The Lesson of the Present Moment

I read this post that Sarah Markley wrote today.

This line hit hard:

I’m stupid if I tell God to USE ME but don’t CHANGE ME.


uh. yeah.

After a year of deconstruction - the car, the job, the roommates, the fall and injury and then reinjury, the complete change of life direction, the crazy living situation, the not getting into the program in January, the deep wounds that are oh so slowly surfacing and being healed, the very unexpected decisions - after that year, I'm STILL wrestling with God.

Still saying, "use me, but please don't make me change."

You'd think I'd be getting better at this by now.


I'm becoming very aware, these last few weeks particularly, of that tendency to get really ticked off and uncomfortable when MY plan doesn't seem to mesh with where HE's calling.

Basic surrender and trust.


I'm still learning it, and I was reminded that this, surrender and trust, is the lesson of the present moment when I read Sarah's post this morning.

I Liked This...

From today's "Americancatholic.org" Minute Meditation:

Embrace the Mystery

Learn the mystery of surrender and trust, and then it will be done unto you, through you, with you, in you and very often, in spite of you.

— from Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality

Surrender, freedom, hatred and judgement

I'm a judgmental person.

That's a happy way to start a blog post, isn't it?

The truth is, if you know me well, that statement was kind of a "what else is new" thing for you to read, and you're probably already losing interest in this post. Stay with me if you can. This time I think I'm actually going somewhere.

I've been thinking a lot about being judgmental this week. Partly because at times that judgmental nature has a tendency to spiral into hatred - especially when someone I love is being hurt. I've spent a lot of time recognizing this tendency in myself, feeling disappointed by it, and frustrated at it, but also sort of helpless, wondering how on earth one changes something that seems so core to oneself.

I love deeply and (try to) love generously. I'm at moments guarded with my heart - like most of the planet I've been hurt often enough to be tentative in offering the whole of myself to others. But, I will watch you closely. If your words don't line up with your life, I'm going to notice. If you're cruel, I'll notice. If you're harsh with your words, I'll see that too. And I have a huge distaste for hypocrites. Given long enough, I will most likely write you off as someone for whom it is impossible for change to occur.

I'm learning, though, that those things in others that so anger me, that draw out that tendency to judge, are often mirrored in various ways in my own life. That that cruel thing that makes me want to react out of anger and hatred towards someone else hits a nerve, because while I perhaps haven't been vocal about it, I'm had equally cruel thoughts. I'm learning that I can't play holier than thou. That sin and rebellion is still sin and rebellion whether it's overtly acted out or carefully hidden within the depths of oneself.

I've been thinking, too, about surrender and freedom. I've written about it several times before. You can find those thoughts here and here, and the most recent ones here.

In 2008, when I first wrote of surrender, I penned the following in my journal (appearing later on the blog in the first post linked above): "Surrender, I’m discovering is not an easy or painless thing. It is rarely bloodless or tidy. It is the thing that comes after the battle, when the losing side is too weak to carry on, and the cost in lives would be too high to let the battle carry on. It is not a place of negotiation. You can ask for the conditions you desire, but you ask from a position of weakness. You’ve lost, and the victor holds the power in the negotiation."

A few weeks ago I wrote this: "Surrender is never easy. That letting go of my rights in favor of something bigger."

I've been thinking a lot about surrender this week. About, to quote DC Talk, "learning to give up the rights to myself; the bits and the pieces I've gathered as wealth." I've pondered the times I've truly managed, even if just for a moment, to surrender, and the relief and freedom that was there, and I've questioned why it is that that freedom has so often seemed fleeting and the struggles have so often seemed to multiply in the wake of those fleeting moments of freedom and surrender.

And as I prayed and pondered, the following scripture came to mind:

"When an evil spirit leaves a person, it goes into the desert, searching for rest. But when it finds none, it says, 'I will return to the person I came from.' So it returns and finds that its former home is all swept and in order. Then the spirit finds seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they all enter the person and live there. And so that person is worse off than before." (Luke 11:24-26, NLT)

Questions began echoing in my mind, "With what do I fill the free space brought by surrender? Am I intentional in replacing that space with things that glorify God, or do I simply rejoice in a space swept clean, and leave my heart open for greater oppression?"

(I need to pause, here, for just a second, and say that I really believe that sometimes surrender and freedom simply come and last. That we make that choice of surrender, and it is truly freeing. I have simply had a week of the growing conviction that the choices of surrender I've made have at times been less than wholehearted, and that I've invited a multiplication of misery upon myself in some of those moments of revoking surrender.)

Two other passages of scripture have been echoing through my thoughts this week as well. The story that speaks of Moses' face glowing so brightly after the time he spent with God that the Israelites were afraid, and it was necessary for Moses to wear a veil. And, the passage in 2 Corinthians that reads: "Therefore, since we have such a hope, we are very bold. We are not like Moses, who would put a veil over his face to keep the Israelites from gazing at it while the radiance was fading away...But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." (2 Corinthians 3:12-13, 16-18, NIV)

These two were certainly passages that seem on a totally different topic than dealing with a need to surrender my right to judge, and with the multiplication of misery at the fail to surrender. And yet, they popped up everywhere I went.

Are you asking yet how I'm going to tie this rather long-winded treatise together? I have a point, I promise!

I woke this morning into the sort of stunned space that follows certain unusual nights in my life.

It was a night where I'm really not certain whether I was awake or asleep. I just know that I watched some rather profound things play out in front of me. That I was relatively conscious of laying in my bed, but that I was transported elsewhere as I lay there.

In this case, some of the details are foggy. Mostly, I saw people. One or two I recognized; most I did not, as they were silhouetted. All were surrounded by a beautiful light. Lovely and golden. An almost internal glow.

As I woke and drove to work, the passage from 2 Corinthians came to mind, and I felt as if Jesus was reminding me that each of these people, whether I knew them or not, were displaying his glory, unveiled.

I wish I could tell you that some of the faces I recognized in the dream were those towards whom I've struggled with hatred and judgmental thoughts. The reality is that that is just not true. The few I recognized were people I love deeply.

And yet, as I pondered that sight all day, all those silhouettes of God's glory, I couldn't help but be reminded that it is simply not my right to judge. That each person, whether I happen to consider them cruel and hypocritical or not, is made in the image of God, and that I need to lay down that rebellious hold I've had on judgment. That I need to be willing to release that hatred. And, that perhaps, if in an odd dream like experience, God can for a few moments give me new eyes that see his glory, maybe he can do that in my day to day life as well - reveal his glory in those I'm so tempted to judge and to hate.

And that, tonight, is my prayer. That the view of his glory within each person, his love for each person, would so overwhelm my eyesight that I have no choice but to fall to my knees in confession and surrender. A surrender that is whole-hearted and not simply making space for further misery. I'm not there yet, but I'm taking steps in that direction. And I pray that those steps will grow.

Of dreams, rebellion, surrender, and choosing differently

I am having a not so good morning, and right now, what I want to do more than anything is go home and lay in bed feeling sorry for myself. Probably not the most productive possibility, but it sure sounds good right now.

For much of the last two years, I've been existing in a space that was more dead than alive. Just under 50 days ago, I encountered Jesus (again) in a powerful way, and decided to start making some different choices. I decided I wanted my life back, that it could no longer be stolen by the powerful forces that I'd lived at the whim of for so long. I decided I was going to choose to really live. And, in the midst of that, to choose to be joyful, even in the midst of the really hard moments. To tackle the incredibly negative internal dialogue and try to see the world differently. The "Daily 5" lists that have been showing up regularly here on my blog are a part of that attempt to encounter the world differently, to be less overwhelmed by the seemingly negative, and to focus on the positive things in life.

There have been very smooth days, and very hard days in that process.

Today is a hard day.

I've not rested (though I've slept just a bit) in two nights.

I woke this morning from clear and disturbing dreams, touching deeply on themes of forgiveness, healthy boundaries, human relationships, family, friendships and hurt. Themes that lead to ongoing thoughts pondering the subjects of rebellion and surrender.

I dreamt indirectly of a particular couple that I grew up with. One of those really challenging couples if you're a pastor's kid. Very demanding, doesn't take "no" well, must know everything about your life and business. That kind of couple.

I dreamt of them (her actually) once before. About 5 or 6 years ago. In that dream my frustration was evident, as was my newly discovered ability to say "no." I distinctly remember waking from that dream, shocked, because I'd told her to f*** off. Not language I tend to use. Certainly not language that is common in my dreams. The dream unsettled me then, and the similar themes of boundaries, rebellion, and un-forgiveness of last night's dream (though minus the swearing) were just as unsettling today.

My definition of rebellion is becoming infinitely more subtle than it once was. It used to only include the overt behaviours - the "out loud" things of life. The two year old pitching a temper tantrum in the toy store because he was told he can't have his way. These days I wonder if rebellion is not a far more subtle thing. If it is not somehow rebellion each and every time I choose to harbor something because I feel it is my "right" to be hurt or indignant. If it is not rebellion that I choose at times to hold on to these things, when I know it is clearly not the way of Jesus.

Surrender is never easy. That letting go of my rights in favor of something bigger. And it doesn't seem to matter how many times I do it, it never gets much easier. It remains a challenge. Maybe it's that I have a strong sense of justice (imparted by my dad), and surrender rarely seems just. And yet, it seems somehow necessary.

Tears flowed, this morning, as I condsidered all these things, and listened to the song playing on the stereo as I drove. And even that listening was an act of surrender. Because I wasn't in the mood to surrender. I wanted to listen to the song that talked about the ooey-gooey love of Jesus for me, to feel good about myself, when I knew I was harboring some less than holy thoughts. The last song I wanted to put on was one with the rather telling title of "I Surrender." So I played the song and let the tears flow. Because my heart hurts and I really wanted to hang on to those hurts. Because I am exhausted and I never cope well with the world in those moments. Because inbetween two sleepless nights I had an eleven hour marathon of traveling and prayer and intensity yesterday, and I'm feeling spent. Because the justice I want will never be mine, and I will need to once again (to quote DC Talk!) "give up the rights to myself."

A friend reminded me in an early morning email that today is Yom Kippur - the day of Atonement. The holiest day of the year for Jews. I'd known it was coming, even commented to my roommate that the timing of my trip yesterday, the day before Yom Kippur was unique, but I'd forgotten in the crazyness of sleepless nights and a very full day.

The reminder hit hard, and is continuing to carry a certain weight with it as I pray and ponder the day. As I consider the dreams of last night, and my own broken heart, and a commitment to move forward with life. To choose joy amidst very trying circumstances. To see differently.

I have been challenged recently by the need to see differently. To take things like the dreams and thoughts and hurts to Jesus and ask "How do you see this?" or "What are you doing about this?" It's a series of thoughts that I'll perhaps write more about at a future time.

For the moment, I'm going to quietly go about my work day, let the themes of rebellion, surrender, forgiveness, atonement, and joy sit within me. And I'm going to ask Jesus "How do you see this? What are you doing about this? What are you asking me to do?" And I'm going to pray for ears that are able to hear his answers.

Entering Holy Week

I've slept for most of this Palm Sunday. I've eaten Chinese food in bed, and drifted in and out of consciousness with episodes of Grey's Anatomy playing on my laptop near my bed. I drove across the city (a terrible waste of gas, I suppose) just to buy one little item at a "one-of" shop. I've swept the kitchen floor, and wiped down counter tops. And cleaned the bathroom.

And nothing has worked to silence the way my heart has been wandering - talking loudly within itself. The way it hurts and longs, and drives itself into Holy Week. The inexorable, unstoppable movement towards crucifixion, and then, finally, resurrection.

I looked up the definition of inexorable just now, to make sure that was the word I wanted to use. I have this bad habit of using words that I'm fairly certain are the right ones, but words that I couldn't properly define if asked. The definition reads: not to be persuaded, moved, or affected by prayers or entreaties. It was the right word, for not even prayers and entreaties are capable of stopping the progress forward through this week, and the many memories it carries with it.

A year ago, I attend the Catholic Palm Sunday mass for the first time. I'd attended mass dozens of times, and I'd grown up in church, so I was pretty sure I had a handle on what to expect. It had just, somehow, seemed important for me to attend mass on one of the high holy days last year, after beginning Lent in Rome, at St. Peter's on Ash Wednesday.

I wasn't prepared for what I encountered. The more protestant tradition with which I grew up turns Palm Sunday into a sort of spectacle. A celebration really. Children waving palm branches made of construction paper. Songs of hallelujahs. The triumphal entry. Maybe a sermon on obedience - on how Jesus' way is best, with references to the way he knew the donkey would be available for use. Or maybe a sermon on this brief moment of acknowledging his kingship, or something contrasting the events of that day to the ones that would come in the coming week.

In the Catholic church, the palms are a short thing, distributed to each person in attendance at the beginning of the mass. And then, then you move into the account of the passion. Slowly and meticulously through the events of the coming week, ending as Jesus is laid in a tomb.

I wasn't prepared for the way they handled the scripture portion last year. Four readers, and congregational participation. I wasn't prepared for the impact it would have on my heart to be standing in a crowd, crying out "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" To see myself in that crowd clearly for what was maybe the first time. To have the knowledge of my own sinfulness, and the cost Christ paid for my sins again make the sudden journey from my head to my heart.

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness and surrender in the last week or so. I've reached the conclusion that I'm terribly bad at both. Surrender goes slightly better than forgiveness, but not much.

My method of surrendering is sort of a kicking and screaming, okay, I guess you can have your way, but I'm really not happy about it thing, that is invariably an ugly and painful process. I've been thinking a lot about autonomy today. About how it seems that life would be a whole lot less complicated without the need to constantly surrender my will to the will of Jesus. About how rarely these days my will seems to fall in line with his, and how that can create a great deal of guilt, because in the deepest parts of my heart, it really is my desire to want nothing but his will.

I've been thinking, too, about all that kicking and screaming I do in the process of surrender.

And, I've been thinking about how, in some ways, forgiveness (with which I'm also struggling) requires that surrender. How I want to hold on to the bitterness, though I know it's not his will. How I want to exact retribution, and he says things like, "turn the other cheek" and "if a man takes your coat, offer him your tunic also."

I'm remembering a phrase that played on repeat in my head the day I was healed from depression. And a line that stood out when I googled the phrase "kicking against the goads" later that day. "The more the animal rebelled, the more the animal suffered."

But mostly, I've been thinking about some different lines of scripture. The bit in Isaiah 53 about how, "as a sheep before the shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth." The bits in the gospel accounts where the prophecies of Isaiah 53 are fulfilled, and we are told that Jesus remained silent. And that moment, in the garden, where, sweating blood, in great pain, for more fully than we ever can, Jesus knew the significance of accepting his father's will, and the pain and suffering that it would bring, he cried out "If you are willing, let this cup pass from me, but not my will, but yours be done."

Not my will but yours. No kicking and screaming, though there was great anguish of spirit. Just a request - if you are willing, I'd rather not walk this path. And then a confession of surrender, "Not my will, but yours be done."

A few days ago I made a visit to my favorite park. I sat at a picnic table, surrounded by snow, and wrote for a long time. It was an oddly informative way to discover the current state of my heart. Eventually I wrote some confessions - some choices really - on a sheet of paper, tucked them into the front cover of my Bible, and came home. In our back yard I lit that piece of paper on fire, letting it burn away to a small pile of ashes, in a way of symbolizing for myself that these were choices that are irrevocable. Choices to surrender. Choices that put his will first. I buried the ashes in the snow, to prevent them from flaring up again, ash covered over in clean whiteness, and re-entered the house.

And, for a few days it worked. The surrender I'd chosen, the forgiveness I'd committed to offer. In a way, it still works, though, as the ugly things within me rear their head again, I am constantly having to remind myself that these are things that have already been decided, submitted to his will, permanently settled, and buried in the ashes and snow in my backyard.

And yet those things and other ugly things remain near, keeping company with me as I walk towards the cross this week. As I move in that inexorable way towards the crucifixion, and pray with deep longing for coming resurrection.

This is the journey of holy week, and it is affecting my heart deeply.

Crying out for restoration

A dear friend of mine who posts to her blog very infrequently has posted twice in the last two days, and her words are eating at me. They're not directed at me. She is speaking her heart (and it is one that I love). But for my heart her words are carrying a strong message of conviction.

She spoke in her most recent post about some of the little things around her home, the reminders of deep moments and the promises that Jesus has made to her. I've been in her home, and seen those reminders. And while my own tendency to collect those things in my own home was already present, in the time I've known her, she has taught me much about collecting and marking the things the Lord has spoken. She has also given me several little gifts that mark things about our relationship (one that is deeply important to me) or things that she knows the Lord has been speaking to me.

From where I sit several of her gifts are visible. And several other items that are tied to deep moments we've shared can also be seen.

I cleaned my bedroom from top to bottom a few weeks back. In the midst of a day where the wrestle was strong, and I felt the need to simply silence all the voices, I cleaned. I reordered, reorganized, and generally removed chaos wherever I could. I cleaned the surfaces that are prayer "altars" of a sort in my bedroom, and the temptation was strong to remove many of the items sitting on them, to put them away in a box where they couldn't be visible reminders any longer. Where they couldn't sting.

Because right now the reminders sting. They speak of deep places that in some cases I'd rather forget. They call me to things I'm afraid of, and not always certain I want. They speak of what was, and what subsequently seems to have been shattered. There are a few items in particular that I would much rather have stored safely away in a box, than in plain sight, visible each time I rise to look in the mirror.

When I feel like this, I avoid those "altars" as much as possible. I don't light the candles that rest there, or anywhere else in my bedroom. I don't burn incense, or oil, because those fragrances, too, carry reminders. I don't look at the items on my window sill - some gifts from my friend, a stone from "my" spot in the mountains when I met Jesus there and twirled last summer, a heart shaped stone from Indonesia, some strings of shells from Hawaii, a container of rose petals from various special bouquets this last year, and some pieces of driftwood I gathered from a lake shore when I was there with friends last July. I try not to make eye contact with the photos that hang on the wall across from my bed, one of a lake, and one of a spot my heart has been called to visit.

And yet, I can't avoid them either. I have slept for several weeks now wrapped in two scarves, both symbols of prayer and reminders of deep things the Lord is speaking. I tried last night to lay down without wrapping myself in the scarves. I was peaceful, and felt I didn't need them. I couldn't do it. Within moments I was sitting up, and reaching for them, wrapping them around me before laying back down to sleep. I wear a few of those reminders on a daily basis - a ring, and a necklace and a bracelet, each speaking of different deep moments.

And I have felt the tug of all these things scattered around my space deeply.

My friend spoke in the writing she shared on her blog these last few days of finding her feet again, and returning to the promises spoken. Of believing and standing amidst these things.

And I have resented the reminders scattered around my space. Even the reminders I wear each day, or fall asleep wrapped in. I have resented the deep pull of Jesus on my heart and life. I have wanted nothing so badly as to be "normal". I have resented that so many of the deepest moments of this last year, so many of the things scattered around my room also speak of moments of deep pain and sorrow.

The photo of the place my heart longs to go speaks of a dream, and a calling of Jesus to me. It also speaks of a shattered dream. Of fear of traveling to pray with friends. Of a hesitancy and brokenness I don't know how to handle.

The railway spikes on one of the altars speak of a moment when I found family. I found the place in which I belonged, I fit. They also speak of the deep shattering that has taken place within that family in the last year. Of anger and frustration and pain. Of a year of tears and wondering and struggling.

There is a tiny gold camel from Pakistan. A gift from missionaries when I was a child, but also a reminder of a very dear friend who is serving the Lord in that country now. And a reminder of some painful words. Of moments when the direction the Lord is taking my life has been unseen, or judged because it is not understood. (And how can I expect someone else to understand that which I am hardly able to accept or comprehend?)

There are stones and wine corks. Goblets. A tiny rose pin. Three pure white candles. A stone cross handmade into a necklace. A cross from my graduation and a rosary hanging over another photo. Five stones with words etched in them. Bits of wax left from the advent candles I burned and prayed with. Scarves. Palm leaves and willow branches. A tiny oil lamp from Israel. A medal and a tassel from Rome. Coins. Two boxed baptism candles.

And I have been tempted at moments to pack each and every one of them away. To simply move on. To box up a season of my life, and shut it down. To declare something new and create a life out of it. To close off the deepest parts of myself because while they have held the deepest joy, they have also carried immeasurable sorrow. I am tempted to purge these things from my life.

But I can't. And I have resented that too. That in becoming more and more fully myself, I have encountered such shattering, such deep pain.

I have been tired and angry, and haven't known what to do with those feelings.

And reading my friend's words these last few days has caused much of this to surface within my own heart. In part because I love her heart. And in part because of an awareness of how far my own is at times from where I'd like it to be.

I read her words about finding her feet again, and I am glad, because I love her deeply and desire that for her. I also wrestle with jealousy, because in these moments where she is finding her footing, I have been feeling like I have lost what little hope and footing I had left.

Just over a year ago, in an impossibly deep moment, I confessed to the Lord and a friend that I could stand amidst the storms. That I could fight. That I had been hearing him say that to me, and ignoring it, because I didn't want to stand or fight. That I didn't want that to be part of my reality. I haven't regretted that confession, and yet, I have regretted it nearly every day of the year that has followed.

I am discovering that this journey with Jesus is highly confusing and full of paradox.

That joy and sorrow seem far closer together than I dreamed was possible.

My heart is being stretched and tugged and shattered and pierced.

I sat and listened to an African children's choir last week, and fought tears I didn't understand.

I look at the photo on my wall of a place that I know unequivocally that the Lord has asked me to visit. To go to, and pray, and speak some words of scripture, and I remember that same passage of scripture echoing in a hall where diplomats of the world have gathered. And I remember too the division in that moment. I look at it and remember that Jesus told me not to make that trip alone. To have companions for the journey. And I remember how many relationships have fallen to pieces since and because of the last trip where he asked me to travel and pray with friends.

I look at a ring on my finger - a placeholder until just the right ring presents itself, and I remember a moment of deep vows near a lake. And I remember too how quickly those statements of choice were tested.

I see the coin resting on the frame of my mirror and remember a dream I had and a moment to deep to be publicly shared. And I remember how quickly it too became a source of conflict and division

There are moments when I feel as if life has become a ridiculous sort of balancing act, and I wonder if that is healthy.

Abba, I confess that my heart has ached. That I have resented the reminders of the things you've done, and the promises you've spoken that are scattered around my space. That I've been angry that this life that you've offered me has been so marked by pain. I admit that I don't understand, and that that lack of understanding really bothers me. That I have been jealous of those who seem more able to find you in the midst of suffering or more able to find you without experiencing suffering. That I have wanted to have the benefits of knowing you deeply without drinking the cup of your suffering. That I have a hard time trusting you. That at times I am afraid of you. That though you have spoken often to me about joy, I seem to be unable to grasp what you mean by that. That I have hated people I deeply love. That I have harbored anger and unforgiveness. That I have been certain that you cannot be loving, because the life you have offered has been far too cruel for that. That I have hated the things you've said, and feared the things you've called me too. That there have been moments when I've created distance from you and others in an attempt to protect my heart, instead of believing that you will shield and protect it.

And so I ask for your forgiveness. And your voice and your presence and your help as I seek to walk differently. I ask for a heart that loves. A heart that is still willing to believe that you can and will change things that I believe are impossible. I ask for your healing, and your wholeness, recognizing that your definition of wholeness might just look a lot like my definition of shattered. I ask for more of the deep moments when my heart knows that it has met with you, and for you to remind me of those moments even when I'd rather forget and let my heart grow hard. Give me back a heart of flesh, in place of a heart of stone. Let me see you in the gift of a church candle from my roommate, and wine goblets waiting to be used. Let me see you in the scarves wrapped around me. Let me see you, and not the pain and bitterness and questions that so many of the reminders scattered around my bedroom have carried.

I love you. And I long to walk in step with you. (And I admit that I'm afraid of what that could mean.) Ease my fears with your comfort. Remind me of that first verse I memorized as a small child, to say aloud in the middle of the night to combat the nightmares, "when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you." Help me to trust. Help me to want to trust.

I love you. And I desire you.

I remember the vows I made to you. And I remain committed to them. Give me the strength and grace to walk those out.

Remind me that I chose this. That I committed to follow you, even if it meant drinking from the cup of suffering.

Pour out your blessings on those I have resented. Help me to walk daily in forgiveness towards them.

Work a miracle and once again draw together the things that have been impossibly broken.

Bring peace and restoration.

Bring an outpouring of hope and joy.

May it be enough comfort for me that I was where you asked, when you asked me to be, even if others were not. Help me to rest in that obedience. Help that to be enough, to be the thing I remember, not the brutally painful things.

Help me to see beauty instead of the ashes. To remember the deep image of the phoenix that night a few years back, sitting on the floor at epic, next to a friend, while Kirk preached. That was another week and another year that was marked by deep beauty and deep pain walking hand in hand. Help me to remember that so often the beauty came in the midst of the deepest destruction and pain. Help me to look for the beauty and not become focused on and mired in the destruction and pain.

You are good. It's a truth spoken by your word. Help my heart to trust and rest in that.

Bring freedom. Help me to see the places you have offered it, and to walk in it. Help me to be still in those places where I am still bound - to stop thrashing in order to be set free.

Provide in new ways for me.

Restore my health.

Show me the church community that you have for me.

I love you.

Abba, I belong to you. May your will be done in my life.

Amen.

thoughts circling (can't avoid)

It’s finally Friday.

This has been a long, and weird sort of week, and I’m glad it’s ending.

There are dozens of things circling my brain.

I’m the queen of avoidance techniques, and even those are no longer working.

I’m hoping to go to my favorite park early tomorrow morning. There is a strong pull to be there. I need to walk, and pray. I need to throw stones, and leave some things behind. I need to stand by the water, and maybe dip my feet in it. I need to spend some time surrendering.

I’m thinking about poverty and provision, and my lack of ability to trust (though I’ve seen it over and over through the years) that God will provide.

I’m thinking about how easy it is to say that everything I own is God’s, even my money, and my things, and how hard it is to actually live that out.

A favorite bookstore begins their final close-out sale tomorrow. And I want to go and shop. And yet, this week I’ve realized that spending money is just another avoidance technique. That sometimes I shop with purpose and direction, but sometimes (often lately) I shop because I want to forget, or to avoid. And, as I think of visiting the bookstore, I realize that the pull is the sale prices, rather than the need for books. There are probably close to fifty books on my shelves that I have not yet read, and the list would likely balloon to close to one hundred if we counted the books that I’ve started and never finished. So I’ll probably skip the bookstore, and curl up with one of the many books I already own.

I’m thinking about Christ as the suffering servant. How that is both a completely comforting and totally discouraging image right now. How, as I tried to pray on the train this morning, I was essentially complaining about the rejection, the hurt, the things in my life, and I kept being reminded that Jesus suffered too. And that’s comforting, but not. Because He suffered, he understands. But He also said that because he suffered and was rejected, how can we as his followers expect any less? It doesn’t paint a particularly rosy picture for the future.

I’m thinking about trust, and how that’s still absolutely one of the hardest things for me to do.

And about how conquering fear is maybe the only thing that is equal in difficulty to trusting.

I’m thinking about the advice of a friend last weekend, not to pray for others until I myself had been filled and satisfied. About how hard it is for me to enter into the presence of Jesus and be satisfied. About how much easier it is for me to come to God on behalf of the needs and cares of those I love, than it is to come to him with my own needs and cares. About how much easier it is for me to believe that he loves other people than it is to believe that he loves me. About how I tend to feel that they’re more deserving of his love and his presence than I am. And about how I then have to battle jealousy that he is meeting and healing those I love, while I find myself broken and alone. And then I need to remind myself that as often as not I seek to avoid his presence, and I refuse to meet his gaze, or answer his call, because I don’t trust him to be gentle, I expect to be hurt and rejected.

And I wonder if the fact that I’m aware of all of these things is the first real step to the freedom and healing I long for?

I’m hoping to go to my favorite park tomorrow morning.

To walk and pray and meet with Him.

He’s calling me there.

And the word I keep hearing is “surrender”.

Peace returning...

The following are portions of an email that I sent to a friend this morning. I felt that they rather nicely captured the space I find myself occupying today, and wanted to share them with the rest of you...

It's funny to me how sometimes it's such a struggle and a fight to slip into the presence of the Lord, and how other times, when I'm not even trying, I manage to get there quite inadvertently. This morning was one of those times. As I walked and took the train this morning I was listening to a Jason Upton album. Had to laugh at some of the lyrics… they stung a little (in a good way, I suppose).

I wrote in my journal on the train this morning "For the first time in days I feel some semblance of peace, of rest, of quiet in my heart. There is a faint possibility of hope that has been missing. This morning I believe that He will hold my heart. That He will shield me. That I will get through this season and find myself walking taller, stronger in the face of the waves. Intimacy with Him is less terrifying and more comforting a thought this morning. The pain exists, still, but this morning I believe that healing may be coming, for my heart and for so many others."

I am reminded of that line from Isaiah this morning, the one that says "a bruised reed he will not break" and am finding great comfort in that.

Just before I arrived at the office, a line from a Jason Upton song that I'm quite sure I've never heard before it played on my ipod this morning caught me, and I'm taking comfort in it as well… "In the midst of the presence/there is a stone/that the world rejected/and it kills the giant." Something comforting about that in the midst of a season where it has felt like I've faced an endless stream of "giants".

I'm relatively at peace. My heart feels quiet. It feels as if I've somehow managed surrender again (in a different way this time), and that, by managing it, I've managed to push through whatever it is that I've been swarmed with these last days and step into a clear space, an open space of rest for a little while. The waves are still there, but they're calmer and far less overwhelming at the moment. No more drowning or gasping for air in the fight to survive.

I've got plans to be still for a while later tonight, with that same Jason Upton album, and a candle or two. (stillness hasn't come easily or been very desired lately either.) I need to absorb some of the things that album offers in stillness instead of while I'm moving and commuting. This is a much better space to be occupying.

Bruised but not broken or crushed.

Surrender (Part 2)

I'd forgotten about these lyrics from Rich Mullins, until the song came up today on a playlist I created to send to a friend for her birthday last month. They fit nicely, I think, with the space I'm occupying, and are rather descriptive of the process of fighting and surrender.

Surrender don't come natural to me
I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want
Than to take what You give that I need
And I've beat my head against so many walls
Now I'm falling down, I'm falling on my knees

So hold me Jesus, 'cause I'm shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won't You be my Prince of Peace

(Hold Me Jesus, Rich Mullins)

Surrender

I want to share here something I wrote in my journal this morning. I'm sharing it because it's important, but it's hard, too. It's messy. It's painful. It's forcing me into deep and quiet places. If over this next week, I don't have much to say here, this is why.


Surrender: to give oneself up, as into the power of another; submit or yield. (www.dictionary.com)

I’ve spent the last two and a half days rediscovering just exactly how bad I am at surrender. I’ve tried arguing, negotiation, ignoring, baiting, avoiding, and running in the opposite direction. None of them worked.

You see, there are things that Jesus is asking of me right now that I don’t like. Things that scare me – terrify me actually. There is a slow shattering that is occurring that I find frightening and painful. There seems to be the promise of freedom in it, but it has seemed that freedom only comes at a cost so high I’ve not been sure I’m willing to pay it.

I went alone to Palm Sunday Mass last night. Traveled downtown to the cathedral where I attended mass in high school. I picked the cathedral because I knew there would be enough people in attendance that I could slip in and out anonymously. Just me, and time with the Lord, in a corporate setting that would also allow me the freedom of my own thoughts. I went alone, because I somehow knew that I wouldn’t want to talk with anyone once it ended.

So I sat, and stood, and knelt and sang. I accepted the strips of palm leaves that someone handed me. I prayed, and wished “peace be with you” on those around me. And I listened and was caught off guard by what I heard. I wasn’t expecting the Passion to be the topic of discussion. Protestants talk about the triumph on Palm Sunday – the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, with the crowds giving praise. We talk about the triumph and we leave it there. The triumph was hardly mentioned. What caught me deeply off guard was the long, responsorial reading of the gospel passage. Three readers at the front, a narrator, a voice, and Jesus, with occasional parts for the whole congregation to join in. So we read, from the entry into Jerusalem, through the breaking of bread at Passover, through the suffering and arrest in the garden, through the trials and the whipping and the crucifixion. And as I dutifully followed along, I was caught off guard by the part the congregation was asked to read. We played the role of the crowd – the accusers. The ones demanding the release of Barrabas, and shouting “Crucify Him”. And it hit me that I am part of that crowd in a way that it has never hit me before. That I stand there, sinful. That Jesus shed his blood for me. And that I am fighting against the will of the one who was willing to die in my place.

I reflected in my journal last night that for the first time in my life I am dreading the journey through Holy Week. I usually find it enjoyable. Well, enjoyable may be the wrong word to use, but I generally find it to be a week of positive reflection. As I look into this coming week, I see nothing but images of shed blood, of broken bodies, of my own heart finally and completely shattering. And I dread the coming pain.

Surrender, I’m discovering is not an easy or painless thing. It is rarely bloodless or tidy. It is the thing that comes after the battle, when the losing side is too weak to carry on, and the cost in lives would be too high to let the battle carry on. It is not a place of negotiation. You can ask for the conditions you desire, but you ask from a position of weakness. You’ve lost, and the victor holds the power in the negotiation.

It’s taken me two and a half days of fighting to find a place of surrender. To reach a place of crying out to Jesus that I need Him to once again set me free, and that I’ll go where He asks and do what He requests in order that I may find that freedom. It happened at 8:10 this morning, after a night passed in alternating bouts of arguing and sleep. In dreams and uncertainties, and pain and anger and tears. One line from a David Crowder Band song came through my head, and I cried it out to the Lord, “Deliver me.” I saw an immediate picture, of a strong leather strap wrapped around me snapping, and four things flew into the air and away from me.

I’m still dreading Holy Week. I dread the lecture I’m attending tonight, that I know will draw me deeper into a place of brokenness on behalf of the world. I dread the moments of hunger. I dread all the other moments I know are coming. The body broken and the blood poured out. But in that dread I see beauty forming. I see the hope of resurrection, of new life. I see myself being pulled deeper, and I am thankful.