where waves grow sweet

Then Hwin, though shaking all over, gave a strange little neigh, and trotted across to the Lion. “Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I’d sooner be eaten by you then fed by anyone else.”

“Dearest daughter,” said Aslan, planting a lion’s kiss on her twitching, velvet nose, “I knew you would not be long in coming to me. Joy shall be yours.”  The Horse & His Boy

At church last Sunday, the pastor spoke on pride. Not just the puffy and bloated kind, but also the deflated and self-deprecating kind. He called the latter something like ‘pride under the guise of humility.’ Because pride is anything that believes differently than what God has said is true.

Back in the day, I bombarded my body with substance, assaulted it with eating disorders, and cut it with knives.  It was self-destruction based on a premise of self-exaltation. I was denying God’s declared love for me, calling him a liar and my own view of myself true. Absolute pride.

Now I have plenty of the other kind of pride too. The kind that thinks too highly of itself and relies on those parts for acceptance. My own righteousness, if you will. Just as ugly, but decidedly more acceptable – not to God, but to the world and even the church.

In a dream years back, I got to heaven and stood before the Lord. I held a rectangular wooden box, longer and thinner than a shoe box and light in weight. It was clear that he was going to make an assessment of my life based on its contents. I have never felt so uncovered as that very profound moment when I realized that he was looking only at my heart for him and nothing else. He did not see my appearance, friendliness, depth, spirituality, or any other thing I’ve relied on for identity. He did not see any natural gifting, ability, or resulting accomplishments. He also did not see my failures. He saw only the parts of my heart that had been yielded to him on this earth. He saw only the actions I had performed in response to what he asked of me. He saw only his kind of love given freely to others. As I think about it, all that box contained was a heart of worship. The rest had been removed.

Sitting in that box, my heart looked so puny, but I could see that what remained of it was as pure as living gold. However exposed, I did not feel inadequate. My adequacy was as filthy rags.  It was terrifying and beautiful. So I stood quietly before his unadulterated presence and recognized his absolute righteousness and sufficiency, as well as all the nothing I had once considered something.

Suddenly beside me, maybe cutting in line, was a business man who had obviously done well in this life. He talked continuously with big and expressive hand motions, trying to convince the Lord of his virtues and successes. He wasn’t holding a box; just presenting his well-dressed self. He was baffled at the lack of response to his charisma and salesmanship. It did not get him very far. Or anywhere at all.

Thinking about this makes me feel the same quietness I did standing before the Lord, as I reflect on how much nothingness I rely on for identity and approval… the things I worship instead of the only one worthy of worship. How much importance I put on aspects of myself – or others – that the Lord doesn’t see or value. How much thought, energy, and money I spend on what is absolutely worthless. Believing that I am getting somewhere, when all the while I am building a kingdom of pride… outside of the box.

Happy and peaceful...

First of all, I would like to welcome my beautiful niece, Katherine Noel, to this great big world full of people who love her and people who are yet to love her. If she weren’t across the country, I would go to the hospital and wrap my arms around her little body and hold her tightly. And I would smile with radiant pride at being connected to this splendid little creature.  I would hug my sister and declare to her my admiration of her selflessness and courage as a mom and wife, and to her husband, Gino, my appreciation of the way he lays down his life for his growing family. Elisabeth and Katherine are luckier than they yet know.

Next, I would like to tell you that today was glorious. Can’t tell you exactly why, except that this familiar strength rose up inside me… the fire of God or the life of God, or some other aspect of God that is good and powerful. I felt clear and sharp and full of hope. [Insert exuberantly happy sighs.] Now I know I spent much of yesterday’s post declaring how misleading emotions can be.  I stand by that. But something else I know is that when I put God where he belongs  – on the throne of me – my emotions tend to follow his lead and wind up in some really great places. There’s a proper order to these things, you know?

Okay, I am sparing you the detailed paragraph I started writing about the rest of my day. Feel glad. But know that it was satisfying. I worked out, listened to a sermon, cooked (holy wow, it was good), and enjoyed my son. We both had a happy trip to our brilliant chiropractor friend who happens to be covered in full by our brand new health insurance. I played piano and talked to my brother. I’m writing my blog, which you know I enjoy. And, hey, my body didn’t even ask for sugar today. It seemed perfectly content with the banana it got at snack time. Who knew that was possible? So much for sparing you the details.

I feel joyful. Not because of any of these things but because today I chose to believe that God is good. My mind is still and my heart is at peace. Blessings to all for the same.

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. 2 Corinthians 10:5

My first deep and very spiritual thought is: OMGOSH I WANT SUGAR!!! Oh, did I mention I’m a sugar fiend who is currently fasting from this tasty, addictive, and very comforting substance? I want to devour every last cookie in this well-stocked house. Or maybe just roar really loud.

There has been an intentional stripping of some significant things over the next couple of weeks, and perhaps beyond. I am hungry and thirsty for the Lord. For his word, his heart, his peace. Even more than I am for sugar or alcohol or entertainment or relationship. Or maybe even food. It’s a worthwhile tradeoff, I think, to lay down these things for a time and let those places be filled by the only One who satisfies; to sever myself from distraction, quiet my mind and emotions, and listen.

[It sounds so nice and peaceful, doesn’t it? Definitely. Except my brain is running around in my head like my old psycho hamster, Morgan, on her squeaky wheel. And my body is feeling kind of like Morgan’s angry face right before she would launch toward my hand to bite me.]

On my lunchtime prayer walks, the sweetest time of my day when my body moves and my mind calms down, the Lord has been meeting me in the relative stillness and touching deep places in my heart. Today, as I moved down the path, I saw so clearly how I have allowed myself to be dominated by my overwrought thought process and capricious emotions. I have listened to them intently, as though they provided some factual basis for making decisions and directing my life. But they don’t, because they can’t. There is nothing that they can ascertain of worth to me. All they can do is gather information from the natural, which does not – and cannot – take into account the spiritual realm where the heart of God, his wisdom, and his plans are found. And these, really, are the only things I’m interested in knowing.

Emotions are often loud, manipulative, and determined, drowning out the quiet voice of the Lord. Reason is equally resolute, often more subtle and proud, and draws me into a place of unbelief, creating a spiritual deafness… or at least the distraction of constant motion. I’m not saying that I should cut off my ability to reason or feel. That would be bad. What I am saying is that these things need to be held up to the word of God and brought into submission. So my job description right now is to lasso and hogtie every single thought and feeling that has made assertions, as well as some – or most – of the advice I’ve received. To take ‘em down until I can ascertain their value in light of Truth. To acknowledge the rule of God over every part of my life… down to each and every thought.

When I have regained rightful authority over the drunken mardi gras in my head, I will hear the Lord’s voice clearly and easily. It is a simple thing. He didn’t make it elusive or difficult. We have made it elusive and difficult. Often, I think, on purpose. Because we can play the ignorance card as long as we don’t hear. In all honesty, I’ve probably done this recently. As I begin to quiet down, I realize that I’m scared what the Lord will say. He is unfailingly good and has never yet made a poor choice for me. But he has fed me some hard truths. It is not always an easy dialogue and often requires tough action. But I’ve seen too much of what my way brings, and I want nothing more of it. Just his way. His voice. His heart. His mind. His plans. And his perfect peace.

By the way, I do have a wild side. Always have. And as I’m submitting myself to his rule, I think he’s going to open up some sweet and holy places for me to let out a righteous and mighty [non-sugar-withdrawal-related] ROOOAAAARRRRRR…

Then God said, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.” Genesis 22:2

While talking about Abraham, it’s hard to avoid the fact that he didn’t just proclaim a trust in God but acted on it. We know of this trust because of what he was willing to sacrifice – the very thing that God had promised; a promise he held onto despite every reason not to; the fulfillment of which he carried in the depths of his heart… his son, Isaac, and the innumerable descendants and blessing to all people made possible through him.

In our Christian logic – or mine anyway – we would reason away God’s request to offer Isaac up as a sacrifice. After all, why would God ask us to give back a gift He Himself had given and one that would cancel out the other parts of the promise? Just doesn’t make sense. So we would ignore the voice of the Giver and cling to the gift, considering ourselves the guardians – maybe even the saviors – of it. But that’s not what Abraham did. He trusted God beyond the initial giving of the centerpiece of his existence and the sole link of promise to his future generations. He trusted Him for the entire life – and death – and resurrection – of this boy.

This story hits quite a tender spot in me. Not that God ever asked me to hold up a knife to my son, but about 7 years ago I had an experience that felt like the equivalent. I won’t go into the details, but trusting God in this circumstance for the wellbeing of the son God had used to save my life – oh jeez, definitely the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I was backed into a corner where I couldn’t protect him from what seemed like certain harm. I cried until I thought my heart was torn in half, and told God I felt like He was asking of me what He had asked of Abraham countless generations before. “That’s exactly what I’m asking. Will you trust Me?” By some miraculous measure of grace, I said yes, I would trust Him with my only treasure. Peace flooded my heart and I knew, just as Abraham did, that God had the power to resurrect Cole from the ashes of this situation. After the trust had been forged in the heat of the fire, the inevitable harm was snuffed out so completely there was hardly a trace that it had ever existed.

You can’t walk these things out unchanged. I didn’t. I’m pretty sure Abraham or for that matter, Isaac, didn’t either. Trust is a force to be reckoned with. Think about someone you have been through hard things with; someone whose friendship has been tested on rocky paths and proven true. I imagine it would be nearly impossible to get you to believe something contrary to what you had seen with your eyes and known with your heart. So it is with God. If we read about Him and sing about Him and think nice thoughts about Him, we may know about Him. But we don’t really know Him. So when hard things come and we feel accusations arise and we hear unkind things about Him, we have nothing to stand on. It is only through these difficult times, when we press into Him as a friend, that we come to see that He is always faithful. That He always cares. That He always has our best at heart.

About three years back, I had another test of this friendship. It was a different kind of surrender; almost as difficult as the first. It was the surrendering of a hope; stepping back into a place of waiting and trusting that God saw me and knew me and hadn’t forgotten me. Once again, my heart was shredded and raw and hurt. The desires of my heart looked trampled. Peace didn’t come as quickly this time. But I pressed in and found a path lined with the sweetest tokens of love. And I found that trust had grown stronger.

I am once again watching this friendship unfold, feeling the tension of hopes and expectations pull against surrender. I feel an achy heart that is wrestling to lay down its desires. I also feel life rising back up, empowering me to take a stance of ruthless trust. I am excited… about these next two weeks in particular… as I bring all that I have to His altar, lay my eyes on my true Treasure, and witness His glory. Whatever that may look like.

By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to the place which he would receive as an inheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he was going. Hebrews 11:8

It is Friday night and I am home alone. For some this might be a real bummer, but I feel indulged and giddy. Like a kid home on a school day. Not a sick day where you feel crappy and have to make up work, but a snow day where you are totally and completely off the hook. Yep, tonight it’s just me and my wide open space.

Before I pull out my book and pretend that I’m actually going to go to bed early, I wanted to share a thought or two. Everywhere I turn, I am hearing or reading about Abraham. He keeps turning up in devotionals, sermons, and every bible passage I come upon (and I’m a seriously random bible reader). It is no surprise that he is churning around in my head.

One of the things that really stood out to me was a passage in Hebrews 11: “By faith Abraham obeyed when we was called to go out to the place which he would receive as an inheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he was going.” It was really the second part of that verse that grabbed my eyes and made them sit there a while, trying to take it in.

As I have been trying to navigate life lately, I’ve realized how much I want to know what is ahead. That way, I figure, I will be able to invest my heart in the things that will matter in the end and spare myself some trouble and hurt along the way. But that’s operating in a serious deficit of faith and trust. It is not believing that God is at work in the middle of the story, when there are unknowns and tension, when we are being challenged and our character is being formed. You know, all the parts that make the end of the story worth sticking around for.

I’m brought back to this thought of how much we like controlled adventure. Roller coasters with tracks that lead riders to the same place every time. Travel that can be charted out with plane flights, tour guides, and maps. But adventure seems to me a lot more like life with God than a zipline through the rain forest. It is about moving forward in faith through the story written by the Creator, never knowing exactly what lies ahead – simply choosing to obey and putting another foot forward. Even when the story plays out differently than we thought it would. Even when we are hurt and weary and confused and discouraged. Even when we screw it up and fall hard. Because God is a brilliant author, who can weave together each element to create something of beauty… if we will continue onto the next page.

Abraham obeyed. He didn’t know where he was going, but he went out anyway. So much of what was formed in this man, this father of faith, happened along the way. Was it safe and cozy? Hell no. Was it a beautiful adventure story written into eternity by the hand of God? Heck yeah.  He just may have been onto something.

Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Ephesians 5:19-20

My mom asked me today to take a photo of a quilt made by a friend for my sister’s almost-born baby, and email it to another friend. The quilt was made beautifully which, I think, can be gathered by the photo. What you wouldn’t know by simply looking at a representation of it, though, is that it is soft like a fluffy lamb – an unreal, indulgent softness that makes me want to wrap it all around me and smother my skin with it. Seriously, this thing has a beauty that goes beyond nice stitching and patchwork. It is a rectangle of love and goodness. But since gmail doesn’t allow me to attach textures and emotions, the picture – which represents so little of the whole – had to suffice.

Peace by candlelight

I’m sitting here so peacefully in front of my computer and candles, next to the keyboard I had the pleasure of playing again tonight. I want to share with you the satisfaction and peace and goodness inside… this feeling that everything is okay, that God is good no matter how things look, that these things we fixate on aren’t what we make of them, that we serve a big wonderful God who conquered every dark and exasperating thing. But all I have are words and they represent so little of the whole.

I was introspective today. Seeking and searching my heart and my mind and the Spirit of God. Trying so hard to figure things out, as I tend to do. But at some point in the day I just decided to be thankful. Thankful for the very things I’m fixated on, the ones that frustrate me about myself, the things that don’t look good or that feel out of control. Thankful for a God who exists outside of these things, who inhabits my very body, who has made a way for peace despite any reason to think otherwise.

Something happened in this process. My heavy load fell off, maybe without me noticing, and my heart lifted. The things that didn’t have a place seemed to find one. Or maybe they just didn’t matter so much anymore. My body stopped whining, and is at this moment singing sweetly, blessing me with its contentment. I want to give this to you and save some for me; to bottle it up like the good dreams captured by the Big Friendly Giant in Roald Dahl’s children’s book. But all I can give is a prayer that we can learn to live in the trust and gratitude so befitting our position as children of a very loving Father.

So then, there remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God, for whoever has entered God’s rest has also rested from his works as God did from his. Hebrews 4:9-10

A restful destination

Today was my designated sabbath, a day of rest from the constant plans and activities I’ve been scheduling lately. The picture in my head was a day in bed with a bible and a somber spirit. Um, no.

Instead, today’s rest looked like a sunny morning that begged me to walk in its warmth, practically dragging me down to the Newport Pier. To take off my shoes and touch the cold water with my bare toes. To laugh aloud at the chubby-thighed toddler chasing the seagull with impressive speed. To rescue my ‘neighbor’s’ chips – well, some of them – from said seagull. To bump into a friend and her boys for a joyful reunion. To watch and think and pray and hear. To walk and walk some more, arriving home four hours later, thankful for the goodness of God with all that I am.

Today’s rest looked like an afternoon that beckoned me to the bliss of tending to what’s been left undone. To scrub things and wash things and fold things. To feel the pleasure of open space that allows for accomplishing life and its demands.

Today’s rest looked like enjoyment in small things. To take in glimpses of a football game that went surprisingly well for the Jets. To eat a salad full of every good thing. And a cookie… or two. To play worship songs on the piano and, yes, even to sing. To write a friend. To listen to music. To laugh with my son.

Today’s rest continues on, satisfying the dry and weary parts. It will end in bed with my bible, but a somber spirit will not be found.

My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. Psalm 62:1

My lunch break walking path

It appears that I’ve neglected to make adjustments in my schedule to compensate for the fact that I am now in a relationship and working full-time. These are both wonderful developments, but there is only so much time in a day. Or so I’m told. What has gotten squeezed out in this oversight is rest. So much so that even when I have time to sleep, I can’t. I am on overdrive, going to bed late and waking up at 4:30 in the morning, exhausted.

So today I hit a wall. Hard. Felt so tired I thought I’d either cry or collapse. But it went deeper than that. It was that I didn’t have rest inside. Not that there was unrest, but I haven’t taken the time so essential to my wellbeing to be quiet, read the word, get replenished. I’m dependent on that connection. We all are, really. Without it, there is bound to be a breakdown in life or function on some level.

I had planned yet another full weekend that left no time to let down, be, sleep, pray, listen, or any other good thing that requires open space. As the idea of intentionality came back into focus, I reluctantly cancelled Sunday’s plans and shifted some other things to make space for the kind of quietness that restores me. Not the brain-numbing-check-out-of-life kind, but a more focused, change-your-whole-outlook-as-you-eat-the-bread-of-life kind.

While I feel a slight loss at the thought of not indulging in friends and activity at every whim, I’m giddy with anticipation about the way the Lord is going to speak this weekend as I make room in my dusty stable of a heart to welcome the King.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek you. Psalm 9:10

My friendship with Sarah began at a warehouse in old town Fort Collins. It was where our church met. We were familiar with each other but were each intimidated (if that is the right word) by a certain aspect of the other, and had never really even talked. It did not look like a natural fit for a thriving friendship.

We, and a random collection of other broken Gen X folk, found ourselves in a church program called the River, which gave us safety and direction to dredge up all the dark, scary things in our hearts and get healing. It was intense, to say the least.

So there we were one Saturday, ready to lay our hearts on the table, when asked to partner up with someone for a trust walk. As the leftovers of the group, we hesitantly wandered toward each other. Trust was not exactly what I was feeling. But, after a few niceties, we got on with the serendipitous exercise. Sarah used her voice to flawlessly guide my blindfolded self around the funky sofas and tables scattered on the concrete floor. And I used my voice to guide Sarah down the hall, around the VW bus we used as a coffee station, and to the ‘sanctuary.’ God connected us that day.

A short while later Sarah asked if I wanted to get together each week to pray. I did. So she started coming to my beloved yellow apartment on the corner of Shields and Cunningham; the one with the dead, bare tree I’d dragged up the stairs to adorn my living room. We sat on my red hand-me-down sofa, and prayed. It was so good, lifting up our fears and struggles to the creator of our lives who saw beyond our hurts; a creator who laid for us a foundation more solid than the church’s concrete floor.

I ended up moving back to California and she moved a shorter distance to Longmont, but our friendship has continued to grow over the past decade. Having been introduced through a time of exposure and vulnerability, we have never had to pretend that we have it together. Our conversations are always unedited, real, and extremely honest. We share joys and struggles, encourage and challenge each other, and learn more of who we are in the eyes of God.

The way we first learned to trust each other was significant. After all, most of our friendship has been forged over the phone… trusting the voice on the other side for guidance around hazards and obstacles, and for a clear path to the sanctuary.

I love you Sarah Pomranka, think you are strong and beautiful, and am eternally grateful for your friendship.

A fleeting reunion at Denver International Airport

By the way, Sarah has an honest, intelligent blog you would really enjoy reading. http://spiritualwheaties.blogspot.com/

Yesterday, I said that these beautiful moments of connection and friendship I’ve been experiencing are true life. They are and I’m enjoying them immensely. But part of my appreciation comes from all the raw, grinding, grueling moments that God used to get me to this place, with an open heart and a new way of seeing.

It was in the hard, confusing, painful times when my own understanding just wouldn’t cut it – when I ran out of resources and ability and strength, when I couldn’t see through the darkness and required his vision – that I began to learn of the pure and perfect character of God. What a sweet taste it leaves when something cruel and hateful produces beauty and love. This is the way of the Lord.

I know so many people going through hard times right now, wrestling down their own perceptions and reaching for truth that will sustain them… often through tears, grief, anguish. I can’t walk out your journey and you can’t walk out mine, but we can sure encourage each other along the way. In light of that, I would like to share this excerpt my dad gave me. It’s from book from back in the day (no clue which day) called Secret of a Happy Life by Hannah Whitall Smith:

The Chariots of God

It has been well said that “earthly cares are a heavenly discipline;” but they are even something better than discipline – they are God’s chariots, sent to take the soul to its high places of triumph.

They do not look like chariots. They look instead like enemies, sufferings, trials, defeats, misunderstandings, disappointments, unkindesses. They look like Juggernaut cars of misery and wretchedness, which are only waiting to roll over us and crush us into the earth. But could we see them as they really are, we should recognize them as chariots of triumph in which we may ride to those very heights of victory for which our souls have been longing and praying. The Juggernaut car is the visible thing; the chariot of God is the invisible. The King of Syria came up against the man of God with horses and chariots that could be seen by none save the eye of faith. The servant of the Prophet could only see the outward and visible; and he cried, as so many have done since, “Alas my Master! How shall we do?” But the Prophet himself sat calmly within his house without fear, because his eyes were opened to see the invisible; and all he asked for his servant was, “Lord, I pray thee open his eyes that he may see.”

This is the prayer we need to pray for ourselves and for one another, “Lord, open our eyes that we may see;” for the world all around us, as well as around the Prophet, is full of God’s horses and chariots, waiting to carry us to places of glorious victory. And when our eyes are thus opened, we shall see in all the events of life, whether great or small, whether joyful or sad, a “chariot” for our souls.

Everything that comes to us becomes a chariot the moment we treat it as such; and on the other hand, even the smallest trials may be a Juggernaut car to crush us into misery or despair if we so consider them. It lies with each of us to choose which they shall be. It all depends, not upon what these events are, but upon how we take them. If we lie down under them and let them roll over us and crush us, they become Juggernaut cars, but if we climb up into them, as into a car of victory, and make them carry us triumphantly onward and upward, they become the chariots of God.

Whenever we mount into God’s chariots the same thing happens to us spiritually that happened to Elijah. We shall have a translation. Not into the heavens above us, as Elijah did, but into the heaven within us; and this, after all, is almost a grander translation than his. We shall be carried away from the low, earthly, groveling plane of life, where everything hurts and everything is unhappy, up into the “heavenly places in Christ Jesus,” where we can ride in triumph over all below.

These “heavenly places” are interior, not exterior; and the road that leads to them is interior also. But the chariot that carries the soul over this road is generally some outward loss or trail or disappointment; some chastening that does not indeed see for the present to be joyous, but grievous; but that nevertheless afterward “yeildeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercise thereby.”

In the Canticles we are told of “chariots paved with love.” We cannot always see the love-lining to our own particular chariot. It often looks very unlovely. It may be a cross-grained relative or friend; it may be the result of human malice or cruelty or neglect; but every chariot sent by God must necessarily be paved with love, since God is love; and God’s love is the sweetest, softest, tenderest thing to rest one’s self upon that was ever found by any soul anywhere. It is His love, indeed, that sends the chariot.

Look upon your chastenings then, no matter how grievous they may be for the present, as God’s chariots sent to carry your souls into the “high places” of spiritual achievement and uplifting, and you will find that they are, after all, “paved with love.”