And Yet, Another Muddled Mess

We live in this land of "live shooters," where the audible adjective "active shooter" is too often heard.  A country in which the hatred of another is grossly common.


"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

Terrorists.  Terror.  Angry acts of rage perpetrated on the innocent and the all too unsuspecting occur not uncommonly.

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

Abhorable acts of anger happen regularly.  Anger.  And hatred.  Live amongst us continually.


"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

Terror has become terribly too common.

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

And yet, we have allowed terror in the womb for decades.  We have permitted terrorist's entry into what was designed to be the safest space imaginable, and terror descends on the frightfully innocent, and the, yes, very unsuspecting little ones.  And this terror - for faith?  for ideology?  for eschatology?  No, we allow terrorism upon the innocent for a dime and convenience.  

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"


I too, have lived amidst anger unabated.  I have heard the threats, seen the rage, I have cried sleepless nights and worried sick over the impending rage of wrath.


"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

I have seen our capacity to hate, I know what happens when men and women are wounded and deceived.  It is awfully frightening.  We are certainly a diseased race, so prone to hatred.

And yet . . . 

This is what He gave a diseased race  . . 

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

And this is the whispered song that my spirit simply says,

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"

This Christmas season amongst live shooters, anger unabated and society sick with satisfying self we must choose to hear the multitudes, the heavenly host . . . 

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: "Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!"


I have surely made a muddled mess of this post and and we have done the same to this blessed Christmas season, we have muddled it with our mobs of messes and yet, the multitude of the heavens can never be silenced and these 2,000 years later they tell the same, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men.  And of absolute certainty ~ Glory to God in the highest!"


Do you hear their whispered worship?  Does the cacophony of their celestial chorus cause you to pause?


I do pray so.





Luke 2:14

Melodious Music

Ephesians 5:18-19 ~  ". . .  be filled with the Spirit . . . singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord, giving thanks always for all things to God . . . "

John 7:38 ~  "He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water."

Before I even begin I must say for accountability purposes of myself that in the passage in Chapter 7 of John, I find an interesting addition to the Scripture - what appears to be almost an after thought, or a side not, is actually quite possibly the essence of this Word.  The Author who is infallible and NEVER wasteful did not intend for . . . "as the Scripture has said" to be an after thought in are awareness.  It is quite possibly the pinnacle of this passage - as the Scriptures have commanded, that is how we are to believe.  We as creation do not determine what belief will be - He has already detailed that plan for us, repeatedly and clearly in the Word of God.  I think we in our Western religious arrogance have redefined this - "he who believes in Me" - to suit our liking.  Our rewrite of the Word is quite carnal and fleshy in the writing - it pleases me and it pleases you.  It is not too hard, nor too offensive, we write the sting out of the sacrifice of "belief in Me."  Before I spin a web in which you no longer like me, I will stop myself and weave that web another day, in another post.  It is of absolute necessity that we talk of this awful and damming rewrite but it demands far more then a simple paragraph.  We will reconvene on the subject another now and the accountability is upon you and upon me to demand of ourselves that we look at this apparent after thought - "as the Scripture has said"- with far more intensity; for millions of eternities hang on this very Word - "as the Scripture has said."

______________

Living a life fully surrendered to Jesus (as the Scriptures have said . . .) allows the inner man, the spirit man to make melody unto the Lord and living waters flow as melodious tune and music moves as healing waters flow and a flesh, soul man becomes a spirit man.  With every blow to the flesh, with every sacrificial way the river lows wider and stronger and swifter.  With each moment of death to self the melody moves sweeter, the purity of the music masters the heart and soulish man looks much more like the image of the Jesus Man.  As surrender to Christ's cross ways overwhelms the hourly cravings of self - the rivers of living melody flow freely from our heart's borders unto the land of the walking dead.   But, while the music masters a sweet melodious way, we must fix our eyes on Truth - the sweetest music was wrought in the anguish.  The crushing of self on our Christ's cross way, it is surely the Only Way.

Waters flow most freely from rivers pathed with purity - no impurities of self to block the water's way.  For of our self is ALL impurity.  That which you prize the most in you, is likely that which is your deepest impurity before the cross of Christ.


What is you admire most of you?  And yes, we do admire the me and the you - in most of our conversation and much of our thought you will hear the hidden traces of self love.  And that in which we admire the most of ourselves is often that which so profoundly impedes the flow of sweet melodious music and the swiftly passing living waters.

If you are a true follower of Christ, if you are fully surrendered to your Savior - note that I did not say if you attend church regularly, have a fish on your SUV, graduated from the seminary, post Scripture on your Facebook page, vote conservative, attend Bible studies, or have even read every book ever written by Beth Moore (truly!  How many books must one woman write before we all just study the Word of God for ourselves?!)

None of the above determines whether you or I are a true follower of Christ.

Yet, if you are a follower of the Living Christ, then you have an inner man who has and is communing with the Spirit of God.  And this spirit man knows in the most profoundest of ways the deep degradation of your soul and flesh man.  Your spirit sits currently at the feet of Jesus, continually worshipping the God of heaven and earth - he KNOWS His goodness and your constant depravity.  Our spirit man knows.

Your spirit man desires and loves to make melodies unto his Lord.

But, your soul and your flesh man wage war for control and vie for a constant say in what you will do and say.

Your spirit man lives under the beauty that is the flow of the living water but your flesh man silences him with an astounding amount of self - love.  For there is no living waters in self nor lovely melodies in the carnal man.

Through materialism, narcissism, vanity, arrogance, pride, love of self, love of money, love of luxury, love of safety and comfort and on and on we silence the spirit man's flow.

And the walking dead do not hear your melodious tune to your glorious Maker.

They can not hear the music over the din and racket you raise about you.

It is time to silence the selfish, soul man and the silence comes only through crucifixion.  Death to self and life to music wrought unto the Lord is that which He has commanded of us.

The walking dead desperately need to feel the flow of living waters from you.  And me.

We dare not deepen their death through this continual din and racket of self.  

For we will stand accountable.

The Dance of the Dying

It is likely I would have written it differently.  Very differently.  An easier word laid down on a less sacrificial line.  I surely would have written a way, a word, that did not include the agony, the dying.  The repeated death.  It would have certainly been an easier word.

Clearly, I was the wrong author for my story.

Fortunately, I had laid pen in His hand long ago and the Author of the Ages lays down the true word of my life’s tale.  He pens the word that is needed, desperately needed in my existence.

I exist only as His words written into my days.  The pith, the very marrow of our being demands His needed word.

And yet, we all must decide for self - will we willingly read His word into our days or will we wrest pen from Author’s hand to lay a gentler word, an ease into our days?  We must decide.

Poetic agony - beautiful poetry etched into a deep and sustained agony.  Lines of loss that lay the foundation of Beauty.  Beauty written in to the pages of our days, the true storybook of our life is often penned in pain.

It is a Mystery - poetic agony.  Words of a beautiful death.  The beautiful dying.

It is a Mystery I surely would have been too weak to write.  

I am hardly able to accept, to receive the poetic agony - I would have been entirely incapable of crafting that word.

And there in lies the bedrock of my trust - the essence of why I continue to follow this Author, to pursue this particular piece of Artistry.  For the depths of the strength, the awful pith of His power to pen a Word of such a wonderful Sacrifice.

The Poetic Agony of the death and resurrection - the Beauty of the Sacrifice, the astounding love buried deeply right before our eyes is enough to confound the ages.  We can not understand for we surely NEVER could have done such an awfully beautiful thing.  

It is the Mystery I can not decipher and yet, I know it as I know the very beat of my timid heart.

Mystery that holds me transfixed, even in the loss, even in the hurt.

It is just enough and yet profoundly far more then enough to eternally call me Home.

And yes, this was a summer to write Home about.  And I did, many times over.  I wrote Home, desperately.  I pleaded with Home, daily, hourly - I needed all that I could only find at Home. 

It was a summer of many endings and the birth of new beginnings.  New beginnings that this weak writer never would have had the courage to write.

It was a summer of much loss, and at the repeated moment I knew that I had nothing left to lose - another loss would be penned from Home.

I prayed prayers I NEVER dreamed I would pray and I asked myself a thousand times over, “How did I get here?”

And the answer would always return the same - “Your Author loves you and He knew of some needed loss in your life.”

Needed loss I could not perceive, could not in the slightest see but He saw and in His infinite love He would write the agonizingly beautiful death of myself.

I died a thousand times a thousand these summer months.  And oh, what a sweet death it was.

And I will die a million more.  And oh, what a sweet death it will be.

And yes, beauty is certainly in the eye of the Beholder and my Beholder sees beauty in the scarring.

The marring of myself looks only as the ugly agony to others but to my Beholder He see only the lovely in my ugly.

Yes, the Mystery of the Ages.

And a summer to write Home about with much gratitude - the lovely loss is my deeply needed Word.

I pray for grace to dance through the dying.

Disturbance

“An artist is a disturber, one who upsets the comfortable people.  Not to punish but to open the eyes.”      

               ~ “A Cry of Stone” by Michael O’Brien

A true artist disturbs.  A disturber.

I struggle against the apathy that resists the agonizing labor to disturb.  To disturb another I first must disturb self.  A willingness to disturb a selfish, lazy heart - a slothful scribe such as I.  Tis certainly a laborious task.  Forgive me Jesus.  Jesus the True Artist, the Disturber Whom disturbed the long line of time.  Jesus, Who rent eternity wide open to you and I.  Whose ultimate disturbance offered you, gave me - the heavenly opportunity to step out from under linear time.  To disrupt the here and now, to lay bear the barrenness of our finite space and our limited time.  To disrupt this finite moment and to move into the limitless possibilities of mercy and eternity.

Forgive me Jesus.  A slothful scribe who can not be disturbed to offer up a moment of a minute sacrifice of the slightest disturbance.

We who are too busy with the emptiness of limited time, too consumed by the nothingness of our space when it is void of praise - how can an emptiness and a nothingness be so terribly consuming?  It is yet a subtle guile of the crafty serpent to lull the land and whisper the lullaby of into sleepy man’s ear.  The barrenness of our moments when no disturbance is offered to lay wide the emptiness of time that holds no worship, that barrenness will kill the soul with consumption.  

Worship hallows the moment I occupy and the disturbers wake the slumber-er to see the barren cavity begging to occupied by that rightful worship.

Our world needed a Disturber to show our catastrophic need to hallow each second with the rightful worship.  The Disturber came and we did surely see and yet now, so often we do need to see again, and again, again that gaping hole that screams for the hallowed filling of the rightful worship.  So, He would call us to disturb in the here and the now, to remind a world again.  To disrupt our pitiful narcissism, to disturb our sickening trend to selfish implosion.

A disturber to take eyes of our silly now and remind of the Ultimate Disturbance that laid wide the eternity of mercy.

Heavenly Father, change a slothful scribe to a disturber.  An artist.  

Worth the Gain

Yesterday was spent amongst sheriffs and handcuffs.  Now amongst pure ocean breeze, resting beside the sea.

I felt the Good of God amongst the cuffs and sheriffs.  And I feel the Good of God beside the sea, serenaded by gentle breeze.

God is Good.  And yet, deep Mystery.

And only in the reading of hard and the reading of rest, do we rightly read the Mystery.

Reading days of loss and days of gain,
     A slight knowing we do ascertain,
Of He Who was slain.

To live the ugly, we begin to behold the Beauty and childlike knowing of Mystery.

It is not for creation to question the Tale of the Mystery.

Creation can yet just glory that we are allowed to live amongst the Mystery.

(I wrote over a week ago, within a few short hours we found ourselves back amongst the cuffs and sheriffs.  And I still do proclaim ~ the pain is surely worth the Gain.)

This One Might Sting A Little

Yesterday the ship ran aground, again.  Same story.  Different child.

The insanity of the deviant.  The XO finds himself greeting the local authorities, yet again.

"Does this belong to you?"

The XO fights off his natural desire - "Absolutely not!  Do you see even the slightest hint of resemblance?  No, none, not any!  No child of mine would behave in this manner.  Good luck in finding their sorry sucker parents."  He buries that response and digs to the depths of Jesus Land, "Yes, it is mine.  For better or worse, it is mine."

"Trouble at home?"

The XO chuckles, "You have no idea the trouble that bubbles and brims everyday at home."

"Likely you and your wife need some help, unstable home and all.  There are agencies, programs.  Do you need me to pass along a number or two?"

The XO knows the drill, he nods his head and shakes a few hands, offers his thanks and loads what is certainly "ours" into 30 year old truck.  The 30 year old truck he drives so he can afford to care for that which he just picked up from the head-shaking authorities, again.  The 30 year old truck carrying the XO and that which certainly was not ours but God said let's go ahead and make it yours and life became ugly.  Very ugly.  That is the God's honest truth.  Ugly.

At noon dark thirty I heard the XO arise and do his perimeter check.  All secure.  He lays back down to steal a few more labored hours of fitful slumber before he arises to go secure another perimeter.

I heard him slip back into his unsettled slumber.  There is no rest for the weary.

I laid there and quietly began my own perimeter check, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  I walked the perimeter of my life and all was surely not secure.

And so began a diatribe of epic portions and I let the CO have it.  For quite some time.

It may have sounded something similar to this -

The perimeter of my life is awful.  Actually the correct terminology was more akin to - sucks.  The perimeter of my life sucks!  In the last four years I have heard the words, "I hate you!" hurled at me more often then all the other years of my life combined.  I have been threatened, lied to, stolen from, lied about, I have endured violent attacks against me, we have been witness to hunger strikes, runaways, we have been verbally assaulted in Amharic, Oromo, English, American sign and Ethiopian sign.  In the last four years I have been thrown up on, spit on and urinated on (or at least all over my living room.)  By the description of my perimeter, one would think I live amongst detainees at Gitmo.  Men, housed and imprisoned by their enemies, now perpetrating in anyway they can against their captors.  And yet, no, this is not Gitmo.  We are not their captors, nor their enemies.  In fact quite the opposite.  We are actually the only people on this planet that cared enough about them to give them a fighting chance.  We turned our life upside down to accomdate them.  We sacrificed our freedom, luxury, comfort, stability and ease of life.  The XO had served many years in the service and we had served many years in our home, in both our parenting and our marriage.  We had sown the good seeds and we were reaping the reward; life was easy, life was uncomplicated, life was full of excess and life was good.  And we walked away from it, all of it.

Fast forward four or five years later and everyday is a battle, our home the war zone.  We fight tooth and nail for these young people who often despise us and reject us, everyday.  Everyday we fight for them and they fight against us.

And I had a few things to say to the CO about all of this.  I informed Him that His expectations have always been WAY TOO HIGH of me!  "Push harder Senior Chief.  Stay strong.  People need you.  You have to be strong, you can not under any circumstances bend or break.  You do not have the luxury of a "bad day."  Senior, run harder and faster and longer then them all!  So when they reach you and need you, you will already be there.  You Senior, you are expendable and I will expend you for them."  I told the CO, it was too much, too hard.  I can not run another step with their burdens on my back.

I hear Him, I hear others.  "No matter what, you have to be strong.  Oh and by the way, Senior, why aren't you writing more?"

Truth be told the poetic charm often gets lost amongst the vomit.  The lustre of language gets lost in the urine.  Wisdom whittles away in the spit.  I am just saying. Verbal assualts are not always conducive to penning the quiet whispers of the Spirit, they get lost in the, "I HATE YOU!  YOU ARE NOT MY MOM!"

But, in the dark of the early morning hours I let the CO have it.  I am tired and weary and contrary to VERY POPULAR belief, I do have feelings and they can be hurt.  And I do have a heart and it does break, often.

And I asked the CO, "It is quite clear Your deep love for these young people, Your care and concern for them is everyday evident.  Why do You not have care and concern for me?"

In lieu of the lightening, Merciful God allowed me slumber.  And I awoke this morning with the dull ache of a bad night.  Very bad night.

What can I say after a night like that?  How do I talk to a Spirit Who endured the spewing of a selfish sinner such as me?

I quietly slipped eyes up to heaven, half scared, the other half still angry.  As my wardens slumbered on I quietly made a cup of tea and slipped outside.

I sat with cup of hot tea and noticed the steam was only rising from tea, not the horizon.

Enter Miracle 1 Stage Left - on our Floridian shoreline we were not a cauldron of humidity and heat this morning.  Late August and I was not sweating.  A cool breeze cooled my boiling heart.  I had to give it to the CO - well played, well played.  Wonderful weather, well played.

I felt a touch of His care, a hint of His concern.

Slightly later, I stepped off the steps and headed into the beautiful breeze.  I still have a little swagger in my old age and a slight trudging each morning helps shed my complaining ways.  I stretched stride and breathed down deep of cool August air when Miracle 2 caught my eye.  Man-child is the only way to tell the tale of this one, stretching his long stride towards me, "Love you Mom!  Have a good run!"  He flew past, blur of a miracle man.  Young miracle man determined to defy societal odds and love his God and love his people and love his Mom, right there running along the road.  Man-child gave hope to the future, remembrance of the Redeemer Who holds His chosen in the palm of His hand.

Ok, I hear You, You do love me.

A few steps later Miracle 3 startled me, "Good morning Mom, love you!"  The prior-hater lumbered past.  This one could hurl the hate in unimaginable heaps upon my head.  This miracle 3 could lie like no other and threaten in ways that would terrify a hardened criminal.  And now, out for an early morning run, radiant smile plastered permanently on changed life.  Miracle 3 met Jesus sometime back and the heaping hatred ceased.

I got it Big Guy, I got it.  The work we do matters and You do see, and You timed Your little running miracles well.  I got it.

I labored on with my little bit of labored swag that I have left, I hit my turn and began my elderly waddle home.  And there amongst the trees was my Miracle 4, barefoot and flying straight for me.  Miracle 4 churned up rocks and gravel, weeds and stickers on bare-skinned flesh and Miracle 4 is truly a bundle of wit, charm, speed and Spirit and he barreled right at me.  "Hi Mom!  I love this weather!  Isn't it wonderful!  Cool weather makes me sooooo happy!  Doesn't it make you happy?!  I loveeeeeeeeee mornings like this!  I could run all morning!"  Miracles 4 says it all in a matter of 1.2 seconds while skipping a twirl around me.  "Mom, how was your run?  I love you.  I missed you!  Can I run home with you?!"  All said within .3 seconds while dancing a jig.  Some of you may be tempted to believe that I exaggerate my Miracle 4, I exaggerate not.  Even slightly.  The bare-footed running wonder makes us all wonder with awe.

Alright CO, now You are just showing off.  Just plain showing off.

As the bare-foot running wonder and I neared our house the CO took one last opportunity to drive the point home.  We saw Miracle 5 at the crest of the hill, this was the CO's first save in our house.  Miracle 5 was pulled out from the burning rubble of youth's stupidity.  He protected her from the abuse and saved her when all said hope was lost, I had ruined our lives but the CO said different.  And Miracle 5 walked gracefully towards us, full of beauty and promise, promise of a life led by the CO.  A walking promise fulfilled, no longer filled with hurt and angst, now healed and whole.  I wear the battle scars of this one, literally and figuratively.  Miracle 5 was the first cut, I would pay dearly in pounds of flesh for this one and it would teach me, train me for the ones to follow.  Grace and beauty met us there, a quiet smile and laughing eyes.  And in a flash I remembered when those eyes did not laugh nor the mouth smile and the remembering was burning to scars healed over.  A remembering to remind the Senior, who had temporarly lost her way, to tell again why we do what we do.  To watch Creator return a laugh to the eyes and a quiet, shy smile to the lips.  To restore a childhood that the Thief had devoured and redeem a soul that the world named lost.

And I do remember and I do know.  Amidst the weary and the angst, amidst all the angry and the anguish we wait for Redeemer to redeem the past and restore their future.

I also know that He will expend me for them, for that is the way of the Cross, that is His way, His path.  The dying of self to bring about life in another.  It is Jesus' way, it is my Cross to bear.

Last night in the dark hours I only proved my still, yet dark ways.  I showed the truth to my unwillingness to die a death in manner that glorifies Christ.  I showed true my lack of sameness to Christ, He died a glorious death for thieving sinner and showed love in the midst of anguish to that thieving sinner.  I on the other hand, cried crocodile tears into dark night to the only Light I have ever known.

I lamented to Savior Who saved me so similar to the thieving sinner that slumbers here.  Savior asked us to save in the practical, so He could save in the eternal.  We save in the temporary but He saves in the eternal.  I hurt today, so thieving sinner will not hurt for an eternity and how dare I question a Savior Who suffered through death on the cross and lived anguish into the grave and underwent hurt of an unearthly kind into the underworld.  And He endured for a sniveling sinner named me.

Bounty and Beauty

Lately, has come the knowing.  Knowing that beach is yet boundary,  boundary to the land of the Other, the Other that is found at the descent of the dive to the Deep.

Mere mortals make boards and ride the last of the lingering power as it breaks on beach.  Mortals on boards ~ momentary child's play, and you often hear them say, "Master of the Sea, is rightly me."

Fishing trolleys offer a trail to merry jolly and another day spent at man's mere play.

And yet, mortals on boards and trolleys for our jolly lay laboriously close to land.  To the depths of Master Waters, they dare not descend.

What lies beyond the moment that Ocean beckons man?  Where power lays laboriously calm amidst our toes to offer a gentle summons, is just a glimpse, a meager tasting but not yet the true knowing.  The depths of the Ocean deep - mortals on boards and trolleys for our jolly - dare not attempt to know.

But, on the horizon we see mammoth monsters of metal, sea sojourners made of steel.  And they steel themselves steadfastly and set their sights on the Sea and they huff and puff their steely, steady selves out to Mighty Sea.

The glamor of the coast, the dazzling temptress of the shore, the promise of ease ~ they gladly leave behind.

For they have found the True Treasure, the depth of Real Beauty and an Abounding Bounty.  Beauty and Bounty of the Ocean Deep.

Most would say, these monsters of metal, these sojourners of steel are a most unbecoming sight.  All the lustre, the lure, was left for lost on the land for sure.  Mammoths of huff and puff, the sleek of the seductress they left laid up.

And yet, the mammoths of metal, the huff and the puff ~ know Truth of the ages, were mindful of the Mystery and gained the Goodness by knowing the Magic is at Sea.

The True Treasures of life are found laboring at Sea.  The Beauty and the Bounty are buried beneath.

Mammoths of metal set sights upon Sea, metal men wander where no man can save them, they are at the mercy of the Maker.  Steely souls have shrugged off the sandy seductress and have set sail to the Sea.  The glamour of the gods of this globe have lost their grip on steely souls, metal mammoths.

They have rightly reckoned, to receive the Bounty of the Ocean, they will need to steel their souls for the diving of the depths and this is not for mere mortals on boards.  To he who holds the Beauty, the Bounty, the Wisdom of the ages ~ his pith and power has come from the fire-forged steel.

The saints of the Sea, the ancient and old of the Ocean have been forged in fire, scars lay deep as they dive the Deep.

The steady ease of shore life is a slippery slope, to stand upon sand and feel the slightest hint of His Presence but not yet dive into His depths is a dangerous gamble.  One in which you may lose your soul.  Or a soul or two of those who surround you.  Tingling toes is temptress, seduction of salvation without the steeling of souls.  I will not attempt a theological debate, I do not dare to claim the academia necessary for this feat.  I will only say, our western church seems quite happily laying up days on shore and talking of tingling toes and loving the luxury of the shore and yet, claiming the prize of salvation without the steeling of souls.  I worry wide and I pray deep at this point - souls may find themselves lost amongst an eternity of sadness, souls that laughed of tingling toes and laid claim to salvation without the sacrifice of steeling a soul against the seductress of the shore.  Salvation is not an act of ourselves, not a "something" we can do and yet, the Word clearly names a bearing up of a cross, a walking out of salvation, a suffering with our Savior.  I see a startling few crosses amongst the shoreline saints.

Many have gone before me with far greater skill and capacity and one of these named it as such ~

     "You desire both the comfort of God and the pleasure of Mammon." ~  Michael O'Brien

We desire the salvation, heaven side.  But here on this gobbling globe, we lay in the lap of luxury and eat of the Mammon.

Mammoths of metal ~ we find unsightly and detestable.

Steeling of souls, the scarring and the scourging ~ is simply not seen on the shore.

And a precious few of saintly Sea souls are found in our midst and the few that sail upon the Sea are often seen simply as strange and discarded as such.

If we were to turn to the Gospels and read the words of Jesus alone, we would fully know that He did not promise us the pleasures of Mammon.  In fact, He was quite clear to the opposite.  His people would suffer much and hope in the glory of heaven, they would live just as Jesus lived and died and then rose again in the hope of this glory.

It is a fool's gold that we hold here in the Western church - that we may have the comfort of God while constantly grabbing the pleasures of Mammon.  We may not have and do both - He decidedly told us to choose.

Beaches, Oceans and Such

Yesterday's diatribe may well have been a detour and yet, we see Truth in God's detours.

Before the diatribe spiraled into a thing of its own - I had begun here ~

". . . and He will show Him greater works than these, so that you may marvel and be full of wonder and astonishment."  (John 5:20)

This is the place where I desire to write - a place of wonder, of astonishment.  A place of child-like marveling at the Great Things He hath done.  In truth, I do not desire to write from this place of wonder but to live in this place of wonder and then allow all else to flow from the marvel.  Our words, my words ought to flow only from the place of wonderful wonder.  Everything I am in need of to craft the perfect W O R D is so clearly found in W O N D E R.

Hence, my deep disdain for the awful word (dare we even name this jumbled jargon a word?) BLOG.

For trivial cares of this world steal our wonder at the Wonder of us all.  Blogs and jobs, technology and our busy, schedules and time tables, calorie counting and our dollar making, schools that turn us into mindless fools and a myriad of other wonder - less thieves gobbling up our wonder.

I fight the battle, daily, constantly - to stop the wonder thieving goons that have all the appearances of good but are certainly not the Best.

I want the Best.  I want all the marvel, the astonishment, the WONDER of looking into the Best.

Allow me to further explain -
     Good versus Best
     Beach versus Ocean
     Wonder Thieving Goons versus Life Giving Wonder

I have lived my life on one coast or another.  Half a life upon one and then the second on the other, we now find ourselves resting on the gulf attached to the other.

I have known the beach, known the beach well.  I have lapsed many a lazy laying days listening to lulling waves lapse laboriously upon the sand.

The beach calls to our lazy ways and meets the demands of an apathetic self.

The beach is good.

But, the Ocean is BEST.

The beach is yet just the moment where Ocean gently touches our world - demonstrating just a slight hint of the power contained within.  The beach is place where power untold and beauty unfathomable lay up gently around our toes to offer a soft whisper of the raging storm help within the deep.

And I have known the beach, the soft whisper but have feared the Ocean, have feared the Deep.

I have settled for the wonder - thieving good and lived Wonderless, lived Oceanless.

A lifetime lived by the sea, sadly lived Oceanless.

The Ocean, where the tempest will blow and the leviathan will roll, and yet this Ocean will still somehow lovingly me lull.

This Ocean has lingered at my toes, just a plug away and I have foolishly lingered on the beach with mere child's play.

My Ocean is waiting -
     And the Wonder of the mighty tempest blow,
        The Wonder of the playful leviathan roll,
     This Wonder desires to fill me full,
        But, alas the beach doth lull,
     Yet, of the Wonder it is null,

The beach we do mere mortals know but the Ocean is beyond our knowing.  It is not a knowing but a plunging, a diving in to the Wonder of the Living Water.

It will take courage and a single minded focus to live amongst the depths of the Sea.  Peter took eyes off the Wonder and sank within the moment, our eyes must be fixedly steadfast upon the tasting and the seeing the Fullness of the Wonder.

I have know the good of the beach for far too long, the Marvel of the Maker is calling me into the depths of the Deep and I will surely take the plunge.

Not the Answer You May Expect

Do you know what I deeply dislike?  Nay.  Dislike is too puny of a word, deep disdain is far more fitting.  Do you know what I deeply disdain?  BLOGS.  Blogs.  BLOGGING.  The word in itself - B. L. O. G. - I find completely distasteful.  Words are meant to be gifts, music to the melancholy soul, medicine to the sick spirit.  Or.  Words can be harsh, damaging.  Or.  Words can be useless, a waste of sound waves, crowding our atmosphere with imbecilic chatter.  And BLOG rises to the crest of this unfortunate list and while the word is wantonly wasteful, the matter is of far greater concern then those ill-fated four letters placed so haphazardly and carelessly about.  The most fearful matter of this awful word is that it serves as a vehicle, a delivery mechanism to offer up a whole host of awful words at such deafening speeds that we are rendered awfully dumb and deaf if we are not careful, very careful.  Yes, this blogger, deeply dislikes blogs, you might want to prayerfully consider your own relationship with blogs.

Let me show you something of the ugly truth of blogs -

I could triple, quadruple my readership in a matter of a few seconds.  First, I would begin with a lame, yet catchy phrase - "Large Families on Small Budgets!" or maybe, "Crockpot Recipes That Will Shrink Your Waist but Will Not Scrimp on Taste!"  Thirty seconds of work and my readers just started liking me and reposted my lame blog all over social media.  Now, I begin to post daily, almost constantly, about EVERYTHING that happens to me and my numbers are climbing fast.  However, if I really want to land this plane - I will write heart breaking stories of my prior orphans, post pictures of familial bliss in a multi-racial family, tell heart warming stories of our disabled darlings and top it all off with comical tales of adoptive family life.  In truth, I could write a daily blog - "The Things Ethiopians Say!" and you would likely read it and repost it (far more often then you do my true blog).

And this is everything that I deeply disdain about BLOGS.

They are entirely too much of this world.  And we already have far too much of this world in our space, in our homes, in our relationships, in our time, our precious time.  This world, and its mundane  mere mortals, crowding out the other world, the true world.  And we live crushed lives under the weight of the mundane.  For nothing of this world can save a sinner or set a captive free.  You will find no eternal answers in a crockpot or rest for you soul in funny, familial antecdotes.

So, I won't write it, I can't post it.

Our time is limited, it is precious.  I do not want to be found guilty of wasting it.  I want to be deemed worthy to redeem it.

"See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because these days are evil."   (Ephesians 5:15-16)


Are days are numbered and each is a gift.  Days spent in dark times are gift to Christ follower for dark days dawn forth the opportunity to dispel darkness and offer in Light.

Because the days are evil ~ redeem the time.  Make right that what was set wrong and time finds redemption.  Can we alter the past?  Certainly!  Through restoration of the future!  You have walked darkly in your past?  Do not waste any opportunity to redeem your time this day.

Redeeming the time.  Christ has infused us with this terribly awesome power!  As Light bearers we can offer up restoration to time, redemption to our days.

So walk circumspectly, these days are surely dark.

And yet, even in the midst of this present darkness, we hold the Answer, the Mystery of the ages, the Wonder of our universe, we hold it in our hearts and how deplorably foolish and cruel of us that we bury it under useless cares of this passing world.  Oh, the hours we waste, planning that which is NOT ours to plan, complaining of mere fleeting trivialities, eating and drinking that which falls so quickly away but not tasting and seeing That which is so Good and so Eternal.

Our time is a gift, we have a finite, precious few moments to share the Gift with a dark and dying world and I for one, do not intend to waste those gifted moments reading what some other mere mortal had for breakfast.

Water.  Tea.  Prunes.  Apple.  Tea.  Water.  Luna Bar.

Do you feel all the wiser for having read my silly breakfast menu?  Certainly not!  Are you encouraged to run your race in faith?  Absolutely not!

Redeem you time!  Walk circumspectly!  And guard your sacred moments jealously!

The Telling Tale of Us All

I can barely endure the telling of this tale ~ the depraved cruelty, the villainous murder of the innocent.  Deplorable.  Unimaginable.  The telling tale twists the knots tighter and tighter.  Torture.  Persecution.  Imprisonment.  The judgement of one to another that crucifies Christ continually.  Judgement of another's faith and he deems their crucifixion justified.

I can barely stand the story, can hardly take the telling.  Murder.  Continual crucifixion.

He was on his way to declare destruction to those who believed (Acts 9:27).  He was on his way to murder the masses in whom believed in Him.  His journey was wrought with rebellion.  He hated with a passion . . . still drawing his breath hard from threatening and murderous desires . . . (Acts 9:1)

He was journeying to Damascus, his intent was death to those who believed.

2,000 years later, he travels again to Damascus.  Different name.  Different body.  Same intent.  Death to those who believe.

And knots twist tighter.  I tell myself this telling tale twists me tight for it tells the tale of too many today.

And that is certainly truth.  But, not my truth in entirety.

For this telling tale twists tighter for the tale of Saul becoming Paul is the truth of us ALL.  A truth I can barely stand to face ~ I have judged and condemned into a continual crucifixion of Christ and I have rebelled against Master Redeemer and I have refused to tell the truth of that tale.  I was Saul.  And on my way to Damascus to kill the innocents and crucify the Christ, on my way my Lord had graciously shown Himself to me.  As Saul, I saw Jesus and became a Paul.

Today, I look around and see the world full over of Sauls and I forget my telling tale that I too was a soul-less Saul and on my way I met Jesus.  I forget I was a Saul whom He converted into a Paul and in my forgetting I reveal a remnant of that old man, the Saul, whom judged and saw fit to condemn.  Jesus be gracious and merciful to this old, nasty once was a Saul, and is desperately trying to work out my salvation into a Paul.  But alas, I too soon forget and that is why this telling tale twists tighter.  A little Saul still wallows in my soul and hampers the heart from loving wholly as Christ loves.  Jesus save me from my old Saul and see the work through to the completed Paul.

And 2,000 years later, literal Sauls are on their way to Damascus again and we pray and we watch as our friends struggle against murder of the innocents.  Friends stand in faith, hold ground in courage as cruelty wages war against their Christ.  And those who believe die a martyr's death in the midst of Saul's war against the Christ.

I pray for the believers.  And yet the telling tale of Saul becoming Paul is the tale of us ALL whom believe.

I was Saul, murdering Christ in a continual crucifixion of rebellion.  You were Saul as well and I pray you are on your way to a Paul but make no mistake, you and I both were a Saul.

Paul tells us as much ~ Saul becoming Paul was a pattern into which that we all, all whom believe, will fall (1 Timothy 1:16).  His conversion was for my sake, for your sake ~ a pattern, a long suffering pattern.

Sauls becoming Pauls ~ meeting Jesus along their way to death ~ is Jesus' work, Jesus' call.  And Jesus is STILL on the road to Damascus ~ blinding the eyes of Sauls and redeeming them into Pauls.

Ananiases are there as well ~ their conversion, their walking out their salvation, just a journey more complete.  They are there working amongst the Sauls and laying hands on blind eyes and believing as the scales fall, and trusting in Christ for a multitude of Pauls.  Ananiases still live in the land of Damascus.  We know a few.

So, you Saul, whom is walking towards your new Paul, will you join with me as we pray daily for blindings on the road to Damascus and persecutors becoming redeemed?  Will you pray and fast with us as we beg Jesus to show Himself True to that one - to that Saul - as he journeys on his way- will you pray today?  A Saul becomes a Paul, everyday!  If I pray and you pray for that man, that woman and today and everyday Jesus meets them on their way ~ a revolution, a generation of Sauls who became Pauls will be birthed.

Some of you are still Sauls, the scales veil your sight.  But, others of you know ~ you saw Him along your way.  Either way, I pray for you both ~ that one may gain sight in the blinding Light and that the other would daily remember our past as Saul and plead with the heavenlies for untold Sauls to become Pauls.

(Acts 9 & 1 Timothy 1:16)

The Wrong End Of Things

"The man who begins to think without the proper first principles goes mad; he begins to think at the wrong end."

                                                            ~ G. K. Chesterton

At the wrong end, he begins to think at the point of creation, rather then Creator.  A world gone mad at the wrong end of thinking and mad men rip through dormitories and demand a denial and kill young life in utter madness.  And world powers make deals of madness and marriages are muddled and money is a demigod and children grow motherless and a world runs wild with madness.

Thinking at the wrong end.  An entire structure, a system of thought beginning at creation rather then Creator and madness ensues.

We watch world leaders and shake our heads and yet, our own system of thought is often so deeply embedded at the wrong end that we too reap madness in our own small worlds.   We are each, individually, world leaders, world leaders of a world of one but leaders all the same.  We determine at which place our thinking will originate from.  The outcome we cannot decide; but the originality, the origin of our thought, we determine.  There is nothing new under the sun (Ecclesiastes 1:9) and yet, we do recognize that outcome from the wrong end wroughts madness and tradition is full of mad men mulling over life from the wrong end.

Creation is not the "proper first principles" ~ if left to self creation cannot even rightly exist so to begin the life of thought apart from Creator is absolute madness.  And certainly lifeless.

Proverbs 1:7 ~ "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge . . . "

Why does our world appear particularly mad today?  From a theological perspective some would say we are likely nearing the end of the world's wily ways and its days are numbered.  Likely truth.  Time will tell.  From a practical perspective I have to wonder if our world's wrong way of thinking, thinking from the wrong end, has not invaded the church and therefore crippled all of humanity.

An entire mass of men and women who should know the right end, who need to know the right end for the sake of mankind and for the sake of the man seated next to him; these have lost their way and wander and wallow their thinking ways through the same mess of the lost, of the unbelieving.  

What do I mean?  I mean "believers" who turn to media for information, rather then the Word.  "Believers" who squander resources on self-help titles rather then surrendering brokenness to Christ.  Those who waste hours on Facebook rather the pleading with the heavens to restore sanity and to sanctify souls.  The church has fallen deeply in love with programs and projects and counting bodies in the pew rather then recognizing on true spirit being brought to life through the working of the Holy Spirit.  "Believers" who believe far more in bank accounts then they do in a Provisional Heavenly Father.  The church what would rather network then intercede.  And a church who truly believes if creation can just create the right mood, or experience, then lives will change.  We have started at the wrong end, we have started at creation rather then Creator.  Through years of socialism, materialism and egoism we have lost our first origin of thought.  Creator.  Through an entirely purposed and steady barrage, through a cacophony of lying tongues the church has reversed its thinking and landed at the wrong end.  Creation.  

It has been purposed, for our Enemy knows at the wrong end, creation has NO power and certainly madness will ensue.  At the wrong end we have NO power over sickness, addiction, hatred, greed; no sin or malady can be defeated by creation.  Only Creator can defeat this madness of men.  So, subtle serpent lies and twists and perverts bride to the wrong end of thought and cripples the church and wages a nasty war against humanity.  The wrong end wroughts madness.

What do we do?

We strip it ALL away and we rebuild our foundation on the Rock.  We wipe ourselves clean, we turn off ALL the voices, save Christ and we build the way He intended us too, at the True End, the Creator.  We turn off the TV, close the websites and set aside all other authors other then the Author.  We shut down Facebook and just looking into His face and we build, build truth into our lives and our families.  And brick by brick, truth by truth we steel ourselves against madness and we create refuges, fortresses against the madness where the hurting, dying world can find answers.

There is one Answer to ALL of our struggles and when we start at the right end we find sanity for our souls and rest for our spent spirits.

In the beginning was the Word . . . 

          He always knew what we needed to hear, we just need to listen, listen to the Beginning, to the Word.

The Evil Servant (Part 2)

Jesus goes on to say " . . . for everyone whom much is given, from him much will be required . . . " (Luke 12:48)

I just typed Jesus' words on my Mac ~
     . . . to whom much is given . . .
And you just read them likely on an iPhone, iPad, desktop, laptop, or Notebook ~
     . . . much will be required . . .
I just wrote . . . somewhere, someone in my past used the necessary skills and resources to teach me to write ~
     . . . to whom much is given . . .
And you read . . . somewhere, someone in your past used the necessary skills and resources to teach you to read ~
     . . . much will be required . . .
As I write, these words do not swim in a foggy haze as I fight dehydration and malnutrition ~
     . . . to whom much is given . . .
And you read words without your body wasting away due to basic needs unmet ~
     . . . much will be required . . .
I wrote the words of the revolutionary force named Jesus and I do not fear my freedom or my life will be robbed from me for preaching His words (not yet, at least) ~
     . . . to whom much is given . . .
And you read without fear of retaliation from hostile regimes raping you of life and liberty (not yet, at least) ~
     . . . much will be required . . .

I wrote the God Man's words, this Man Jesus, this Savior God spoke these words and I know of Him and live the great privilege of knowing Him.  I know His Name, I read His words, everyday.  I know the name ~ Jesus.  And I say it, pray it, call it, name it, sing it, cry and laugh it a thousand times over, daily.  I know the name of Jesus.     . . . to whom much is given . . .

And now, so do you.      . . . much will be required . . .

In this land, this western world ~ the Giving has been beyond reason.

We have not just been given salvation but we have been given the mean to share this salvation ~ the means to share in ways this spinning globe has surely never seen before.
And yet we so often do not.  Instead of sharing with spinning globe, we just go to spin.

We have not just been given salvation but we have been given copious amounts of freedom!  Freedom to live openly and loudly like the Jesus freak He calls us to be!  We have freedom to garner passport and gallop the globe telling and retelling of His glorious name!
And yet so often we do not.  We gobble freedom and globe trot simply for sport, for leisure, our leisure.

You have much.  I have much.  And much will be required.  Please do not allow your mind to churn with a thousand excuses, "Yes, but if you understood my Mother . . . " or "Yes, but my finances . . . " truthfully, in America, this excuse should make us ill, or, "My husband, or my boss, or my children . . . " or, "If you just understood my childhood . . . ".

Please, let's not.

You have been given much.  I have been given much.  We were given salvation and even if that was all, it would be exceedingly far more then enough.  However, He continued to give to us and He gave the means, the resources, the skill, the freedom, the time and He gave us His Spirit.  Done.

One final note on this parable Jesus spoke ~ a few things are very apparent; He will return, some servants will be found faithful and some servants will be found partying (aka caring, promoting and living for self).  We also know that we DO NOT know the time of His return and Jesus asks us to be ready, to be steadfast and sober-minded.  Ready.

Question ~ when He unexpectedly returns, how do you want Him to find you?

Drinking that?  Eating that?  in that quantity?  Wearing that?  Watching that?  (Editorial note - TV is a nasty drug of choice that the church would bode well with to trash.)  Listening to that?  Saying that?  Doing that?  Spending money on that?  Or there?  Being there?  Or not being there?  Thinking that?  Reading that?  Reading this?

Oh, you are so puritanical!  Pharisaical!  No, I am not.  Trust me.  I am not.  I am Cali girl, born and bred, I grew up barefoot, driving an old beat-up jeep, surrounded by friends who were high, ALL the TIME!  I currently sit and write in cut-off, ripped up jean shorts with the standard issue flip flops to finish off the motif!  And oh yes, I am sitting in my closet, yes, literally in my closet.  I am not puritanical.  I am just reading the words of Jesus tell me that some of those chilling in His house ~ He will name evil.  And that is terrifying to me.  I am not a pharisee but I am deeply tired of the church allowing death to seep through its doors and windows as it welcomes the world's system to dictate who we are.

Western church, we live on the brink of extinction in many ways and as we read through the earlier questions and answer in truth, we may find the answers as to why.

The Evil Servant

Luke 12:45-47 ~  "But if that servant says in his heart, 'My Master is delaying his coming,' and begins to beat the male and female servants, and to eat and drink and be drunk, the Master of that servant will come on a day when he is not looking for him, and at an hour when he is not aware, and will cut him in two and appoint him his portion with the unbelievers.  And the servant who knew his Master's will and did not prepare himself or do according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes."

NKJV carries this label of this servant - evil.  Another may be found faithful, but certainly some will be named evil.  And yet, both are called servant.  A servant resides in the home of his Master.  This faithful and evil one both named servant, both reside in the house of their Master.

This telling of this tale that Master Savior told is the telling of the truth.  A truth that is wholly as startling as it is terrifying.

A servant dwells in the Master's home and yet he is named evil.  I do believe there are those who maintain a residence in the Master's house and will be called evil on that day of His arrival.

The parable is clear ~ this servant knew of whom he served and yet was not ready.  This evil servant said in his heart, "My Master doth tarry, I will certainly make merry."  And he ate.  And he drank.  And he abused and used those about him.

Sound familiar?  We have certainly just read an accurate depiction of the western church.

We are named as servant.  We claim the name, we wear the label.  We are Christians and we have countless titles on our shelves to show our devotion to Christ (or love of online shopping).  We have many crosses on chains to demonstrate the burden we bear (or our affinity for jewelry).  The fish is on the bumper and we check Republican and then call that devotion.  We know the correct verbiage and we claim our Christian heritage and yet, we look startling similar to the world that surrounds.

And servant resides in the Master's house.  Certainly, we attend services and conferences, and we even lead the Wednesday night Bible study.  We love our Christian concerts and can't live without the potlucks!

We reside in the Master's dwelling; yet, a surrendered heart, we are surely unwilling.

We reap the rewards,
     the dollars and donuts we hoard,
but truly serve Him as Lord?
     He our Anchor, our lives to Him moored?
we say, that price - we can not afford!

And yet, Scripture tells that of the servant who tarries in the temple yet never surrenders soul ~
. . .  and will cut him in two and appoint him his portion with the unbelievers . . .

Jesus was not even slightly subtle ~ He will cut you in half and cast you out.

This wicked servant knew the Master, in fact, He knew much of the Master and yet his eternity was sealed with the heathen, with the lost soul.

It is imperative we see the similarity of this wicked servant and the western church.  We too, abide in the Master's house, we enjoy His splendor, eat of His abundance, drink of His wine and abuse those He put in our charge.  We know the drill, we know when to stand and when to kneel, the appropriate  time to slip hand to heaven and when to smile the smile.  We rest hand on brother so and so's shoulder and offer the gentle word of encouragement.  We know which service serves the best coffee and which band sets the best mood for our "worship experience" (whatever that means!)  And yet, in our hearts we strive after self ~ more money, more things, more power, more notoriety, more luxury, more comfort, more clothes, more me, more food, more me, more drink, more me, more leveling of another to elevate self.  More me, me, me.

Western church be wary ~ the evil servant residing in the Master's house serves as terrible reminder of the surrendered soul He requires and is surely our reasonable service.

Be mindful ~ if you enjoy a "worship experience" for an hour or so on Sunday and then name yourself servant; you have completely misunderstood ~ worship is not an "experience" it is a way of life.  And the truly surrendered servant does not make merry with food and drink, or with the leveling of another.  The true servant has no desire to make much of self but to make exceedingly much about the Master.  His life is worship, constantly surrendered to service.

He does not tarry in his Master's dwelling to plunder,
     but sets about acts of loving labor,
not merely to secure His favor,
     nor for His blessings to procure,
selfish reasons, he does not do it for,
    but simply because his Master he doth adore.

A Row To Hoe

A farmer hoes a row of dirt and a neighboring laborer hoes his row and they toil under the sun and the sweat of their brow mixes soiled soil into muddy mess.  They labor, a labor of love as they work their row.

These loving laborers selected their plots not.  The farmers till soil simply out of trust, the loving laborers were just trusting tillers.  For the Master Farmer had determined their row long ago.

And the loving laborers labored on in love and tilled for they trusted.

As the sun was set to set upon their rows and they had laid their final labor into the loved land both farmers wiped the final drop of sweat off their brow and the hoe was laid to final rest.

And after the long day of life the farmers stepped back to examine their land, their soil that had breathed life through their toil.

One farmer espied his loved land with lines hoed to perfection and toiled soil beautiful, budding with immaculate growth.  For this farmer had hoed a row of farming perfection.

The other farmer, the poor old soul, dropped to his knees aghast, despair flooded his body and confusion clouded his mind.  For the land which had absorbed his labors of love was fitfully afright!  No lines of perfection such as his neighborly neighbor!  No toiled soil beautiful just a muddy mess with only the slightest hint of life.

Oh, what a sad sight our second laborer was and surely he would have sunk under, sunk into utter ruin if not for the Master Farmer.  For Master Farmer saw beyond appearance of perfect lines and tidy rows and Master Farmer joyously congratulated BOTH farmers.

"Well done good and faithful farmers," He gently declared.  "Well done."

Our sad and sunken so low secondary farmer hesitantly asked Master Farmer, "Begging Your pardon kind Sir,  but my rows are afright and my soil is but alas ~ just a muddy mess!  I have surely labored in love and yet, I have not hoed You a tidy row but just a chaotic mess.  A slight sign of life is all I have amassed.  Well done?  I do not see how You say that of me?"

Master Farmer with love and laughter dancing through His kind eyes simply said, "Rocks.  Many rocks."

~

Preacher man said on Sunday ~ some have been assigned to hoe the rows filled with many rocks.

But, not to worry, He knows the soil He gave us to toil.  He knows.  And under the burning sun He sees the laborers of love who toil amongst the rocks.  Lines are rarely tidy and hands are always dirty and face is layered in soil as farmers lament over the rocks that lay in their path.

But, Master Farmer sees.

The XO leaned over at preacher man's words with a telling smile, "See, He sees the rocks He placed in our soil."  With a quick wink and then eyes back to center straight, the XO knows all to well the rocks that lay in our row to be hoed.

Many a moment I feel lost amongst the rocks in my row.  The labor of love feels in vain, and the laboring is so lonely.  For other farmers have not yet seen rocks such as mine.

But, yesterday preacher man and the XO reminded me of Master Farmer that laid the plot of my land once upon a time ago at the foundation of time.  Master Farmer, He knows my rocks, He knows the row I hoe.  And that is enough.

It is enough.

The Slamming of Doors

I hit send on that post and within the hour one warden made a rash and cruel decision and in so doing tightened the chains ever further around the XO and I.

As I moved silently through that painful night I heard His quiet voice ~ "Do you still trust Me as the pains of prison deepen?"

His steady voice in the midst of chaos was calming but His question was weighty, so heavy.  He has asked this question in a variety of forms many times before.  And truthfully there are moments when I feel I can not withstand much more ~ no more sacrifice, no more pain and strife, no more "growing spiritually."  I have told the XO before I do not think I can take His stretching, not even another inch.

But, the promise of knowing Him more, of knowing some of His great and mighty mysteries is a constant desire.

". . . which you have not known."  ~  this truth is so telling, for I have surely known this world and known sin and sadness, I have known darkness and despair, I have seen the madness of men and the gobbling greed of humanity.  The world I have known.  So, His promise of things I have not known ~ this is of a heavenly sort.  Stories of the God Spirit.  Mysteries of the God Man.  Whispers of the gently sung lullaby to sleeping Savior Who came to save.  Murmurings of the majestic.  Tales from the mouth of God sung gently over the prisoners.  A freedom spoken in the midst of chains.

"Yes, I trust You Jesus.  As the prison door slams shut on me again.  I trust You."

Let's Just Call Like It Is

I took a few steps forward and quickly ascertained 2 sprawled on my couch fully engaged in the pose that the XO and I (enter sarcasm) affectionately refer to as  ~ laying haphazardly about, staring at the wall with mouth slightly ajar, who are we kidding the mouth is completely ajar, and doing absolutely NOTHING!  I begin to hear the few bubbles start to roll, the early warning sounds of the blood boiling over.  I step lively through the danger zone and survive another yard or two before I notice another lackadaisically doodling over a school notebook.  A worthy occupation from an eye-hand coordination perspective  ~ when you are 6.  This one is 13.  A few more bubbles roll through my inner man and their warning bells warn ever more loudly in my ears.  I step forward to flee this volatile scene and before my foot befalls the floor I see another, dead ahead completely absorbed in a similar stance as my first 2 sprawled on the couch were.  There is but on slight variation ~ she stands leaning against the dresser, staring at the wall, mouth completely ajar.  The din in my ears now resembles a rushing wind and the wind is ushering in some seriously large quantities of boiling blood ~ I must move quickly now before ALL is lost.  I take step right and move towards the kitchen, a cup of tea might save us all.  But alas, there are 3 crowding the kitchen all participating in another favorite pastime ~ bickering.  I accelerate speed and move straight through the kitchen to be met by a swinging door.  Another has entered through the back stairwell and immediately begins to throw 2 or 3 signs at me in an incoherent and entirely incorrect attempt at sign language.  It is virtually impossible to understand, the equivalent to baby babble in sign language but a baby is not standing before me, no a young person of 15 years who has chosen to NOT study their first language for the first 15 years of their life.  The boiling blood is at a dangerously high level and ALL system warnings are blaring in my head.  For the sake of ALL humanity I must flee this situation!  I make a hard right and literally sprint the yard and a half and lay my hand on the handle ~ the handle that opens me into my saving grace, my secret place!  And just a slight turn right and then I can hide out of sight.  I lovingly turn the handle - clink.  LOCKED!  CRAP!  The bathrooms are always FULL in this house!  I try again, praying it was some cruel mistake - clink.  Still locked.  And then the darkness crowds deeper and I know the truth of the locked bathroom door and it is seeping out from under the door.  My stomach rolls in a new way and I stifle a dry heave but I am frozen because the one has followed, now he is directly behind me, still using the same 2 or 3 signs, just now on repeat, and no, they still do not make any sense!  And the 2 who started this whole debacle have now shifted their staring eyes to staring at me, not to worry though, their mouths are still ajar.  The doodling pencil falls silent as it lays still and this one is staring as well (yes, mouth ajar).  Apparently the leaning starer is quite engrossed in the wall because her eyes do not fall on me, yet.  But, now as I stand frozen in my own rage, a new layer of hazy fog descends on me for the bickering three?  Are now moving towards me!  Referee, they expect me to be.  I now have one last hope, it will take courage, discipline and swiftness of feet.  I release handle, my eyes fall directly to the floor and in a split second I turn and sprint (no, this is untrue, our house is WAY too tiny to run in, that is extremely dangerous.  So, I speed walk, I power walk as if my life depended on it.  I speed walk arms full swing @ 90 degrees @ the elbow, hips moving right, left, right, left and I power walk as no mother has ever power walked before!)  I hear the bickerers behind in hot pursuit, the incoherent signer follows as well, the starers try to bring me down with their eyes but I am survivor!  I burst through my bedroom door, only steps from another secret place.  I took the 5 steps it takes to clear our tiny room and once again my hand rested on the handle to freedom ~ slight twist right.  CLINK!  CRAP!

You see we share our commode with 6 young women and statistically speaking the odds are stacked against me finding my hiding place unoccupied.

I was trapped and as I stood there with my hand resting on the locked door the truth was apparent - my own home is my prison.  I am in PRISON and God put me here.  Yes, you heard me - I live in a prison and God placed me here.

And multiple times throughout my everyday the truth of my reality hits me upside the head like a sledgehammer to the temple.

PRISON.

~

This morning while my 9 wardens took their repose, I prayed ~

"Jesus, I do not like my prison.  What law did I break to wind up here?  I am not sure I can take another day in jail."

He and I, we talk honestly ~ I often wait for the bolt of lightening to rip through the walls of my cell but alas, He does love me and forgives me.

I opened my Bible to Jeremiah 33:3 for I wanted to think about something good, to meditate on the Word not my messed up world.

Jeremiah 33:3 ~ "Call the Me and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you have not known."

I had been study 33:3 for the past several days but today gracious God spoke a grace-filled Word.

"Read the first two verses of chapter 33 ~ you do not have the whole story."  -  God

Jeremiah 33:1 ~ "Moreover the word of the Lord came to Jeremiah a second time while he was still shut up in the court of the PRISON, saying . . . "

Shut the front door!  Jeremiah was in PRISON!  I felt a pang of guilt as I rejoiced over Jeremiah's imprisonment but his captivity spoke volumes to my freedom!

Jeremiah heard great and mighty things that he had not known in PRISON!

I can not rightly articulate the joy and freedom I felt in those words ~ shut up in the court of prison ~ Jesus speaks to us in our prisons.  Just as Joseph was placed in prison by God to save his people and Jeremiah heard God's great and mighty voice ~ I too am placed in this cell.

Here is my task ~  to not allow the voices of resentment that rise in my thinking to overshadow the voice of God.  To take every thought captive that speaks to grumbling or complaining so that I can hear the goodness of Him.  To joyfully and faithfully occupy this prison cell He has so lovingly placed me in.

Why did He put me in prison?  I don't know, maybe He has great and mighty things to tell me!  Exciting!

What prisons is He lovingly trying to place you in but you are resisting?  What prison are you in but constantly struggling to break free from?  What cell do you occupy with resentment and grumbling as your cell mates?

We as the Western church believe God would never place us in prison.  Jeremiah and Joseph would likely disagree.  Many persecuted believers around the globe would take issue with that as well.  And truth be told, so do I.  This is a God-given prison I live in and it is gift, great gift.

Stop struggling against your cell walls and hear the great and mighty things you have not known.