in fact, three different men have told me they’re reading the book. Oh, hello sir. You mean you’re reading about how I cried like a baby on my couch when I first got married because I couldn’t pick out a paint color? You’re reading about how I felt like a failure for having a c-section? You’re reading about how I used to care so desperately what people think that I actually compared it to a nuclear holocaust when I was rejected? Really? You’re reading about that? What’s your name again, sir? (Cue spinning, disappearing, fairy dust.)

And I die a little on the inside. Of embarrassment? Maybe a little. More accurately, of co-crucifixion. This is another reminder – this life I live in the body I live by faith. Again, I let go of my own reputation. Again, I release my tight hold on managing the opinions of others. All over again, I have to take the outcomes of my own choices and neurosis that I wrote about in that book and submit them into the hands of God.

So yes, having a book published is a gift and hard work and kind of fun. It is a reminder of how there is more power in sharing our weakness than in sharing our strength (as Brennan Manning so wisely has said). It provides many opportunities to embrace my own inadequacy in a good way. It’s also a little like that nightmare you have where you show up to school with all your homework but forgot to get dressed. Or that other nightmare where you stand up in front of a crowd and every last one of your teeth falls out.

But seriously, what was the alternative? Not to write the book at all? Well, I could not have done that. I tried that for a bit of time and it was miserable. I was haunted by this voice in my head, compelled to organize my thoughts around this central idea. It wasn’t clear from the start what it would end up being, but it was clear enough that I couldn’t ignore it.

Do you have a thing like that? Something that gnaws at you from the inside and only presents itself as a kernel of an idea? I hope you’ll give yourself permission to sit with it and see what comes out. I’m sure it will be worth any eye-bugging, swirling, disappearing temptations it may lead you to have.

***

Just a reminder that Grace for the Good Girl is still on sale for $5 at LifeWay, both online and in the store. The sale continues through March 11 and they tell me they can’t keep the book in stock because of your great response so far to buying at this low price. So thank you! The lovely people at LifeWay wanted to take a few minutes to chat a bit, so we jumped on Skype and here is a peek at what we talked about. (And also a peek at how Skype somehow erased my chin. Not necessarily a bad thing.)

While we’re peeking, here is the setup in my laundry room that you couldn’t see on camera. There were many more dirty clothes than is shown. I threw them in the hallway. Naturally.

And while we’re doing this, I’ve finally started the process of putting a newsletter together for anyone who might be interested in keeping updated on some things going on that I might not always put up on the blog, upcoming books and events, and exclusive content. I plan to send it out monthly-ish. If you would like to subscribe to receive these updates in your inbox once a month for free, you can sign up here. Now go buy your $5 book.

Tagged grace for the good girl, writing Filed Under a writer, faith, Grace for the Good Girl 43 Comments

for your weekend

March 2, 2012

May your admirable resilience melt like ice in a pan so that you may know how desperately you need to be rescued. May you find yourself on your knees more than once, every time knowing that your own resources are not enough, your attempts are riddled with self-focus, and you cannot live this life alone. As you become aware of the darkness of life on your own, as heaviness shows up through disappointment and dread and misunderstandings, watch as beauty rises up from the ashes of your self-life. Only the hungry will open their mouths and only the sick need a Healer. Do not despise your desperate need. Be glad for the rescue and receive life new. Enjoy your weekend, friends.

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one thing you are never to say

February 29, 2012

Last weekend I spent time with some lovely women from a church nearby. It was an encouraging few days together and I’m thankful for the opportunity to be with them. I often refer to myself as a writer and that title comes fairly easily these days. But there is not a lot of time to think when you’re up on your feet, not to mention no delete button on the side of my face, so when I am asked to speak I am always very careful before I say yes. I would much rather listen.

I don’t expect you to pay attention to my calendar at all, but if you were to you would discover that the week before I prepare to speak, this sacred writing space grows ever empty. It takes every living ounce of courage and prayer to get me to a place of readiness before an event. It isn’t stage-fright, as over the years I believe I have grown to feel fairly comfortable in my own skin in front of people. I don’t have to imagine crowds wearing underwear. More, it is a sense of responsibility, a weighty understanding that I have been trusted to speak truth, to share honestly, and to lean my weight heavy on God.

And even though grace has been a game-changer for me, even though I walk most days to a rhythm of understanding that my life belongs to another and He is very fond of me, I still have to fight off the voice in my head before I speak to groups of women. And that voice says very clearly and without hesitation, Who do you think you are? When I try to hold on to my own life, when I am unwilling to let go of my try-hard efforts, when I have my sights set on outcomes rather than moments, I question and doubt and grab hold of insecurities.

If I allow myself to go very far down that road, it generally leads to an answer: You should be ashamed of yourself. Thankfully, I don’t sit there long anymore. I know truth and I fight with appropriate weapons. But when you begin to question your identity, the answer will always lead to shame. And we point our finger at ourselves and name ourselves disgraceful.

Shame discounts grace.

Shame is an agent of death.

Never speak shame into the life of another.

Never tell her she should be ashamed of herself. Never tell yourself that, either.

Should is a bully. Don’t give him power.

Speak life. Share compassion. Receive grace. And handle yourself tenderly.

Tagged faith Filed Under breathe, faith 35 Comments