Waiting room

When the Lord has a message for me, He usually doesn’t shout it across the universe.  It’s subtle, quiet, whispered.  In fact, He’s been teaching me lately that He is not going to scream.

He is not going to yell.

Neither will He demand…or command, for that matter.

All He needs to do is whisper. 

My heart can hear that.  

When He wants my attention, He will gently let me know.  He loves my soul, and my soul was not made for anything but grace.

Yes this, and His glory.

Speaking of grace and glory…

We’ve been having a lot of conversations lately about waiting.  I’m waiting…and waiting…and waiting…and apparently, He is as well.  This morning, I pointed out at least five miracles that He will have to do simply to complete the plans He has already whispered to my heart.  Within these five events, He will have to set in motion multiple other miraculous works.  He really didn’t seem that worried about it.  He gave me the impression He does this kind of thing a whole lot.

Back to His quiet ways.  When I’m lacking, He often brings the wisdom of others to me in a timely manner.  Here are some very recent,  “random” thoughts on waiting and grace:

Waiting is not always passive

Holley Gerth¹ defines waiting as being “expectantly watchful.”  She cites Isaiah 40:31, “Those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”  She notes that “the ‘wait’ here is full of activity—soaring, running, walking.”

She goes on, “Yes there are times when waiting requires literal stillness.  But many times we wait as we go about fulfilling the desires of the Master.  This verse promises that approaching life in this way actually renews our strength.”

Grace in all circumstances

Paul David Tripp wrote a precious book of essays centered on Psalm 27.  A Shelter in the Time of Storm:  Meditations on God and Trouble² gleans much from this psalm of David.  The book was a gift from my friend Jessica, and she told me that she knew I’d find it meaningful from time to time, just as she had.  (Unless you’re completely broken, this is not the type of book you read cover to cover in one or two sittings.  It’s a book you can count on when there are twinges of grief or trial in your heart and mind.)

 

I found  grace in these words:

You will not send me
from Your presence.
You will not drive me
from Your grace.
You will not separate me
from Your glory.
You will not eliminate me
from Your promises.

The poem is about transgression and our (new-covenant) righteousness through Christ.  It was what I needed to hear in regard to my sin and standing…and in regard to my present waiting.  Sometimes I feel cut off from His presence because I cannot easily sense Him in my waiting. 

I fear He has forgotten me. 

I was reminded again that this will never be the case—for any reason.

Stay put and stand firm

I just started Kelly Minter’s Bible study on the life of Ruth³.  I love the story of Ruth—of obedience and overcoming, of loyalty and redemption.  Really love the redemption part!  At the end of Minter’s first study, which is about not trusting and obeying God (a key theme that overshadows Ruth chapter 1), she writes a little something that has stuck with me these past few days:  “Be encouraged by this quote from Matthew Henry, reminding us that fleeing our circumstances doesn’t necessarily remedy them.  “It is our wisdom to make the best of that which is, for it is seldom that changing our place is mending it.’” ⁴

Continuing, she writes, “God is present right where you are.  Stay put and stand firm.  It is always more blessed to be under the care of His will than anywhere else.” 

Give yourself room in the waiting

Now, we can’t drag our feet when God leads us to move on to the next step.  But until we know that step, we must allow ourselves room to breathe and to be attentive.

This is not my strong suit.  My breathing looks like hyperventilation in the waiting.  Attentiveness plays second fiddle to demanding.  My way.  Right here.  Right now.  Got it?

Clearly...

This is not trust exhibited.  

This is not grace claimed. 

The grass is not greener

Unless we are contrasting our current existence with our heavenly home, the grass is exactly the same shade of green on both sides of our personal fence.  I know this, and yet I struggle to be content.  I don’t know the future, but I have a strong indication of at least past of my life’s further ministry and calling. 

Right now, I feel torn between my two “callings”—the one I have in this moment and the one(s) I will have later in life.  This is ridiculous, this duality of purpose I place on myself.   

They don’t form a dividing line in my life.  Actually, they flow into and from the other.  I have to be careful that my looking forward in expectation does not become dissatisfaction with my current ministry.

He has grace enough for both.

1.  All quotes taken from http://www.holleygerth.com/heart-to-heart-with-holley/2012/4/23/the-best-kind-of-waiting.html.  Published April 23, 2012.

2.  Tripp, Paul David.  A Shelter in the Time of Storm:  Meditations on God and Trouble.   (Wheaton, IL:  Crossway, 2009), 42.

3.  Minter, Kelly.  Ruth:  Loss, Love & Legacy.  (The Living Room Series.)  (Nashville, TN;  LifeWay Press, 2009.  Fourth Printing December 2010), 14.

4.  Matthew Henry.  Matthew Henry’s Commentary on the Whole Bible.  Vol. 2.  (Publication details unknown.)

An expected blessing

I shared a fantastic meal with a close friend this past week.  We had not seen each other face to face in several years, though we have kept in touch in other ways. 

It was easy to pick up where we left off as if no time had passed.
Good friendships are like that.

She can ask me the hard questions, and she can tell me the truth about herself and about me. 

I trust her—we’ve been friends for 15 years.  

Prayed together.
Laughed together.
Cried together.

Talked a lot over those years.  A whole lot.  (We’re both talkers.)

We’ve been trying to catch up with each other for months and always found ourselves busy and overscheduled.  This reunion was an unexpected, last-minute assembly.

 

However, it was also an expected blessing.  We knew it would turn out well.  We just had to be in the same place at the same time.  Years of understanding each other would take over from that point.

In the course of our conversation, she shared how glad she was to have this opportunity to chat.  She’s like me—left only to our own thoughts and concerns, we can focus on our challenges and disappointments.

We become discouraged.

But an amazing phenomenon happens when we’re together. 

We talk about the trials and troubles, and we gain perspective.  In explaining our situations, we are able to realize that we’ve become myopic.

Stressed.
Distressed.

We’re not exactly standing firmly on our faith.

And we recognize we’re in the same boat!

Different stressors.
Same God.
Same wise, faithful, loving, sovereign, kind, omnipotent God.

I should know this by heart by now—after all, I became a Believer at the age of four.  I was raised in church.  My degree is in music ministry from a Bible college.  But sometimes I am distracted from what I know about God and His wisdom until a sister comes alongside to…well, truthfully…to rescue me. 

We learn from each other.  We help to reframe our circumstances in light of faith.  We walk away refreshed.

Restored.

Reminded that we are loved by an awesome God and that we are playing a minute but necessary role in His redemptive plan for all of Creation.

I find the same happens in church. 

It’s as if we come in as individuals carrying burdens.

But we walk out knowing once again that we are bound together by the provision of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Brother.

Empowered by the Holy Spirit to assist each other.
Given encouragement so we may encourage another.
Learning from our own suffering that we may be merciful and compassionate toward our neighbor.

Hebrews 10:25 exhorts us not to give up meeting together, but to encourage one another. 

Church is not about going through all of the correct, holy motions at all of the correct, holy moments.
It’s foremost about God.
Then, it’s about ministry to others.

We are refreshed as we refresh others (Proverbs 11:25).

How can we speak into—pour into—the lives of our neighbors?  How can we help to reframe every frustration (and victory!) into faith-filled, God-honoring reflections?

Church, please!  Let us make way for these expected blessings!

Doors

Darkness.  

Inky, dense, scorching blackness.  Silence at first.  Then, a frantic clamoring.  Doors slam closed, creak open, slam again.

Chaos.  Unending chaos.  And fear so substantial you could hold it in your hands if they were untied.

Where is your breath?  Have you been able to catch it even once since you were captured?
Dragged?
Unwittingly deceived and drawn from that distant dream known as Safety?

Can’t swallow.  Can’t scream.  Can’t get the bitter taste to leave.

That darkness again.  Is that the remnant of your soul?  Slipping steadily, steadily away.  Yanked, yanked away by cold, grasping daggers of danger, defeat, despair.

Give up.  Just give in.  Why fight any longer?

Worthless.

Hopeless.

You.

Without warning, your door opens.  He stands there, with his scalpel-y switchblades of talons glinting in the sickening red fire of his eyes.

Reaching.  Reaching.
          Creeping.  Menacing.

Cowering, bound and unable to save yourself.  Destined to perish here.

In another realm, Light quells darkness.  Valor arises and vanquishes evil.  A father fights for his daughter.

He is on his way.
Battle after battle.
He cannot be deterred.
Wars fought, won.

Coming.
          He is coming.

Precious—yes, he is searching for that one thing he would die for today.
Die for any day.

And when he reaches her, she will know this:
There is no darkness too intense,
          no pain too strong,
                    no cunning too crafty
to hold them asunder any longer.

Daughter, he is coming for you!

Breathe.  Be alert!  Get ready.

Prepare to adjust your vision to the holy, white brightness of the Hope that rides on a swift horse.

Hoofbeats draw nearer
and nearer
and nearer
and…

Can you sense it?  Hairs on the back of your neck carry the boding.

He is here.  Almost.  Here.

Chaos!  Shouting!  Chaos!  Raging!

Slam, slam, slam. Creak, slam.
Crack!  Creak!  Crash!  Slam!

Doors that once stood on hinges lie splintered on the floor.

One more door.  One left.

A captor that once terrorized now lies defeated on the floor.

Last door.

Locked.
          Barred.
                    Chained.

No matter.  This door collapses beneath the determined, boot-clad foot of Father.

This is the door.  This room holds the girl.  His girl.
His treasure.

Breathe.  Breathe now.
It is finished, done.
I have come to take you back.
To take you home.

Confusion.  Why, why, why would he come for you?
What here is worth returning to safety?
What here is worth redeeming?

What here is worth loving?

He reads your eyes, he who created you.  He knows you.  He always understood this would be your reaction.

Gently, and with bloodied hands, he loosens your restraints, brushes your hair from your eyes and gazes into your soul.

Hope seeps into your emptiness.  Light trickles into the blackness that has choked your being.

His love equals freedom, and he kneels beside you with the vast expanse of this love in his eyes.

Kneels and whispers.

Yes, it is for you, my used, broken, frightened girl.  All for you.  I could not stop until I reached you, freed you, carried you home.

Rest, just rest.  It is safe.  I can protect you if you will allow me.  You will be restored.

The door of our home is always, always open to you.  Always open.

Will you allow me to restore you safely, securely there?

Love letters from God

Have you ever looked up and found a gift that leaves you breathless?  Inspired?  Humbled?  Amazed at the beauty, you feel something stirring deep in your soul—a response to the offering you are about to receive.

Lately, I’ve been fascinated by some spectacularly gorgeous cloud displays during my commutes.  The way the sunlight peeks through, streams through, bombards through the misty cover….

All unique.

     All lovely.

          All on days when I was discouraged.

I realized these are love letters in their own way.  It’s as if God is saying to me,

I’m present. 

     I’m capable. 

          I’m glorious in majesty. 

               Look at how beautifully I can express this truth through My creation!

 I am thinking of you today,

     and I love you.

I created you for a personal relationship with Me,

     and I enjoy relating to you in ways you understand and appreciate.

These are the days when I want to leave behind the office, the paperwork, the bills, the chores, the traffic, the concerns and do what I did when I was a little girl:  lay down on my back in the grass

and gaze…

     and gaze…

          and gaze into the exquisiteness right above me. 

Watching for changes in the vaporous canopy.   Catching glimpses of God in the midst of His firmament.

What does He speak to your heart?  What do you hear when you read His love letters to you? 

He is mindful of us.  Not in some abstractly distant way, but in everyday, tiny moments like the fluffy clouds that capture my heart with their sunlit miles of massive, yet ethereal splendor. 

Or like sweet baby laughs,

     ebullient flower gardens,

          welcome breezes on warm days,

               gentle words from friends and strangers.   

“O Lord, our Lord,
     how majestic is your name in all the earth! 

You have set your glory above the heavens. 

When I consider your heavens,
     the work of your fingers,
       the moon and the stars,
         which you have set in place,
     what is man that you are mindful of him,
       the son of man that you care for him?

You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings
    and crowned him with glory and honor.” 

(Psalm 8)

“For you make me glad by your deeds, O Lord;
     I sing for joy at the works of your hands. 

How great are your works, O Lord,
     how profound your thoughts!” 

(Psalm 92)

Home improvement

II Corinthians 5:7

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation;

the old has gone, the new has come!”

I love the home makeover shows on HGTV.  I mean really, really love them.  They inspire me…to dream up DIY projects for my house that I will never complete because I fear I lack the expertise, equipment, and audacity to tackle the job successfully.  So, I keep watching and I keep dreaming and I keep the phone number of a good contractor handy in case I ever decide to act and need to be saved from my lack of expertise and equipment and audacity.

I’m intrigued by the 15-minutes-of-fame homeowners on these shows.  Some of them have the skills and vision for their ventures, and HGTV is their platform to inspire the rest of us.  Most of the time, however, the hapless, hopeless, helpless homeowners have no idea what to do and how to do it. 

Enter the designer.  Suddenly [insert heavenly soundtrack here], CHANGE becomes achievable…and inevitable.  Of course, the owners still have no idea what the end result will be because of their limited experience with the designer, the process, the materials. 

So, they wait…and wait…and commentate.  On their ideas, on their vision, on their desire to change…just enough but not too much.  They must stay in their comfort zone.  Haven’t they ever watched this channel?  They are in for a transformation!

Recently, an episode followed a few different homeowners who bought new homes and the changes they made when taking up residence.  The former owners were then invited to see the houses after the fact.  Before the moves took place, the original proprietors extolled the virtues of the supposedly finished canvases they were leaving behind.  They supposed that no change could be made because they had already achieved perfection in the design.  Their house was move-in ready!

Of course, the new owners saw no such thing.  The new house had the wrong “personality” for their tastes—so kitchens had be gutted, carpets pulled up, wallpaper steamed, and gardens torn out.  And on and on it went until the old and tacky was replaced with the new and trendy.

You can imagine how the former owners reacted when they saw the changes.  Yep.  Shock.  Complete.  Total.  Shock.  Of course the renovations were mostly amazing, beautiful, fresh visions for passé spaces.  The new owners were to be commended.  But were they?  Hmmm…sometimes… for a little improvement here or there…but…mostly…not.

Wails rose up from those bereaved of their beloved cabinets and carpets installed sometime during FDR’s administration (his first term).  My especial favorite:  “What did they do with the ceramic rooster collection I left for them in the kitchen?  They matched the wallpaper.  Hey, what happened to the wallpaper?”  (Clearly, one person’s rooster collection is another person’s Goodwill donation.)    

I know that you know where I’m going with this: 

How often do I situate my life just so and never make a change to my habits, my heart?  The new Owner has arrived, and I confidently inform Him that He’ll love the sofa in the living room that dates back to 1986 and the curtains in the kitchen that match the wallpaper that matches the tablecloth that matches the rooster collection I hate but am too cheap to part with. 

Meanwhile, I hope to distract Him from looking too closely at the closets and the basement where I hide my “stuff” while I temporarily cover up the monuments to me that I keep on my mantle for all to see when I think He's not around.

He looks around taking in the view.  Pauses.  Sighs.  Rolls up His sleeves and looks at me.  Smiles.

But I settle in for the challenge. 

“I don’t like change,” I tell Him.

And He replies, “I can see that.”

“You can’t make any improvements on this place.  It’s done.  I’m done.  See?”  I declare as I swing my arms around to direct His view.

“Nice try, kid,” as He walks over to the next room and looks inside.  “I have some ideas for this place that will improve its value, its character.  You’ll be surprised, and you won’t like some of my plans at first, but it’ll be worth it.  Now, please let Me get to work.”

And off He goes ripping out the dated, dowdy, tacky, worn pieces of heart and mind.  The Dumpster outside begins to fill up with stuff.  Junk.  Clutter.

I keep trying to take it out and put it back—I am a creature of habit, a packrat, after all.  But He finds it again and out it goes.

And just when I think He’s done, He mentions that this reno is…yes, that’s right…an ongoing project.  He’ll be on the job site for awhile. 

A lifetime, He says.

He knows that I have an affinity for what He knows is second-rate furniture and gaudy fixtures.  Of course, from my myopic perspective, the items I choose aren’t tawdry, but from His perspective….

Well, let’s just say that He special orders me engraved silver photo frames from Tiffany’s while I tend to pick up chrome-plated plastic ones at Target.  Big difference in quality and value.  His choices may cost dearly and cause me to wait impatiently until they arrive.  Mine don’t, and they clearly aren’t better.  His are perfect for me and worth the sacrifice.  Mine are a poor substitute and chosen out of a lack of vision and experience (otherwise known as wisdom).

Sometimes, God is kinda like the Mike Holmes of character renovation.  Mike gets called in when a contractor has done a bang-up job…of leaving trusting customers in the lurch.  Poor workmanship, faulty techniques, laziness, lack of proper permitting, and the like.

Enter Mike.

He saves the day by ripping out all of that contractor’s terrifyingly terrible—and often life-threatening—handiwork.  Then, he and his crew do the job again—and they do it over and above code.  Mike’s a hero.  Everyone loves him, because he cares enough to get his hands dirty in order to whip properties into shape and keep the public safe from the marauding charlatans who apparently prey quite often on those living in Toronto’s suburbs.

Enter God.

He gets His hands a bit dirty, too—what with opening up the closets we want to keep closed and ripping out drywall that conceals layers of problems beneath.  It’s a dirty job—we’re a messy people, and we often turn to other messy people to solve our dilemmas.  We like our personal brands of selfishness, as long as it’s hidden and not “too bad.”  And we don’t want anyone to really see or deal with what we are hiding beneath putty and plaster and crown moldings.

But God knows it’s dangerous to let us keep on that way, so He shows up with a demo crew of one—the Holy Spirit—in tow.  Here’s the thing, though—the demo itself is not dangerous.  The proper precautions are taken not to destroy anything fragile or beautiful or complete.  It’s designed to preserve and protect the rest of the structure.  Sledgehammers and jackhammers are reserved only for the most stubborn structural pieces that won’t come loose for replacement any other way. 

And it takes time.  There is an orderliness to it.  Planning is involved or else chaos would ensue.  It takes a Master Planner, a Designer to move the project forward effectively and safely.  We just can’t do it on our own—our viewpoint and proficiency are limited.  We can adapt, but we aren’t experts at everything—we need Someone with more…well, wisdom.  Someone who can see the whole picture, envision the future, and decide what to save and what to jettison, what to preserve and what to demo, what to repurpose and what to renovate.

I think the best segment of those HGTV home improvement shows comes at the end—the before and after shots.  We see the mayhem that was and the transformation that is.  At the beginning of each episode, I’m like most of the homeowners—I know something could be done to improve the space, but I don’t quite see the potential.  By the end of 30 minutes—“Caution:  Renovation projects in your TV may take longer than they appear”—by the end of 30 minutes, I ask myself, “Why didn’t I think of that?!  It’s perfect!”  (Or…“That’s horrible, but it’s not my house, so who am I to say?”)

Each time realization sets in that I’ve come to the end of a particular heart renovation project, I get excited about the “reveal,” my first glimpse at the product of all the hard work—and I’m amazed when I compare the before and after photos.

When all is said and done, when He has completed His work, when the old has been thoroughly replaced by the new that has come, I have a feeling that I’ll stand in the middle of my heart and look rapturously about me as I proclaim, “I love what You’ve done with the place!”

Have you forgotten about me?

I'm tired.  Tired of struggling, tired of failing, tired of...me.  I am weak.  I keep falling.

My sin rallies around me--it is not tired.  It shows no signs of fatigue.  No, this enemy is strong and vicious.  My weakness is its reward, it's lifebreath.  It is ugly and remorseless and bent on my destruction.

I have fought the battle...and lost.

Again.

Given in to my selfish vanity and the lie that I should do whatever I want when I want. 
                             Hideous lies that I let myself believe.

But, this time...this time...I am broken.  The temptation-cum-reality sinks into my soul and my spirit is afraid and absolutely dejected.  I have to confess (again), but I don't want to see Him. 

Actually, I don't want Him to see me. 

The ugliness of my sin cloaks me, and I am wholly aware of how I must offend, anger, sadden Him.

I am a Believer.  I know His Son personally and have for years.  His Spirit dwells within me.  I should not hesitate to ask for forgiveness, but I do not want to enter His presence.

The forgiveness is mine.  The "clean slate" is mine if I ask for it.  He will not condemn. 

And yet I am so ashamed of myself and my unworthiness.

I debate about going to see Him now or waiting.  Maybe my transgression will lose some of its stain if I wait.  This is illogical, but I am distressed.

Then I hear, literally hear, a voice say, "Have you forgotten about me?" 

I know this voice--it is the voice of His Son.  My Brother.  He speaks softly, gently.  In my mind, I see this One standing between the Father, the Judge, and me.  He tells me that He will speak for me.

Plead my case.

I am guilty, but I have already been acquitted through the Son.

"I have not forgotten about You!" I cry.  "But why would You want to help me? 
            "Again?
                     "I have fallen, and I will fall again.  Don't I embarrass You?"

But, He is kind--He understands me and my plight.  He has seen this before.  He will see it again...and again...and again.  And not just in me.

He beckons, "Let's talk with Him together."  And so, we go in and we talk.  I am in right standing again.  Yet, I am human.  This will have to be done again.

My Brother reminds me that today is a new day. 

I can start fresh.  I can call for Him at the first sign of trial and temptation.

His Name alone can change the course of the battle. 

                          His Name alone can hide me from my enemy.

                                                   His Name alone can restore my reputation with our Father.

When He asked if I had forgotten about Him, I am honest enough to say that I almost had.  I thought I had to fight on my own, to face the consequences on my own.  I had believed these lies from the one who works to defeat me each day. 

But not today.  Today is a new day.

Treasures in tattered envelopes

Last weekend, my great aunt gave me some letters my dad wrote to her while he was in college. He was an avid letter writer in the days before the proliferation of cell phones and email and internet, which happened to be his entire 44-year lifetime.  In 1972, he hadn't met my mom, and our family was still several years from being formed.  I finally had the time to read the letters today.
Bittersweet.

He writes like I write...or rather, I write like he wrote.  The same words, the same phrasing.  It was like having him back for just a few minutes and finally understanding more about him...and more about me.

Yes, bittersweet.  I deeply miss him, but his letters tell of a life of great faith.

He was SOLD OUT for the Lord, which does not surprise me one bit.  I totally lost it when I read the names of men he led to the Lord and discipled while at Penn State--I didn't know there were so many--and he simply mentioned them so my aunt could pray for their spiritual growth and for his ministry.

Then, I found the letter where he illustrated the plan of salvation so that my dear, sweet, slightly timid aunt could show one of her friends to the Way of Life.  Verse after verse poured forth from his pen.  He was IN THE WORD, and it was effective.  I believe those words did not return void.

I know my dad better now than I did earlier today.  I found that we have a few favorite Scriptures in common--verses I didn't find in my own devotions until after he went Home.

He could never have guessed that his daughter would read his letters 40 years after they were written--and 17 years after his Homegoing--and find truth and identity there.

This was a gift, a precious gift.  And I am blessed.