Right Under My Nose (Part 2)

And to Martha's ever practical point — the stench was definitely deafening, stiflingly suffocating.  The stench of the dead come forth is in fact quite suffocatingly sickening.

Martha had a point.  The ever practical point.  Oh, but the stench!

I have lived under the stench and wondered at the ways we must learn to breathe buried under the suffocating stench.

I have lived choking, gagging.  Wondering at the way we must learn to breathe.  For He called them forth and commanded at the loosing — loose them, and let them go.  So, I have gagged and grappled, grappled and gagged with this question.  Oh, but the stench sweet Jesus?  But, the sickeningly suffocating stench?

My home reeked to high heaven.  The dead had come forth — called out of the tombs.  Buried deep in the dirt, sunk in the rotten soils of sin — now called forth.  They had been called forth and I had been commanded at the loosing, loose their grave clothes.

Oh, but the stench.  The stench in the home.  And I wondered, wavered and worried at the work to be done.

And yet . . .  "And the house was filled with fragrance of oil."  (John 12:3)

But, I had just read this earlier truth   . . .  "but Lazarus was one of those who sat at the table with Him . . . "   (John 12:2)

It was there, right before my eyes.  Right under my nose  .  .  .   all along!

The house was filled with the fragrance of oil and yet, there Lazarus sat.  Supping with his Savior.  Sitting in his seat, supping amidst the stench.

Lazarus had just been brought forth — called from the dead.  Out of the tomb, buried under the burden of grave clothes and stench, he had just come forth!

And here he sat, stinking to high heaven Lazarus, sitting with his Savior while supper was served.  Oh, but the stench!

How could it be?  That now the fragrance of oil filled the house.

For certainly I see now she had done this thing — this costly thing — there is always a price to be paid.  And she had spent her savings, counted the cost and covered our God with her worship.  And the fragrance filled the house, the home was where she worshipped.  Wiping his feet.  Pouring forth the fragrance of her costly gift of praise and the house was filled . . .  the house was filled.

The dead called forth was now free to sup with his Savior.  Heal in His presence.  For the stench was wiped away as the fragrance of costly oil was poured throughout.

Dinner was served.  Oh, but the stench?   No matter Martha!  The fragrance now filled the place, her praise occupying the space.  And the stench no longer noticed under the weight of worship, the cost of the gift — the praise poured forth now filled the place.

He had sat down to dinner, supper was served and the stench was lost amidst her praise.

And Lazarus reclined, relaxed and was restored as he sat with saving Savior.

Her praise had filled the place.  Her worship now occupied the space.  And the stench was no matter for the fragrance filled the home.

Had it been there all along?  Right under my nose?

The stench stifled, the house filled with fragrant oil, spikenard spent on Savior and they all supped.

Had it been there all along?

Lazarus had sat, sat at the supper table, the dead called forth had come to dinner.  And yet night was filled with fragrance of Father, not the stench of the sick and dying for she had poured forth the costly gift of adoration.

And the house was filled  . . .  with the fragrance of oil.

The home smelled of heaven.

With the dead called forth seated to supper  . . .  the home smelled of heaven.

She had done this thing — this adoring her Master — glorifying her Savior — regardless of the stench about — she has poured forth the oil of her praise.

And her home smelled of heaven.  The stench no longer stifling.  The dead were there to dine.  This was no matter of prim and proper as Martha craved but a matter of place given to the Proper One.  Praise put in the Proper Place and her oil of praise poured forth opened the Heavens above and her home filled with fragrance.  Her home filled with Heaven.

How had I missed that?

Had that not always been the intent?  The hope?  To bring the dead called forth to dine, to give Hope to the hungry, to serve a supper here that would save?  For the Savior sat amongst us, ready to save.

That had been the hope.  But, I had faltered, failed under the stifling stench.  Uncertain.  Unsure under the stench of us all.

But, it had been there all along.  Right under my nose.

The house filled with fragrance.  the home smelled of Heaven.

She has poured forth the costly gift of praise.  Thanksgiving.  And worship.  Adulation and adoration untold.

And it is a costly gift.  To sacrifice the praise amidst the stench does sting.  My natural self wants to lament under the labor of loving amongst the stench of sin.  It will cost me something.  The cost will sting.

But, the cost was spent and the fetor of sin was lost amongst the fragrance filling the space.

And the dead called forth relaxed and were restored.  Supped with their Savior, they did.

And she chose correctly.  She worshipped rightly.  And Heaven filled her home.

It had been there all along.  Right under our nose.

Deafening Stench (Part 1)

The stench was deafening.  The bile rose in my throat and the vileness flooded my ears.  Deafening was the stench.  I could hardly hear a sound above the foul reek, the fetor of sin filled all my senses.  And the stench was deafening.  And I was choking under the heaviness of it all.

I awoke most mornings under a deep sense of dread.  Ominous.  Foreboding.

Unable to place the source of it all.  Unable to breathe under the staleness of it all.  What had happened?  How had I come to this?  Captive in my own home.  Trapped amongst them all.  How had I come to this?

We had obeyed.  That was what had brought me to this place buried under the stench, choking for air amidst the fetor of sin.  We had obeyed.

                        "Jesus said, 'Take away the stone . . . '"    (John 11:39)

We had heard Jesus' command to roll away the stone and we had laid our hand to the plow, had worked the ground and removed the stones.  We had dug bare handed into the muddy mess of the sin sickened soul of humanity and had scratched and scraped and scrambled to haul the stones away.  For Jesus was calling the dead forth —

                            "Lazarus, come forth!"     (vs 43)

He was speaking into the soul of humanity and He was calling forth the dead among the orphans.  The tiny corpses.  The littles ones lost to despair, thrown into the fires of loneliness.  Now Jesus was calling them forth!

And we worked frantically, feverishly to clear the stone.  To prepare the land for the dead to rise.  Boulders and pebbles.  Rocks and stones.  We scratched and scrambled to haul them away.

And He called Lazarus forth.  The dead arose.  The corpses came calling.  The land was cleared and the corpses came clamoring our way.

It was magnificent!  The resurrection was astounding!  And it all happened it but an instant.

The countless stones we had dragged away, our bloodied hands had toiled to haul them all.  And then in a blink of an eye, for just a moment we marveled at the majesty of Master to call them forth.

So, how now after the majesty of the Master, had I come to this?  Buried under the stench of it all.  Gasping for air, the foul reek rising, always rising in my ear.  The fetor of sin screaming through my days, tearing through my home, gobbling the good I had known.  How had I come to this?

I had unwisely forgotten to count the cost, the full cost, the cost of the stench of the sick and dying.  I had forgotten the reek of my own sin before finding Savior.  Martha had warned me, said it, but I had unwisely forgotten —

              "Lord, by this time there is a stench . . . "     (vs 39)

She had warned me but I had not heeded this word.  There will be a stench.  The sick and dying do surely stink.

And I was now constantly gasping for air under the reek of us all.  The fetor of sin, theirs and mine, threatened to choke us all.

Martha had warned.  But, the stench, Jesus!  The reek of their sin!

Martha, always so practical, so tidy, so neat.  The smell, Dear Savior, oh Sweet Jesus, the reek of the dead!

And we too live amongst Martha's mentality — so proper, so prim.  Our homes, our churches, our dear children so gloriously proper and pretty.  And when Jesus calls us to roll the stone away — we all worry and wonder but Jesus, the stench and the sickening smell of the sinful and sick!

We bar the doors, we ban the sick, we roll the stone to block their way.  Oh, the stench!  Our pretty and proper and piously prim ways can not stomach the stench of their sin, the fetor of the sick and dying.

And I awoke choking on the sickness of it all.  And so soon began to wonder was it truly the stench choking, the bile rising vile in my ears that closed me to having, to breathing of the Goodness of God?  Or was it my own prim and proper ways that choked the Goodness of God from my days?

For Martha had said, "But the stench?!"  And yet, He had answered,

       ". . . if you believe you would see the glory of God."    (vs 40)

If we believe, if we will stare into the stench of the sickening sin and BELIEVE!  We will see the glory of God!  If we will set our face into the fetor of sin and not yet falter, nor faint — if we will BELIEVE in the suffocating stench of sin that He calls the dead to living, we will see the glory of God.  

"Lazarus, come forth."  And he did arise, amongst the stench and the filth he came forth.  Not for one moment did Jesus consider or worry over the rank, the reek of us all.  He calls us forth, come forward you filthy ones and see the glory of God.

"And he who had died came out bound hand and foot from the grave clothes, and his face was wrapped with cloth, Jesus said to them, 'Loose him, and let him go.'"  (vs 44)

It is a sickenly messy business this loosing of grave clothes.  The dead reek, Martha had warned us.  They come bound hand and foot, faces covered, eyes blinded.   They stumble about in their stench and sickness searching for a shred of light, reaching for their Savior.

And we unwrap the grave clothes, clean the scales form their eyes and it is a sickening process to clean the dead.  

How I do know the maddening hypocrisy, my maddening hypocrisy in my unwillingness to rightly remember the reek of my own wickedness when Jesus called me forth.

Maddening hypocrisy.

But, when we hear Martha's cry of warning and yet heed His call and do the dirty business of the unwrapping and loosening the grave clothes of sin — oh, the glory of God we do see!

No where in the prim and proper do the Marthas of the religious elite, the Christian west see the glory of God.

The glory is found amidst the gory.  The sanctification in the stench.  The redemption in the reek. Oh, Marthas, we do so hate to hear that glory is found in the messy gory but alas, it is a truth He does call forth.

I had not rightly counted the cost, not anticipated what the stench would be.  And I had faltered, for a time.  BUT — 

      "being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ."   (Philippians 1:6)

And I had begun to rightly remember the reek I was under once upon a called forth time ago.

And I did begin to believe that He was oh, so faithful to the calling forth AND to the messy madness of the loosening and letting go.  Oh, so faithful.

Jesus was ever present amidst our stench and stink.  Never offended by our offensive foulness.  Always so very near to the vilest of us all.

And now I do see the glory of God amongst the gory.  We must believe He gladly walks among the filth and the stench, searching, ever searching for His sheep.  To see the glory of God we must believe and walk with Him into the filthiness of the walking dead and grapple with the gravity of the grave clothes.  To touch the grossness of sin, the grossness of grave clothes — to bloody and mess our hands in the loosening, to hold the stench in our very hands, our very homes and BELIEVE.  BELIEVE.  EVER BELIEVE.  He looses and lets go from the fetor of sin, those of us bound but yet willing to believe.

The calling forth is glorious, but it is just the blink of eye.  The stinky, stench filled labor of loosening, the labor of love loosening bonds is yet the work of a lifetime.  A long, arduous labor of loving with bloodied, messy hands.

Jesus called Lazarus forth and then He commanded us to first believe and then to set about the work of — loose him, and let him go.

Let us not falter, nor faint under the stench of sin, theirs or ours.  When you once find yourself choking under the vile of the filthiness of those about — then you know you have rightly stumbled into the harvest to be loosed.  To be let go.  Here you set about the true work He has called us to.

May we run headlong into the stench and set about the work He has commanded.  Leaving behind the prim and proper, neat and tidy to see the glory of God!

Broken Beginnings

The next chapter would bring buckets of joy and much laughter.  After the weeping, had come much rejoicing.

And chapter one would round out with treks across a nation and the traversing of a mountain or two.  I would be forced to separate from curly headed, blue eyed darling in order to protect her.  And I would oh so quickly learn that parent (or protector) all too often means sojourning a road of sacrifice and heartache.  And heart break.  And mine would surely break a thousand times over as I parted with my blue eyed baby to create a safe space for her to be.  For her to grow.  Countless questioned me, judged me, criticized me and openly attacked me.  But, Warrior Father was working to take her and I into a broad place, a safe space where we could begin to heal from a handful of years of violent attacks.

Young life so desperately needs a broad place, a safe space to grow.

And it begins in the womb,
     that sacred cocoon.
That His skilled hand hath craft,
     so enemy desperately desires to snatch.
A broad place, a safe space.
Young life needs,
      and cries out for and pleads.
A broad place, a safe space.

It was given as gift to the whole of humanity.  Given to every man, with the millions of masses, the billions of bodies, and this singular sanctity given to each and every self.  A sacred womb, a holy cocoon — given to us all.  Regardless of place or station or race — we were each and everyone intended to plant, bloom and come forth from this sacred place, that holy place.  A little nugget nestled in mother's womb, safe from the gobbling guiles of enemy of our soul.  Tucked away tightly, listening to soft murmurings of mother whispering words of blessing, singing songs of simple love, an eternity of enduring devotion.

The frantic world rumbles around and wars may rage but brand new life grows tucked tightly within and all of humanity has new hope.  New life always bring miracle hope.

And enemy of our soul so deeply despises this singular gift given to the millions of masses, this singular gift that determinedly declares, "You are each and everyone so deeply and desperately loved by Father above Who carved this holy cave, a first gift given to each and everyone singular one!"  And enemy despises each and everyone one and he subtly steals into sacred space and desires to bring violence into that holy place.

He hates the singular gift given to each billions of bodies.

Oh, men and women of God!  How we must fight for this early gift of sacred cocoon, the blessed Mother's womb!

What do we lose?  Those beautiful lives murdered when we say — oh you may choose.

But, whose choice was it really?

Did terrified mother truly choose?  Or has years into decades of lies muddled the masses' minds?  Did struggling mother actually grasp the sanctity of her own bodily gift?  Did dejected mother ever hear that her body housed miracle hope?  A new life nestled in her holy, singularly gifted space?  Did she truly choose or has she just been doggedly deceived?  Systemically stripped of the truth that lies within?

It was our first gift gifted by Giver to brand new life.  Each and every brand new life was intended
to grow in sacred womb, holy cocoon.  Gifting Father has given that but the lying thief has crept into sacred womb and stolen humanities holy cocoon.

We have allowed enemy to break our holy beginnings.  A broken beginning.  A stolen sacred sanctuary.  And the soul of humanity languishes under the broken beginning.  Languishes.  Laments.

But, take courage, Dear Heart.

A Warrior Father is ready to redeem our broken beginnings.  He is but, looking, searching, waiting for His redeemed ones to war with Him — to restore that which was rent from the heart of humanity.  Our sacred womb, our holy cocoon made whole again.

Our broken beginnings give way to redeemed warriors.

Take courage, Dear Heart.

It is time to go to war.  Time to restore our broken beginnings.

Too Many Tears

Hey!  Where have you been?!

The last post, about 'that' that was entirely and eternally not a 'that' but a beautiful being, a hope filled human with all the Possibility of the cosmos packed into a fragile frame - that post about 'that' - well, it may have knocked me back just a bit.  Knocked the stuffing out of me - for a day or two (or maybe 30).  But, I am officially re-stuffed, Holy Spirit stuffed!  And I have a few more tales to tell before we shut this thing down.

Some will sting, smart the eyes and constrict the throat.  Some tales, the telling just burns.  But the burning is rightly the cleansing . . .

               " . . . He will baptize you with Holy Spirit and fire."  - Matthew 3:11

and I so deeply need the cleaning so I must do the telling . . .

And then this morning I awoke to this . . .

Psalm 126:5-6 -
      "Those who sow in tears 

(I have surely wept crocodile tears, countless times over their sin and certainly over mine. For months upon years I have wondered at the countless crocodile tears - was I so terribly off mark?  Too deeply flawed to have a God-breathed impact on those about?  Too many tears, I have thought, too many sins I have sinned to be of any use to the lost sinner.  Have you ever wondered the same?  At the totality of your tears?  At the sum of your sins?  Have you asked yourself and Warrior Father - maybe I should just stop?  Just.  Stop.  Trying.  Too.  Many.  Tears.  Too.  Many.  Flaws.

I have wept those words - silently screaming in my soul into my spirit.   Maybe.  Just.  Stop?

I must have missed the God-directive in my particular life.  Just.  Stop.

I must have misstepped too many times and the tears are surely too telling of my wayward tale.  Just.  Stop.  Too many tears.  The sum total of the sin is surely insurmountable.

Have you ever wondered the same?)

And then . . .

         Shall reap in joy."

(Fellow weeping wanderer!  He intended for us to weep!  He knew the too often tears, the countless crocodile weeping would come at their sin and at our own!  For in the wandering weeping we find a cleansing, a burning of soul to sojourn us to Spirit.  At the sum of your sin - never question your value, or your God ordained place and position.  Never. Consider.  An.  All.  Stop.  At the sum of our sin with the too many tears, only lift blurry eyes heavenward and praise the God whose massive shoulders shouldered our sin all the way to the cross and obliterated it there!  For we shall reap in joy!  For the sanctified saint all tears sown into the Savior shall reap joy!  So, weeping wanderer, never cry at the crying or wonder at the weeping - for seeds of sadness sown at our sin, sown into our Savior - shall surely reap singing!

Weep away and sing for the Savior who sanctifies sinners!)

"He who continually goes forth weeping,  
     Bearing seed for sowing."

(And in this Word we rightly see the going and the bearing and the sowing.  We hear the Truth that this weeping and wandering, this sojourning as sanctified sinner - this is a distinct doing.  The Truth tells us we are to be a people of going forth, bearing good seed and sowing - we are to be active weeping wanderers.  Going and sowing.  For we know the joy we will reap and we know the sorrow many will reap without the Good Word being planted within!  As we weep crocodile tears and count countless sins we are to continually go forth.  And as we bring our broken hearts before the throne for another mending we are to be bearing the Good Seed to our brothers about.  The sanctified sinner sees the sum of our sins, the totality of theirs and so we sojourn and sow.  The broken hearted, weeping saint still must go forth and sow the seed.  He always intended it that way - the teary eyed saint sowing His good seed.  Sanctified saint - do not allow the tears to deter you from the work He has placed before you.  The joy comes in the doing, the sowing whilst weeping.)

"Shall doubtless come again with rejoining, 
      Bringing his sheaves with him."

(The Message translation tells us 'with armloads of blessing.'  We will doubtless come again, beyond the shadow of a doubt, regardless of what we see before us in the dim world about - we shall come again with rejoicing, bearing the blessings by the armful! Every tear sown into the Savior will doubtless bring about sheaves of sanctified saints!  Armfuls of brothers and sisters who now know their sin-shouldering Savior - this is our inheritance if we weep into the Savior.  It was always as He knew it must be - His sanctified saints being baptized in His burning flame of love.

It will sting, it will smart the eyes and drive you to your knees a time or a thousand.  It was as He knew it must be.)


I do not wonder at the weeping as I once did.  I am not so startled by the sin, theirs or mine, for I have seen the sin-shouldering Savior sanctify the sinner into saint oh so many times.

There is no failure through our faith.  I am not a failure through the grace of God.  You are not a failure for the flame of faith the burns within you.  Anyone or anything that would tell us different is a liar.  

The Untold Tales

There are a few stories I do not want to tell you.  Some things I wish could go unsaid.  

I have dreamed this dream ~ this fairytale dream.  This space, this fairytale space where I write in a way that speaks to you far beyond the words on a page.  A story that tells tales of Home, a story that whispers to you of another way, a Better Way.  I hear murmurs of this tale in the wind whispering to me through telling trees.  I catch a glimpse in the crashing cacophony of waves breaking on shore.  I see the telling tale calling us Home but yet, it lies just beyond my grasp.  

A tale of the Lewis sort.  Every story, every detail, every line!  Causes us to be looking about for that ever present Lion!  That Answer to our every question!  His stories draw out a Hope from within.  No word is wasted, no syllable squandered ~ it all runs with Meaning.  As water to a thirsty soul, his stories are as a balm to our deepest aches.  C.S. Lewis draws us Home, ever Home.  Home is where we find our Healing.

Oh, to tell a telling that draws you closer to Home.  A deep desire I have to tell tales that tell of the Answer.

And so I try.     Blinking cursor.     Blank page.

And so I pray.     Empty journal.     No lines.     No tales.

And so I cry.     Wasted tears.     Even more wasted years.

He and I talk through this thing, yet again.  God that is, He is the He and I am the I and the thing is this ever empty journal, this blank page.  Just for clarity's sake.

We talk and He asks, "What about those other tales?  The stories from the beginning?  Our beginning?"

There are a few stories I do not want to tell you.  Some things I wish could go unsaid ~ 

All these years into several decades later, I can still see him standing there.  Who was this man?  Standing there in the doorway, leaning casually against the counter.  What is he saying to me?  And why is my heart pounding and my palms pouring with sweat?  What did he just say?  Why is he standing so casually about as this very room spins into a rushing whirlwind, whirling and raging to drag us under?  Why is he just standing there?  

Why can I not understand this man and the things he says?

I was just a child.  Just the moment before he spoke, I was a child.  And that childhood would vanish in the instant he breathed those words.

"Well I guess I must say, 'Congratulations,' you are pregnant."

Why can't I breathe?  Am I going to drown right here in the tidal waves raging about, right here before this man in white coat?  Is this the end?  My end?  And why is this man ever speaking to me?

"But, I am assuming this is not what you planned so we can take care of 'that' here."

And the rushing whirlwind threatening to deafen me forever, the whipping wind working to silence me into eternity ~ vanished in that moment.  The room steadied and I saw him.  The ground ceased its tumultuous slamming about and I saw him and I heard him.  Clearly.  It was all crystal clear, perfectly clear.  The confusion that had been holding my head under water was silenced.

"No.  I will be keeping my baby."


At that point I had to walk away.  From the writing that is not, not the doctor.  I could not write it as it was ~ I could not find a way to take you there, back there all those years into the horrible room, that murderous place.  I feel that space, those words as palpably as I feel my own heart beat ~ I can hear the rushing wind whipping fear and murder all about.  But, I could not find the words to take you there.  And we need to go back there.  We need to hear the raging storm that threatens to steal life and murder hope, for it is all about in this dark world we sojourn through.  And we can not hear it from our cushioned, air conditioned seats in the pews as we listen to the concert (I am sorry, the 'worship').  The murderous waves that scream and screech at young life, scared life, lost life and hopeless life ~ we can not hear it over the sound system.  But, many will perish under it.  Many will die hopeless in it, these screaming waves of death.  And we must hear it, we must go back there and hear it.

So, I walked away.

And I asked Him, "How do we tell this?  How can I take them there?"

And this is what He gave me ~

You split the seas so I could walk right through it.  The rushing wind and waves of death and murder amassed on my every side BUT you split the seas and WE walked right through it!

A flood of violence had burst into that room and the rushing tidal wave of murder threatened to steal two lives.

Mine and hers.

But, this tiny little life, this beautiful ember burning brightly with hope and promise had a Warrior standing guard.  He stands the watch.

And on that day that murder roared its thunderous raging scream in my ears — Warrior Father would silence it all and carry two of His babes safely away.


We walked away that day and we never looked back.  She was never a "that," she was always a beautiful little life that carries the Spirit of God in her.  She is gentle and kind, she is peaceful and calm.  She is a blue eyed and curly haired beauty.  She was never a "that."  She was always a beautiful little life.  And Warrior Father would war on her behalf, continually and consistently.  He would deliver us out of the hands of violence and murder countless more times.  Oh the ways He has warred for her.  At times the warring has been breath taking and at times terrifying.  This little life has tremendous value and worth to Him.  Warrior Father will not stand for the wounding of His little ones.


He is bringing me full circle.  These twenty-two years since He split those seas — I have not known that He warred that day on my behalf as well.  There were two little lives brimming with Hope and Possibility and  He was Warrior Father to them both.  I have not known that.  But, He is bringing me full circle.  He loves life, ALL life.  I was never just a vessel to carry forth His daughter, I was always daughter too.  We, He and I, are coming about full circle.

How could I not know that?  This murderous voice, this telling lies liar has continued to hound me.  Scream at me.  Whisper to me.  Lie to me.

But, He is bringing me full circle.

He loved me that day.  That day that many would call a resounding failure in the young life of a young woman.  He loved me.  And I had failed.  I had failed myself.  I had failed her.  And I had surely failed Warrior Father.  But, He loved me on and on and on and He loved me through those split seas of screeching lies.

And do you know His love is often His warring.  He is a Warrior Father, He loves therefore He went to battle and decisively won the war.  His people?  His loving people?  Need to be a warring people who war for life, ALL life.

A Perilous Path We Tread

It is a dangerous thing.  An entirely too dangerous of a thing to tell a tale that has not yet written its final line.  For who can ever know the place at which a story will end?  None, save the Master Storyteller and He, I am surely not.

And it is nearing insanity to tell the tale of an unfinished telling in which you are the one not only doing the telling, but the one living the tale.

Insanely dangerous.

And yet, I do know that if I do not tell this tale, these tales, even knowing the grave danger, I may never tell another tale again.

For quite sometime I had settled into just not telling any tales, not this unfinished tale or any other for that matter.  We can not all be story tellers, can we?

But, in that not telling of this unfinished tale I have found myself . . . lost.  Simply and profoundly lost.

So while the telling is dangerous and I may find great peril along this telling path — I may also find my way again.  Maybe.

I must risk the perilous path to find myself unlost.

Will you journey this perilous path with me?  And may we find our way again.  His way.

Known.

She had sent me this message -

             "Do one thing every day that scares you."

                                        ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

I knew immediately this thing that scares me; is simply this.  For no explainable reason, this one word after another; this blinking cursor taunting me, mocking me ~ this is the thing that scares me.  It is bizarre really and yet, quite true.  I was active duty once upon a time ago, a volunteer fire fighter, triathlete and mother of eleven children!!!  Why in the world would anything short of a firing squad scare me?  For let us be real, teenagers can often feel like a firing squad.  I jest, partially.  How can words on a screen scare me?  That blinking, mocking cursor strike terror in my veins?!

Bizarre?  Yes.  And yet, entirely true.

What is it about words strung together on this page that terrify me?  Is it the grammar or the syntax?  The spelling?  It is actually nothing of the sort for I am a lover of the written word - nothing makes my heart go pitter patter quite like the rustling of pages turning.  A coffee shop in conjunction with a bookstore - well, be still my heart.  A library with a coffee shop stops be dead in my tracks every time!  New to Nashville we are and my husband recently asked me what I would like to do downtown but of course ~ what else could there be apart from ~ visit the library?!  His slight eye roll did not go unnoticed.

No.  The words I love.  The fear is rooted deeply not in the words but in the quiet, yet unmistakable fact that they are my words.  And in my writing and your subsequent reading there is a knowing.  It is the knowing I doth detest and the knowing that causes deep knots deep inside.  I struggle to be known.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

What if that one thing causes you to know me and then reject me?  What if that thing leads to you determining I am worthy?

That is my human frailty ~ our human frailty.  What if we are tried and tested and found wanting?  How do we ever come back from that?

Being known.  And then possibly not wanted.  That is what keeps me from hitting publish, that is what keeps words locked away behind prison door.  Maybe you can relate?  Maybe you can not.  My husband can not fathom being known and then rejected, he lives with a core stability that openly and aggressively rejects the idea that he could be found wanting.  He does not fear being known because he can not imagine then being rejected.  I envy him.  He lives as open book.  Solid in who he is, what he has to give and never questioning his ability to be friends with EVERYONE!  I envy him.

True story ~

Almost a decade ago we determined to do something for God.  To attempt to show the love of Christ to some hurting young people.  We charged ahead with the best of intentions and firmly believed that Jesus would meet every need, heal every hurt and that we would be a raging Holy Spirit infused success!

Truer story ~

We failed.  Utterly and colossally.  We failed.  We failed hourly and daily.  We failed in grand fashion and we failed for all the world to see.  Our sin repeatedly got in the way, His way.  We have been attacked from within and from without and from every side and angle!  We have had things said about us, to us and all around us that I never dreamed possible in my life ~ I did not know one could be so despised.  We failed.  And many people do not want us to forget about it.  We failed.  We failed them.  We failed Him.


And so I did what many failures do; I retreated into my own failure cocoon.  I buried my head in the sands of failure and cried myself to sleep and avoided anyone whom may want to remind me of my failures (as if I could ever forget).  And I nursed my wounds and apologized to God for having embarrassed Him and thanked Him repeatedly for salvation.  What else could I do?  But hide.  I had so deeply wanted to bless Him but yet, I had shamed Him.  But, I knew salvation is surely for the shamed.  That was the point of the cross, correct?  That is why He bled and died and rose again, for such a failure as me.  I clung to that Truth in a new and profoundly painful way.  And I hid.

And how can I explain what I found in my hiding?  In my failure?  I can not rightly tell this telling ~ I am entirely insufficient to detail these moments, this space of my failure cocoon but I must try.

Into the isolation of my failure cocoon Someone slipped in ~ only He could gently make His way into the emptiness and darkness and meet with me there.  In truth He entered so peacefully and quietly that I did not at first notice Him.  I was certain I was alone in the failings and the shame ~ why would anyone enter that?  Many had found us unworthy of the most benign friendships, determining not to even enter a common room with us; now here I find Someone not only reaching out in an act of basic friendship but He was willingly climbing into the failure cocoon with me.

At first I could not speak.  What could I say to the One whom I had shamed and disappointed, Who now entered into the pain and extended a hand of deep knowing towards me.  What could I say?

For months I said nothing.  We just sat.  Slowly He made His way closer to me.  Day by day, inch by inch He closed the gap.  For I was as a wounded animal and fight or flight was always just a moment away.  And He did not want to fight and He did not appear to want me to flee.  I sat quietly, confused. And day by day, inch by inch He made His way.

One morning I so desperately wanted to reach out and grab the Hand of Knowing but how could I hold that hand?  The hand that I had shamed and failed?  If He touched me then He would surely know what I was and in that knowing He may reject me.  I knew I could not survive His rejection so I stayed on quietly, immobile.

Knowing.  Be known.  And then found wanting.  I was wanting.

I could not survive His rejection.

And in this space of failure He would do a thing I can never quite tell.  But, I must.

In that morning that I so desperately wanted, needed to hold His Hand of Knowing, He picked me up and cradled me in His arms.  We never spoke, we just quietly rocked.  Day by day, moment by moment.  I stayed there, in His arms.  Quiet.  Immobile.  We did not speak.  Day by day, month by month.  He held me.  As Father cradles brand new babe with absolute devotion and love, He held me.  Day by day, month by month, year by year.  He held me.  We never spoke.  We did not need to.  I just needed to be held.

In my failure cocoon, when the world had rightly found me wanting ~ He climbed inside and held me.  And as the days turned into weeks and the weeks quietly passed into months all the words He did not speak would tell me a tale I had not yet really known ~ He loves me unconditionally.

He met me there in the failings and the shame and He held me as His new born babe, and His eyes showed nothing but oceans of love.

Knowing.  Be known.  It does not carry quite the sting it once did ~ for I am known and yet still so deeply loved and cherished.  As new born babe.  He loves me.

To the Weird Kid in the Corner

He had said that thing ~ early one morning.  In the still of the quiet.  Maybe in the stillness I could really hear.  Maybe.  Maybe not.

But, that thing he had said, it would not leave me.  Maybe the stillness of sleeping babies and the quiet of slumbering teens would allow me to really hear, to really know.  Maybe.  Maybe not.

Oh, why do I falter so?

To him, I had been lamenting as to my silence.  Lamenting my own lack of voice, my own inability to speak.  Speak and be heard, speak and be known and understand.  I feel the silence.  Muzzled, I have been.  A gag order.  At times it has felt as if it were God ~ hushing me.  Humbling me.  At other times ~ I have wondered ~ a nefarious silencing?  But, the silence, my silence has been deafening.  The lack has been suffocating ~ to me.  I lamented.  He listened.  And then he said this thing ~

"Your voice is writing, you will not be able to speak until you write."

The words hung there, suspended, they grasped at something right before me.  Dangling.  Clinging to something.  Right before me and all around ~ I felt his words there daring me to really see, to really hear, as those brave words desperately clung to something all about me.

What was that grasping his words were doing?  What were they clinging to right before my very eyes?

In the stillness, in the quiet of my heart, I knew then in that moment that they clung to one simple, yet magnificent thing.

Hope.

His words clung to Hope.  Dancing before me, daring me to believe ~ He had given me a voice, if only I could, I would obey His way.  The way He has given me to tell the Truth.

I had to reach out and grab them, take a hold of those words ~ those words ~ dancing before me, daring me to believe in Hope.  A Hope that knows me, a Hope that loves me, a Hope that values me and will always listen to me.  He had not set a gag order, He had only asked that I know His way, His specific way for me.

It is slightly different for us all you know?  The Truth is unchanging but our unique voice, our particular blue print on how we show forth His Truth is all so simply different.  That is how intricately He knows, how desperately He delights in me ~ that He craves a specific way of showing forth His Truth in me.

No other can tell my story of my Truth in Him.  Only I can do that telling and He oh so wants to hear from me!  He wants to hear His Truth from my mouth, my hand.

I am not part of the masses to Him.  I am not another face in the crowd.  Oh no, I am so much more then the masses and He ALWAYS spots my face in that heaping crowd!  And so He set before me ~ a way, His way, our way ~ to communicate.  I am special to Him, the apple of His eye and because I am a stand out (to Him) He has this particular way of our doings.

And there it is ~ those words tantalizing real, clinging to that Hope that is ever before me.  That Hope that I am special to Him ~ so special in fact that He foreordained a way for me!  Before the beginning of time He set down this special way He desires to speak to me.  That is how special I am!

And to the weird kid in the corner, who could just never quite fit in . . . well that Truth, that I am special to Him, that He has a particular way, a unique only to me, way of speaking to me . . . well to the kid become woman who could just never get it right . . . that Truth changes everything.

I am not a number, a face in the crowd, just another statistic.  I. AM. SPECIAL. TO. HIM.

He and I ~ we have our own, private morse code.

Maybe today another weird kid in the corner is reading this, the one who can never quite do enough ~ to you I say ~ GO FIND IT!  Go find it right now ~ your own private morse code with Him!  Your specific way of talking with Him and your own unique voice.

Because beloved, you were NEVER  just another face in the crowd, you were ALWAYS the face in the crowd.  The face He was always looking to see ~ always looking to and fro to look into your eyes, to tell you you were always loved in such a special and unique way.

If you too were that weird kid in the corner ~ please know, He was always hanging out in the corner with you.  When you were certain no one saw you, and certainly no one could be bothered to hear you ~ He saw and He heard.  You.  As if you were the only one in that room.

So, go find it now ~ go find that way ~ that oh so special to you and only you way,  that He is speaking to you through.  And then stand on the hilltop and scream from the rooftops that He sees you and He hears you and you are oh so deeply loved.  And known.



And there they were, those words dancing before our eyes, clinging to the Hope all about.  WE just have to reach out and grab them.