Somebody's Watching

I suppose this may be the worst possible subject with which to relaunch this little blog 'o mine, but hey, I've always had more bad ideas than good...

Recently, my life group decided to take a little trip over to the local theater and take in one of the fifty "churchy" movies that seem to have recently overtaken the screens.

I hated it. Not gonna lie. The story was weak. The writing was abysmal. The acting, while better than most of its contemporary predecessors, was still pretty...well...wimpy. Now, I'm self-aware enough to admit that I am hyper-critical, but "faith" movies get an extra special, week-long evaluation and deconstruction in my head. I hold them to a higher standard.

What I'm not going to do is delineate what I found wrong specifically with any of the film, but rather use it as a jumping off point to my greater concern: poor messaging.

One thing that I've been working on is my use of words. Here's the biggie that most people use incorrectly: church. It is not a place. There. Correct yourself from now on or don't be surprised when I do it for you. We don't GO to church. We go to worship, (or work if you're like me). We ARE the church. This is so simple and we all know this, right? THEN WHY HAVEN'T WE FIXED IT? Last week, in a class I was teaching, a man pointed this out, but in the greater context: OUR WORDS AND HOW WE USE THEM MATTER!

It seems of late that Christians just can't catch a break. The stories the media picks up do not always paint us in the best light. Our response? Blame the biased media. Well, I'm sorry, but that's dumb. Our response SHOULD be, "hey, people are actually still paying attention to us which means we haven't become completely irrelevant, let's build on that." And no, it's not satan either. I recently heard that excuse from someone whose father was vilified for some extremely ugly and offensive remarks about gays and African-Americans. It wasn't satan, my brother. It was a lack of wisdom.

Look, we need as much grace as anybody else because we aren't any better. But when we are citizens of the Kingdom of God, the imperative should always be tempered speech.

WHY??

Because people are searching. Desperate. Longing for a place to belong and be loved. And, frankly, we scare them off because we can't keep our stinkin' traps shut. OR we make movies that label and stereotype others in unforgiving and well, ignorant ways. OR we get so caught up in tradition and fundamentalism that we forget our real purpose: serve God, serve others, (and no, it doesn't say, "serve others who agree with us"). 

The truth is, we so desperately want everything to be black and white that we risk making God look small. We all live in the gray and God gets it. That is why we are told to "ask, seek, knock." It is a process of humbly experiencing His love that is never-ending. We also seem to think we've cornered the market on truth and God somehow needs us to remind people of their sin, (it's a full-time job keeping up with our own sin, start there why don't we?).

It seems we just can't help ourselves from jumping into everyone else's sandbox, stomping on their castles and proclaiming our moral superiority. Brothers and sisters, this is exactly where satan wants us: so caught up in arguing right and wrong or "defending our religious freedom" that we have no time to display compassion, wash feet, feed the hungry. When we spend all our energy "speaking truth" we will have very little left to actually live it. When we start to see people the way Jesus did, the labels disappear, their particular brand of sin becomes secondary and what comes first is the realization that they are fearfully and wonderfully made. Start there, friends. You'll be amazed at the difference.

WHY CAN'T I JUST GO TO CHURCH?  (GRRRRRR)

Because they're still paying attention to us. So let's show them what resurrection life looks like. It's a community of love, grace, mercy, shared scars, zero judgment. It's a hand to hold on this crazy journey. Our morality was never meant to be our "light and salt" it's our love and joy-filled life that sets us apart. So, instead of arguing about gay marriage, let's focus on the marriages around us that are struggling and get in the fight. Instead of flailing our arms and threatening upheaval at the thought of someone taking away our guns, lets go into the prisons and free some souls. Instead of calling poor people lazy, let's get to know them, hear their story, share their burden and bring them the untold riches of the abundant life.

WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN?

Let's go back and read Matthew 25 and take it seriously for once. Notice how Jesus says, "here's the things you do. If you don't do them, I will deny you." Church, the list is short and well, pretty simple. But what it doesn't include is sin-management, elaborate buildings, marginalizing people because of their race, class, or sexuality, defending the second amendment, or not letting women not only have a voice, but also be leaders, in the church.

Before too long, these will be the kind of stories people are telling about us:
http://www.christianchronicle.org/article/under-a-bridge-come-to-the-feast

Then, oh, how the world could change. We don't need words. You wanna prove to the athiest that God's not dead? Live well. Live fearlessly. Risk everything for the Kingdom. Love recklessly. Give until it hurts, then give some more. Hang out with the homeless, tutor underprivileged kids, deliver meals and supplies to the elderly. There is no end to the ways your hands and feet can prove the very existence of God. Your words aren't necessary.

Grace, my father, my future

The internal argument about whether to "put this out there," has been one of comparison: other people have suffered far worse than I, have climbed taller mountains, trekked through deeper valleys. But at the end of the day, this is my story to own, to make sense out of, to find clarity and perspective. Call it whiny. Call it self-involved. It's my road to walk, not yours.  My apologies for this piece's lack of fluidity.

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 There is a natural progression that happens in the parent/child relationship as a child reaches adulthood. As a grown-up, children begin to see their parents in a different light. Because of their own experiences in the world, the child grants the parent a reprieve, gives them grace, and accepts them for who they are: human. The father becomes friend.

Unfortunately, I was never able to have this with my dad. He died before I was truly able to "come home."

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The one thing that most people, arguably all people, would say about my dad was that he was a good man. The minister that spoke at his funeral said, "if you met him, you liked him." And, there is no denying that. He was friendly to all with whom he came in contact. He doted on my friends, always having a hug for them, ever the encourager. I'm grateful that he was kind to people that, still today, are very dear to me.

Home life; however, was not a mirror of that behavior. It seemed as if, when public time was done, he was out of smiles and hugs. He was not abusive or cruel by any means, but he was damagingly critical and had an uncanny ability to take any situation that involved me and turn it into a reflection upon himself. The easy-going, edifying, affectionate man my friends knew would morph into a short-tempered, name-calling, judgmental tyrant. Granted, these were the worst days and they weren't so often that recovery could not occur, but even on the other days, my dad was dismissive, opting to spend his time in solitude out in his shop and gardens. I had to go to him; he never came to me unless he was angry, (probably the catalyst for many of the things I did that had zero purpose beyond infuriating him).

I don't want to vilify my dad, but I do have to be honest about how his actions informed my development as a man. As a person. And I was a holy terror. From a very young age, I was on the attack. Plotting. Scheming. Planning my next ambush just to throw everyone off their game. From hiding keys and wallets, to loudly repeating something my dad had said about someone else, I'd found my purpose for existence:  to make him miserable. (There are also instances of lighting the dog on fire and attempting to blind my brother, but those are stories for another time). This all began, I believe, after my mom became sick.

I discovered what helpless meant as I watched cancer slowly and deliberately take away the one person I trusted.  My family did the best they could during those times. While my mom was sick, my brother and I were forever being shuffled from one person's house to another, never finding our footing, never sure of what the day would hold. I was a mama's boy, always by her side. To be shaken from that place of comfort so abruptly took an enormous toll. It seemed that, from then on, I was pitiable. I was the boy whose mom died and I was treated accordingly.

There were loving moments that I recall from my father during my mom's illness and death, and I cherish those memories. I think it was really hard for him to even be around me after she died, as I was a reminder of her.

Losing my mom changed him. For the rest of his life, you could often catch him with a far-off look in his eye. Wistful. Longing. Sometimes, even defeated. The grief that you carry when you lose a spouse is multiplied by the grief you carry for each of your children who've lost a parent. And it never goes away.

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I could rant on about the selfish choice my father made as he remarried less than a year after my mom passed, but he paid for that in very tangible ways. And I know he recognized how my brothers and I suffered the consequences of this choice and many others as well, it just took him longer than I would've liked.

My dad had so much to overcome. He came from dirt-floor poverty, battled alcoholism, could barely get out of the gate to run his own race. He provided for his children the best he knew how. He craved a simple, Godly life but, in his later years, he finally began to understand the great mystery and complexity of his heavenly Father and that he wasn't as wise as he thought his opinions reflected.

In my last visit with him, which would have been a couple years before his death, he told me he was ready to go. He had raised his kids, done all he knew how, was tired and wanted rest. I am thirty years younger than he was when he died, but I not only hold on dearly to this conversation, I actually understand that feeling. That longing for home. This life is hard enough, but it's that much harder for those of us who have been taught to bet against ourselves.

I will never understand why God gave us each other. We were different in almost every way and only similar in the ways that kept us apart. For him, I had to be a freak of nature. For me, he was who I didn't want to be. I have flashes of anger still, when I think about his temper, his selfishness, his avoidance of me, his burying secrets and covering things up because of his own weakness, but at this point, holding on to any of it is no more than a crutch and enables a life less lived.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to have him in my life now. I would still do things in public to embarrass him, I'm sure. The one thing my dad and I always shared was love for a great prank. I imagine I would drive my lawn mower the hour or so to him, not because I really needed him to fix it, but because I learned, too late, that when he was tinkering with something, his mind and spirit would open up and he could really listen. He was more thoughtful. We would discuss politics, (and agree more than my brothers could actually imagine, he may have been a Reagan democrat, but he was still a democrat), we would talk about grace and shake our heads at how long it took both of us to really begin understanding it. I would poke at his legalistic badges and he'd lecture me about things that really don't matter and we'd be right back to grace.

I am grateful that I have a step-mother who is also a dear friend. She has taught me a great deal about my dad since his passing. Shared insight into situations and decisions. I can see now, in some situations, she was trying to bring us together even though I had a target on her back as well. She occasionally finds things around the house and hangs on to them for me until I make a far-to-rare appearance.

One of the first items she gave me was my dad's pitch pipe.  I carry this in my truck and, if you see me up front on Sunday, that's what I have in my hand. I guess it's my way of turning pain into poetry. Weariness into worship.

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At some point, revisiting the past becomes exhaustive, repetitive, fruitless. So I take each harsh word, each dismissive action, each moment that broke my heart just a little more, I take great pains to pen each story with truth and reverence and when each story is complete, I exhale and whisper, "I forgive you, because you forgave me." I tie it to a balloon and, with a hopeful glance up toward heaven, I let go.

 I say goodbye to what was and embrace what will be.

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted

It is ridiculous, really, that I have allowed the "events" over the past couple of weeks to just wreck me. I have nearly made myself sick over the silly rhetoric, smug posturing, feigned indignation, and self-righteous hullabaloo.

I was confessing this to a dear friend today because I just cannot grasp why this has bothered me to my very core. This was her reply:

                                   "Maybe God's breaking your heart for what breaks His."

I think my physical heart actually stopped for a moment when she said this. Beautiful words from a beautiful soul, truly, but I had to dismiss these words immediately.

While God has done a massive amount of surgery on my heart and soul over the past few years, most of it highly invasive, I doubt the prognosis. I forget that, for the first time in my life, I am on a spiritual adventure with Him that was only made possible through His healing. I doubt me. The realization came this afternoon that, in doubting myself, I am doubting my Great Physician and His work.

I want my heart to be in perfect time with the steady, never-failing, beat of my Father's. Perhaps I'm not as off pace as I so quickly assume. So I began to digest the audacious words of my friend. My heart. His heart. Working together. Not impossible. Not even improbable, really.

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The Kingdom of God didn't enter this world with any great welcome. No pomp and circumstance. No trumpets. Only the soft cries of a newborn baby marked His arrival.

Today, the Kingdom stood still as many of its presumed inhabitants gathered together, patted each other on the back, swapped self-congratulatory hugs...and consumed a great number of trans fats. They set themselves apart from the world. And not in a good way. Less holy, more holier than thou, is what the onlookers thought. All because some unqualified, benefactor of nepotism said, "that's wrong" and somebody else said, "you're mean" and then someone said, "get out of my sandbox."

As the Kingdom stood there, seeing the greater, negative impact of this silliness masked as something meaningful, He whispered, "Come to me, I'm with the week-old baby who is having heart surgery tomorrow. I'm with the mother whose children don't understand why daddy isn't there. I'm with my children in Syria who are fighting and dying for even a fraction of the blessings and freedoms you enjoy and so arrogantly wave around as if you own them. I'm in the car, with no a/c, full of kids, who just drove by you, hungry, hurting, suffocated by poverty. Come follow me."

See, the Kingdom doesn't need a bullhorn, a camera crew, or a Facebook account. He moves as gently as a leaf riding the air until it rests upon the ground. He hasn't always, mind you. There was a time He shook the earth, tore the veil, pummeled the gates of hell and shattered the chains of death. The scene was laid, the battle cry raised, the Victor restored. He has no need for harsh words, strong opinions, loud declarations. He wants open arms, giving hands, forgiving smiles, forward-moving feet. Vocal chords are not required.

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As I work through the muck that is my past: my childhood, injuries inflicted, people I've hurt, terrible choices I've made, consequences I've suffered; I can say, most assuredly, that I have lived most of my days with a broken heart. Laughter masked my sorrow. My smiles told you a lie.

I don't understand this world. I never have. Many days, functioning on even a basic level takes more energy than I, myself, can harness. I don't understand why people buy ridiculous amounts of stuff while others are starving to death. I don't understand how churches can build elaborate structures while the foreclosure signs go up in the surrounding neighborhood. I don't understand why Christians play the political game and fight against gay marriage because of their belief in the bible and yet support a candidate who believes that satan was Jesus' brother. Believe me, none of this comes from a judgmental place, but from a true, child-like, lack of understanding. I don't have the answers, so I keep asking the questions.

This biggest thing I don't understand: how can I make a difference in any shape, form, or fashion?

For so long, all I wanted was for the ache in the middle of my chest to go away. For that overwhelming weight of regret, pain, hatred, and loneliness to be lifted from my heart. I just wanted to breathe. For someone to show me that I have value and that my voice has merit. I was suffocating by the vacuum this world had created within me and I felt myself dying.

I needed my heart to beat again.

What I've discovered in my recovery from heart failure is that my heart doesn't beat like it ever has before. It doesn't beat for me anymore.

This new heart beats for the abused, the ashamed, the junkie, the prostitute, the homeless, the lonely, the outcast.

And my heart beats for those that felt marginalized, put down, or just plain hurt by what some of my brothers and sisters did today.

My heart breaks for a church that just doesn't seem to get it. Leave the rule of law to those that put their hope in it. Follow Jesus to the hurting, the hungry, the orphaned, the homeless and let God sort out the rest. You can be a citizen of the Kingdom or you can be an American, but you can't be both. No. You can't. Deal with it. Stop trying to fight a battle that's already been won. Raise the white flag and accept that Christianity and nationalism are two distinct things and cannot be braided together so you can feel better about your $800.00/month car payment.

Is your heart racing? Good.

Actions Speak Louder Than....Words?

This past week has been exceptionally trying for me. I have been quite self-obsessed for the past couple of months, feeling a stirring to do something, to move, and completely unable to figure out how. While I am still struggling, I cannot help but take a moment and process the events, actions, and words with which I have been bombarded lately. So enjoy the stylish rantings of me being forced out from under my self-imposed rock.

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With good old Dan Cathy choosing to weigh in on the same-sex marriage debate, it seemed a lot of vitriol began to seep onto my Facebook news feed. For me to really finish processing stuff like this, I must put pen to paper, (well, fingertips to keyboard). So, this is your warning to close your browser as you may not like what I have to say.

As Christians, we are called to live an intentional life, where our words and our actions point toward the kingdom of God. When we make blanket statements, as Mr. Cathy did, we may speak truth, but we do it in a way that marginalizes and vilifies our neighbors. There is a reason, I believe, that after Pentecost, we don't see a great deal of "stump speeches" in the New Testament. The greatest example of how we approach the world is through Jesus himself. He was in the mix, sitting at the table with all kinds of people, sharing a meal, swapping stories, building relationships.

THAT is the key to ministering to a lost and dying world: RELATIONSHIPS. Every time we go out and "stand up for what we believe in" by grandstanding and posturing, we take two steps back as a collective. So, in my humble opinion, Mr. Cathy did nothing more than use his position and "authority" to make a mess and bring attention to himself. In the end, all he did was cut us off from more people that need Christ's love, mercy, and healing. And, after a little research, I'm a little disappointed in his corporation in their choices for charitable giving. Instead of paying to "pray away the gay," how about you go feed some poor kids or build a homeless shelter?

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I will never understand the word "senseless." Sometimes it is used to mean stupid or even unconscious, but in reference to the shootings in Colorado, it's definition is "meaningless." As far as I am concerned, there was only one death that ever had meaning and it involved a couple pieces of wood, three nails, and Love in human form.

Even though we use this word, "senseless," it seems all we do is feebly attempt to create meaning for heart-shattering events like Colorado. This inevitably lands in some sort of political discussion and this event, in particular, puts us squarely on the 2nd Amendment without passing go. Honestly, I'm slightly "left of center" on this one. I have no issue with gun ownership, but assault rifles? Really? Is there a valid argument for them?

I am not a hunter, fisherman, type of guy. Granted, I know enough and have done it enough that, in the event of the apocalypse, I can catch my own food and take aim at the zombie's head, but outside of this, it just holds no interest for me. Most of my brothers, and many friends, are passionate about it and I would never begrudge them that. For many, it is a healing, even spiritual experience to commune with nature and enjoy the peace and tip-toe pace of the outdoors. By all means, go hunt Bambi, but who needs an assault rifle or machine gun to do that? And if you really go old school and use a bow and arrow, you score a great deal more cool points with me.

The dialogue in which we find ourselves now is not something I shy away from and, for the most part, really enjoy. I always want to hear what other people think and why, (notice I included "why," give me some foundation for your argument people!), but what I cannot handle is when people run out and make these big baseless statements that just make Christians look like aliens from another planet. Take the crazy senator guy who ran out to a podium and cried out that we got what we deserved because we took God out of schools, (1. you're a fool if you think you or anyone else has the power to take God out of anywhere, except your heart 2. Really? Are we still whining about that? Build a bridge people, and the moment we have to start meeting in cramped, unventilated basements with only one 40 watt light bulb and whisper our worship for fear of being detached from our heads, I will gladly cry out persecution with you, until then, all you will get from me is constant sighing and eye-rolling)  ***And yes, I just broke my own record for the longest parenthetical phrase I've ever written.

What really gets me is when I get on Facebook and see other Christians posting ridiculous pictures and statements in regards to guns, gays, or whatever the trendy topic is. The point is, none of these things can be boiled down to a simple phrase, picture, or statement by a bigwig CEO. These simplistic phrases wound people and do nothing to advance the kingdom. What you're doing is: 1. Reducing a major issue with bad humor, 2. Creating yet another hackneyed statement, 3. Pushing an agenda you have no business pushing in such a way.

And I will just put this fact out there: In states where there are more gun owners, there are also substantially higher numbers of assaults and suicides. Process that information however you like, but it's the truth.

There's a great song that we did last night called "When it's All Been Said and Done," that really sums up what I am trying to say here. There's this line that asks, "did I do my best to live for truth." Notice, it doesn't say "speak the truth" or "tell the truth," it implies actions beyond words. Our "acts" are what define us. Will they define us as humble servants or as polarizing mouthpieces?

I will always have more questions than answers, and the majority will typically disagree with me on things like this. Even in this season of being the man with a compass and no map, I find peace in knowing my direction though I don't know the path. This direction, or foreknowledge of where my journey ends, is informing the choices I make today. All I know is God is Love, God dwells in me, therefore I love beyond my own capacity. Love tells me to sacrifice, to be the least, to get off the stump.

We are........family?

Family. There isn’t any great definition for it. There are a number of organizations around that claim non-profit status, take your money under the guise of fighting for the “traditional” family, when really all they do is promote bigotry and self-righteousness, (just so you know, I pretty much despise the word “traditional” as much as I hate the word “doctrinal” as neither of them rarely move us forward).

Not too long ago, a group of friends and I slowly came to the realization that we are living in community. We are involved in each other’s lives and invested in one another. These are the people that I consider my family.  This motley crew is comprised of many family units who are in varying places on their journey and, on the surface, don’t seem to have a great deal in common. So, why does this group work? We share a hunger for something more, something greater than ourselves.

I’m sure you were all thinking that I was going to say God. And on one level, that is true, but it over-simplifies. I worship with a church of roughly a thousand people and God is my common denominator with them. Sadly, it is also as far as most of those relationships will ever go because most church-goers still live in the American ideal of church and not in the intended close-knit, interdependent family of believers that the church is supposed to be.

Unfortunately, the American standard of Christianity has been boiled down to a few simple ingredients that don’t come anywhere near what God wanted for his children. An unintended consequence of this and the American lifestyle that has been allowed to infect the church is isolationism. In this age of inter-connectedness, we have become so distant from each other. I will be the first to admit that I don’t know a single one of my neighbors. There’s apparently an older gentleman that lives next door to me on whom I have never laid eyes. I came home last night to find a family moving in to the house on the other side of me that I didn’t even realize was empty, (their midnight move-in does have me hoping that maybe they’re in witness protection or something).

This isolationism has left us indistinguishable from the society in which we live. We operate with this attitude of, “it’s my business,” or “that’s my kid,” or “it’s my life.” It isn’t that there isn’t any truth in those statements, but when you live in community, the “traditional” family ideal is obliterated and you come to understand that no one spouse or set of kids can provide everything for each other. Yes, parents, I’m talking to you. No, you cannot provide everything your child needs to become who they are. You need other parents, mentors, even other children. In short, you need to expand your idea of family.

I should also state that we don’t live in a commune. Not that I am against it. I am all for communal living provided there is no kool-aid or stock-piling of weapons. I would love nothing more than my friends and I to buy out a cul de sac, but proximity is not a prerequisite for community and in no way ensures or improves the likelihood of success.

This concept of community has really hit us hard lately as we’ve been dealing with a lot of hurt and grief and learning how to love and support each other as new paths are chosen and some relationships change or even end. The beauty of our current situation is the openness of my friend’s hearts, homes, and resources as we each grow through these tough times. What it has really done is solidify our commitment to each other. It is a thing of wonder to look at my friend’s children and know that I will be alongside them as they laugh, cry, hurt. I will be there as they grow.

I encourage all of you to seek out those that can be intimately involved in your life. I pray that God will lead you to people that you can trust to be your partners on this crazy, exhausting journey. The greater question is: are you willing to be a part? Living in community is not easy. It requires commitment, engagement and an enormous amount of grace. Quite often, it is about serving the needs of those in your family that, in truth, you’d rather not be bothered with. At those times, will you get in there and be a part of the fight, the struggle, the ugliness, or will you say, “I’m staying out of that drama.”

The whole purpose God wants us to realize by living in community is that it is a model, a training ground, for how we serve the world. If we cannot learn to be interdependent and give all we have to each other, how then, can we be truly prepared to change the world?

Stormy Weather

There's just something about summer rain that I love. These are the special rainstorms where the sun is still shining bright and we respond to those heavy drops of nourishment with a smile. We had our first one of the year here yesterday and I greeted it gladly while I closed my eyes, looked up toward the heavens and thanked Him for the much needed blessing and the peace that these showers bring to me.

Blessings. 

This is a topic that, while we sort of understand it, we don't react the way we should for the most part. It is our selfish nature to make our Christianity all about us. Christ died for me. I'm not saying this isn't true, but I now understand that it is incomplete. Yes, Christ died so that we may be saved AND through our salvation reveal the glory of God to all the earth. What makes you think your blessings aren't the same? Psalm 67 says, "May God be gracious to us and bless us; look on us with favor SO THAT Your way may be known on earth, your salvation among all nations."

Over the past couple of years God has been overhauling me. My broken heart, my broken spirit, my lack of understanding Him and His purpose. One of the big hurdles for me was trying to comprehend grace, (as much as we mere mortals can, that is). What I came to understand was that grace doesn't just stop with me. He doesn't give us grace, He gives grace to the world through us. The same can be said of any of the virtues as well: patience, joy, wisdom, mercy. These are all gifts that we ask for and, once we've received them, should be spread to all those around us. Sadly, I think we fail at this more than we succeed.

The same principle should be applied to all the extrinsic gifts God has given you as well. Did He give you a spouse? Then you honor Him through how you treat them, support them, exalt them, love them. Did He give you children? Then you better follow Max Lucado's lead and lift them back up to Him. Your house? Your car? Your money? Your health? In what ways is the glory of God being shown through the blessings He has given you? Are you playing safe with your blessings, (yes, you probably are), or are you giving til it hurts/scares you? And I'm not talking about what you give to your church, either, (but I will be driving that bus sometime this week), I'm referring to the people you encounter on a daily basis. What are you giving them? Whoops! Wrong question. What would God give them? I have much more to say on this, but I will save it for another day. But I hope that you will pray about your hangups, your own selfishness, and how the world could truly see God if we truly stepped out on faith.

I will praise You in this storm, too.

We talk a lot about the storms of life. The trials. The rough stuff. We talk about how these times refine us and bring us closer to Him. All of this is absolutely true. I've lived it. Repeatedly. 

But what about the other times? When the sun's still shining and yet He is teaching us, still. Nourishing us. Are we searching and listening as closely during these times as we do when we are hurting? Most likely not. We are a fickle bunch whose emotions can influence our choices. This spiritual "summer rain" is a place I've seen many get caught off guard by satan. 

When things are good, we relax and, naturally, we are less diligent about our communication with God. Our prayers are less frequent and less intense, our spiritual disciplines become an afterthought. 

I haven't had many times like this in my life to be honest and certainly am not there right now. In fact, I don't think I'll know how to react when it happens again. That moment where you exhale all the crap and you have such joy for all the amazing things God has done, (I confess I'm still short of breath most of the time). Chances are I will end up in the midst of an ugly cry again, so just call me a modern day Margery Kempe and stop staring!

What I wish for you my friends is that whatever rainstorm in which you currently find yourself, whether dark as night or bright as day, take the time to be still, lift your face and hands to the sky, allow the rain to completely drench you, to nourish you, because it's all for His glory, not ours.

Pick me! Pick me!

I was never picked first in elementary school. Most of the time it was close to last or, on a few occasions, dead last. It wasn't that I completely sucked at sports, well except dodgeball. I never understood dodgeball, but if you'd given me a sport where I could chase people with a bat instead of an awkward-sized rubber ball, I most certainly would've excelled. I think it's because I've always been an unknown variable. Consistency is not exactly my strong suit to say the least.

This, "never being picked first" curse has followed me my entire life. Having been passed over for jobs or promotions, never getting the role I really wanted, rarely being asked my opinion on important matters, this did little to validate me. Even in the moments I have had a little success, I felt like it was in someone else's shadow. In turn, I have always behaved however I wanted. It's not like anyone was paying attention, right?

The further away I get from the values of the world and closer to understanding the life God wants for me, the less I am bothered by my curse. Don't get me wrong, I'm still hoping that someday I will walk into a room full of people who adore me, cheering and clapping and throwing confetti with Whitney Houston on stage belting out "One Moment In Time," (obviously this dream needs an update), but I can laugh at myself now. I accept that this life isn't about me at all. It's about God using me to reveal His own power and glory. To take someone so shattered by this world and recreate him into an instrument of grace and love is something only God can do and for which only He can be given praise.

It's painful, no doubt. Much like a doctor must re-break a bone that has healed wrong, God had to re-break my heart so that He could perfectly mend it. The result of this, you ask? His clever plan for me to be completely, 100%, no holds barred, dependent upon Him. This has taken the conversations in our relationship to a whole new level which is exhilarating and exhausting all at once.

We argue daily. And I get so frustrated that I can't see my path forward yet, but He is teaching me to trust Him completely. For someone that has never actually trusted another living soul since the day his mother died almost 26 years ago, this is no easy achievement. In "Life of the Beloved," Henri Nouwen writes about a choice we make through the healing, reconciliation, and realization processes: "It is here that we are faced with the freedom to make a decision. We can decide to be grateful or to be bitter. We can decide to recognize our chosenness in the moment or we can decide to focus on the shadow side."

As easily as bitterness comes to me, I fight it with prayer and praise because, while my dry, cynical wit is still an obvious card I play in social situations, there is no room for the seeds of sour grapes in this new heart He's given me and filled with His spirit.

Of course I struggle. I haven't finished a blog in over a week because I couldn't get over myself and my own feelings of doubt and frustration. But today, among other good things and people, a friend, (an AMAZING friend at that), texted me this:

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

I have read this repeatedly for the past couple of hours. Actually, I'm clinging to it like a toddler with a security blanket, because, well, I'm human and giving up my own life and my own say in the direction of that life is, well, completely and utterly terrifying.

But that's what it takes. Total surrender. Asking to be chosen last. To be made least. There is no other way.

So take heart my fellow dodgeball failures! God's got a plan for your mad skills.

And for those of you who've been hogging the spotlight, be careful, it can blind you to the truth.