Question

When does a person stop growing up and start growing old?

Stormy Knots

I can't decide if I like storms. A part of me loves seeing lightning dance across the sky and hearing thunder roll in the distance. A part of me embraces the rhythm of the raindrops as I fall asleep. But there is another part of me: the pit of my stomach. And that part of me doesn't know what to think. My insides knot when I even hear warnings of storms. I don't think I'm afraid. I think I'm aware. Storms make me aware of God's power... and I'm not sure if I like it. I don't like being reminded that the weather man really has no say at all, or that I can't make the rain clouds go away by closing the blinds. Somewhere past my superficial calm and excitement, just for an instant, I wonder if He really knows what He is doing. "You're still in control, right?" I ask. He answers with a soft peace.
I'm reminded of the psalm I read just this morning, Psalm 19.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge.

There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard.

Their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world."

In my quiet time, I wrote this psalm into my own words. Here's my version:

Look into the skies.

Can't you see it? Can't you hear it?

Their actions never cease and their voices never fade.

All people understand because it's a different language, one we all speak.

Their words echo in every corner of the world. All have heard them.

I don't think there's a single person on this earth that hasn't felt that twist in the pit of their stomach. The twist of the storms. The twist that says, "There's Someone more." Sunday night in a mission trip meeting, my dad asked the youth to define "awe". One boy said, "It's bigger than you." In storms, I feel awe. I think everyone does. I think that's exactly what He wants.

Beautiful Things

Yesterday, somewhere between the time my family left the house and the end of Cinderella, I decided I needed to write a new blog. This time, with pictures. So I grabbed my camera and set out through my house, determined to unearth some blog-worthy subject (pausing every now and then to dance and sing along with the television.)

In my kitchen, I found my two round chocolate cakes, sadly cooling on their respective racks, their bottoms tragically uneven-- both from sticking to the pan and my premature nibbling.

On the front porch, I found Mamma's flowers and soil, sitting, waiting for planting hands.

And in my room, I found my latest puzzle, (yes, I like to work puzzles, and yes, I know that is yet another thing I have in common with the elderly. But like a true old lady, I don't give a hoot.) parts finished, most still in fragments on the floor.

Now I knew what I would blog about! How God finishes every good work in us. How He ices our cakes and plants our flowers and fits together all our pieces.

But when I iced the cake, it still looked lumpy.

When I finished the puzzle, several pieces were missing (not uncommon when you use a thrift store as your supplier.)

I was a little miffed. My wonderful illustration had fallen flat on its face. 

It wasn't until this morning that I realized those imperfections fit. After all, we don't turn out perfect either. That's not our Maker's fault. Those bumps and bruises are our own pizazz. The chunks out of the cake are where we want to stick with our own plan instead of his, or where we get tired of waiting on His timing.

 

Those missing pieces are where we refuse to do his will, or we put ourselves in the hands of others before turning to Him.

But even with the mess-ups, the cake was still delicious, and the pieces still made a lovely image. He's not stopped by a few lumps or missing pieces. He doesn't give up on me.

By the way, the flowers turned out just fine, most likely because I had no part in their planting.

Oh, and the plain country bumpkin and the prince did join in marriage.

Chapters in My Book

Isn't it strange how everything that happens in our lives somehow connects, somehow relates? I suppose I never truly realized this before a couple of weeks ago, when my small group leader made a fleeting remark. She was expressing her amazement that something in the final chapter of our study book related to other chapters at the book's start. Then she laughingly chided herself, "Well of course it ties in. It's a chapter in the book." For some reason, this comment stood out to me. I suppose I never before saw my life in that light; that every circumstance is just another chapter in the same book I started with. And even though my eyes were opened that night, I still find it incredible that everything so fits together.

Yesterday morning, as I helped in children's church, I learned something about children. They don't understand the temporality of pain. When they fall, they cry. A bumped knee is a crisis and a scraped elbow is the end of the world. Then it's gone. The pain disappears and they forget anything happened. One little girl in particular, a little girl who struggles mentally, showed me this. I found her sobbing in the floor rubbing her arm, which had been scratched in play. I told her it would be alright, but she kept saying, "It hurts." I told her it wouldn't hurt for long, and she looked at me, tears covering her face and asked, "When will it heal?" I told her it would be better by tomorrow, that she wouldn't even remember she was hurt. She simply said, "Okay," and arose to continue in her play.
She wasn't sinning, you know. It wasn't wrong for her to cry for her pain. It wasn't wrong for her to ask when the healing would come. And it certainly wasn't wrong for her to stand up and move on.

On Saturday, my sister's softball team lost in the conference championship game. This means no National Tournament, and the end of their season together. Everyone mourned the loss. My heart ached for my sister as I watched her cry with her softball family. But as I walked away from the field, I saw a group of little girls playing in the mud, oblivious to the Great Tragedy. And suddenly, I saw life moving on.

Several years ago, I, with my highschool small group, went to visit our leader in the hospital. She had just had her baby girl. On our way home, we found out that a man in our community, a respected man, had commited suicide. A new life was born the same night an old one slipped away.

In my mind, all of these three circumstances fit together. They teach me of pain, of how to deal with it and how God is still gracious in its midst. I've wondered before, how much simpler it would be if the world would simply stop for our pain. If time would just stand still to let us ache and cry. But now I see the grandeur of it all. The world turning on. The immense hope of a new life ushering out the old. The grace of children to play while the old ones weep. 

I see these chapters, I read over them and my heart is stirred. Isn't my Author magnificent?

A few chapters of my life.

My God is Love

As my first year of college draws to a close, I am reminded of how changed I am from the girl I was when I began. God has shown me so much in these two semesters. As I look through my journal, I see in ink my struggles and my deliverances. I think the two journal entries I share today show my greatest discovery of these past seven months.

January 18, 2011
Tonight in Collide, I was angry at God. We watched a video promoting missions in Asia. My heart ached for these people. They are already hurting and poor, but to add to that, they invest their broken lives in lies. The video showed Christians being persecuted, killed for believing the truth. And at the end, it showed orphans, unloved innocents. It left me asking "why?" Why them? Why not me? Why would God allow this? After the video was the message, then the time for worship. The band strikes their first notes and I am angry. It's "How He Loves." No He doesn't. Why would He allow this suffering? How can He love us, in our perfect chapel with our group of Christians and ignore the bleeding and broken in the streets? How can He love? How is that love? I sat while all those around me stood; they praising, me glaring at God and shaking my head. My heart and soul mourned for those unloved, and my body wept.

I went on in that entry to state that I knew God loved, even though I didn't understand it, but those were just words. My heart was hardened against that love for two more days. Then my God softened me.

January 22, 2011
Two nights ago, we had our full practice for Singers, we ran through our entire service. During the first few songs, I didn't really worship, I was still angry. Then it came time for the offertory which Mrs. Tracy plays on the piano. We all sat as she played her song, a combination of the two hymns "Oh How He Loves You and Me" and "Oh How I Love Jesus." I felt so frustrated! Again?! Why must everything be about God's love? Then it hit me. Many of our songs speak of the cross. It must be love. There is no other reason that God would become man. There is no other reason Jesus, perfection, would bear the sins of the world, separated from His Father. Why else would he be beaten, pierced, torn, mocked? Why else would He do all of this just for a relationship? It has to be love. There's no other answer. I don't understand it. I don't know why people are suffering persecution, or why babies are starving. But I know He loves.

A day before I wrote the above entry, I decided, on a whim, to write a poem. The poem ended up being about my week.

God is love?

I look at my life.

I see such neat rows.

Where You put everything in place,

Where Your hand is so evident.

I say, “God is love.”

I go to church.

I see my family all sitting in their pews.

We sing together.

Eyes closed, hands raised, I say

“God is love.”

We sit to eat.

We hold hands.

We speak grateful words.

We eat.

And we say, “God is love.”

But then I see faces,

Faces streaked with tears,

Homes of cardboard and tin,

Meals of stinking garbage.

I see this and say,

“Is this love?”

I see swollen bellies and matted hair.

I gaze into hauntingly hollow eyes.

I watch the children suffer for what they never did.

I see and say,

“God, you call this love?”

I go to my church.

I hear my songs.

But now I don’t even stand.

I sit and shake my head,

Angry at such love.

Then I remember,

My God bled.

My God hung.

My God died,

For this, for us.

How can He not be love?

The Beauty of it All

Yesterday, that Easter Sunday, I attended my church's Easter Cantata. Being forewarned, I wasn't expecting a grand showcase of musical talent. And I didn't find one.

The notes they sang weren't always perfectly on key. The sections didn't blend in a delicate balance. Sometimes, the sound would fade as choir members struggled to maintain the note before gasping a breath.

And yet, I found myself weeping at the beauty of it all.

The service reminded me of a particular couple I stayed with on a Singers trip this past semester.

As we chatted, the two mentioned they had both been to the Holy Land, once together and once only the gentleman with some other family members. When the conversation began to dwindle, and there was nothing worth viewing on t.v., the man, with a teasing tone and hopeful eyes suggested we watch his home videos from Israel. We agreed.

It was not the most thrilling of videos. 

However, one particular scene remains locked in my mind:

The tour guide stands outside a building, explaining that it is a church with remarkable acousitcs. He claims, "Any group that sings in here sounds like angels."

The next moment shows the group inside of the church. They are singing "My God is an Awesome God", and to my ears, they sound nothing like angels. When the group finishes that song, a young girl in the middle of the pack begins singing a hymn.

It's like a scene from a movie. She sounds absolutely beautiful. Her voice resonates in the ancient church, and the whole group sits, many weeping, as she stands and sings.

When she finishes the first verse, she motions for the others to join in. And they do. It's just as loud and slightly off key as before, but somehow now, the sound is transformed.

Now I hear angels.

As I sat in my pew on Sunday, listening to some of Christ's church praise His name, I heard the angels song again.

You see, I don't think God even notices the tune or the key or how many instruments swell in the background. While they sang, I could see my God sitting on His throne in heaven above, eyes closed, hands outstretched soaking in their praise. His heart swelling with the fragrance of their offering.

I fear some who attended the service could only hear the choir. They missed the point. I didn't weep because the sound pleased my ears. I didn't weep because the music was beautiful. I wept because He is Beautiful. Because He deserves all of our praise and more. I wept as my heart sang along with the choir, simply adoring.

Simply amazed.

The Good Friday

I've thought about blogging for some time now. The idea of it is so appealing; letting others know what I find beautiful. In fact, I even started a blog once. I never posted a single word. You see, I'm a journaler, and there was something so impersonal about the click of the typing keys and the glaring screen. Where was my ink? Where were my scribbles? So I finally came to an ingenious solution: blog my journals. This first entry of mine I actually rediscovered today. I wrote it two years ago, the day after Good Friday. As I sat in the floor by my bookshelf, I nearly cried at my own words. My heart ached to share them. This is why I type.

Tomorrow is The Ressurrection.

Yesterday the King of Kings lay in a tomb. Pierced, beaten, bruised, torn, dead. And yet, they call it "Good Friday." Oh, the irony. Oh, the truth.

I can imagine it all.

The Betrayal: how Christ's heart must have broken as one of His best friends kissed Him good-bye. I can almost see His sad smile as Peter quickly brandished his sword to defend against the soldiers, knowing that this loyal companion would soon deny Him thrice. "Oh, Peter," I hear Him sigh.

I see His strength as He holds His tongue before the Sanhedrin-- the very tongue that spoke the universe into being.

I hear the rustle of angels' wings as they refrain from rushing to save their Lord.

I see such beauty as this captive man agrees with their accusations: He is the King. He is the Son of God.

I see the pain in His eyes as those He came for reject Him.

I can feel the crowd pressing tight as Pilate stands, sweat beads glistening on his brow. He is remembering his wife. He knows this Man is innocent. But he cannot dare refuse the people.

I hear the crowd scream out, "Barrabus! Give us Barrabus!" I wonder if the criminal ever thanked them for that.

I wonder if Mary was there. I wonder what she thought as she saw her Son preparing for His death. I think she remembered the stable in Bethlehem: the shepherds, the magi. She sees now the purpose of those gifts.

Pilate is now washing his hands. The people are shouting, "Let His blood be on us and our children!" Lord, have mercy on the souls of those children.

Pilate relents. The strong king is now bowing to his subjects.

Jesus is beaten.

He is nailed to a crudely shaped tree.

He is mocked by those he came for. His face bears their spit; the face of God.

The elders and leaders he once taught in the temple now laugh at his torn, naked body sagging upon the cross. Their shouts mix with the theif's beside Him until you cannot distinguish between the two.

And for the first time in his life, Christ Jesus feels the shame of sin. For the first time in His life, He canot feel or see or hear His Father. He screams out, "My God, My God! Why have You forsaken me?" I can hear Him screaming.

The crowd hears as the King of Kings cries out for His Father. They hear the voice of God.

They see more pain across His face than any criminal they've punished before.

Then He dies.

His life is not taken from Him. He gives up His spirit.

And at that instant, the curtain is torn in two.

The earth shakes, rocks split, dead are raised to life! His death is not a quiet one. His Father will not allow it. They will remember this death.

Somewhere in the darkness, in the temples, the priests freeze as they prepare their sacrifices. Pilate trembles. The crowd gasps. The shepherds quake with the earth. And I imagine, at that moment, all of the animals, the birds of the air, the fish of the sea, and the sacrificial lambs in their fields are still and silent.

And for, perhaps the first time in the history of the earth, all of heaven weeps.