It was a Friday unlike any other.
I had begun my duties for the morning, and as I toiled in the brutal heat, my ear caught the triumphant jeers of a crowd nearby. Dusting my knees, I dirtied my clumsy two left feet as I ventured to explore the commotion.
Elbows were flying in my face. Their taunts deafening my ears. Pushing and prodding my way through the relieved sweat of a multitude feeling justified, I finally caught sight of the crowd's genesis.
A crucifixion, I muttered.
It had been a while since our quiet streets had had one, and the throng shouted with a vengeance to make up for lost time.
I had never seen one, and my eyes perked with curiosity.
I watched as a group of armored guards stood mockingly over the criminal, who lay draped and handcuffed to a post in the center of their circle. He was dripping with perspiration and bloodied from a good beating. He hung his head low, letting his chestnut locks fall freely across his brow.
The guards smiled cruelly at their cat-o-nine tails, waiting for the fun to commence. As the criminal took quick, anticipatory breaths, the first guard slashed his whip across the man's bare back. The man gave an unearthly wail as his fresh wounds began to seep. Before he could catch another breath, the second guard followed suit to the first. Their whipping accelerated with each turn. It became a game of sorts.
I began to count the lashes.
Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...
They knew they had to stop at thirty-nine. By the time they had reached thirty, I choked with empathy.
I don't know if he's going to make it to thirty-nine.
As the last lash scraped fervently across his back, he collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. I gasped at the sight.
There's no skin left on his back, I thought. How can he stand that?
Nonetheless, as my mother had always taught me, I reminded myself that these people are criminals. They get what they deserve. He must have done something terrible to deserve this.
As the man arched his back to let out a desperate cry, I finally caught a glimpse of his face. He almost didn't look human. His cheeks were bruised, his eyes bloodshot. Dirt speckled his forehead. Inadvertant wounds from the flogging had stained his face. And as he wept, I caught his eye.
He looks familiar, I thought. Yes, he's the one. The one they call this "Messiah." But this didn't make any sense. Just days earlier, I was here for the parade that welcomed him to town. I had waved a palm branch to celebrate his arrival. I looked around me. So had these other people.
My eyes welled.
I nudged the woman next to me who was screaming obscenities at this poor man.
"Isn't he the one they call 'Messiah?' Isn't his name Jesus?" I asked her pensively.
She pushed me out of her way and further back into the crowd. Suddenly afraid of the scene around me, I watched as those who had stood singing his praises just a week earlier spat vulgarities in his blood-tinged face.
As I looked hopelessly at him, the guards drew near with a thorny bush cradled horribly in their hands.
It looks like a crown, I thought. Please don't put that on his head.
But it was too late. The guards adorned his bloodied brow with their crass creation. They shoved it harder, harder onto his head, as if to make some petty point. The man opened his mouth and screamed at the pain that was inflicted anew.
Before a tear could fall from my wide eyes, they began to push him, urging him toward the hill where he would be crucified. They paused briefly to saddle his scarred shoulders with an enormous wooden beam.
That must be it. That must be the cross.
He trudged achingly along the stony path, all while insults and spit stung his saddened frame. I moved quickly to keep up with the crowd as we followed the procession.
His steps became heavy and burdened until he fell flat on his face. This stole the breath from my body, and I felt my heart telling my feet to move near to his side. Before my feet could get the message to run to him, a young gentleman had helped the man back to his feet and lovingly carried the beam the rest of the way.
We reached the top of the hill they call Calvary, and the guards shoved the man angrily to the ground, roping his arms to the rough wooden beam. A nearby guard brought over a handful of rusty spikes.
What is he going to do with those nails? I thought. He's had enough. Please don't hurt him anymore.
But my wistful thoughts were in vain. My eyes couldn't tear themselves away as the guard centered the spike on the man's palm. Raising a mallet to the sky, he cracked forcefully upon the nail, sending it shooting into his hand.
I turned and looked away while he finished. But the sound of the mallet hitting the metal is forever engraved in my memory.
Once he had been sufficiently fastened to the beam, they began to raise the cross until he hung high above the crowds that continued to hurl hatred at him.
And as he bore insult after insult, I finally heard his voice, sweet like honey, emerge from his raw and bloodied lips.
"Father, forgive them. They don't know what they're doing."
I erupted into sobs. I looked incredulously at the seemingly clueless onlookers who surrounded me.
But he couldn't have done anything! He's innocent! I know he is! He doesn't deserve this!
His breathing became labored and uneven. I prayed, hoping for a miracle that somehow he would come down, free himself and save us all.
Exhausted, he spoke once more.
"It is finished."
His head dropped. His body lifeless, save for his dirtied locks that rustled in the breeze.
I fell to my face wondering why it had to be him. Why him. Thunderous clouds began to ominously loom overhead, and as the first raindrop landed painfully against my cheek, I knew.
Surely, this was the Son of God.
**********
I wish this was a made-up story; a fictional tale that was limited only to the imagination.
But it isn't.
That guard didn't nail Jesus to the cross. I did.
The thorns didn't pierce his brow. I did.
The whips didn't tear across his back. I did.
No, he didn't deserve it. I did.
But because He loved me and because He loved you, He did.
Every lie, every bit of hate, every obscenity, every sin was taken to the cross that day. And it was settled. It was forgiven. It was finished.
But praise Jesus, because He didn't remain in the grave, neither do we. Neither do we.
Believe, friends. Believe He wasn't a criminal. Believe He wasn't just a prophet. Believe He wasn't just a good man.
Believe.
Surely, this was the Son of God.
"But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed." ~Isaiah 53:5
Learning to Soar for Jesus
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Cup
An age-old question is often used to determine our attitude toward life:
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Now, I don't know about you, but my answer often depends on the day (and the beverage involved), but generally if you see it as half empty, you're a pessimist, and if you see it as half full, you're an optimist.
Admittedly, I've been having a "glass-half-empty" time lately. Yeah, I'm down, a little discouraged. And because this weekend brought a great deal of joy for a number of others in my life, I emptied my glass to help fill theirs.
And now, I'm frustrated.
Why isn't anyone filling my cup?
I'm not asking for a full glass, here. Just a swig. A sip. A sampling of the good stuff.
Their cups are overflowing, I think to myself. Can't they spare a little?
Because our human nature is to be selfish and to think that when we give something, we're due something in return, we often find ourselves feeling a bit bankrupt.
Yes, it's good to encourage one another. To fill each others' cups with love and celebration.
But the stuff we pass out to each other runs dry.
It's not an all-you-can-drink buffet of sorts. We can't give of ourselves when our own glasses are empty.
So, you ask, where can I get an endless supply so I never run out?
In the book of John, Jesus meets with a Samaritan woman at a well. She's minding her own business, drawing her own water, when Jesus asks her for a drink.
Because Samaritans didn't associate with Jews, she responds with something such as, "You talking to me?"
His fervent reply, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life" (John 4: 1-26).
It's easy to let our joy and our satisfaction stem from what others give us. But when they inevitably stop giving, we're left pining. Yearning.
Thirsty.
For years, whenever I would begin to feel empty like this, my mother would always ask me if I had been in the Word lately. No, of course I hadn't.
"Then fill your tank," she'd say.
I would often resist, at first. Because I was too "busy" or what not. But as soon as I recharged my life with His Word, I began to care less about what I could scrape up from others. I don't need their water.
I have Living Water. Water that never runs dry.
Are you thirsty? Parched? Waiting for a trickle of someone's happiness to spill into your life?
Don't settle for sips of the good stuff. Fill your tank. Dig deep into His Word and let His marvelous grace pour into your life. Your glass won't just be full.
It'll downright overflow.
![]()
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Now, I don't know about you, but my answer often depends on the day (and the beverage involved), but generally if you see it as half empty, you're a pessimist, and if you see it as half full, you're an optimist.
Admittedly, I've been having a "glass-half-empty" time lately. Yeah, I'm down, a little discouraged. And because this weekend brought a great deal of joy for a number of others in my life, I emptied my glass to help fill theirs.
And now, I'm frustrated.
Why isn't anyone filling my cup?
I'm not asking for a full glass, here. Just a swig. A sip. A sampling of the good stuff.
Their cups are overflowing, I think to myself. Can't they spare a little?
Because our human nature is to be selfish and to think that when we give something, we're due something in return, we often find ourselves feeling a bit bankrupt.
Yes, it's good to encourage one another. To fill each others' cups with love and celebration.
But the stuff we pass out to each other runs dry.
It's not an all-you-can-drink buffet of sorts. We can't give of ourselves when our own glasses are empty.
So, you ask, where can I get an endless supply so I never run out?
In the book of John, Jesus meets with a Samaritan woman at a well. She's minding her own business, drawing her own water, when Jesus asks her for a drink.
Because Samaritans didn't associate with Jews, she responds with something such as, "You talking to me?"
His fervent reply, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life" (John 4: 1-26).
It's easy to let our joy and our satisfaction stem from what others give us. But when they inevitably stop giving, we're left pining. Yearning.
Thirsty.
For years, whenever I would begin to feel empty like this, my mother would always ask me if I had been in the Word lately. No, of course I hadn't.
"Then fill your tank," she'd say.
I would often resist, at first. Because I was too "busy" or what not. But as soon as I recharged my life with His Word, I began to care less about what I could scrape up from others. I don't need their water.
I have Living Water. Water that never runs dry.
Are you thirsty? Parched? Waiting for a trickle of someone's happiness to spill into your life?
Don't settle for sips of the good stuff. Fill your tank. Dig deep into His Word and let His marvelous grace pour into your life. Your glass won't just be full.
It'll downright overflow.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The Down Comforter
Our itty bitty (yet somehow hefty) pup Zoey is quite the character. A troublemaker, really. She may come off as sweet and quiet (and she is most of the time), but too often she poops under the bed, makes off with my socks and underwear, and somehow becomes deaf whenever we go outside.
She's such a stinker. And, I'll admit, spoiled rotten.
Lately, she's developed this interesting new habit. Normally, she likes to snuggle against my back when I'm sleeping at night, but when I woke up one morning and couldn't find her, I began to panic that she had fallen off the bed.
Strangely, I noticed that our down comforter felt extra heavy.
Our little peanut had not just crawled under the covers...
She had buried herself inside the duvet at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure how she managed to get in there in the first place, but I had to unbutton it and literally drag her out of there.
Ever since, when it's time for bed, she dives head first under the covers. It seems to be the only way she can sleep. Of course, I'm afraid she's going to smother and frequently try to coax her back out so she can breathe.
But my efforts are in vain. There she is. Every morning. Still breathing. Buried in the comforter.
Days later, I had called my mother to talk to her on my way home from work, and I laughingly told her about Zoey's new favorite place to sleep (read: snore). She chuckled and then paused.
"That reminds me," she said. "I came across this verse today and I thought of you. It's a psalm that talks about 'singing under the shadow of his wings.'" She went on to explain that as I go through this difficult time in my life, He protects me like a baby bird under His wings. "Just like Zoey feels safe by hiding under the covers," she said, "you can hide yourself in Him."
I thought about that as I got home. And I laughed out loud as I truly made the connection. It makes perfect sense.
Zoey feels safe in the comforter.
Why do we seek comfort on a daily basis? We use medicine to comfort our aches. Comfort food to satisfy our hunger. Hugs to comfort our hurts.
We seek comfort to free ourselves from pain.
The Bible speaks often of the Lord being our Comforter. He can bring us comfort. He can free us from our pain.
And what's more, He can turn that pain into something beautiful.
In the time of David, a horrible plague swept through Israel as a punishment for his wrongdoing. As He saw how Israel hurt, the Lord had mercy on David and his people and removed their pain.
It is believed that Psalm 30 was written by David in response to the Lord's comfort:
1 I will exalt you, LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 LORD my God, I called to you for help,
and you healed me.
3 You, LORD, brought me up from the realm of the dead;
you spared me from going down to the pit.
4 Sing the praises of the LORD, you his faithful people;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."
7 LORD, when you favored me,
you made my royal mountain stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What is gained if I am silenced,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, LORD, and be merciful to me;
LORD, be my help."
11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
LORD my God, I will praise you forever.
Praise God, we don't have to hurt forever. He is good. He is faithful. Not only will He comfort your pain, He will redeem it.
Let Him fashion beauty from your ashes. Let Him turn your mourning into dancing. Your sorrow into joy.
It's been a long trip, my friend. You must be exhausted.
Come and rest.
Like Zoey, hide yourself in The Comforter.
![]()
She's such a stinker. And, I'll admit, spoiled rotten.
Lately, she's developed this interesting new habit. Normally, she likes to snuggle against my back when I'm sleeping at night, but when I woke up one morning and couldn't find her, I began to panic that she had fallen off the bed.
Strangely, I noticed that our down comforter felt extra heavy.
Our little peanut had not just crawled under the covers...
She had buried herself inside the duvet at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure how she managed to get in there in the first place, but I had to unbutton it and literally drag her out of there.
Ever since, when it's time for bed, she dives head first under the covers. It seems to be the only way she can sleep. Of course, I'm afraid she's going to smother and frequently try to coax her back out so she can breathe.
But my efforts are in vain. There she is. Every morning. Still breathing. Buried in the comforter.
Days later, I had called my mother to talk to her on my way home from work, and I laughingly told her about Zoey's new favorite place to sleep (read: snore). She chuckled and then paused.
"That reminds me," she said. "I came across this verse today and I thought of you. It's a psalm that talks about 'singing under the shadow of his wings.'" She went on to explain that as I go through this difficult time in my life, He protects me like a baby bird under His wings. "Just like Zoey feels safe by hiding under the covers," she said, "you can hide yourself in Him."
I thought about that as I got home. And I laughed out loud as I truly made the connection. It makes perfect sense.
Zoey feels safe in the comforter.
Why do we seek comfort on a daily basis? We use medicine to comfort our aches. Comfort food to satisfy our hunger. Hugs to comfort our hurts.
We seek comfort to free ourselves from pain.
The Bible speaks often of the Lord being our Comforter. He can bring us comfort. He can free us from our pain.
And what's more, He can turn that pain into something beautiful.
In the time of David, a horrible plague swept through Israel as a punishment for his wrongdoing. As He saw how Israel hurt, the Lord had mercy on David and his people and removed their pain.
It is believed that Psalm 30 was written by David in response to the Lord's comfort:
1 I will exalt you, LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 LORD my God, I called to you for help,
and you healed me.
3 You, LORD, brought me up from the realm of the dead;
you spared me from going down to the pit.
4 Sing the praises of the LORD, you his faithful people;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."
7 LORD, when you favored me,
you made my royal mountain stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What is gained if I am silenced,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, LORD, and be merciful to me;
LORD, be my help."
11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
LORD my God, I will praise you forever.
Praise God, we don't have to hurt forever. He is good. He is faithful. Not only will He comfort your pain, He will redeem it.
Let Him fashion beauty from your ashes. Let Him turn your mourning into dancing. Your sorrow into joy.
It's been a long trip, my friend. You must be exhausted.
Come and rest.
Like Zoey, hide yourself in The Comforter.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tin Foil, Peanut Butter, and Really Long Words
Xanthophobia: fear of the color yellow or the word yellow
Lachanophobia: fear of vegetables
Kathisophobia: fear of sitting down
Psellismophobia: fear of stuttering (I think this one is downright mean)
Ablutophobia: fear of washing or bathing
Bromidrosiphobia: fear of body smells (I'm guessing these guys can't be friends with the ablutophobics...)
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: fear of the number 666
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words (my, my, someone has a sense of humor)
Phobophobia: fear of phobias
I can't make this stuff up. Really.
When I was younger, I was watching an episode of Maury Povich (pretend you didn't hear that), and a woman was being interviewed about her fear of tin foil. Halfway through her talk with Maury, a stagehand ran onstage with a sheet of tin foil and chased her up into the audience. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.
Sure, we can laugh about "silly" fears like those. I'm sure these phobias all stem from some sort of past harrowing situation, but when you take it at face value, you think, "People are really afraid of getting peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths? That's. Messed. Up."
When I was a kid, I was afraid of the normal stuff. Thunderstorms. Snakes. Spiders. The dark. My rocking chair.
What? You mean you weren't scared of your rocking chair?
Okay, okay. I had a nightmare one time that my rocking chair came to life and tried to come and get me. After that, I kept a close eye on it. I was sure it was moving closer and closer every evening.
I swear I was a very normal child.
But let's throw out some other fears here, shall we?
Eremophobia: fear of loneliness.
Carcinophobia: fear of cancer.
Algophobia: fear of pain.
Necrophobia: fear of death.
Not so funny, now. These are pretty common. And you know what? I'll bet most of the phobias out there boil down to a fear of pain or death (although I'm not sure what the color yellow could ever do to you. But I digress...).
We don't see these fears as being abnormal. We should be afraid of these things. They're truly scary.
Right?
I'll admit, right now I'm developing a phobia of the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet. They're there, waiting for me to start taking them again. To provide a daily reminder that it hasn't happened yet. And that there's a chance it never will.
I fear it because I know that another miscarriage is a real possibility for me. And another loss means pain.
And death.
Everybody keeps asking us when we're going to start trying again. Dru and I have decided that we will keep it to ourselves when we do. But frankly, I have no earthly idea because I'm scared out of my mind.
Just like little girls fantasize about their dream weddings, as they get older, they start to think about having the perfect pregnancy: no real "trying," carry to term, cute little baby bump, and a healthy baby to take home.
Sigh. It just doesn't work that way sometimes. And I'll admit that I feel extra discouraged lately because I've had some friends confide in me about their recent struggles to get and/or stay pregnant. Misfortune feels rampant at the moment, just as I was starting to get the slightest spark of excitement at the thought of trying again.
I feel cheated. If we are blessed with another positive pregnancy test, it won't be as happy an experience as it could be. We don't think about saving for cribs or private schools or college. We think about saving for D&Cs, should I need one or two in the future.
I wish I could be ignorant; I wish I could think that two pink lines mean I'm getting a baby.
But as I sit here and put these thoughts into print, I see doubt woven in each sentence. I doubt that we'll get pregnant. I doubt that we'll stay pregnant. I doubt that we'll be parents.
Dare I say, perhaps these doubts reflect a doubt in...God?
Think about it. As I said earlier, most of our fears boil down to a fear of pain or death. If you are a believer, you simply can't fear these things.
Because your God is greater.
He is greater than any pain that can be inflicted on your body. He is greater than the loneliness you feel after a divorce. He is greater than any sickness.
He is greater than death.
He conquered death. It's over. It's finished. We don't have to fear it anymore.
So ask yourself: why do you still fear it?
Do you doubt Him? Do you doubt what He did for you on the cross? Do you doubt that He is King? That He is in control?
Only you can answer that.
Truthfully, friends, the only thing we should be absolutely terrified of is permanent separation from God. If you've given your life to Him, then your fears have no place here.
No place here.
In fact, they're just as ridiculous as being afraid of tin foil or peanut butter.
Suddenly, the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet seem a little less menacing. There may be more losses in store for me. Maybe not. But I can't be afraid to try. I can't be afraid to try.
I can't be afraid.
I won't be afraid.
Sigh.
Bottoms up.
"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." ~Psalm 56:3
Lachanophobia: fear of vegetables
Kathisophobia: fear of sitting down
Psellismophobia: fear of stuttering (I think this one is downright mean)
Ablutophobia: fear of washing or bathing
Bromidrosiphobia: fear of body smells (I'm guessing these guys can't be friends with the ablutophobics...)
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: fear of the number 666
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words (my, my, someone has a sense of humor)
Phobophobia: fear of phobias
I can't make this stuff up. Really.
When I was younger, I was watching an episode of Maury Povich (pretend you didn't hear that), and a woman was being interviewed about her fear of tin foil. Halfway through her talk with Maury, a stagehand ran onstage with a sheet of tin foil and chased her up into the audience. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.
Sure, we can laugh about "silly" fears like those. I'm sure these phobias all stem from some sort of past harrowing situation, but when you take it at face value, you think, "People are really afraid of getting peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths? That's. Messed. Up."
When I was a kid, I was afraid of the normal stuff. Thunderstorms. Snakes. Spiders. The dark. My rocking chair.
What? You mean you weren't scared of your rocking chair?
Okay, okay. I had a nightmare one time that my rocking chair came to life and tried to come and get me. After that, I kept a close eye on it. I was sure it was moving closer and closer every evening.
I swear I was a very normal child.
But let's throw out some other fears here, shall we?
Eremophobia: fear of loneliness.
Carcinophobia: fear of cancer.
Algophobia: fear of pain.
Necrophobia: fear of death.
Not so funny, now. These are pretty common. And you know what? I'll bet most of the phobias out there boil down to a fear of pain or death (although I'm not sure what the color yellow could ever do to you. But I digress...).
We don't see these fears as being abnormal. We should be afraid of these things. They're truly scary.
Right?
I'll admit, right now I'm developing a phobia of the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet. They're there, waiting for me to start taking them again. To provide a daily reminder that it hasn't happened yet. And that there's a chance it never will.
I fear it because I know that another miscarriage is a real possibility for me. And another loss means pain.
And death.
Everybody keeps asking us when we're going to start trying again. Dru and I have decided that we will keep it to ourselves when we do. But frankly, I have no earthly idea because I'm scared out of my mind.
Just like little girls fantasize about their dream weddings, as they get older, they start to think about having the perfect pregnancy: no real "trying," carry to term, cute little baby bump, and a healthy baby to take home.
Sigh. It just doesn't work that way sometimes. And I'll admit that I feel extra discouraged lately because I've had some friends confide in me about their recent struggles to get and/or stay pregnant. Misfortune feels rampant at the moment, just as I was starting to get the slightest spark of excitement at the thought of trying again.
I feel cheated. If we are blessed with another positive pregnancy test, it won't be as happy an experience as it could be. We don't think about saving for cribs or private schools or college. We think about saving for D&Cs, should I need one or two in the future.
I wish I could be ignorant; I wish I could think that two pink lines mean I'm getting a baby.
But as I sit here and put these thoughts into print, I see doubt woven in each sentence. I doubt that we'll get pregnant. I doubt that we'll stay pregnant. I doubt that we'll be parents.
Dare I say, perhaps these doubts reflect a doubt in...God?
Think about it. As I said earlier, most of our fears boil down to a fear of pain or death. If you are a believer, you simply can't fear these things.
Because your God is greater.
He is greater than any pain that can be inflicted on your body. He is greater than the loneliness you feel after a divorce. He is greater than any sickness.
He is greater than death.
He conquered death. It's over. It's finished. We don't have to fear it anymore.
So ask yourself: why do you still fear it?
Do you doubt Him? Do you doubt what He did for you on the cross? Do you doubt that He is King? That He is in control?
Only you can answer that.
Truthfully, friends, the only thing we should be absolutely terrified of is permanent separation from God. If you've given your life to Him, then your fears have no place here.
No place here.
In fact, they're just as ridiculous as being afraid of tin foil or peanut butter.
Suddenly, the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet seem a little less menacing. There may be more losses in store for me. Maybe not. But I can't be afraid to try. I can't be afraid to try.
I can't be afraid.
I won't be afraid.
Sigh.
Bottoms up.
"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." ~Psalm 56:3
Monday, June 20, 2011
Prayer Needed
Good afternoon, friends.
This has been weighing heavily on my heart today. I woke up to an email from my mother saying that a sweet couple from their Sunday School class had sent them an urgent prayer request. Their daughter was experiencing problems with her pregnancy (lost all of her amniotic fluid), and the doctors didn't feel like she would be able to continue with the pregnancy. She was far enough along to have to deliver the baby last night.
The baby passed away this morning.
Please be in prayer for grandparents Paul and Bonnie and mom Karyn (I am unsure of dad's name) as they grieve the loss of this little baby. If you are reading this and know the family, please reach out to them in some way when you see them. They are devastated but have peace knowing that the baby is safe in the arms of Jesus.
I also wanted to let you know that if you have any prayer requests at all (not just pregnancy or baby related), you can email them to me at dandcchildress@gmail.com or post them in a comment here, if you feel comfortable doing so. I would love to have the opportunity to pray for whatever is going on in your life.
Hope that you all enjoy the rest of this sunny afternoon.
This has been weighing heavily on my heart today. I woke up to an email from my mother saying that a sweet couple from their Sunday School class had sent them an urgent prayer request. Their daughter was experiencing problems with her pregnancy (lost all of her amniotic fluid), and the doctors didn't feel like she would be able to continue with the pregnancy. She was far enough along to have to deliver the baby last night.
The baby passed away this morning.
Please be in prayer for grandparents Paul and Bonnie and mom Karyn (I am unsure of dad's name) as they grieve the loss of this little baby. If you are reading this and know the family, please reach out to them in some way when you see them. They are devastated but have peace knowing that the baby is safe in the arms of Jesus.
I also wanted to let you know that if you have any prayer requests at all (not just pregnancy or baby related), you can email them to me at dandcchildress@gmail.com or post them in a comment here, if you feel comfortable doing so. I would love to have the opportunity to pray for whatever is going on in your life.
Hope that you all enjoy the rest of this sunny afternoon.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Little Give and Take
It was a sunny morning at the end of a grueling semester in nursing school. Still wiping the sleep from my eyes, I trudged over to my student mailbox, as I would any other morning.
Smith... Smith... Smith! There I was.
I opened the folder looking for old papers that might have been graded, take home tests, homework.
But...what was this?
A curious packet sat regally amidst my pharmacology essay and my Mental Health assignment.
It was a notice that I had received a scholarship. A big scholarship.
I tried to knock the sleep from my brain as I stared wide-eyed at the acceptance letter. A smile crept across my lips, and I fumbled for my cell phone to let my parents (who were footing the bill for my college education) in on the good news.
"Mom!" I exclaimed. "You're never going to believe this! I got a scholarship! A big one!" She squealed with delight as I dished the details.
"And the funny thing is, I don't even remember applying for it!"
Well, that's because I hadn't.
It had my name on it, all right. But there was another nursing student by the name of Chelsea Smith.
And the scholarship was meant for her.
Yuck.
My spirit crashed as quickly as it had soared when I realized what had happened. I messaged the other Chelsea Smith to give her the good news before sitting down to write a furious email to the people who hadn't bothered to make sure they were giving the scholarship to the right girl. I believe I said something along the lines that the "5 rights" should have been applied in this situation, much as it should in a hospital setting.
But how could I be mad, right? Yes, the scholarship was in my name. And it was in my hands.
But did it ever really belong to me?
Life is full of this sort of stuff. A little give. A little take. It often seems that as soon as a good thing occurs, something terrible is on its heels, and we're left feeling robbed. Neglected. Poor.
Let's journey back to the book of Job for a little more exploration on this subject, shall we? (I told you this would happen :))
As I shared with you last time, Job was a good man, and so God gave. And gave. And gave.
Satan enters with a proposition, and God allows him to take. And take. And take.
Job was literally left with no one. Nothing. Well, excpet for his wife--and she's quite a winner. (I'm wondering if leaving her alive was perhaps the worst torture Satan could afflict on him. Yeesh. But I digress...)
He had, and then he had not.
And again, when his oh-so-wonderful wife tells him to curse God and die, how does he respond?
"The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord! Shall we receive good at the hand of God and not receive evil?"
I don't know about you, but this is hardly how I feel when something I cherish is ripped from my grasp. If it's ever been in my hands, then it's mine. I want it. I need it. And you can't have it back.
I think we can get into an interesting conversation here about whether God actually takes away the good things in our lives. I read a blog recently that said she felt that the notion of "God gives and takes away" is rubbish because "God would never want His children to hurt."
Something needs to be made very clear, though. God is not your magic genie who is only on stand-by to grant you your wishes. He isn't a waiter who brings you items as you please.
He's not concerned with your gratification. He's concerned with your growth.
And He very well will allow a subtraction from our possessions if it means that we will forsake a life of comfort for a deeper connection with Him.
He doesn't remove things to be mean or spiteful. Certainly, there are consequences for poor decisions, but I don't believe God allows miscarriage or cancer or death because He wants to make you upset.
He doesn't want you to hurt, but He wants your heart. And unfortunately, sometimes the hurt is what it takes to get your heart.
He wants you. All of you. He never says that a life with Him will be simple. It's not supposed to be.
But He promises that He'll be with you. That you won't be alone. And He promises that He won't quit until this work in you is finished.
I don't know why God allowed the passing of Maria Chapman or Audrey Caroline Smith. I don't know why He allowed the passing of Eli and Sarah.
But I know that God is good. So good. And I know that He's up to something greater.
So, please. Take a good look around you. Your home. Your spouse. Your family. Your children. Your job.
Everything.
Yes, they may have your name on them. They may be in your hands. But just like that scholarship, they don't really belong to you.
Loosen your grasp and believe.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.
Smith... Smith... Smith! There I was.
I opened the folder looking for old papers that might have been graded, take home tests, homework.
But...what was this?
A curious packet sat regally amidst my pharmacology essay and my Mental Health assignment.
It was a notice that I had received a scholarship. A big scholarship.
I tried to knock the sleep from my brain as I stared wide-eyed at the acceptance letter. A smile crept across my lips, and I fumbled for my cell phone to let my parents (who were footing the bill for my college education) in on the good news.
"Mom!" I exclaimed. "You're never going to believe this! I got a scholarship! A big one!" She squealed with delight as I dished the details.
"And the funny thing is, I don't even remember applying for it!"
Well, that's because I hadn't.
It had my name on it, all right. But there was another nursing student by the name of Chelsea Smith.
And the scholarship was meant for her.
Yuck.
My spirit crashed as quickly as it had soared when I realized what had happened. I messaged the other Chelsea Smith to give her the good news before sitting down to write a furious email to the people who hadn't bothered to make sure they were giving the scholarship to the right girl. I believe I said something along the lines that the "5 rights" should have been applied in this situation, much as it should in a hospital setting.
But how could I be mad, right? Yes, the scholarship was in my name. And it was in my hands.
But did it ever really belong to me?
Life is full of this sort of stuff. A little give. A little take. It often seems that as soon as a good thing occurs, something terrible is on its heels, and we're left feeling robbed. Neglected. Poor.
Let's journey back to the book of Job for a little more exploration on this subject, shall we? (I told you this would happen :))
As I shared with you last time, Job was a good man, and so God gave. And gave. And gave.
Satan enters with a proposition, and God allows him to take. And take. And take.
Job was literally left with no one. Nothing. Well, excpet for his wife--and she's quite a winner. (I'm wondering if leaving her alive was perhaps the worst torture Satan could afflict on him. Yeesh. But I digress...)
He had, and then he had not.
And again, when his oh-so-wonderful wife tells him to curse God and die, how does he respond?
"The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord! Shall we receive good at the hand of God and not receive evil?"
I don't know about you, but this is hardly how I feel when something I cherish is ripped from my grasp. If it's ever been in my hands, then it's mine. I want it. I need it. And you can't have it back.
I think we can get into an interesting conversation here about whether God actually takes away the good things in our lives. I read a blog recently that said she felt that the notion of "God gives and takes away" is rubbish because "God would never want His children to hurt."
Something needs to be made very clear, though. God is not your magic genie who is only on stand-by to grant you your wishes. He isn't a waiter who brings you items as you please.
He's not concerned with your gratification. He's concerned with your growth.
And He very well will allow a subtraction from our possessions if it means that we will forsake a life of comfort for a deeper connection with Him.
He doesn't remove things to be mean or spiteful. Certainly, there are consequences for poor decisions, but I don't believe God allows miscarriage or cancer or death because He wants to make you upset.
He doesn't want you to hurt, but He wants your heart. And unfortunately, sometimes the hurt is what it takes to get your heart.
He wants you. All of you. He never says that a life with Him will be simple. It's not supposed to be.
But He promises that He'll be with you. That you won't be alone. And He promises that He won't quit until this work in you is finished.
I don't know why God allowed the passing of Maria Chapman or Audrey Caroline Smith. I don't know why He allowed the passing of Eli and Sarah.
But I know that God is good. So good. And I know that He's up to something greater.
So, please. Take a good look around you. Your home. Your spouse. Your family. Your children. Your job.
Everything.
Yes, they may have your name on them. They may be in your hands. But just like that scholarship, they don't really belong to you.
Loosen your grasp and believe.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Knees
It was a Saturday. Just a regular old Saturday. April 5, 2008 to be exact. I had just turned the magical age of 21, and my dear boyfriend of five years was taking me out for a ho-hum, run-of-the-mill date night at The Old Spaghetti Factory in Downtown Nashville.
It was only 4:30 in the afternoon.
Normally, he worked until 5, but for some apparent reason, he was in a huge hurry to get me to dinner. Right then. It couldn't wait.
He was so antsy that I thought I was going to have to slip him a Xanax.
So there we sat. A couple of twentysomethings getting the blue-haired special at 4:30 on a Saturday "night."
I curiously watched him as I munched on my salad. Legs shaking under the table. Picking at his food. Constantly looking at those around him (yes, there were actually other people eating at 4:30 besides us).
And as I sat there with a mouthful of lettuce, it happened.
"I can't wait any longer," he declared. With one simple move, he slid out from the booth and onto his knees with a red box in hand. The box opened to reveal a gorgeous diamond and my choice for the future.
"Will you marry me?"
Mouth still brimming with lettuce and eyes watering, I nodded and watched as he adorned my left hand with his undying commitment.
I love marriage proposals. I've been fortunate enough to witness a few of them in my day, including one during a beauty pageant at Samford University and one during the pre-show of the Indiana Jones stunt show at DisneyWorld.
And just like in the movies, before offering himself and his ring to the woman, the man always falls to his knees.
Sure, kneeling is classic stance for proposing, but we kneel for lots of reasons. We kneel to pick things up, to rest, when working. We might even kneel when exercising (hello, yoga).
We kneel in church. Or at least, sometimes we do.
I think kneeling in worship is a lost art. Take a look around on a Sunday (at least at a Baptist church), and you'll rarely see a bent knee. Just standing. Blank stares. Maybe singing.
Kneeling isn't that big of a deal, you might say. There's no reason I have to. It's really not that comfortable. So why on earth should I do it?
These past nine months have kept me looking back to the book of Job. If you haven't read it, and you're currently experiencing a rough time in your life (and even if you aren't), I highly recommend flipping to it. It's one of the most poignant books in the Bible and a favorite of mine, so you might hear me reference it from time to time.
Need a recap?
Job is a fabulous, upright man who avoids all things evil. Because he stands in such favor with the Lord, the Lord blesses him. He gives Job a wife, 10 children, and more animals than he can count. He loves the Lord. And the Lord loves Job.
Enter: the villain. Satan has had his eye on Job, and he goes to speak with God regarding this "perfect, upright" fellow. Satan is itching for Job to curse God and tells God that if Job wasn't quite so blessed, he might just do it.
God grants Satan the permission he asks.
And so, tragedy strikes Job's household. All of his children are killed. All of his livestock, gone. Most of his servants, save a few who are able to report back to Job, also gone. Job is stricken from his head to his feet with boils. Oddly enough, the only person who escapes unscathed is his wife, who tells him to curse God and die.
And so what does he do?
He falls to his knees and worships.
Kneeling is such an intimate way of giving praise to God, isn't it? In biblical times, a person knelt to the Lord when they were in such awe of His glory. His presence. His goodness. It's a way of saying, "I can't even get to my feet, Lord, because I am so struck by Your greatness." It acknowledges Him as King, and you as His faithful servant. It displays how small and unworthy you are and how perfect and sovereign He is.
It's worshipful.
I think it's interesting, though, because when you've been a believer for quite some time, there's a tendency to "get used to" the notion of His holiness. We become numb to it. Yeah, we know. Been there, done that.
But He will always find a way to bring you back.
The question is, what is it going to take?
For some, it may take losing a job. For others, it may take losing their homes. Cancer. Divorce. Death.
It took losing two children to bring me back to my knees. And I hate that. I hate that it took a huge shove of painful reality to bring me back to a place of worship. To a place of recognizing that I'm not in control. To a place of knowing that He is God.
It certainly got my attention. And it's sad that that's what it took.
May it not be that way for you, my friend. May the trials that come your way not be a necessity in bringing you back into His presence. May the storms of your life be merely opportunities to know Him more. To love Him more. To worship Him more.
May we be like eager bridegrooms who can't wait to offer ourselves by falling to our knees.
If you think you won't bow, you are sorely mistaken. The Bible tells us that, one day, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.
So what's it going to take to bring you to your knees? A nudge and the utterance of His name? Or a shove into the depths of reality?
It's up to you.
Come, friend. Right now. It can't wait.
Bend your knees. And worship.
"Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshiped." ~Job 1:20
It was only 4:30 in the afternoon.
Normally, he worked until 5, but for some apparent reason, he was in a huge hurry to get me to dinner. Right then. It couldn't wait.
He was so antsy that I thought I was going to have to slip him a Xanax.
So there we sat. A couple of twentysomethings getting the blue-haired special at 4:30 on a Saturday "night."
I curiously watched him as I munched on my salad. Legs shaking under the table. Picking at his food. Constantly looking at those around him (yes, there were actually other people eating at 4:30 besides us).
And as I sat there with a mouthful of lettuce, it happened.
"I can't wait any longer," he declared. With one simple move, he slid out from the booth and onto his knees with a red box in hand. The box opened to reveal a gorgeous diamond and my choice for the future.
"Will you marry me?"
Mouth still brimming with lettuce and eyes watering, I nodded and watched as he adorned my left hand with his undying commitment.
I love marriage proposals. I've been fortunate enough to witness a few of them in my day, including one during a beauty pageant at Samford University and one during the pre-show of the Indiana Jones stunt show at DisneyWorld.
And just like in the movies, before offering himself and his ring to the woman, the man always falls to his knees.
Sure, kneeling is classic stance for proposing, but we kneel for lots of reasons. We kneel to pick things up, to rest, when working. We might even kneel when exercising (hello, yoga).
We kneel in church. Or at least, sometimes we do.
I think kneeling in worship is a lost art. Take a look around on a Sunday (at least at a Baptist church), and you'll rarely see a bent knee. Just standing. Blank stares. Maybe singing.
Kneeling isn't that big of a deal, you might say. There's no reason I have to. It's really not that comfortable. So why on earth should I do it?
These past nine months have kept me looking back to the book of Job. If you haven't read it, and you're currently experiencing a rough time in your life (and even if you aren't), I highly recommend flipping to it. It's one of the most poignant books in the Bible and a favorite of mine, so you might hear me reference it from time to time.
Need a recap?
Job is a fabulous, upright man who avoids all things evil. Because he stands in such favor with the Lord, the Lord blesses him. He gives Job a wife, 10 children, and more animals than he can count. He loves the Lord. And the Lord loves Job.
Enter: the villain. Satan has had his eye on Job, and he goes to speak with God regarding this "perfect, upright" fellow. Satan is itching for Job to curse God and tells God that if Job wasn't quite so blessed, he might just do it.
God grants Satan the permission he asks.
And so, tragedy strikes Job's household. All of his children are killed. All of his livestock, gone. Most of his servants, save a few who are able to report back to Job, also gone. Job is stricken from his head to his feet with boils. Oddly enough, the only person who escapes unscathed is his wife, who tells him to curse God and die.
And so what does he do?
He falls to his knees and worships.
Kneeling is such an intimate way of giving praise to God, isn't it? In biblical times, a person knelt to the Lord when they were in such awe of His glory. His presence. His goodness. It's a way of saying, "I can't even get to my feet, Lord, because I am so struck by Your greatness." It acknowledges Him as King, and you as His faithful servant. It displays how small and unworthy you are and how perfect and sovereign He is.
It's worshipful.
I think it's interesting, though, because when you've been a believer for quite some time, there's a tendency to "get used to" the notion of His holiness. We become numb to it. Yeah, we know. Been there, done that.
But He will always find a way to bring you back.
The question is, what is it going to take?
For some, it may take losing a job. For others, it may take losing their homes. Cancer. Divorce. Death.
It took losing two children to bring me back to my knees. And I hate that. I hate that it took a huge shove of painful reality to bring me back to a place of worship. To a place of recognizing that I'm not in control. To a place of knowing that He is God.
It certainly got my attention. And it's sad that that's what it took.
May it not be that way for you, my friend. May the trials that come your way not be a necessity in bringing you back into His presence. May the storms of your life be merely opportunities to know Him more. To love Him more. To worship Him more.
May we be like eager bridegrooms who can't wait to offer ourselves by falling to our knees.
If you think you won't bow, you are sorely mistaken. The Bible tells us that, one day, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.
So what's it going to take to bring you to your knees? A nudge and the utterance of His name? Or a shove into the depths of reality?
It's up to you.
Come, friend. Right now. It can't wait.
Bend your knees. And worship.
"Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshiped." ~Job 1:20
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)