where waves grow sweet

Who redeems your life from the pit and corruption, Who beautifies, dignifies, and crowns you with loving-kindness and tender mercy… Psalm 103:4 amp

I would like to start this post by expressing how I feel today. Joyful. Joyful. Joyful. Purely unadulteratedly joyful. Not because of the immensely expensive car repair I learned of today, but because I have a God who is big enough to cover it. Not because of my inability to behave the way I would like to, but because I have a God who is enough to love me no matter what… a God who can rise up through the ashes of my humanness with a radiant beauty that defies shame. Joyful. Joyful. Joyful.

There have been so many beautiful thoughts floating around in my mind these past few weeks but, like fireflies, they are lovely to observe and difficult to catch.* So I have defaulted to my daily happenings, which are easier to define although – perhaps – less meaningful. But if you will indulge me, I would like to try to nab one of these thoughts dancing around inside and do my best to share it.

A dawning glimpse of love and dignity – just the beginning light when forms are still shadowy – is bringing a hope and softness that couldn’t exist in darkness. I’ve been brought to tears as I see the way these words are intimately connected, like lovers’ bodies in a true embrace.

Love existed in the garden of Eden. Eve was naked and knew no shame. She was uncovered. Pride existed in the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. A woman was forced to remove her clothing and walk past guards in shame. She was exposed. Both were unclothed; one uncovered by love but covered with dignity, one exposed by pride and brought low with shame. But anything stolen, defamed, or destroyed by pride or selfish ambition can be raised up from the ashes in perfect beauty by love. Because love trumps all things.

This kind of beauty isn’t a return to what existed before damage was done, but a restoration of God’s original intent; a return to what was in his heart before time began. No person on this earth is outside of the reach of this great Restoration because it is in no way dependent on who they are or what they have known in this life. It is dependent only on their Creator, and the perfect vision he has retained for each masterpiece. Nothing any man, woman, or child could ever do is capable of changing this vision.

Because of love, there is hope. If your sins have pestered and plagued you to despondency, if your sadness is as deep and consuming as the universe, if you feel shattered in tiny pieces and beyond repair, if you have lived in darkness and done unspeakable things, if you have tried and failed a thousand times over, if you have existed in mediocrity and compromise, or if you simply have not lived the abundant life Jesus paid for…. take heart and be glad. Because no one – no one – is excluded from love. Love never fails. Love cannot fail.

Jesus reached out to touch the unclean, leprous man before he healed him. He could have made him clean, and then touched him. But he laid hold of this man in love and bestowed dignity through his touch, washing away his shame and his disease. He didn’t ask this man to become clean, which would have been pointless or cruel because it was impossible. He didn’t ask the prostitutes to purify their bodies or memories or souls before he would draw near. He crossed the boundaries of their sin with his love, overcoming their filth with his purity and crowning them with dignity. This breaks me. How can a heart stand unchanged before this kind of love?

*I was raised in Southern California. I have no idea if fireflies are hard to catch.

Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else, for each one should carry their own load. Galatians 5:4-5

The problem with writing is that the ideas and words multiply, like a couple of rabbits, as they consummate in a post. For every thought that makes its way to the blog, there are suddenly four more waiting in line. So, once again, I find myself with many things to say and a desire to say them all. But if I did, I would probably find at least a dozen more fuzzy little babies in the cage waiting for their turn. Dang rabbits… I mean, ideas.

The Egyptians (& FDA) got it right

Okay, picture the food pyramid. I know there are many who disagree with these guidelines, but I think we can agree on one thing. If we flipped it over, things would go terribly wrong. Our bodies weren’t made to exist on sweets and lard. That tiny little triangle on the top just can’t hold up all those weightier blocks of more nutritional food groupings. Maybe it could work if you spun the inverted pyramid like a top, although I’m thinking that the reality of physics would probably prove this wrong.

As you may have guessed, this is not about food but about life. Just like my imbalanced like of sweets, I have an overdeveloped affinity for the little triangle of the easier, more pleasurable parts of life. Entitlement might be a better word. [Way too funny/ironic – I just got bugged when Word didn’t autocorrect my horrific misspelling of entitlement.] It has become clear that I would like to flip the priorities of life on their head to suit my taste buds rather than taking in what will give strength and health, providing a strong foundation for play and pleasure.

Earlier this week, Cole interrupted a post I was writing – on the ultimate good God brings out of hard circumstances – to announce a gpa that sounded like a verbal typo, as well as to share a significant struggle. Even in the moment, I believed what I was writing to be true, but the situation still required (and continues to require) walking out some tough stuff.

A look in the mirror

One of Cole’s favorite movies as a little boy was Peter Pan. It is a fun movie and I usually love whimsical things, but I hated this whiny boy who refused to grow up. He reminded me too much of certain people I knew… and resented. When someone refuses to grow up, their responsibilities are thrust on the people around them and it’s just plain selfish. Boo on them. But then this week I realized that I am a 37 year-old version of this rotten kid in the pointy green hat (which, I think we can agree, was intended to reference the tiny triangle on the food pyramid). While not a happy revelation, it was a good one. I was able to see that in order to grow Cole up, it would require me growing up.

It was like a light was turned on in a dark room to reveal a mess we couldn’t otherwise see. I suddenly had vision for necessary changes in structure, organization, and relationship in our household so it can become – and remain – ordered. This is not really a change in priorities, but an acknowledgement of the existing priorities. You know, the ones I’d been ignoring while I was busy playing in neverland.

This has all been somewhat exhausting emotionally and physically, but it’s also been pretty wonderful. I’ve seen God draw the good out of something that looked like a nosedive into the dirt. Do you know all this whining I’ve been doing about how there’s too much to do and not enough time? All that boils down to is entitlement to all the things I want in my world in the time and measure I want them.

As I’ve been making Cole a priority in this very present situation, I’m recognizing how upside down my pyramid has been. Things of little nutritional value have been my main staples and things of great importance have been used sparingly. No wonder I’ve had to keep life spinning to achieve a sense of balance. But I’ve known all along that it’s been wobbly and ready to topple at any moment.

Now, I don’t want to disregard everything I’ve said as emotional drivel. I know God is doing some good and deep things in my heart and I’m looking forward to the way that will translate in my life, but for now I’m just glad to follow the spirit of God into the adult world. Want to join me for a coming out party?

Anchored for a purpose

I know oil drills are set up in all sorts of places, but what usually comes to mind is a big, ugly piece of machinery bobbing relentlessly on a big, ugly piece of dirt… like some prehistoric creature sentenced to the drudgery of probing the dry ground until the end of time.

Here’s the thing. The equipment isn’t designed for beauty, but for purpose. And the location isn’t chosen for its landscape, but for the value of what lies beneath. The drill will indeed probe that crusty ground. But rather than mindlessly rocking until the end of time, its intentional movement will last only until every last drop of precious oil is extracted.

A friend of mine was a successful business man for many years, complete with a wife, kids, and every physical need met. He is now separated from his wife, living in someone else’s home, and barely able to support his children. If he were shopping around for a place to settle, this would definitely not be it. In fact, he has questioned God’s goodness as he surveys his humble surroundings and barren landscape. But, being anchored here for the time being and with such meager provisions above ground, he is being forced to look below where, according to God’s great delight, he is finding the liquid gold that was hiding there all along. As he presses in and draws it up, he is becoming a very rich man.

Like Joseph, this wealth gained during the process will not be just for his benefit. It will be for the saving of many. He will have a bounty of truth, surety, and joy to share with others. He will be able to teach them how to drill down deep in their own lives to find invaluable treasure, which they would never have found in more fruitful times. Because sometimes what looks like a wasteland is actually a liquid goldmine.

God’s way is perfect. All the Lord’s promises are true. Psalm 18:30

Note: I would like to apologize in advance to any male readers for today’s analogy. I will do my best to avoid the graphic elements of giving birth… just for you.

Cole was born on his due date. Not a day before. Not a day after. But at dinner time on October 7^th, the date the doctor gave me when I was 6 weeks pregnant. I actually refused to believe that I was in labor most of the day since I’d had no false contractions, hadn’t yet “dropped,” and, besides, what baby ever comes on their due date?

This worked to my advantage since I spent a good portion of my labor in complete denial of the pain I was experiencing. I took a long walk down the peninsula that sunny day, munching on a protein bar and thinking about life. There came a point, though, when I had to acknowledge that this process wasn’t going to end until I’d had a baby.

As this was my first (and, to date, only) birthing experience, I didn’t know what to expect or how bad the pain would be. There was a lurking fear that despite the intensity of the contractions, I would arrive at the hospital and the doctor would say, “You’re 3 centimeters dilated… only 7 more to go!” Which would have been fine on my walk when I was capable of ignoring the situation, but not now, when my body was groaning in the expectation of expelling this creature.

When I finally called the doctor, I was told that had plenty of time left and should stay at home. Fear confirmed. But within the next few minutes, my body started to feel things that were not right. The part of me that really wanted to avoid a home birth (which was pretty much all of me) screamed to get to the hospital. I called the doctor and told him I was on my way. Despite his insistence that I would be best off at home, I threw some clothes in a bag and asked my husband’s parents to get me to the hospital asap.

The length of that drive to Hoag Hospital, though close in distance, cannot be described with my limited vocabulary. My growing sense of urgency was pronounced by my father-in-law’s diligence to the excrutiating speed limit of 25 miles per hour down that eternal stretch of peninsula. If ever there were a time to speed, I thought, this was it. But all I could do was hang onto the handle above the car window and whimper.

After a journey of minutes or months or years, we arrived at the hospital. I remember nothing about my surroundings – getting out of the car, checking in, getting into the delivery room. My whole being was focused on the task at hand. I could see nothing beyond managing each individual contraction, which seemed to be merging into one contraction of extraordinary length. I do remember the remarkable calm of the nurses as they worked to get me on the table to examine me, calling up in me the same exasperation I felt in the car. Did no one realize the horrific happenings in my whale of a body??

Examination revealed the cause of my urgency. I was fully dilated and ready to give birth. Oh, what a relief. But there was a problem. My doctor was not there. Understanding me to be overreacting on the phone, he had not yet left his weekend plans… a dinner party, I think. At the time, it didn’t occur to me to request – or demand – another doctor. So the nurses prepped me, and I waited.

I will pause the story here and say, in my typically dramatic fashion, that I identify with so many parts of this in my life right now…. feeling the intense approach of something I’ve been anticipating… fearing that it is just the beginning of a process… deeply worried that I will not be able to manage the remaining portion of the process… waiting in agony when it feels unnatural and wrong and past due. If you are wondering what this baby is that I’m waiting to birth, I don’t know. I have a growing urgency to come into a new space, but what that means or how that might look is absolutely beyond my understanding right now.

Regardless, I would love for the Lord to say, “Hey, guess what? You’re fully dilated! And I’m here to deliver this baby. So push, girl, push!” But my fear, of course, is that I will be told to stay home and suck it up. Or spend years in the car trying to get where I need to go. Or lie on the delivery table, waiting. But, if that’s the case, I want to wait in trust. I want to wait with the knowledge that there really is good reason. I want to wait with joyful expectation of whatever this is going to look like on the other side. Knowing I will get to hold that baby, thinking it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and forgetting – mostly – about the pain it took to get there.

I will unpause the story to say that the nurse gave me something to “take the edge off” until the doctor arrived, which really wasn’t that much later. I gave birth to Cole, which was the end of the natural process, but I became so much more than just someone who had given birth. I became a mom. I would go through labor all over again, ten times if need be. He is just that worth it.

So, now, I want to stand in a place of trust that whatever is being formed and birthed will be worth the process it takes to get there. I came upon my post the other night about patient hopefulness. I want to exist in that place, no matter what things feel like or look like. Because God is good. His ways are perfect. All his promises are true.

The earth is filled with the Lord’s glory. Habakkuk 2:14

A glowing evening walk

I would like to recant my hateful charges against the gods of daylight savings, specifically those whose dominion is “spring forward.” I had an epiphany of my error on the way to work this morning as the sun sat red and smoldering behind a foothill, like a volcano about to erupt in glory through the misty darkness. And again after work, when handfuls of light beckoned me to a long, meandering, walk of perfect contentment and prayer amidst its indulgent evening glow. I bless you, oh gods, whom I have unjustly accused.

I got clobbered on Friday. It’s hard to say exactly what happened, but I got knocked completely off balance. It was like someone else was walking around in my body, behaving like themselves and not me. Nothing felt right or came out right. It was like the scene in the movie, Bewitched, when Nicole Kidman kept messing with Will Farrell’s lines, causing him to say things like “Where art thou dog? You will lick my face and I shall lick your snout.” Really, these are the sorts of things I said. My boss later questioned one such thing that escaped my mouth at a board meeting…. “What the heck were you thinking??” I don’t know what I was thinking. Because it wasn’t my brain or my mouth operating that day.

But it wasn’t just about feeling or acting strangely. Doubt about my whole identity washed over me. My view of myself tanked and all I could see was an ugly wrinkly worthless thing. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve been hit with this kind of thinking. It unnerved me.

I find it interesting that I made some strong declarations the night before about taking down the kingdom of addiction. It was in the context of conversation and prayer for someone who has had a lifelong struggle in this area. This rouses in me an anger so ferocious that I want to annihilate something. Not, of course, the people wrestling with addiction for whom I have great compassion, but the forces going on behind the scenes. Frankly, I think the enemy is threatened. Not by me and my broken self. But by the great and mighty God living in me who is getting ready to do some business.

Quite a few years ago I was part of a church program that dealt with sexual brokenness and a myriad of other issues. As one of the leaders, I had the opportunity to teach a couple of the classes. Everything went well with each class – until I taught on addiction. Immediately following that session, I experienced some of the greatest doubt and oppression I have ever experienced. I felt turned inside out, anguished, and bullied. It was as if I had shoved a stick into a nest full of angry wasps who weren’t too keen on the invasion and were tormenting me enough to prevent a reoccurrence. I went into the back office and cried like a baby.

It makes me think of that dream I wrote about a little while ago. The one when I had a mighty weapon to use, but chose instead to bow to satan’s intimidation. I’m still feeling sensitive and wobbly and can see how easy it would be to back off, soften my words, or cease the fervent prayers for this person – or others – in the struggle against addiction. But I’m not gonna do it. I reiterate my intent to take up my crossbow and do some serious damage. I’m going to see people set free. Period.

The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. 2 Corinthians 10:4

A little ruby juice?

“Down there,” said Golg, “I could show you real gold, real silver, real diamonds.”

“Bosh!” said Jill rudely.  “As if we didn’t know that we’re below the deepest mines even here.”

“Yes,” said Golg.  “I have heard of those little scratches in the crust that you Topdwellers call mines.  But that’s where you get dead gold, dead silver, dead gems.  Down in Bism we have them alive and growing.  There I’ll pick you bunches of rubies that you can eat and squeeze you a cupful of diamond juice.  You won’t care much about fingering the cold, dead treasures of your shallow mines after you have tasted the live ones in Bism.” The Silver Chair from the Chronicles of Narnia

There’s a post of some level of depth or significance marinating inside, but it’s not ready yet and I don’t have time anyway. I’m racing the clock to get to bed so I can respond promptly to the sound of a marimba, courtesy of my iphone, at my new and improved (?) rising of 5:00 a.m. Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.

What I want to share – very quickly – is about laughter. It is…. you probably didn’t catch the deep breath and accompanying smile that completed that sentence, but that’s exactly what it is. Cleansing and life-giving and good and right.  Where has it been all my life?

Okay, to be fair, it’s not like I never laughed. But it wouldn’t a stretch to say that I spent a good portion of my life in a mode of emotional disconnect. There was a lot stirring under the surface, but little made it to the top except maybe for anger. A sense of sadness or longing rarely provoked tears. Moments of joy seldom produced laughter. Reminds me of that fig tree Jesus cursed in the bible for not producing figs. After all, what good is a fruit tree that doesn’t produce fruit?

Over the past several years, God has been working to break down walls and connect my insides to my outsides and more importantly my whole self to his. What came first were tears. At times, a deluge of them. They were salty, delicious, and wonderful. A release of so many sorrows and longings. When they passed, they left the ground clean and fragrant.

What came next, without any effort, were smiles I couldn’t suppress. And a warmth of heart that melted me. Not always. It would harden up, the smiles would disappear, and there was no mistaking the chill. But more and more, the sun shone inside of me and I had a great appreciation after so many years of unfruitful gloom.

But now, oh my. Now is the best of all. There is laughter. Laughter that is spontaneous and uncontainable. Laughter that comes up from the richest, living parts. It is a force to be reckoned with and a pleasure that can’t be touched by lesser things. What a thing to share with friends or strangers or the very Creator of this beautiful release, to whom I would like to give a very hearty thanks tonight.

Sweetest One by Todd Warren