Scarred

It was circa 1992.

I was just a wee little munchkin of 4 or 5, and it was an evening where my family was due to be at church.

I whined and fussed that I didn't want to go because I didn't feel very good.  Instead of going to the nursery that evening, my parents brought me along with them to their class.

I kicked and squirmed on my mom's lap.  And by golly, why did this little area on the right side of my stomach itch so badly?

When my older sister rejoined us in the car for our ride home, she announced that she, too, felt horrible and couldn't stop scratching.

Thus began our two-week adventure with--what else?--chickenpox.

We have pictures of how our bodies were covered from head to toe in itchy red dots.  We played Old Maid and took at least one oatmeal bath a day.

As I got older and ventured into the realm of nursing school, I had to have documentation that I had either had or been immunized against various childhood diseases--mumps, measles, rubella...and of course, chickenpox.

Chickenpox was the only thing I had actually been infected with, not immunized against, and it took much effort and digging through old medical records to find when I had actually had them.

As I waited for the paperwork to come back from my pediatrician's office, I sat in my dorm one evening and inspected the area on the right side of my stomach where my itchy pox had begun.

You know what?

It's the only place on my entire body where there's still a mark.  From my very first chickenpox that appeared.

Hah, I thought.  Why do I need paperwork anyway?  I had the chickenpox.  I have the scar to prove it.

There's a much larger mark that appears on my right cheek--at least an inch or so long.  It caves in like a little ravine and rebels slightly when I try to cover it with powder.

It's a mark from the large cyst that adorned my face when I was 14 years old.  I suffered with it for eight months, enduring whispers, snickers, corticosteroid injections, and a long round of Accutane.

It was a painful time in my life, when everything around me told me that beauty consisted of perfect looks and popularity.

I had a cyst.  I have the scar to prove it.

Last year, our two painful losses left indelible marks on my heart.  These hurts on our hearts are the most difficult kinds of scars, aren't they?  No one else can see them, but they often mark a wound that ran much deeper than an everyday abrasion.

Just as the sight of my tangible scars on my stomach and my cheek remind me that I'm not invincible, that I'm not perfect, that I'm capable of experiencing pain, the marks left on my heart remind me daily through this pregnancy that something could happen.  Something did happen.  Twice.

I had two miscarriages.  I have the scars to prove it.

As the Lord laid this topic on my heart, I decided to do a little research to refresh my memory on the physiology of wound healing.

I looked at many sites, and although I know that Wikipedia tends to be lower on the totem pole for gathering information, I found that some of its phrases were worded perfectly enough to get my neurons surging.

Of scars, the site reads:

"A scar results from the biological process of wound repair in the skin and other tissues of the body.  Thus, scarring is a natural part of the healing process.  With the exception of very minor lesions, every wound results in some degree of scarring (para. 1)."

The site goes on to say that scar tissue is comprised of the same material as normal skin, but it forms in a different manner, one that is of lesser quality than regular skin (para. 2).  [Info taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scar]

Scars are often deemed ugly.  They refuse to blend in with the rest of the skin, standing proudly to remind you--and perhaps everyone else--of the pain that has occurred.  And according to the information above, it doesn't even function as well as it used to!

How could it?  It's damaged.

But scars are necessary to heal.

A long, long time ago, a man by the name of Jesus was battered, beaten, and pierced for the wounds we inflict on ourselves, on others, on the Lord Himself.

He was the ultimate sacrifice for everything we do wrong.  Sweet friend, he died for you.

And when he rose on the third day, his body was so beautiful, so glowing, that many assumed he was an angel sent by God.

Death could not hold him!  He had risen!  He was healed!

But as beautiful and perfect as his body now was, his scars on his hands, feet, and sides remained.

Isn't it interesting?

God is perfect and all powerful.  He could have erased any sign of pain and affliction from the risen body of His Son.  But He didn't.

Oh, friends, whatever scars mar your body or your heart, know that they aren't kept around to keep you down.  They aren't meant to remind you of the pain.

They are meant to remind you that you are healed.

Praise God, I am.  Are you?

He knew that scars were necessary for healing.  He did the hard part.  He did the suffering.  All you have to do is run to Him.  And you, too, can experience what it's like to have a heart that is whole, that is surrendered, that is healed.

He paid the price.

He loves you.

He has the scars to prove it.

"From now on, don't let anyone trouble me with these things.  For I bear on my body the scars that show I belong to Jesus." ~Galatians 6:17

Like the Fragrance After the Rain

It's raining today.

There's nothing I love quite as much as a rainy day.  I haven't even gotten out of the bed, the dogs are snuggled quietly at my side, the lights are out, and I'm listening intently to the pitter-patter of the raindrops as they beat sweetly against my windows.

The only thing that could make this morning more enjoyable would be a rumble of thunder in the distance.

When I was a little girl, rain seemed to be a recurring theme in my naptime rituals.

My favorite naptime story that my mother would tell me was called "Moo-Moo the Mouse."  Moo-Moo was a little boy playing outside in the brilliant summertime weather, when his mother called him in for lunch, which often consisted of a peanut butter sandwich cut in the shape of a butterfly.  (I know, Moo-Moo wasn't too macho.  The butterfly shape was for my enjoyment, I'm sure.)  After lunch, Moo-Moo went down for a nap.  And as he laid his furry head to rest, the rain began to fall.

Slowly and quietly at first.

Pitter...patter.  Pitter...patter.

And then gaining with speed and intensity.

Pitter..patter..pitter..patter..pitter-patter, pitter-patter...

The sound effects my mom made here were my favorite part of the story.  The rain continued, lightening toward the end of his nap, until it was time for him to get up and go play outside again.

Naptime also often brought the sweet lullaby of one of my favorite hymns, "There's Just Something About That Name."  The lyrics are as follows:

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,
There's just something about that name.
Master, Savior, Jesus,
Like the fragrance after the rain.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,
Let all heaven and earth proclaim!
Kings and kingdoms will all pass away,
But there's just something about that name.
(William and Gloria Gaither, "There's Just Something About That Name")

I loved these rainy naptime rituals because the imagined rainfall proved comforting, in a way.

But outside of Moo-Moo's story and my favorite lullaby, rain was hardly something I truly enjoyed as a child.

It kept me from playing hide-and-seek.  From swimming in the neighborhood pool.  From swinging on the swing set.

It kept me cooped up inside, nose pressed against the window, wondering when the ugly gray clouds would give way to the warm sunshine.

And truth be told, I couldn't tell how the sweet name of Jesus could be compared to the "fragrance after the rain."  Have you ever gone outside after a rain shower?  It smells less than desirable.  A little like the dogs after they've rolled around in the mud.  Woof.

Even today, there are times when I resent the rain.  It keeps me from tanning by the pool.  Makes the drive to work messy.  And dirties up my car.

But, sweet friends, where are we without rain?

The grass dies.  The earth dries up.  Crops can't grow.  Having grown up in hot, humid Tennessee summers my entire life, I know that a drought turns things ugly.

And of course, when we spurn the spiritual rain that the Lord allows to water our souls, what happens?

We shrivel.  We become ugly.  We stop growing.

In May 2010, my hometown experienced a horrible flood.  It destroyed houses.  Trapped people.  Drowned people on the interstate.  Necessitated an insane amount of money for reconstructing businesses and homes.

Looking at it through our short-sighted human eyes, it ruined everything.

To raise money to help those who had lost everything, my church choir threw a benefit concert.

The title of the program came from one of the focus songs: "Bring the Rain."

When my dad (who is the minister of music at my church) first sent out the email to the choir about the "Bring the Rain" concept, he was met with avid responses, such as, "Oh, I wouldn't be asking Him for anymore rain.  That's what got us into this mess in the first place!"

My dad, who is so wise (perhaps I'm biased? I think not.), replied gently for the choristers to truly look at the lyrics to the song.  Here are the words to the chorus:

Bring me joy, bring me peace,
Bring the chance to be free,
Bring me anything that brings You glory.
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain,
But if that's what it takes to praise You,
Jesus, bring the rain.
(MercyMe, "Bring the Rain)

What a hard thing to pray.  Not only to pray for God's will, but to truly welcome seemingly destructive storms and floods.

It's taken me a long time to get to a place where this seems doable.  That doesn't mean it's become easy, by any means.  But I finally have an acute understanding of what it means to invite hardship into my comfy life.

Yes, it may keep me from the "plans" I've so diligently made for myself.  It may appear to ruin my dreams, the things I've built and the things on which I've wrongfully set my hopes.

But when you learn to relish the fragrance after the rain--not one of wet dog-- but that of an awakening of the earth and the scent of new growth, of hope and rebirth, boy, spending comfy time in the perpetual sunshine begins to seem less important.

The rain is beginning to settle outside, just as it is in this difficult chapter of my life.  But oh, how thankful I am for the rain that He sent to revive my soul; that He's trying to grow me, not destroy me. 

The sun will come out tomorrow (I know, I know, hokey, but couldn't resist), but you know what?  I'm not afraid of the forecast, of the rain that I know will come again.

Please, friends.  Try learning to embrace the rain for the growth it will bring.  Learn to love it, to cherish it.

You won't regret it.

If that's what it takes to praise you, Jesus, bring the rain.

From East to West

Distance from east to west across the state of Tennessee: 440 miles.

Distance from east to west across the continental United States: approximately 3,148 miles.

Distance from east to west across Earth (diameter): approximately 8,000 miles.

Distance from east to west from the sun to Pluto (yes, I still count Pluto as part of the solar system): 5,906,376,272 kilometers.

Distance from east to west across the Milky Way: approximately 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 kilometers.

Distance from east to west across the visible universe: approximately 28 billion light years (one light year = 9,500,000,000,000 kilometers).

****

Temptation is hard to resist, isn't it?

Think back to a time (perhaps it was recently, perhaps not) when you did something you weren't supposed to.  Maybe you took something that wasn't yours.  Said something ugly.  Looked at something you shouldn't have.

Think of how you felt just before you did it.  The appeal was so lovely, wasn't it?  It drew you in like a magnet, grabbed onto your thoughts and wouldn't let go.  If only......if only I could......

The force was just too much, and even though you knew, you knew it wasn't right, you did it anyway.

As a kid, I had an overly sensitive conscience.  I rarely got into trouble, but I had a habit of dwelling on situations and feeling guilty about them.

What if I didn't deserve the good grade I got?

What if I unintentionally hurt that person by what I said?

One time I even told a teacher to mark down a good grade I had gotten on a test because I told her I had accidentally looked at someone else's paper.  I hadn't seen any answers, but it made me feel like I had cheated, and I couldn't live with not having some sort of punishment for it.

Each week, there was something new that I obsessed about in my thought life.  Feeling guilty.  Feeling like I ought to be punished.  Feeling like I didn't deserve to be forgiven.

My mother noticed how preoccupied I had gotten with these sorts of things, and she pulled me out of my room one sunny afternoon to watch a Beth Moore video with her.  The video accompanied a Bible study my mom was doing at the time about the life of David.  I was quickly enamored with Beth's vivacious personality and engaging speaking style. 

She began to talk about David's sin of lusting after Bathsheba.  Which led to adultery.  Which led to lies.  Which led to murder.

David was looking pretty bad.  And yet, Beth said, when he finally repented--truly repented--God forgave him.  He forgave him.  Yes, his actions still had consequences (the baby he conceived with Bathsheba died), but the beautiful thing is that once God forgave him, that was it.  He didn't hold it against him.

And you know what else?  God even called David a man after His own heart! 

Really?  A liar?  An adulterer?  A murderer?  You've got to be kidding!

But it's true!  If we're ready to come back to Him, He's ready to take us back.  And He loves us no less.

Looking back, I really don't think I had done anything truly wrong in those instances that I mulled over as a kid (I know that those thoughts weren't healthy, and I no longer have those).  But there have certainly been times in my life where I have committed a sin...and even though I knew it was wrong, I did it anyway.  And I kept doing it. 

Gossip.  Destructive speech.  Arrogance.  Judging others.

And time and time again, the Holy Spirit will prick my heart and remind me that I really shouldn't be doing it.  And when I fall to my knees in repentance, I don't have to fear that He'll cross His arms and turn a cold shoulder to me.

Quite the opposite!

Listen to the glorious words of Psalm 103: 8-10, 12:

The Lord is compassionate and gracious,
slow to anger and full of faithful love.
He will not always accuse us
or be angry forever.
He has not dealt with us as our sins deserve
or repaid us according to our offenses.

As far as the east is from the west,
so far has He removed our transgressions from us.

Is there something you've done that you feel terrible about?  Stop waiting for your punishment and start looking for His grace.

He isn't waiting to tell you that He told you so.  He isn't waiting to make you feel like the lowest of the low.  He died for you so that you wouldn't have to feel that way.

He loves you.  And He misses you when you're gone.

And all this brings me back to one more distance...

****

Distance east to west from you and your forgiven sin: "one scarred hand to the other."
(Casting Crowns, "East to West")

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."  ~ 1 John 1:9

When I Am Weak

There are many things I can't do.

I can't whistle.

I can't sing a solo.

I can't play the violin.

As a kid in elementary school, it became quickly evident that I can't do anything athletic.  Well, I can't do it well.

I was always a good student, save for PE class.  It wasn't that I didn't try--I had tried and failed miserably in the past, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I was no good at sports.  I brought up the rear when running the mile.  If I was placed on the chin-up bar, I would dangle there sheepishly until the coach yelled at me and told me to get down.  It was especially embarrassing if we had to announce to the teacher in front of the whole grade how many push-ups we had done in a one-minute time span.

It would go something like this...

****
"Jones?"

"27!"

"Awesome.  McDonald?"

"30!"

"Fantastic!  Smith?"

Silence.

"[Clears throat.] Smith?"

"[Quietly] Um, 3."

****

Every year in PE class, we did a series of athletic activities--push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups, sit-and-reach, races--and if our results were within certain ranges, we got a patch representing which level we had reached.  The blue was the best patch, red second best.  I always qualified for the ugly banana yellow patch (which, basically, I could have done zero of everything and gotten that).  I never bothered to pay money to have a stitched reminder that I was only good enough for last place.

I coveted the red and blue patches.  It wasn't that they were prettier or more expensive.  But it meant that the owner was capable.  Better.  Strong.

One of my last years in PE, I decided I wasn't going to let anything stop me from getting a red patch (let's face it: the blue was out of the question).  With every event, I put my heart and soul into it.  I reached farther; got stronger; ran faster.

I was on the cusp of a red patch when I came to my final event--the relay race.  I was placed on a team with three of my classmates.  We were spaced evenly around the track and instructed to run with a baton and hand it off once we got to the next runner.

As luck would have it, I was the last runner, and it was up to me to get across the finish line within a certain time.

My red patch depended on it.

Thankfully, my teammates were all fast runners.  I watched in awe as they rocketed lickety-split around the corners of the track.  Their legs were moving so fast that my eyes couldn't keep up.

And then it was time.  It was my turn.

As the stopwatch continued to count the seconds, the cold metal of the baton was placed deliberately in my nervous hand.  My feet left their starting spot as fast as they could, but my opponents began to pull ahead, despite my head start.

My teacher, who knew how desperately I wanted that red patch, yelled cheers of encouragement my way as I began to look winded.

The seconds ticked.  My feet were slowing down.

The red patch was slipping through my fingers.

Suddenly, I saw my teacher running toward me.  Soon, she was next to me, running with me.

"You've got to move faster," she shouted.  "You're so close.  You're so close!"

I shook my head and hung it in disappointment.  I just couldn't do it.  I just wasn't fast enough.

It was at that moment that my teacher grabbed my hand.  She ran ahead of me, and the force of her grip and speed caused my feet to accelerate.  The breeze picked up in my ponytail, and for the first time, my sluggish feet finally felt what it was like to run fast.  She pulled me the rest of the way, and I crossed the finish line at the last second.

Because of my teacher, I could do it.  Because of her, I got my first and only red patch.

It's hard to admit when I'm weak, when I can't do something on my own.  I don't enjoy asking people for help because I feel like I should be able to do it myself.  Being independent means I'm capable.  Dependence on others makes me feel like I'm incapable, lousy, and a failure.

But you know what?  The Bible doesn't just tell us to accept our weaknesses.  It tells us to boast in them!  That sounds strange, doesn't it?  Can you imagine some skinny, pale guy high-fiving his way through a gym as he shouts, "Guess what!  I'm a weakling!  Isn't that awesome?!"

It sounds ridiculous, but our weaknesses are important.  They're vital.

There's a beautiful thread throughout the Bible of God using the weak.  Think about it...

Moses was a horrible public speaker and even suffered from a speech problem...
   Yet God used his lips to tell Pharaoh to let his people go...

David was several feet shorter than Goliath and too small for a decent suit of armor...
   Yet God used David's hand and a single stone to fell a mighty warrior...

Sarah's womb was barren...
   Yet God used her and Abraham to parent a multitude of nations, even after the age of 100...

It doesn't matter what you can and can't do--don't tell God that He can't use you!

The most beautiful part of our weaknesses is that the holes in our abilities let His strength shine through.  When we aren't able to do it alone, the story stops being about us and becomes magnificently about Him.  It becomes about how He can conquer, how He can overcome, how He can effect change.

If you were strong and great at everything, you wouldn't look to Him.  If we were all perfect, it would eliminate the need for a Savior.

You can't, but He can.

If you will only be willing to be a part of His plan, of His great story, He can use you.

Your speech may not be the most eloquent...but He can speak through you.

Your strength may be dwindling...but He can direct the aim and the force of the stone.

Your feet may be slowing, and as the timer ticks, the finish line may seem a million miles away...but He can pull you through.

Quit shaking your head in discouragement.  He's got your hand.  He's got this.

Take His hand, and run like the wind.

"That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties.  For when I am weak, then I am strong."  ~ 2 Corinthians 12:10

Another Brick in the Wall

Because my grandfather was a magician (yes, you read that correctly), my sister and I used to be major fans of David Copperfield when we were growing up.  We still have a number of VHS tapes (remember those?!) with recorded specials on them, and to identify which is which, each has a strip of tape with a written description of each special's most memorable trick.  Among some of my favorites...

1.  "Niagra Falls."  David is strapped inside a buoyant container that is sent adrift toward (what else?) Niagra Falls.  Mysteriously, he emerges from a flying helicopter soaking wet seconds after the container--which we all believed still had him in it--has tumbled mercilessly over the edge.

2.  "The Dozen-Piece Trick."  David cuts one of his dancers into a dozen pieces and puts her back together, all while rocking out to some awesome 80s tunes in his tapered, acid-washed jeans.

3.  "Fires of Passion."  David hangs upside down in a straightjacket in an amphitheatre in Caesar's Palace, dangling over flaming twelve-inch spikes.  Magically, you watch as he unbinds himself and swings to safety minutes before the rope he's attached to falls into the flames.

For some reason, as a kid, my favorite trick and oft requested special to watch was what I had dubbed "The Exploding 'X.'"  In this trick, David is trapped in a safe inside an abadoned building; he must escape and reemerge under a tarp marked with an "X" just yards away, all while the building explodes.

I think what was most fascinating to me was the way the building went down.  No wrecking ball.  No flames.  All they used was one button--one measley little button--and with the touch of it, the building--solid and massive as it was--literally crumbled into dust.

I think of how much effort must have gone into the construction of the building that was frivolously brought to its knees.  I can remember last year, as we watched the builders fashion together our tiny home, how intricate the work could be--packing the foundation into a solid sheet of rock; steadying the wood to create the frame; carefully laying brick after brick to help the structure stand, to keep it strong, to make it work.

It took effort.  It took time.  It took some mighty dedicated builders.

It's the same with the Christian walk, isn't it?  Before a sound and useful structure (i.e. Christian) can exist, it must start with a solid Rock-like foundation (the Lord) and a supporting framework (a basic knowledge and understanding of the Word, what God has done for us, and the concept of salvation).  Bells and whistles like paint color, furniture, and fancy fixtures (fruit of the Spirit, characteristics reflective of Christ) follow as the spiritual walk matures and gains depth.

But the bricks. The first line of defense.  A support and protection of the inner workings of the structure. 

Where do they come from?

I like to think of the bricks as encouragement and support from other believers.  There's nothing quite like community and solid fellowship.  They can help build one another up, and they can help provide strength against stromy attacks of the Enemy.

The more we encourage each other, the more bricks we have laid.  The more bricks we have laid, the stronger we get.

But what happens when our motives, our words, and our choices far from build others up?

Years ago, when I was merely a teenager, I developed an enormous cyst on my right cheek (I have the scar to prove it).  What started as a fairly small bump grew and grew until it took over half my cheek.  It was purple.  Ugly.  And very hard to cover up.

My dermatologist told me it was the biggest one she had ever seen at the time.  Score.

It made me insanely insecure.  We tried treatment after treatment, ointment after ointment, shot after shot, and there it continued to sit, plaguing my face.  One boy even asked if "that mark on my face" was because somebody was beating me up at home (no, but thanks for asking).  Really, I did my absolute best to put it out of my head and not let it get to me.

My sweet friends at the time assured me often that "it wasn't a big deal," "it wasn't as noticeable as you think," and "it doesn't really matter."  I believed them and drew a sense of strength and confidence from their steadfast encouragement.

But I'll never forget the day someone decided to hurl a wrecking ball.

A boy who had shown interest in me at the time was talking to me before Sunday School one morning, and in the midst of our conversation, he looked intensely at my right cheek.  I had completely forgotten about it until I felt his disgusted stare burning a hole through my face.

Snidely, he remarked, "You know, you don't have enough makeup on your face to cover that thing up."

Growing hot with humiliation, I turned my flushed countenance from his view and attempted to blink away the tears that now clouded my vision.  I walked away immediately, feeling ugly and horrible to look at, and I vowed from that moment on to make sure I always had enough makeup on to cover my flaws.

I can't recall a specific person or a specific bit of encouragement during that time; but I can recall the time, place, person, and words that involved an acute crumbling of my self-esteem.

No matter the multitude of positive things people may say, the few negative things tend to leech onto the soul.

You see, it takes a great deal of effort, time, and builders to make a structure strong; but all it takes is one button to detonate it--and all the bricks, the encouragement, and the strength can come crumbling to their knees.

So, ask yourself: what kind of person are you?

Do you seek to bring encouragement to others, to build them up?  Are you a bricklayer?

Or are you a detonator?

Putting all of my feelings out there in the open for a number of people to see (and I'm perfectly aware that I am doing this) has certainly left me vulnerable to some detonation; some comments have really gotten me down.

But thankfully, the Lord has blessed me with a number of bricklayers.  Just when I so very needed it, a sweet co-worker of mine approached me the other day and, completely unsolicited, told me, "I just wanted to let you know that I can tell you're getting better.  I can really tell.  I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem...lighter.  Anyway, I just thought you should know."

She couldn't possibly have known how much my soul needed to hear those words.  I lavished her with a million thanks and told her how much it meant to me to have that encouragement.

Though some of my structure had crumbled, she chose to start laying new bricks.  And for that, sweet lady, I offer you my sincere, heartfelt gratitude.  Bless you.

I'm not asking for you to be my bricklayers by any means; and I'm just as guilty of being a detonator as the next person.  But please, friends, be mindful that even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant words can bring a person to her knees.  The things you say have power.

It's up to you how you will use them.

I know, it takes time and effort and a great deal of dedication, but help the Architect complete His designs.  You don't have to do it all yourself, but do one.  Just one.

Lay a brick.

"Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing."  ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:11

The Suspense Is Killing Me....

I used to love the show Full House.  I've for certain seen every episode at least three times. Every afternoon at 3:00 pm, my rear end was parked on a sofa cushion and ready to listen to the theme song...

"Whatever happened to predictability
The milk man, the paper boy, the evening TV,
You miss your old familiar friends, but
Waiting just around the bend...

Everywhere you look,
Everywhere there's a heart (there's a heart)
A hand to hold onto
Everywhere you look
Everywhere there's a face
Of somebody who needs you

When you're lost out there and you're all alone
A light is waiting to carry you home
Everywhere you look."

Ahhh.  The good ol' days. 

I remember there was an episode where Uncle Jesse was preparing to go to a cocktail party with his fiance Becky, and he was intimidated by all of the "smart people" who were sure to be attending.  To give his intelligence (and ego) a boost, he gathers a multitude of literature and begins to "read."

In order to get through all of them in the short amount of time he has, he vows to read the first and last sentence of each book.

Picking up A Tale of Two Cities, he reads aloud, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."  Flipping to the last page, he recites, "It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done."

He chuckles and remarks flatly, "Wow.  Surprise ending."  The laughtrack is cued and they go about solving their problems in the half hour allotted.

It wasn't until I got to my senior English class and actually read the book that I realized how ironic this part of the show was because it is, in fact, a surprise ending (and a tearjerker, I might add).

But of course he didn't get that from reading two sentences in the book.  How could he understand?  He had completely bypassed the story.

My family is awful about trying to guess endings to movies and television shows.  As soon as we hear that there's a "surprise" or a "twist," my mom especially picks through her brain and announces her guesses to the rest of the viewing party before the opening credits have begun to roll...

"She's gonna get together with him."

"He's gonna die."

"He's already dead."

My dad will groan and moan and tell her to quit guessing because it ruins the suspense.  When, inevitably, one of her theories proves true, she sits back in her chair with a satisfied grin and says, "I knew it."

Isn't it that way when we try to guess what the future will hold?

People visit fortune-tellers, read tarot cards, shake a magic 8-ball because the suspense is killing them.  They want to be prepared for what's coming.  They want to know what's coming.

But...what if you could know the future?  What if you could read the last sentence of the book that is your life?  Would you be content?  Would it ruin the surprise?

Or, like Uncle Jesse, would you even understand it?

For almost a year now, I've been stuck in a chapter of my life that I've been praying will end.  Now.  Now.  Now.  Page turn after page turn, and the main character continues to be deeply flawed and stuck at a fork in the road between bitterness and acceptance.

Frankly, I would love nothing more than to flip to the end of the chapter to see what happens.  Where will I go?  What will I do?  Who will I become?

How will all of this resolve?

And wouldn't you know it?  After patiently waiting to find some redeeming quality to the story, well, by golly, here comes a twist...

I've written at length about how difficult it has been to watch the pregnant women in my life as they grow and plan for their upcoming ventures as new moms.  One in particular was extremely hard for me to accept.  It was horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing, and it left me with an unfortunate bitterness that persisted for most of her pregnancy.  I'm not proud of it.  But there was so much anger, so much resentment, so much yuck that went into it that my heart could barely handle the sting.

Only my mother and my husband truly know the depth of pain that I felt throughout her pregnancy.

It wasn't until a week or two before her due date that we actually opened up to this couple, aired our dirty laundry, and came together with empathy, understanding, and true fellowship.  The meeting that we shared was divine in nature and just what I needed.

And wouldn't you know it...

As the Lord would have it, I got to be there with them the day their baby was born.  I got to watch them become parents, the excitement and anticipation scribbled all across their faces, their inexplicable joy when they finally saw the lovely face they had waited months for.

And I was the first to hold.

There's so much I wish I could share but won't for certain reasons, but I just kept thinking, Wow.  I could never have dreamt up this part of the story.  I could never have imagined it.

You know why?

Because He's such a good storyteller.  And if we will be patient enough to sit and listen, instead of interrupting him constantly to try and figure out the ending, we can revel in, marvel at, and truly appreciate the incredible stories He weaves.

I wouldn't have understood if I had looked ahead for a peek at what was to come.  But because I haven't bypassed the story, I do.  I get it.  I get it.  What seemed like horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing turned out, remarkably, to be perfect timing.

So gather in a circle, sit cross-legged, and listen closely.  I can tell, this story's going to be a good one.

And remember, no peeking...


"Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails."  ~Proverbs 19:21

Roots

I definitely don't have a green thumb.  In fact, I think my thumb shoots out poison that kills any plants within a ten-mile radius.

It's sad, really.

When we moved into our house in November, the developer was kind enough to start us out with some landscaping.  Nothing fancy, just a few shrubs, bushes, and one tree.  And they covered it in that awful Georgia pine.  If you've ever tried to plant or pull weeds in Georgia pine, you know that it's like sticking your palms in a knife drawer.  Because I'm so smart (read: ditzy), it took me a couple of times to figure out that you need to wear strong gloves when you're messing with it.

Once the weather got warmer, we decided to improve our curb appeal.  We ditched the Georgia pine for some luscious midnight black mulch, and I picked out a couple of Gerber daisies to plant along the front of the house.

A few days later, one of the Gerber daisies was missing.  Dru told me he thinks a deer ate it. (P.S., I haven't seen one deer since we moved out here.  I think he just didn't want to tell me that my poisonous non-green thumb killed it.)

Because pulling weeds became too tedious, he bought weed-killer spray, and unfortunately, he missed and sprayed all of our ground cover.  They shriveled and turned brown.  Desperate to keep something alive, I sat there on a humid Saturday afternoon and pruned every last one of those plants down to the nub, which was the only green part of them left.  The plants didn't just subsequently die, I'm pretty sure the earth opened up and swallowed them, because there were no traces of them to be found.

We really stink at gardening.

As the brutal summer heat wore on, we vowed to somewhat give up on our gardening until the fall, when things were more likely to survive.  But poor Dru couldn't stand the sight of our naked, shriveled lawn any longer, spending an afternoon at Home Depot shopping for new ground cover.

But a curious thing happened as he started planting that afternoon...

One of our little plants had decided it wasn't over yet.  Not yet.

After realizing it wasn't a weed, Dru let me know that one of our little plants had come back.  I asked him if any of the others had shown signs of returning, and he told me no.  That was the only one.

Wow.  That little plant must have some strong roots.

He thought about digging it up and planting a brand new one, but we decided that no.  It's come this far; why don't we see what it can do?

Maybe you feel like one of our plants today.  Maybe you feel like you've been sprayed to death; the heat's too much; there's no way, no reason you should keep growing.

You see others around you, just like you, and they've quit.  They gave up.

But no.  Not you.  You've got some roots.  Strong roots.  No matter how much the world tries to make sure you're stunted, well I'll be if you don't continue to stick around.

Not even just stick around.  My goodness, look how you've grown.

You may not feel it.  Maybe you aren't as grown and pretty as everyone else, but you certainly stand out.  Come on.  Keep going.  Don't give up.

Let's see what you can do.  Let's see what He can do.

"The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon.  Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God.  They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing."  ~Psalm 92:12-14