Survive

For several years now, I have been in the practice of seeking the Lord for a literal word for each new year.  This word serves as somewhat of a guide for my year, and the framework of my spiritual thinking, ministry, and soul care.  I usually start praying around November, and listen for the Lord to reveal it to me by the beginning of the coming year.  

Last year my word was actually a number - “12”.  There were several instructions included with that word, but the most significant was that He clearly told me He wanted me to begin consistently walking at least twelve minutes each day.  These twelve minutes were the beginning of a new prayer experience with Him that would ultimately evolve into two mile walks almost daily.

The first half of those walks was me talking to the Lord, and the second half was me quietly listening - sometimes arguing.  God told me more, comforted me more, and gave me more instructions on those walks than any other experiences of my praying.  I’d like to say it is astounding.  But, because I believe God has no trouble communicating Himself to His people, I should not be surprised when He does.  To be surprised by God's interactions only exposes the infrequency of my paying attention.

I didn’t realize it at the beginning, but God would ultimately have me only walk all year long.  As a runner who absolutely loves running, being restricted to only walking is sobering.  But through that, God carried me to a different level of relationship with Him beyond anything I have experienced before, and ultimately became a huge catalyst to my personal obedience to Him while facing extremely difficult tests, and significant life choices. 

But, on to this year...

This past November I was less focussed on the practice of discovering my word, and am now into March still wondering what my word for this year should be.  I think it's the word “survive”.  If it is, I’m not sure I like it so much.  I don’t find much encouragement in it.  “Survive what?” becomes the obvious first question in my mind, and "through what?" becomes the second.  I guess those two questions are actually the same.  Either way, I’m not sure I want to know the answers.  

I DO know this, God has allowed me to be a surviver before… more than once.  Perhaps all the looming questions of “why” in those occasions will be answered in this one.  Perhaps those times have been preparations for now.

Also, “survive” feels like such an independent word.  It feels self-reliant.  In fact, I automatically think of the show “Survivor” and how winning requires being able to outwit, outplay, and outlast.  Self reliance is contrary to God’s call to be fully dependent on Him.  I’ve spent the last several months trying to fight the urge to humanly outwit, outplay, and outlast the trials before me. It is taxing.

Then I think about Job losing all he had in the testing of his faithfulness… 

and Joseph in an Egyptian jail from the testing of his integrity… 

and Gideon oppressed by the Midianites tested in his courage… 

I realize their “survival” was fueled by their dependance on God alone, and the solidity of His word.  Each of them found themselves overwhelmed by circumstances out of their control.  Each of them acted on God’s word in ways that confounded those closest to them.  Each of them must have wondered, in the darkness and loneliness of sleepless nights, what in the world was going on.  Surely they questioned God’s processes! Surely they had moments of doubt! Surely they had moments of depression!  Yet… they DID survive.  

In each of their stories, God sustained them in their darkest moments.  He redeemed all that seemed doomed.  It’s what God does for those who seek Him with all their hearts, and He is glorified in the process.  He sustains as we endure.  Hey… endure is another word for survive.  How about that?  

So is persevere… 

and continue… 

and persist… 

and remain…  

Yep.  I think my word for 2018 just might be “survive”.

Brittle Faith

Recently I heard a preacher say that when Jesus beckoned Peter out on the water, Peter was “literally stepping out onto the word of God.”  

What an amazing way to describe the substance of our faith in Jesus.  Not only faith for our eternity, but faith to live a life that is wrapped up in His word of truth.  That everything He is, transcends all matter, time, and space.  That every response to every calling of God is a stepping out upon His word - His substantial word that trumps all things natural and super.  How can it be?

The greater question for me, is how can I so often not trust that truth and recognize that reality.  How is it that, like Peter, even literally standing on the power of His word, I still stand distracted, and let such distraction thwart my faith in that power?  A power that I know from first hand experiences exists.  A power that I know has been the foundation of so many things in my faith walk.  A power, that even though Peter began to sink while standing upon, still existed as Jesus stood there and walked over to retrieve his submerging body.

As Jesus did so, I imagine that nothing about the conditions changed, only that Peter was then holding the literal hand of Jesus.  You know, that seems a little too clean and delicate for the occasion… maybe Jesus hoisted him up into a fireman’s carry and walked over to the boat.  Or maybe, in a zero-point-energy “Incredibles” moment he used merely a finger and flew him like a kite.  However He did it, in my opinion, Peter went backwards.

Peter, walked on water untouched by Jesus physically.  He was experiencing in his relationship what we all can, and should experience now in our personal 21st century walk of faith.  Peter had the training wheels of Jesus in the flesh, but he got an enormous taste of the level of faith walk Jesus expected of him; his counterparts; and expects of those who follow today.

My faith is brittle in many areas.  I am more aware of that today than I ever realized was true.  God has allowed me to sink beneath several distracting waves of life, in my own way of life.  I’m still not sure what to do with it all, but this I know - God’s work in the current circumstances of my life has been such that all options for me have been removed EXCEPT to simply trust Him.  To call out to Him.  To reach out to Him.  No!  Actually, to be embraced by him.

As I reflect on the story of Peter walking on water, I can’t help but wonder if he made it just far enough away from the boat that he was unable to effectively reach or swim back as he sank.  That’s an important point to me.  As it turns out, my brittle faith has been exposed by the removal of my personal securities.  When Jesus draws us to himself… when He beckons us to step out on His word, its a drawing away from all our safeties.  I know that.  I’ve preached that.  I’ve taught that.  I’m not sure I have been forced to test that fully until now.  I’m not sure I am yet passing the test either - but that's for another blog.  

To what Jesus beckons us all, is the solid, trustworthy, supernatural, foundation of his word alone... but, it is also AT His word alone.  Strangely, that is where I fear I’m failing - taking Him at His word.  And it's funny... what kind of faith is it that believes I can breathe under the water of my doubt? 

Deep Breath

The heart that I’ve sown has grown into granite, 

chiseled and sealed off while taken for granted.  

It lies. Desperately wicked. Slabbed in the morgue.

The reaper does come... 

And with no remorse.

The reaper.  A creeper.  A sinister finisher.  

I just don’t believe this is how he has finished her.  

Nuptial time lapse as everything flaps in the winds of his hurricane, 

with “wins” that bring more pain... strain... and no refrain.  
Nothing gained.  But in the eye it’s calm, yes?

Calm like Cain.

 Moral setback.  Mortal combat.
I just want her to come back.  
Instead it’s like stand back, 
while I try to just get back, 
most times I just fall flat, 
and I’m down on the wrong track.  
I wait on a train to roll over the pain.  
It’s inception.  It feels so insane.  
Meanwhile the flames… 

Oh the flames.

Burning every green tree, and dead tree in my head scene, 

and I can’t seem to tread clean through all the debris.  

Pushing my way through, from the south to the north, true… 

I never know what to do.  And, the pride. 

Yes, the pride, too. 

But the pride is all gone and the fall has begun, 

as the fog falls upon everything that I've spun.  

Is the fog from the bliss?  Is it smoke?  Is it mist?  

It’s blinding me nevertheless,
I don’t even know what I’ve missed. 

Take a deep breath.

Until my lungs swell there’s no way to tell… 

and the Spirit says "just breathe me in".  

Yes, the Spirit says I must breathe Him in.

In spite of that call, instead of the draw,
my breath is held still, once again.

What sin. 

God's Got This

I am afraid.

As I spend time living a new normal in a transitional period of life beyond anything I ever imagined, I find myself very afraid.  I am not supposed to be.  I am not supposed to be afraid of my future.  I am not supposed to be afraid of my circumstances.  I am not supposed to be afraid of anything at all, because as they say, “God’s got this”.  It feels like I’ve said those words a million times, myself… to others.

I reflect.  

As I tumble in the raging current surrounding me, I have said "God's got this" about nine-hundred-ninety-nine-thousand times less.  It’s funny how answers come easy... for someone else. Oh how they quickly spill out.  But, for me... from inside... for myself... not so.

I am still reflecting.

I learn.

"God's got this" is true for whatever we are going through, at any given time.  Those words spoken to us by others are true even if we feel jaded by them.  I am not jaded, by the way; I am a man discovering the easier yoke and lighter burden Jesus is claiming.  I'm learning it the hard way.

I am still learning.   

I long.

I long for more experiences of the evidential truth that God has a hold of what I am going through.  The few times I have said “God’s got this” in my swirling current, have been times of confirmation in response to His revelations, not just advance speculations.  Funny, just yesterday I experienced it again in my most pointed conversations.

I am still longing.

I pray.

I remain afraid, but it’s different.  When "God's got this" it should be different.  As I experience the revelations of God, and discover His responses in the specificity of my praying, I become increasingly frightened - frightened in a reverent, “fear of the Lord”, kind of way.

I am still praying.

I fear.

Since truly "God's got this”, I must guard against the misplacement of my fear.  In fact, my fear belongs to Him too.  Can my fear itself become an idol?  Yes!  And since “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom”, it proves to be a foolish one.

One Selfless Mother

Okay, I’m so done being Mommy today.  D - O - N - E.  

I’m exhausted and ready for bed.  I’ve been so busy on this Mothers Day that I have not even had time to sit down to just enjoy the day and write how fantastic the mother of my children is.  That will have to wait for another day I suppose; a day when I haven’t been up since the crack of dawn cleaning up after people much smaller and messier than me.  

It will have to wait for a day when I haven’t ironed clothes for five and a half people and gotten little boys and girls ready for church - I accidentally put a smelly shirt on one of them, but that’s a dad thing I think.  

It will have to be a day when I haven’t had to “help” a 4yo, 6yo, and 9yo make breakfast-in-bed for Mommy - that was kind of messy. 

It will have to be a day when I haven’t cleaned up what seems like six meals worth of messes when we only ate twice today - [always thankful for morning donuts at church]. 

I’ve given baths [twice for one child], washed hair, spanked a couple of bottoms, yelled at some, taxied one, cooked, grilled, washed up, washed up again, and feel “washed-up”.  

I gassed the car.  I put on band-aids.  I combed hair, picked up stray clothes, turned off lights, and ran over a bike with the car - well, that’s more of a dad thing too, and might have happened yesterday come to think of it.  

I’ve sent people to the naughty step, picked up shoes, gathered trash, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, and swept the floor.

I’ve picked flowers, gathered gifts, sung silly songs, and danced goofy dances.  

I plated food, brought refills, passed out napkins, and even poured beverages [I hate drink duty].

I [and the kids, I guess] have done everything we can possibly do to keep Mommy from doing anything but what she wants to do today.

The truth is, she still did some things she HAD to do, things that matter most, in fact.  She still prayed for her children today.  She still hugged necks, kissed cheeks, and told each of them she loves them.  She still looked if someone said “Mommy watch this”, and she still opened her arms if someone came in hurt and crying.  

Her lap was still available for sitting, and at the end of the day… literally at the end of the day, she still owned the responsibility to rock our babiest girl before bed.

Many jobs she does are never “done” and for those things there is not only no break, but no substitute either.  My wife… my kids’ mother… she is the real deal.  She’s the genuine article and amazes me every day with all she does for our family.  Events like the “break” of Mother’s Day for a mom in the prime of parenting remind us that there is much to distract from what is most valuable in parenting.  Time spent.

Time is not inexhaustible.  It’s depleting, and this side of eternity, forever running out.  Our kids don’t even know to appreciate it yet, but they do, and they will.  The thing my kids seem to value most, whether they realize it or not, is time.  Her time.  

When I see her loving on her children the way only she can, she is spending her time on them.

When I see her reading bible passages about raising children, and being a mother of honor,  she is spending her time on them.

When I see her having a picnic, or playing with them in the yard, she is spending her time on them.

Their schoolwork?  Spending her time on them.

Sitting by a chainlink fence waiting for one of them to hit or catch a ball?  Spending her time on them.

Everything is about spending her time on them and doing so with excellence, honor, and love.

The time she spends with them is not just about the tasks she does for them, it is the intangible investment of self.  That just might be the single best attribute the mother of my children has.  She is selfless.  She is one selfless mother.

The Boathouse

My grandparents have been gone from this earth over three years now, and many of their belongings remain undisturbed.  They were borderline hoarders, so there is much to purge.  There is also much to find and reminisce over.  The process is exciting, sometimes sad, and certainly overwhelming. 

It is impossible, now, to count how much time I actually spent with my grandparents.  Holidays, of course, but I spent almost every summer with them at their house - weeks at a time even.  Those weeks were spent full of adventure in a seemingly suspended state of time for me.

This week I opened my grandfather’s boathouse to begin retrieving his old fishing boat.  I’m excited at the prospect of using it with my own children to fish, eat snacks, and talk about life - that’s what it’s for, right?  

Nothing about the boathouse has changed.  The dirt floor still looks and smells the same.  The click of the padlock still stirs a feeling of anticipation of what is behind the door, and I still had to watch that I didn’t cut my hand on the jagged hole in the metal as the chain clinked its way through.  The hinges still creak in exactly the same way, and the light switch still won’t come on when you want it to.  I glanced around out of habit looking for any potential snakes and remembered Poppy once pulling one off the wall by the tail and launching it into the woods after swinging it over his head a few times.

It was surreal. Everything was the same.  It was the same cluttered stacks of items that would be sufficient to decorate the interior of your local Cracker Barrel.  Sickles, pick axes, old fishing rods, lanterns, metal buckets, tools, and stuff I’ll never know the stories behind.  Old signs and license plates still hang on the sheet metal walls, and the very water skis I learned to ski on are still wedged into the rafters along with those hideous, orange, “U” shaped life preservers.  

I’ve been in the boathouse thousands of times, but always following the steps of my grandfather.  This time… I led, as my children followed, and in an instant felt myself transformed from an excited little kid to the role of adulthood my grandfather played.  Suddenly I was on the other side of the same scenario I have lived a thousand times.  

I was trying to accomplish a project with children, my own children, around my feet asking about everything and wanting to play with anything.  My grandfather didn’t get in a hurry as he worked with us around.  He spent his time walking back and forth to retrieve tools and parts… I’ve concluded that that is the time he spent thinking about the task at hand.  At least I assume he did - that’s what I did.  I watched my own children tramp the same ground I tramped.  I watched them explore and ask questions about the same items I used to ask about.  I never thought about what might be going through my grandfathers mind, until now.

I think it was appreciation.  I think it must have been appreciation for life and family.  Appreciation for the ability to spend time with us.  Appreciation for time itself.  I don’t know if I will ever understand how he kept frustration levels in check, but I think I’m starting to get a clue.  I think those times he had me look for things that may or may not exist where diversions to allow him to do part of the task for which he didn’t need “kid help” - that’s what I did with my own kids.  I think the expected coffee breaks he would take throughout a project gave him time to think on a problem while I sat and enjoyed just being there with him.  I think the times an anticipated plan changed suddenly with him letting me help conclude the outcome was a technique to avoid the disappointment that things weren’t going as planned.  Again, something I did with my own just the other day while trying to fix flat tires on the boat trailer.  

I believe I felt what he felt when he engaged me, as I engaged my own.  I believe God gave me a gift to be able to get just a little glimpse into the perspective of my grandfather, and recognize for myself just a little more personal significance of my own life.  

Regarding such experiences, my mother often says “and the beat goes on”. She is so correct.  Children learn what they live, and I am now not only executing what I’ve learned, but being schooled once again by the impact of my Grandfather.

I miss them both so much, but the beat does go on.

My Worship Deserves Criticism (but not by you!)

First of all, to my knowledge, no one has ever criticized my worship.  Well… except for that one time in church I played the djembe for a changed up, acoustic version of “’Tis So Sweet”.  It was a powerful song that night, and mostly well received.  The response from one, however, was… not so sweet.  How did he put it?  Oh yeah, “I don’t think we need that jungle music here.”  Awesome.  Note to self - God apparently doesn’t like “jungle music”.  And, I suppose I’ll never play the djembe again.

Other than that, no one has ever criticized my worship.  Oh, wait… there’s me.  I’m self critical of my own expressions of worship in a corporate setting ALL THE TIME.  I never seem to feel completely comfortable doing what I think I should do to express myself.  In my car, no problem.  Out on a run, easy.  Even in my office with people nearby I have no difficulty expressing various forms of worship.  In church, though?  I… am… disastrous.

I’ve been in hundreds thousands of worship services.  A man my age, growing up in church, and in my profession for as long as I have been doing it has absolutely been a part of thousands of worship services.  Over the years, I’ve heard worship leaders instruct me to feel free to express myself however I feel led to do so.  I almost never do.  

Examples of raising hands or clapping are often given.  Jokes about the bible saying “make a joyful noise” [with an emphasis on noise] are often made.  Coming to the altar to kneel, or laying prostrate in the floor have also been suggested as expressions of worship.

I have been in environments where each of those has occurred separately, and sometimes in the same service.  It is a beautiful thing, and I love it.  Freedom to worship, and freedom in worship are fantastic contexts.  It helps bring to life scriptures like “I was glad when they said to me, ‘let us go to the house of the Lord’”.  

But, I generally talk myself out of my own expressions of worship.  Most of the time, I’m never quite able to execute what I think I ought to do in any given moment of church worship.  I’ll often worry about wonder what people are thinking, which then leads me to question my motives, which then leads to me being driven by my assumptions of what others think, which then quenches the Spirit.

I want to express myself accordingly to help others see that they can be free to do so.  You know, set an example and all.  Of course, it doesn't help that there is usually some kind of cartoon floating around christian circles that pokes fun at the the different ways people present themselves or lift their hands in worship.  

Sometimes I may not desire to express myself in a noticeable way; then I start worrying that people think I don’t care anything about worship at all.  Both lead me to question my motives, and my heart of worship in that particular moment.  At that point I am worshipping at the altar of pride, misunderstanding and my assumptions that others even concern themselves with how I worship in the first place.  It really is ridiculous.  My mind is pharisaical sometimes, I’ll admit it.

The truth is I have finally come to terms with my most appropriate form of worship.  Though I feel caught off guard in my discovery, it sums up my worship perfectly - I’m the quiet reflective type.  It seems oxymoronic for me considering my free spirited personality.  

The times I have been most comfortable in worship are times when I sit quietly, surrounded by singing, immersed in the instrumentation, face buried in my hands, and closing out all other distraction but my creator.  Most of the time those have been times and environments of anonymity for me.  It has been then that I have worshiped authentically; simply reflective and pensive.

I think the reason I have not nailed this down until now is because it strikingly contrasts with who I am in everyday life.  In daily life, I’m kinetic, boisterous, full of energy, and sometimes loud.  I have a flare for the dramatic, find humor in almost everything, and am laced with sarcasm.  But when I worship, I am deeply reflective and quiet.  I simply like to dwell upon the God who loves and saved me.  I love to reflect upon His goodness and benefits.  It makes me misty eyed almost every time.  I want to be repentant, thankful, and praiseful.

I have spent too many years feeling bad about not realizing the nature of my discomfort.  It’s because I haven’t actually been following the instructions of worship leaders when I’m around others I know.  In reality, and more importantly, I haven’t actually followed the leading of the Spirit in my worship.  I haven’t been “myself” in my worship most of the time, and I have drawn the fire of my own self-criticism as a result.  Today I say "no more".  Today, I will stop criticizing my own worship.  Today I will remove reason to criticize.  Today, I will repent and dismiss my pride.  Today, I will free my sprit.  Now… where did I leave that djembe?