Faith and Falling

A couple of you asked where to read the writings of Leigh McLeroy. I'm reading her book, The Beautiful Ache: Finding the God Who Satisfies When Life Does Not. http://www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Ache-Finding-Satisfies-When/dp/0800731417

Last week I read a chapter called FAITH AND FALLING, The Ache of Trusting. After describing some wild leaps of faith that included skydiving, Leigh went on to use the example of Mary, which left me pondering. "Mary faithfully received the words of the angel and just as trustingly received 'the Word implanted' that was able to save her soul and mine. And her one sustained 'yes' brought his sweet kingdom closer than it had ever been before. Trusting does that every time."

She goes on to say, "If Mary had doubted that God meant to do good both to and through her, she might not have answered as she did. But she didn't trust the plan—she trusted the One who made the plan. She couldn't see the future, but with her eyes of faith she could see the One who shaped it. Her steadfast assurance of God's love compelled her to relinquish control of her very body to a preposterous idea, but God opened her heart long before he invaded her womb. She confessed her frailty and admitted that she was the recipient of power ('May it be done to me . . . ') but not its source. She took the free fall of faith because she was already a woman in love."

The words flow from my fingertips as tears flow down my cheeks, even now. Such power in this writer's language to represent our own. Speaking directly to us, she concludes: "If God has placed you in a moment that requires trust—or the long sustaining of it—he has brought you to a place of great intimacy and possibility. Trust is for lovers, not for strangers. So instead of asking 'Do I dare?' why not ask instead, 'Am I loved?' If the answer is yes, then trust is the only reasonable response."

"Trust is for lovers, not for strangers." Wow. I hadn't thought of it that way, really. Have you? Being placed in a position where we have to trust the Lover of Our Soul, whether in finances, friendships, or the future, CONFIRMS our relationship with Him; it doesn't challenge it. Are you feeling the release of that? I pray so.

Soaking Up Stories in Winter Park

A few weeks ago Facebook reconnected me to a friend through its 140-character-updates. Friday a shared appreciation for art and Winter Park reconnected our hearts with 140-sentence (or more) stories! We strolled down memory lane and walked the brick-laid streets while soaking up the sun and the stories comprising our lives.

Cheri moved to Orlando this week from Wisconsin. It’s been more than ten years since we last spent time together. But by the time we got our lunch at The Briar Patch, our Cincinnati-learned rhythms of conversation returned. You eat; I’ll talk. I’ll eat; you talk. You cry; I’ll stop. I’ll cry; you stop. You laugh; I’ll laugh. I’ll laugh; you laugh.

The patterns continued as we wandered through the crowd, pausing at times in the middle of the street to absorb the depth of the other’s words or to capture the glint of joy in the other’s eyes. But ours weren’t the only stories unfolding. Lining the walkways and byways of the park — nah, the entire town — master artists displayed their tales through various mediums. Clay, pounded metal, watercolors, batik, woven straw, blown glass, photographs, oils, even digital images all revealed the essence of something more.

We casually took in the occasional perspective of ships at sea and hillsides adorned with the colors of spring. We took time to consider the unique, discuss the eccentric, honor the beautiful. A few of these expressions took our breath away, and at once breathed life.

This scene from an Afrikan Market in MALI, vivid and true in its representation, held as its caption: The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life . . . and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life (William Faulkner). 

Enthralled? I was too! Imagine it in uber-high resolution, taking up the whole corner of a booth! I could almost smell the sweet bananas and hear the marketers proclaim their goodness to us passersby.

From inside the booth, quietly inviting 

us in to behold the outline of his life, hung a large image called The Prophet, taken in India. Every stunning detail of this man's face revealed a life far different from mine and brought me right up into his personal space. 

How could this man’s breath have been captured without interrupting his breathing? Intimate. Welcoming. Soul-stirring. It’s a photograph, yet I imagined he might be reading the stories of my own heart. Impossible, I know. But it turned me to the Spirit of the Living God.

This group of young boys gathers around The Storyteller in Kashi, China.

Can you contain the smile that breaks out when you gaze upon these wonders? Words can hardly express the joy that spreads across my face. Wonder. An appreciation for the story. 

Emerson Matabele engaged me with his visual storytelling. So real. So personal. So graceful. May it be that I would offer such care for the hearts of the people I encounter.

What a rich, rich day. Filled with laughter, refreshment, the warmth and glow of the sun, expressions of beauty in art, and the stories we shared as we reveled in the life and breath of God's creation. 

Let everything that has breath praise the LORD. Psalm 150:6

Pluto's Demotion

In his recent FaceBook status, a friend shared that he had just heard about Pluto, adding "that's messed up, right?" 

Some astronomical committee meets to discuss the condition of the stratosphere, and without warning, a planet long known to be a part of our solar system loses clout. Its voice drowned out by the drone of human opinion, poor Pluto is stripped from its planetary position and the identity that has set it apart for decades. Now, devalued and without distinction, the planet formerly known as Pluto simply goes by the number 134340.

Yes, Chad, it's messed up. But it's not the end.

The story continues as Pluto's demotion creates a public stir. And out of the mess this one-time planet emerges a "star." USA Today reported that the American Dialect Society chose the word “plutoed” as their 2006 Word of the Year! 

(http://www.usatoday.com/tech/science/space/2007-01-08-plutoed-word_x.htm)

One who has been plutoed has been demoted or devalued. 

Have you ever been plutoed? Perhaps not by a group of scientists looking to clarify your identity, but by the deceiver looking to steal your identity? 

He's crafty and quiet. So there will be no announcement in the newspaper and no obvious outcry of public support for your self-worth. He will use anything he can to get you off course, cause you to feel defeated, distract you from the truth of Whose and who you are. The distractions may come in a variety of ways. Finances. Health. Job loss. Loss of life. Disappointment at the hands of friends. Isolation threatens. 

And, if you're not aware, a potentially life-threatening condition of the heart will emerge. Blood no longer carries oxygen to the brain. All logic and knowledge of Truth disappear. Your head droops. Your eyes lose their light, and you begin to gasp for air. Then you'll climb into your burrow to suffer silently throughout the duration of your demotion. 

Loneliness will become your only companion. This condition can keep you separated from life for days—even years. But it doesn't have to.

Look out from your burrow toward the sky and consider what happened to the planet formerly known as Pluto. Its demotion left it with only a number for identification at the hands of humans. But does this quiet little planet not still hang in the very spot where the Creator first suspended it? Unscathed by human opinion, its true identity still in tact? Still on its intended course, proclaiming with its every rotation the glory and goodness of God?

Absolutely. Now hear this Truth: The subversive words of the deceiver have no greater power over you. 

Though strong and sometimes confirmed by human opinion, they spout only lies. Don't let them strip away your true identity. Remember Whose you are. "Even before he made the world, God loved [you] and chose [you] . . . to adopt [you] into his own family by bringing [you] to himself through Jesus Christ" (Ephesians 1:4-6).

Re-Gifted Winter Weather Advisory

As friends sit by cozy fires watching snow gather on their window sills —even in southern Texas! — I sit in my cozy chair listening to a whirring fan overhead, remembering past blessings of unexpected snow. The memories bring perspective and contribute well to my quiet celebration.

One such memory took me back to my apartment in Cincinnati, where, on January 21, 2007, I received the gift of a winter weather advisory advising of snow that actually came! I'll re-gift my journal entry here. . . .

I awoke this morning to receive from God a very special gift: a winter weather advisory advising of snow that actually came! Four inches worth—give or take a flake.

Excited to celebrate this first snowfall in my usual way, I quickly tucked my toes deep into my slippers and hurried out to the balcony. My head tipped back, and my hands stretched up as I closed my eyes to let the wintry sweetness scatter across my face. Each flake softly awakened a nerve ending somewhere between the tips of my eyelashes and the small dimple bringing together the two halves of my otherwise ordinary chin. I was in heaven . . . and still in my pajamas!

What is it about freshly fallen snow that calls to the kid buried in the heart of nearly every one of us? There must be something. The park next door brimmed with childlike wonder from young and old alike. Families engaged in snowball fights. Older couples walked arm in arm, slowly taking in the sights. Laughter erupted from the hillside as sleds tipped and dads slipped.

While making my way around the park’s path, each step accompanied by the satisfying crunch of icy goodness under my feet, I became aware of a strange sensation. A smile had escaped the intensity of my grown up thoughts. My heartbeat slowed, and a stillness infused my wandering spirit to its very depths.

So, this is what it’s like to be in the moment. I haven’t been here in a long time, and it may be a while before I pass this way again. My memory begins to awaken. I scan the untouched canvas of white spread before me, looking for the perfect spot to leave my signature mark. It’s a mark I’ve made at least once in nearly every year of my life at the first sight of freshly fallen snow. A mark that serves as indelible proof that I was there and did not let God’s gift slip by unnoticed.

Rising from the frosted earth, an old oak tree stood poised to protect well the patch of white beneath it. With the infectious sounds of winter play drawing out the child in me, I carefully stepped from the path to position myself under the branches of that old oak. Inhibitions vanished and laughter burst from the now unguarded center of my spirit as I let myself fall back into the powdery softness behind me.
There I lay, flat on my back, flailing about in the snow like a little kid. Unashamed and lost in the moment, I celebrated the goodness of God, thanking him for his wintry gift.

After several minutes of this satisfying, childlike worship, I scrambled to my feet. In my spot on the canvas of white remained the imprint of a snow angel. Proof that I was there and had not let God’s gift slip by.

Before heading for home, I paused for one more breath.

While the snow presented to me a wonderful gift, the greater gift became evident as I stepped outside myself to worship God without encumbrances. My brain uncluttered and my heart unfettered, he freed my spirit to soar without the boundaries of my adult-sized frame.

Whatever it is about freshly fallen snow that brings me to that place, I want more.

More snow. More stillness. More laughter.

More opportunities to step outside the intensity of my grown up thoughts, so I can experience more God. I’m on the lookout. How about you?

Every Life for Good

"He didn't make it."

The sting of these words scatter my thoughts today. They're the words my brother used when he called Mom late Friday night. The birth of his son, William Steven Stanley, had come a month too soon.

He separated from his life source. No warning. No shout from his cozy growing space. His active body simply stopped.

No one knows why.

But we do know the sting is real. Losing life hurts. When life ends, grief grows toward a season of sorrow. And sorrow mingles among the tears of the living, weaving its way through a family, a community.

When God set loose his breath within this tiny human form and provided parents for his nurturing and protection, he intended for good.

He intends every life for good.

My brother grapples for understanding as he attempts to dismantle the beginnings of a nursery. "Robin, we saw the baby clap his hands. The nurse doing the ultrasound said that maybe he would grow up to be a gospel singer. No matter what she did, he just kept clapping." His voice trailed off. "Now I can't get this . . . this crib thing apart. I just put it together . . . you'd think I could figure it out."

A picture of his hurt, his helplessness.

Oh, God, I feel his hurt. His struggle with the finite nature of the human body. His frustration with not being able to make things better.

I haven't seen my brother Jim in over a year. I saw, then, his tearful journey with sorrow as our great Aunt Pearle lay unresponsive after a severe stroke. When I entered her room, he looked up at me from the foot of her bed, his heart broken. Tears poured out his helplessness. "She's not going to make it." I wrapped my arms around his neck. We cried together.

She didn't make it.

At her funeral, in our sorrow, we found a way to express our love and celebrate the impact of her long life. We remembered sitting on the steps while she told of her travels, pointing at a different salt shaker for every state she'd been in. We marveled at the way she brought life to those around her, even from a wheelchair when she broke a hip and couldn't be her normal bustling self.

God intends every life for good.

I wish today that I could wrap my arms around my brother's neck. I know that I can't make his hurt go away. I don't want to make his hurt go away. But I would sit with him in his sorrow. I would celebrate with him the short life of his stillborn son. And I would help him see how the sorrow in his tears and Cheryle's tears and Mom's tears and Dad's tears and my tears and his friend's tears mingle together to validate that life.

A life that God intends for good.

A Man of Few Words

I talked to my dad today. In his usual way, his words were few, though well-chosen and without complication. "You can call more often, Honey. I don't always know when to call you."

My dad wants me in his life. . . .

A couple of weeks ago, nearing the end of a short visit to their winter home in Sebring, Florida, I sat with Mom and Dad after enjoying a wonderful dinner. Tears slipped down my cheeks, eventually choking out my voice, as I began to give them an unexpected glimpse into their daughter's story.  God was calling me to a deeper place. A place that required cleansing. . . . and a vulnerability I found intensely risky.

Dad set aside his dinner and locked my gaze from across the table. I asked forgiveness for the facade, for the fear. Through trembling lips, my words came. Tumbling and awkward. "I need to know that you love me with my crap. Not just when I sing or when I get my name in a book." I paused. Then I emptied my heart. My chest heaved as sobs continually interrupted my less than eloquent story. In the end, all I had left were tears. 

Within seconds, Dad made his way around the table. He wrapped my exposed soul in his arms and reminded me where I stood with him. "You just be who you are. I love you." I'm not sure I can remember the last time I laid my cheek across my dad's shoulder or experienced the comfort and safety of his extended embrace. He's a hugger, for sure, but not always the warm fuzzy, expressive type. 

That day, within our small circle, I heard something I'd previously only assumed to be true: my dad loves me just the way I am. As I'm in the process of being perfected, letting go of old skin, walking into tomorrow's clothes, I'll have days of extreme doubt. But this man of few words— my dad, my protector—showed me the picture of Truth: I am wanted, and I am loved. No matter what. 

I love my dad. He does a great imitation of Jesus.

Out . . . Out, I Say!

Center stage, dimly lit, a woman stands — worn, distraught, silent, save for the constant rubbing of her hands. Left over right. Right over left. Each motion just as intense as the one preceding. Her face holds a hollow stare, even at the entrance of her maidservant and a companion.

The intruders pause.

The distance between their words expands to gather in the woman's mutterings.

"Out . . . Out, damned spot. Out, I say."

The torrid display of selfish ambition to which she had been an eager accomplice hangs heavy in the air. Memory of that murderous night slips itself around her neck like a noose, tightening with every labored breath.

". . . Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?"

The crimson stain, now etched in every wrinkle, every pore, labels the woman guilty. A murderer, far removed from the freedom and power she sought as queen alongside her famed husband Macbeth. Scrub all she may, the stains remain. No toil can quiet the demons of her soul or satisfy her soiled heart.

Sitting in the theater, eavesdropping on Lady Macbeth's torturous grief, I considered my own soiled heart. How many times have I scrubbed and scraped, desperate to dispel the stains of my sin? Stuck in shame, embarrassed in my weakness. Spilling every ounce of energy to make myself clean.

"Out . . . Out, I say."

My soul, restless, longs for quiet. The sorrow of my night displays the truth: I am helpless. No amount of scrubbing can return my heart to the condition of its youth.

The rift narrows. My rhythm slows. The scrubbing stops.

I remember now. . . . Jesus.

His love carried my sin to the cross — yesterday's sin, today's sin, even tomorrow's. The crimson blood, spilled out on my behalf, labels this woman forgiven. Forgiven and free. The chains are gone. I can be seen in full for whose and who I am. No hiding. No scrubbing. Just daily giving my heart to Jesus and receiving from Him, His heart for me.

My freedom? It came at a price. But He paid the price out of love — once, for all. And I am oh, so grateful.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. Galatians 5:1-3 NIV