Shunning Beauty

Walking routinely from academic hall to student center, pathway lined with magenta colored beauties waving at me as they play with the breeze, and I gaze upon them with a little smile in private thanks to their Maker. Then heart is struck by how creation is telling me what God wants me to know, and life stops for a moment to realize.



Would I deny the brilliance bursting from these rose buds that accompany me on this walk?
Would I say no to the new life they fragrantly omit?
Would I voluntarily turn the other way, shunning the vivid beauty, the birthing of a fragile, unmatched treat for my eyes?

How silly would it be if I dared not look at these flowers because of their most pleasing natural beauty?

In the same way, don't I turn from the most stunning, loveliest thing?: grace

Do I turn from grace to gaze at the death and the pain and the suffering that awaits anywhere but in that grace?
 Do I squirm and recede, flee from the delectable love, the always-filling love, the endlessly quenching love, to settle for the ice cold nothingness manifested in death's empty, poisonous lies?

This too seems silly, but it occurs more than I'd like. 

The legalism binding me to the carcass of my sin, the eating disorder that offers to become my obsession and make me loveable (though I am unimaginably loved).
 It lives in the grip I refuse to loosen while a Savior says Shackles are broken!

Shackles are broken,
but still I adorn them like jewelry.
Freedom is granted overwhelmingly,
yet I still make my home in the prison cell.

It is finished, and He didn't mean me, but in so many ways He did.

It is finished, and in those three words He declared the masterpiece of grace, the revelation, the phenomenon, the excellence that is grace, it is ready and ours for the taking.

Do I shun the beauty, or do I wholly, utterly, not reserving, thinking, considering, but just gazing at the natural beauty that is grace?!

Take it, and don't let anything fool you into taking it with half a heart, but take it all and live.

Proclaiming God's Goodness, Tissue in Hand

A woman stands before thousands speaking life, clutching a tissue in her hand.

This has been her life for over a year-- fearlessly sharing the only hope we have, tissue in hand that's been soaked up by tears, by grief, by fear.

Yet she stands before me and the thousands like me at my university, and smiles.

This woman is Naghmeh Abedini.

This woman is the wife of Pastor Saeed, held in one of the worst Iranian prisons because he won't renounce Jesus Christ. This woman's husband has been tortured. This woman's husband is choosing Jesus Christ over everything, and it moves me that she glows, overjoyed.

Digging deep into her trial, broken, she hits the wellspring of ultimate joy. 

She dares to be more joyful in this great distress because she can draw all the more closer to a Savior.

She boldly owns the passion despite a prime opportunity for hopelessness because in more despair she is given more joy, more peace, than before.

Her challenge that morning is large, but my eyes draw to that tissue.
Her challenge is for people real and raw, broken, yet unafraid.
For people who do let tears trickle at times, yet have the guts to smile because they know God's goodness.

And they can proclaim it.

Yes, proclaim it!

I realize sitting there that I don't have to be perfect either;
I don't have to be put together, to be a happy-go-lucky cheerful bouncing Christian every waking moment to proclaim God's goodness.
Christ met me in my uncouth, in my strange, in my homely, in my corruption, and so I can meet Him, barrier undone by His love, grand proclamations overflowing from a heart that knows a Savior.

And then the bad test grade comes. And the reminder of that endless stream of To-Do's.
Yet His grace still provides goodness to proclaim!

In all things, the most precious treasure must shine through.
Through the pain, through the despair, through the circumstances.

Because really, these enemies of praise are blinded, burned, and belittled to mere scum by the Greatest Joy, without fail, every time.

And that is worth unending proclamation!

Recklessly Guarding the Treasure

How often I turn my faithful God into quicksand tumbling through my fingers.


How often I corrode the Sure Foundation,
how often I erode the Mighty Rock till it crumbles,
how often I blow out the lasting flame of the one who always has been and always will be.

Except I don't.
Except all these things are impossible.

Yet with each footstep into valleys of doubt,
each tiny sampling of fear I dip my finger in and taste it's convincing bitterness,
with each anxiety I pump up like a blimp-sized balloon swelling far bigger than it actually is,

with all these things it sure seems like my God becomes small;
the impossible belittling of the Mighty One seems so real.

It seems so genuine when I slip,
when eyes gaze at calorie numbers and carbs turn into pointed spears and all of a sudden the body is not as beautiful as it once was,
 and I know it's all lies but I listen anyways,

and then suddenly grace is not the most dear treasure cradled in the heart.

Yes, that's just it.

When grace is not the greatest treasure,
when grace is not the gem I examine with each step, knowing it's stunning intricacy,
when I do not recklessly guard this gift,
when I make it cheap, giving it away for some other worthless imitation, a glass shard when the invaluable diamond of grace that I never deserved is offered, is given to be mine

it makes the grubby lies seem bigger than the Most Powerful God.

Clinging to this jewel of grace, holding this fortune of Christ that I have to it's highest value and not settling for any convincing liars and false promisers and seductive imitators, not giving up the greatest possession I never deserved, I will treasure grace, gripping it with all my life:

The Little Marvelous Gifts

Lazing into a gorgeous afternoon, drinking in the cool shade's breeze that brings with it the raw green aroma of a grassy field, intellect tickled by a heavy C.S. Lewis read, and as the zephyr plays idly with my hair I let the buzzing of a bee distract me.

A creature so small, so carefully crafted, fluttering from flower to flower with all diligence, I am elated at another small joy of creation joining me. The sight of my buzzing companion in the blissful moments reminded me of a great truth thrust upon me mighty and worthy of all wonder and jubilee.

This truth was found not in the trifling of a Sunday afternoon, but in the thrashing waves tossing me amongst scheduling and assignments and course syllabi and rules and meetings and all that is the first week at a new University, a 12-hour's drive away from home.

I began my week not knowing how specifically God cares for us,
how the little earthly things do, in fact, matter to Him.
 I had it in my mind, locked in, that the only great gift I can really expect from God is the gift of grace that is parading through His Word. Indeed, it is the greatest gift,
but I learned it is not the only gift.

For He bestows gifts in the day, the gifts little and insignificant and having such a small amount of weight in the salvation of foreign countries or the feeding of the needy or theological revelations or the grandiose things.

No,
the things that matter to one young woman, one young woman a little bit homesick, a little bit uncomfortable, a little bit overwhelmed-- He is willing and able to be there and to love unconditionally there too.
 
I prayed a prayer like jumping into water for the chance it might give deep refreshment, like opening an unfamiliar door for the chance that it might be the best opening I've ever stumbled upon.
I took the chance at knowing just how radically specific His constant love could be

and here on this end of the week I can say His love reaches me in what seems trivial, in what is utterly earthly.

I celebrate with specific praise now that He provided me with friendly faces and fabulous time spent with newly  met sisters in Christ when I asked Him for a friend or two.

I celebrate His victory over my disordered thoughts creeping up slow, sneaking into this big life transition only to be decimated at the sight of my Mighty God. 

I celebrate His ability to let me focus on reading that Education textbook chapter that was particularly dull, yet with reluctance I admit, necessary.

I celebrate His care in allowing me to accomplish the long run I craved, with each footstep knowing there is power in the name of Jesus, from the glorious conquering of death, right down to the muscular energy to get up that challenging hill at the end of my run.

I celebrate the letter received from my Grandmother with a squeal of delight after praying for support from family, and a slow dwindling of the homesickness that stung at moments.

I saw that before I was belittling these me-specific gifts as too insignificant to praise at all in comparison to His spectacular sacrifice.

While these little praises indeed cower before the most praiseworthy gift He gave on a cross, I was denying His constant love in it's true nature-- always working, meeting me where I am with all my little desires and delivering sweetest salvation for each and every need of mine while I wait for Him, basking in the wild grace of knowing His promise of eternity while soaked in love.

So I will be drenched not only in utter gratitude, stretching out in praise for the ultimate gift of salvation, but I will smile, worship, and never underestimate the ways You work in my little, yet so deeply cared for life, day by day, here on earth.

It All Begins with a Question

It all began with a question. Questions bombarded me in scripture today, and I shook my head.
I know better than that, thinking to myself, reading about the ancient questionings of a people who clearly didn't know how powerful God is.

How quickly the Lord strikes the high and lofty musings circling around the mind, stirring up more trouble than I can detect. His anecdote shocking, like cold water, but with that water comes refreshment beyond belief.

"Will the Lord always reject us? Will he never again be pleased with us?
Has he stopped loving us?
Does his promise no longer stand?
Has God forgotten to be merciful?
Has anger taken the place of His compassion?"
-Psalm 77: 7-9





Some of these questions, how eerie their familiarity. I could have written some of these, I realize sitting in my new dorm room, in the strange and amazing new world of college, trying hard to stay courageous in the excitement of uncertainty, searching for Jesus everywhere at this university, and finding Him with delight. 

Heck, I could have written some of these yesterday, a soul humbled admits.

 And this soul humbled realizes the questions flow despite what God has done. And oh, how the lies thrive on the waiting period to see the miracles hoped for, how the lies give birth to hideous questions, questions outlandish about a God who has no limitations. 

I remember the story of the bread from Heaven and hope tugs at the corners of a solemn face and cracks a smile. 

I remember how they questioned God, "Can He really provide food for us?" and God was angry and God saw their lack of faith raw and naked and then grace.
Grace, and He gave them the "grain from heaven," there in the dessert, He gave them manna, the food of angels, undeserved.

I am not ashamed of the questioning, not weary in the waiting for direction, waiting for comfort, because if I do not know the answers, if I do not see them right here, right now, I have seen them plentiful and luscious in times before.

I remember the healing I experienced nearly a year ago when Christ transformed my life and made my soul fly.
I remember that I sit here in this dorm by God's great work in my life, when medical discharges and prior college plans died to give life to a plan more magnificent.

And then all of a sudden, looking at the past, the answers become present. 

And then all of a sudden, God's grace and blessings and answers and presence are here and I am loved beyond belief, despite doubts, despite fears, and despite the poisonous questions that arise. 

And all of a sudden, I know in my heart:

"Do not lose your courage, then, because it brings with it a great reward. You need to be patient in order to do the will of God and receive what He promises."
-Hebrews 10:35-36

And my heart knows anew this verse I'd poured over so often, 
my heart knows that the patience is the reward. 

In the patience, clinging to God, reliving the answered prayers and the promises splendid, as if they had happened in this waiting moment. 
And that is my joy this morning.  

When It's You

On my way to see a dear friend I hadn't seen in ages, I became the ones they talk about in the Word who love their wealth,

preached about as if they are not sitting right there in churches, nodding their heads thinking That could not be me.

As if they are not the ones who volunteer here and donate this there.

As if they are not the ones who spend free time studying the Word.

As if they are not the ones going to a Christian university in just three days, with aspirations to go on missions, to be like Christ and to love like Christ and to serve like Christ.

You know, the ones who are satisfied with their wealth, who are

"doomed to die like sheep, and Death will be their shepherd." -Psalm 49:14a

Yes, that was me for a moment there. 

 


Sitting on the train, reading my Bible on the way to Boston, a woman with the saddest face and the most starved frame and most abused soul entered the train.

"Excuse me, everybody," her voice dragged out the words as if it hurt to speak,

"I hate to be a bother, but my brother died last week and his funeral is in New Jersey on Monday, and I am just $14 short of the ticket cost, and I got mugged on Monday, and I'm pretty desperate."

Silence and stares packed the train so much I imagined it would explode with the tension.

And with an open Bible in my lap, I sat there just like anybody else, staring. 

Some folks even stared at me to see what I would do, the girl who had the nerve to crack open a Bible in public.

And still I sat there, closed my book, and wrestled thoughts endless, tormenting.

Of course the notion of offering her my last $20 bill came to mind. And of course the skeptic's caution echoed It's a scam. She's obviously a drug addict. Don't waste your money.

And like a breeze that had rolled in and out, she was gone at the next stop to try her luck on another train.

But the stillness of the realization of what had just happened was stagnant and suffocating within me.

I cherished the $20 bill in my purse more than the possibility that this woman was telling the truth. I denied her a moment that sure, she could have used and abused, but who knows what God could do when one gives.

After all, hadn't I just read, claimed to believe and absorb and know a promise true?

"He will always make you rich enough to be generous at all times, so that many will thank God for your gifts which they receive for us."
-2 Corinthians 9:10

Feeling awful, I could not shake it until the next morning. Because grace was left out of the equation. Grace came to remind, came to save, to reprimand, teach and raise higher the daughter of a king who tripped in the dirt and tore her fine robes and felt like the farthest thing from one who gets to be saved.

But, nonetheless, I am still saved and being sanctified and living in lavish blessings from a God whose love in truly unconditional. 

He wrote words that these eyes took in and were strangely comforted by:

"A person can never redeem himself; he cannot pay God the price for his life. because the payment for a human life is too great. What he could pay would never be enough to keep him from the grave, to let him live forever."
-Psalm 49:7-9

Ah, yes.

None of my good works, none of my generosity, none of my efforts out of guilt, or duty, or the filth that is my brand of righteousness, could ever keep me from the grave, could ever redeem, could ever undo these sins and make lovely out of them. Not even what those who read my words here on this blog may think of me after reading how I denied one who may have needed, how I was so blatantly un-Christ-like.

But this is the Good News springing up from the ashes of my imminent failure.

The Good News is not that I did the right thing. Because I didn't.
The Good News is not that I represented Christ well. Because I didn't.
The Good News is not that my motives were pure. Because they weren't.
The Good News is not that I will always do the right thing for the rest of my life. Because I won't.

The Good News is my price has already been paid and a Savior does live in me, and He does forgive and He is meticulously working on this sinner's soul and that it's not up to me, or what I do.

Furthermore, the Good News is that denial of that $20 bill, that moment in my heart where I had a selfish motive victorious over a giving heart, where sin really revealed it's nasty face,

it's dead.

But Christ in me is risen and has the victory.

A New Song

I remember early days where God made appearances and provoked curiosity and I knew He was good.

I remember and realize now that these days were indeed a passionate pursuit by a Savior who just wanted to know me, who just wanted to love me crazy, who just wanted to heal me, yucky sins and all.

I remember the old wooden smell of the Catholic church, the way my young eyes widened at the beauty of a sunset framed in a stain-glass window exploding with rainbow and vibrant and what I  imagined Heaven's light would be like.

I remember the taste of the Communion host, plain yet wholesome, subtly special; the after-mass games of tag whipping around the row of flower and shrubbery lining the ramp to the church doors, shrieking with delight, celebrating life and God and family and love and we-didn't-know-what, it was just giggles at dusk.

And I remember this song. Sung with my Mamaw's lovely song-bird vibrato up on the altar,

"Sing a new song unto the Lord,

Let your song be sung from mountains high!

Sing a new song unto the Lord,

Singing Hallelujah!"

What is the new song? I always wondered.

Today it all becomes clear, crystal, in a pristine washing of a soul muddied with fears and doubts, anxieties about a new school though the excitement also sparkles in eyes searching in for God's plan in the abyss of this next chapter, knowing I cannot see it now, but faith promises it is so, so good, and I am safe in Him.

"He taught me to sing a new song,

a new song of praise to our God." 

-Psalm 40:3a

Ah. Praise. 

Afterall, Hallelujah is "God be Praised," or "Highest Praise."

Something that seems so easy to do, but is so underdeveloped in my prayer life. It sounds like guilt, it sounds like shame to me, when I think about how I have trouble praising the God who has given everything and has bestowed endless love around me and it's so simple to find it everywhere, right?

And I see it is just like everything else in this life, the praise is not even mine to develop. Again I see it is grace, and He will teach  me, and this is the newness I needed that He offers, this is the refreshment I long for and He died to give: just to praise Him. Just to open up my day with the mercy found in praise. 

And sitting there in the favorite part of my day, morning soft with scripture abounding and coffee warming and pen searching an empty page for prayers and answers and relationship with Jesus Christ, 

sitting there I simply praise. 

Nothing complicated. Nothing sophisticated, elaborate, or embellished. No regimentation, no organization, just whatever comes to mind, because there is no right form of praise that will impress Him more than the next from a genuine heart made new. 

For the bird chirps all distinct and different.

For the promise of true love no matter what I look like.

For bright flowers blooming and the smell of fresh mulch after rain.

For my Dad's car there in the driveway, home safe and sound.

For the trial of my disorder so I can know the depth of Your love, the wild of Your mercy, the radical of Your grace.

For my sore, healthy muscles from a workout.

For the shocking pink of the hanging flowers.

For the buzz of airplanes keeping us safe overhead.

For the rustle of leftover rain dripping from the trees. 

For the jumpy birds hopping on the birdfeeder.

For the shade of purple polish on my toenails. 

 For Your constant love, Your righteousness, Your generosity, Your forgiveness, Your taking of my confession and whipping it 'till sin has perished and the Holy Spirit wins again.

Nothing too high above anyone, right where they are, just a new song to live by, to love by, to smile and dance in, to be wrapped with and not underestimate the power of His praises. 

One of my favorite authors has committed a pen to paper and that paper to a book and that book to the cultivation of hearts for thanking the Lord. 

She couldn't have said it better, what I am discovering here in this new song:

"And when I give thanks for the seemingly microscopic, I make a place for God to grow within me."

-Ann Voskamp, "One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are"

Hallelujah.