Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder if I should just give up the farce of sleeping and get up to pen the words that run through my mind–to get them down on paper in hopes of keeping them locked there between the lines and out of the REM cycles I’m missing out on.  Maybe I could go back to sleep if I just purge my system of the threads of thought that web themselves through my mind, keeping me awake–worrying me, pressing me, forcing me to digest them again and again.  In the dark, I toss back and forth trying to find a comfortable position to ease my chronic back pain, and I piece sentences together that will find their way onto the cream colored, lined pages of my current journal.  I’ll get up when I can’t take the back pain anymore, make some coffee, and blearily scratch out what has plagued me at night.

Dreams take up a worded persona and prompt me to pen them before they sound ridiculous when the foggy bleariness of sleep fully burns off with the final swallow of coffee.  Problems that work themselves into knots in my stomach take up books of pages as I try to patch together a solution in the mess of wordy catastrophes. Hopes that regularly fail to come to life fight for prime space on the lined pages.  Words of thankfulness corner their way into sentences when my heart is softer than normal.

It’s a rhythm of life I hope to never be cured of.

I began my first journal at the tender and apparently wordy age of 7.

My very first entry went something like this: “Today I went to my cousin’s house and swam in there pool. Then I went home and swam at the naybors pool so I swum two times that day.  It was fun.”   Of course, the journal was a diary with a lock on the side of it because it was of most importance than no one read such subversive thoughts.

I’m 34 years old now, and with roughly one journal per year, I’ve got quite the collection.

(there are 18 more years of journals not pictured here)

My grade school years of journaling were comprised of what activity was planned for the weekend, which girl in my class was mean to me that week, and which boy I was most likely to marry.  (I am a pretty loyal person, so that last part didn’t change too often.)  Moving to junior high, the hormonal rants of loneliness and self-pity fought for first place in my journals.  They both won.

By high school, however, I had been utterly and thankfully captured by the Lord.  And my journaling, while still peppered with the desire to have a boyfriend [who was handsome, a perfect believer, and good at all sports and all instruments and who loved to read all the books while agreeing that I was his perfect choice as future wife], there cropped up more and more writing that reflected the real issues of my heart which had a lot to do with faith and doubt, trust and fear, passion for Christ and compassion for the poor.  I struggled to find my place in the world.  (Cue MWS.)  As a quiet contemplative sort of girl, I observed and felt too much.  It poured out of me in varying hues of blue and black ink–words that questioned and struggled with every.single.thing.of.life. Always on the paper, though, because I didn’t trust myself to be that honest with an actual human being.  Or at least not many human beings until I found a couple of kindred spirits towards the end of high school that seemed to get my struggle with following Christ and wanting to be wholeheartedly His though I could not figure out what to do with my life. (Because in the late 90’s you had to KNOW what you were doing with your life in order to “be in God’s will.” Geez.)

It’s hard for me to go back and read journal entries from those years.  I see so much self-focus and inward analyzing. But, the thing that keeps me from setting them on fire in a barrel in the back yard is the subtle process of sanctification happening in the succession of word-filled and often tear-stained pages.  The sentences got longer and more complex as I grew into marriage, motherhood, ministry, and whatever stage of life it is that I am currently restlessly wrestling with.  I think it’s important to have these stones of remembrance in my life to help me recall how far Grace has brought me.  And how far I have to go.  Light years to go, honestly.

My stack of 25-30 journals are for me the patchwork pieces of my faith and my personality being woven together to form a person who still doesn’t understand all the things she thinks she should by now, but who will keep thinking, writing, pulling the thoughts apart and stitching them back together with a hope-colored thread.  They’re small thoughts, really, but they take up a big space in my head.  So they must be pulled out of the space and pressed into the pages that keep me sane.

My son has a pretty significant stutter.

He has had a stutter since learning to talk, and while sometimes it is almost non-existent, most days it is fairly present.  And sometimes it is so bad that it takes a full minute to get out one sentence.  Speech therapy has helped a little bit, maybe; it’s hard to tell honestly.  Stuttering is such a specialized but also underdeveloped area of study that most therapists don’t really know how to help.

I’ve done a lot of research to try and understand how to best help him at home, and by far the most prevalent piece of advice for parents of stutterers is to listen.

And not just listen, but actively listen.  Maintain eye contact, don’t finish his sentences.  Stay with him until he completes his thought.  Speak slowly when you respond to model a calm, unhurried manner of speech.

Let me tell you, I want to do this every time.  My heart hurts when the stammering stretches out a ten word sentence into a minute-long struggle.  I would trade places with my son in an instant if I could.  But, let’s be real…my patience doesn’t last as long as I would like and sometimes it takes a forcible effort to listen closely to every stuttered syllable, especially when I know what he is trying to say.  It would be easier just to finish it for him and save us both some time and effort.  But I know he needs to have the freedom to express himself, however long it takes. And I have promised him I will always listen, no matter how long it takes.

Knowing how hard he has to work for those syllables is teaching me to be a better listener.

In relationships, I’ve often found myself to be on the listening side.  Now sometimes it truly is because someone has sought me out to listen and perhaps give some advice (it’s the pastor’s wife thing to do), but sometimes I think it’s my personality.  When I was in grade school, I was often the one who listened to the other little girl in class cry about her spelling test grade, the boy who didn’t like her back, the fear of playing dodge ball during P.E. (who can blame her for that one?).  I remember an elementary school classmate told me that I was a good listener.  I think it’s because I listen better than I talk.  I would rather be quiet than to speak aloud about how I feel.  Which puts me in the position of listener, by default.  And that’s okay, most of the time.

I don’t mind listening when someone needs to be heard.

But, I’m learning to actively listen, not just absorb.  Anyone can absorb.  But what people truly need is active listening.  Maintaining eye contact, not finishing their sentences (even in your head because that will cause you to miss the words that actually come out of their mouth), letting the other person say what they need to say, and not formulating a reply while they’re still talking.  But after they’re done, asking questions related to what they shared, probing when necessary, rewording their thoughts to make sure you understand–these things show that you are engaged in the art of listening.

We all have those relationships where our every attempt at conversation gets hijacked by our “listener” and turned into their conversation. You know how it goes.  You bring up something you need to talk about, need to verbalize–and if you’re like me, it costs you to bring up those things because you’re not a talker by nature–but then your listener inevitably derails the conversation by taking your words and personalizing them, making the thing you shared a jumping off point for all the things they need to talk about.  Not surprisingly, the things you wanted to say are completely lost in the other person’s profusion of words.

I can honestly say this is a regular struggle for me.  I am less transparent in person than I used to be (a decade of ministry can do that to a person), so when I do make the effort to speak up, I want to be heard just like any other person.  But my propensity to not speak (my fault, I realize) when coupled with the stronger, more vocal personality of a friend actually prevents me from being heard sometimes.  My words get swallowed in someone else’s troubles.

This happens so frequently that I can almost pinpoint beforehand the moment in a conversation when it will turn.  I have learned to just accept it, but I sometimes wonder if that’s the helpful thing to do.  My husband tells me that if I never speak up and communicate that I need to be heard, then I will forever have my conversations derailed by the other person.   I get what he is saying, but it goes against my nature to do this, which leaves me in the netherworld of quietness in my relationships. Again, my fault if I don’t speak up.

Unless I get up the nerve to voice these things in person, I need accept that it puts me in listening position every time.  And for now, I’m okay with that.  Listening to my son is teaching me to do that better all the time.  If someone needs to feel heard, I want to provide that place of hearing for them.

But, ironically, I need to learn the art of speaking up if I want to be heard.

That’s much harder for me than listening because it’s risky.  And I struggle to take the risk with spoken words.  The pen will always be easier for me.

-gm

I could see it in her face.

She sat across the table from me at the coffee shop, her coffee cup untouched, the contents slowly cooling.

Tears stood in her eyes while words poured from her mouth like a river that’s been dammed up too long.  Her desperation seemed to fuel this onslaught of explanations.  An unstoppable force in the moment.

He doesn’t listen.

He doesn’t understand.

I talk, but he’s doesn’t hear me.

I could hear the hurt working it’s way out of her mouth, her troubles filling the air around us with her long held pain, thickening the room with bitterness.  What could I offer her?  What could I say that would make any of this even a tiny bit easier?

Truthfully I knew there was nothing I could say that would fix her situation.  And I’m not sure there was anything she could do to fix her situation.

So, I sat quietly and listened.  I opened my hands and held the broken words that tumbled from her mouth and validated her hurt by sitting in proverbial ashes with her.  Because sometimes that is all we need—someone to simply sit beside us, covering themselves in our own grief, and wearing it like it’s theirs.  (Romans 12:15)

Exhausted from talking, my friend apologized for her clumsy explosion.  But I urged her to never apologize for her hurts.  Sometimes you need to explode messily in a public place while trying to keep your voice just above a whisper so the proprietors don’t ask you to leave.  I’ve done it before myself.

But, this is not just one particular friend.  This is more than dozen friends I’ve talked to in just this exact type of setting over the last 10 years of being a pastor’s wife. She is not one woman but many.  She–they– have spoken words that I’ve heard a dozen different ways but which communicate one solid truth:  “My husband doesn’t listen to me.”

I can’t fix that problem.  It’s beyond my capabilities or sphere of influence to address her husband’s inability or unwillingness to hear her.  But, what I can offer in exchange for her transparency is a listening ear, a promise to be slow to judge, and a safe place for her tears.

It saddens me that so many marital troubles boil down to one glaringly, problematic issue: listening.  It’s seems such a simple thing, really.  Sit down, make eye contact with that other human being your promised to love and cherish for as long as you both shall live, and listen to what they have to say.  But, it’s harder than that practically.  We sit down to hear our spouse’s complaint or struggle, and we preemptively coat our eardrums with defensiveness in case any of the forthcoming muck has potential to fall back on us.  What we really need to do is make sure that the beginning of our conversation starts with humility and complete ownership of our crappy inability to put the other person first in our marriage. It’s deceptively simple but woefully difficult to do.  If we could all just admit that we are way too self-focused and take some ownership of that selfishness, we might actually find ourselves in a position to hear what the other person is saying to us about the things that hurt them, scare them, confuse them.  I think truly listening involves taking ownership of what the other person is saying to you.  Recognizing what’s been said, helping your spouse dissect the problem, realizing you might actually have something to do with it.

I see a similar struggle to listen in non-marital relationships.  Have you ever had relationships that were always distinctively one-sided?  I like to call them one-way-street relationships.  I might open my mouth to talk about something going on in my life, but in the end the conversation is always hi-jacked, derailed, and sucked into the other person’s current misery.  Yeah, let’s talk about that awkward subject soon.

Next post: the art of listening, part 2.

{I can’t help but insert here that I am undeserving and thankful for a husband who faithfully listens to all of my messy explosions.  He is the absolute best.  The more I talk with others about this tension in marriage, the more I understand the gift that he is.}

-gm

P.S. As a little shameless self-promotion, there is a song that inspired this post.  I wrote the song “Hear Me” earlier this spring, and it will appear on my upcoming EP.  Stay tuned for that.

The acrid smell of vomit still hangs in the air, and that’s probably because I haven’t taken out the trash can next to my son’s bed.  It’s about 16 degrees outside and roughly 3 a.m. when I’m composing this post in my head.  My son started vomiting at about 10:30 p.m., and like clockwork gets sick about every 90 minutes.  (Why do stomach bugs always hit kids in the night?)
I’ve already gotten half the bedding in the wash, and the other half which is composed of stuffed animals and pillows will have to wait until morning.  Thankfully we’ve been able to hit the trash can after the initial horrible episode, but that’s because I’ve lain awake for hours waiting for him to stir, which he will inevitably do.  I’ll be ready.

I’m lying with my head at the opposite end of his twin bed, and I’m twisted at an odd angle because he insists on lying diagonally, with his feet pressed against my stomach.  He’s so tired and drained that when I asked him to move his feet a little bit, he just blinked his big tired eyes at me as if to say “why are you here again?” and then sank into an exhausted nap.  So, I turn on my side and curve awkwardly around his body, and wait for the next round of sickness.
And I think, this is what moms do.  We don’t sit up all night and complain about the tons of disgusting vomit we’ve cleaned up or the need to stay awake all night.  We don’t get impatient with the mess or the tears.  We just deal with it, the whole time wishing it was us instead.  We check for fevers, prop up our little sickies to keep them comfortable, try to “catch” vomit (what is that reflex all about?!) with our bare hands, lie awake listening for the first murmur of discomfort.  Because that is what moms do.  And in those moments we seem to have deeper wells of compassion and grace than we normally do.  I think that this is because God gave moms the gift of mercy in crisis.
Dads are pretty awesome too, though, because my husband who is a bit squeamish about bodily stuff was piling up vomit-covered sheets and stuffies last night right along with me.  But he has to preach this morning, so it’s definitely my responsibility to take care of the little man overnight. And when all is said and done, I’m glad to be the one to do it.  I was rubbing my little guy’s back while he yet again emptied the contents of his stomach into the trash can, and he whimpered, “Mommy, this is the worst thing.”  Oh yeah, it is.  “I just want somebody else,” he said.  “Somebody else?” I asked.  I would gladly wake up Daddy if it would help Isaiah to feel better.  “Yeah, I just want me back,” he said softly.  Which is exactly how we all feel when we’ve been sick–we don’t want to feel like this.  We want our normal selves back. “Will you pray for me, Mommy?” his voice wobbled with tears.  And with tear filled eyes, I prayed over him because though I fail DAILY in my parenting, though I run low on grace and high on temper sometimes, though I get tired of the long drawn out silliness and the daily messes, and though I generally feel like a hopeless case for motherhood, at least this one thing has sunk in: go to the Father when life hurts.

It was a long night, and I slept a cumulative 45 minutes, I think.  But, doing this mom thing was a blessing and a privilege and I so often take it for granted that I’ve been given this little treasure to raise in love, security, and gentleness.  When I feel like I’m not mom enough in comparison to the women whose fashionable, pinteresting lives choke up my facebook feed, I’m going to remember that making life a constant thrill of creative amazement isn’t exactly what mothers are called to do.  Loving your kid when he hurts, cleaning up the sickness, praying with them, teaching, pointing to Jesus…this is motherhood.  We are all probably harder on ourselves than we realize.

Today, take a look at your kiddos.  Realize you are not an utter failure and that your mothering can be an extension of God’s grace to your children.  Just do what moms do.  It’s not glamorous, but it’s needed.  Take it from me–it’s a gift.

Nearly fifteen years ago, I received this Bible from my parents.

It is a NAS Life Application Bible with a faux leather cover and my (maiden) name embossed on the front. (Let’s not talk about my middle name.  We all have one, and most of us dislike it, right?)  I was nineteen when I received this Bible, and it quickly became my most treasured possession.  I had long used a kid’s Bible with pictures, and then a teal (TEAL! It was the 90’s.) slimline NIV that I used all throughout my teenage years. But this was my foray into adulthood, and my parents had gifted me a more adult-like copy of the Scriptures for the next chapter of my life as I was approaching 20 years of age.

For over fourteen years I have used this Bible, marking it well with dates, struggles,  things learned, concepts affirmed.  I can see my theology taking shape when I read the scratchings around certain passages.  I can look through the well-worn Psalms and see date after date after date where particular Psalms were the balm for a broken heart. I look at those dates and I shudder because I know exactly what was going on in my life then, but the healing words of the psalmists printed there were the anchoring foundation for my soul during those times of sorrow, fear, and unbelief.

I heartily support writing in your Bible.

A couple of years ago, Genesis through mid-Judges became detached from the spine.

I am still really sad about this because it is the main reason that I’ve needed to get a new copy.  I didn’t want a new copy!  There is so much memory and growth attached to this particular Bible that I haven’t been able to fathom letting it go.  In fact, I’ve made no effort to look at new Bibles or price one similar to it.  I just didn’t want a replacement.

But, we were recently given a new study Bible–the Holman Christian Study Bible.  My husband, the pastor, has a shelf full of Bibles so he gave this one to me knowing how much I could use a new copy.  It’s hard-backed, which I’m not a crazy about, and it’s stiff and new with absolutely NO WRITING IN IT (of course…because it’s new). I put off using it for a couple of days after receiving it because I just couldn’t let go of my old Bible.  The blank canvas margins of the HCSB felt cold to me.

I had nearly finished studying Colossians this weekend when I finally picked up the new HCSB.  I flipped through it, and was surprised at all the notes and study helps.  At the beginning of each book is a historical timeline that gives a glimpse of what was going on in the world in general as well as what was happening concurrently in other parts of the Bible while the book/epistle/prophecy/Psalm was being written.  Hello, context!  There are some Greek word studies that I think will be interesting and lots of cross-referencing as well.  I began a study of 1 John this morning, and I have to say–the blank margins were kind of inviting as I made new notes and underlines.  I don’t know how long this copy will last me–maybe 15 years?  I will be (*gulp*) almost 50 by then, and it’s a little scary to wonder what kinds of notes and struggles and dates will fill the margins of my new Bible.

But the comfort is in the printed text centered on every page.  Praise God His Word never changes or fails and will withstand every earthly challenge and change.   No matter what my future holds, the Word will still be my anchor, the source of comfort, rebuke, theology-shaping wisdom, counsel, and life-giving gospel truth.

(All pictures courtesy of my favorite striped pajama pants and my red plaid blanket which are both a part of my normal morning study time.  Unpictured [because I drank it all]: necessary coffee.)

 

The two months since my last post have been ones of sweet stretching and resolved perseverance. 

While some of the fuzzy feelings that accompany deep seasons of growth have worn off a little, I’ve continued to look to the Word for who God is.  When I can’t seem to find anything in myself to say, I read the words He says about Himself, and I say them back to Him. And the more I do that, the more I seem to believe those words.  His version of Truth (which, by the way, is the only acceptable version) is becoming louder in my ears than my version.  And at the heart of it, that’s what I want: for His voice to be louder than mine or anyone else’s voice. 

This is the time of year when people make all kinds of resolutions for the next twelve months.  Many of our resolutions are cast aside by mid-February as we slip back into the familiar and counter-intuitive ruts of busy-ness and laziness. I certainly do have about ten pounds that I’d like to lose in time for my sister-in-law’s wedding in May.  I’d like to speak with more compassion, listen more attentively, and overall to serve more the people in my life that I hope to reach with Christ. 

But if I could in any way encourage you to break ground on the resolution to read the Word daily, I would do it.  I’ve long-held this “habit” of Bible study, and as you know from previous posts it has sustained me through desperate times and taught me perseverance through dry spells.  I’m not telling you that you must read your Bible every day to be a good Christian whom God loves the most.  This is utter foolishness, and there is no room for Pharisaical admonishments when it comes to needing to know God through His Word.  What I’m telling you is that when you begin to feast on the Word, you will find yourself hungering for more and more of it.  If God’s primary way of revealing Himself is through the person and work of Jesus Christ, then shouldn’t we prize deeply the words He spoke to tell us about it all?

These past couple of weeks I’ve glutted my mind with other good reading material as well, and I can’t recommend highly enough books like Sarah Hagerty’s Every Bitter Thing is Sweet (I feel like she read all of my journals), Jen Hatmaker’s Interrupted, (on sale for Kindle at Amazon for $1.99 right now; and P.S. I can’t even talk about this book yet because I’m still processing and praying big things for our small ministry…things I’m afraid to put on paper at this point),  and my current read: Jennie Allen’s Restless.
 
I can’t remember the last time my mind felt so full of good things, nor the last time my heart felt compelled to do more with what I’m learning.  It spills out in conversations (which I always word much more poorly when speaking them as opposed to writing them.  I think I ruin things when I speak out loud!) and makes me feel both awkward and free.  I’m not sure how I can feel both things simultaneously, but I do.
I’m anxious to put into words this year the things God has been teaching me, is teaching me, and will continue to teach me (Lord willing).  I want my life to touch others with words, with service, with compassion. 
My source for all of these things = Jesus. 

I want to know Him more–He who gave so much to set me free. 

The last two years have been a joyless famine in my soul.

Spiritually speaking, I have struggled with more downs than ups, more doubts than faith, more bitterness than thankfulness.

Waiting seems to be one trial that God is going to use for all of my life to sanctify me.

As I’ve sown seeds of despair, I’ve reaped a harvest of sadness, unhappiness, bitterness, and anger.  Watching the successes and blessings of others has fed my skepticism regarding the Lord’s love for me.  In a skewed, flawed manner of thinking, I have somehow come to equate the “no’s” in my life with the measure of God’s love for me.  To put it bluntly, I’ve come to believe that God not only doesn’t like me all that much, but He pretty much just tolerates my existence and enjoys telling me “no.”

In a backwards way, this is the prosperity gospel, which is something I have repeatedly renounced when facing it head on.  
I’m believing a lie.

How did I get to this place?

Lack of success or physical blessing is NOT a measure of the Lord’s love and care for me.  (Repeat to yourself over and over and over.)

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve noticed this destructive pattern in myself of believing the absolute worst about everyone, myself and God included.  I’ve put up walls to protect against more hurt.  I’ve grown cold.  I’ve allowed bitterness to not only rear its ugly head but to full-on set up residence in my heart. It looks like sadness to many people, but it is actually bitterness thinly veiled as such.

I’ve been studying the book of Isaiah for a few weeks, and I’m knee deep in passages regarding judgment on Israel and her surrounding nations.  There’s a lot of hard stuff there.  But, in chapter 19, there is a verse that has completely grabbed my attention and held it.  In the middle of a passage regarding the impending judgment on Egypt (who would actually turn and follow the Lord), we see a characteristic of God that has sort of blown my mind.
 “The Lord will strike Egypt, striking but healing; so they will return to the Lord, and He will respond to them and heal them.”

Striking but healing.
This is such a strange phrase.  I’ve thought and prayed and written and digested this verse over the last couple of days and it has boggled my mind.  But, more importantly, it has reminded me of what I used to believe about the Lord.
He wounds in order to heal.
His judgment is meant to draw us to repentance.  It is a kindness!  He could leave us in sin.  But He doesn’t.
His striking is meant to turn our hearts back to Him.
The striking is bound up in healing.  You can’t really separate the two.  As a result, Egypt would turn to the Lord, and He would heal them.  That right there is purpose in discipline. 

Now, sometimes I think there is a striking that the Lord allows that isn’t in respond to sin or disobedience, but rather because He is drawing us to a deeper place of trust.  That is purpose in suffering. 

I think the struggles I have had over the last couple of years have been a combination of both of these types of striking.  I think the Lord has allowed some hard things in order to draw me to a deeper level of trust. In the midst of that He has been faithful to remind me that the thing I am actually longing for is Him.  It has been Him all along.

I also believe He has allowed a desert-like barrenness of soul as a result of my hardness of heart.  And I think He has graciously persevered me through it, even when I have wanted to give up completely. The common denominator here is always Him.
Around the corner of every disappointment, He waits for me to turn to Him.
At the bottom of every crushed hope, He upholds me and pulls my heart toward hope that does not disappoint. 

I am learning that joy is a choice, a daily fight.
So often I want to connect my joy to my circumstances, to what I have, to the prayers that are answered in the manner I deem right.
Therefore, my lack of joy stems from the disappointment in unmet desires, in watching others achieve and receive what I so desperately want, in prayers that are met with silence or “wait” or “no”. 

But the thing is….the Lord is the only source of joy.
And I have got to attach myself to Him, or I will never attain it. 

So every morning at 6:20, when I brew the coffee and sit under a blanket while the sun rises, I delve deep into the Word, lay open my heart to whatever it is God is saying, and pray for joy to be found in Him and Him only.  He strikes with my best interests at heart because if there were no troubles, no striking, no wounding, no discipline, no heart-wrenching moments of despair–I would never need to turn to Him at all.  And I would miss the One that my heart ultimately longs the most for.
It’s been Him all along. 

{I’ve already written ad nauseum in my own journal, but I can’t seem to wrap words around what is consuming my mind this morning.}

For the past 5 years, our church has been going to local parks and having church services for the neighborhoods surrounding the parks.  For 3-4 Sundays in a row, we grill hotdogs and bake cookies and give every bit of it away to the folks who show up.  They hear a simple gospel presentation and participate in some songs, and a few of them even put up with some awkward conversations from our church members who want to offer hope in Christ to them. 

In the last 2 years, we’ve committed to one park rather than rotating between the other local parks because we feel especially drawn to this area.  It’s full of government housing and bursting with exuberant children, and I’ll be honest–there are fewer doors slammed in our faces in this neighborhood than in the ones we actually live in.  An hour before our service begins or the grill is fired up, several groups of two or three will spread throughout the neighborhood and hand out fliers inviting people for a free meal.  Last fall we had a weekend Bible School for all the neighborhood kids and I have to confess, it was one of the best ministry endeavors I’ve ever participated in.  Laid back and informal, it was so rewarding. We are doing it again in a couple of weeks. 

I’ve not done the door-knocking part of this event since the very first time we tried it.  Shortly after our first attempt at park ministry, I was blessed with a sweet baby boy–an event which “conveniently” excluded me from knocking on doors.  I’m embarrassed to tell you how much of a relief it was to skip that part.

This time, though, I felt I had nothing to lose. My son is old enough to walk with me, so my husband I took over a couple of the streets with our five year old, who actually really loves knocking on strange doors and handing fliers to complete strangers.  {cue the conviction}

It wasn’t a very successful jaunt through the neighborhood…it was such a nice day weather-wise that most people seemed to have gone out for the day.  I was overwhelmed by the poorly installed window units in this section of housing, a little angry that whomever is in charge of maintenance in this area apparently doesn’t care about the moldy cardboard pieces duct taped around the outside of the windows.
I ended up in front of a house where I knew a couple of the kids playing in the front yard.  A group of about 5 children immediately flocked to me, hugging, grabbing my hands, asking me questions, wanting to go with me to the park.  In a haphazard fashion, we made sure everyone had permission from their folks to walk up to the park with me.  One little girl, about 5 years old, asked me if going to eat at the park would cost anything.  Her little worried face made my heart cramp up a little.  “No, sweetie.  It’s all free.”   All of it.  Her smile was enormous. 
My son bravely mingled in along with the rest of them, his only-child personality a little overwhelmed by their chattiness and exuberance.  I could tell he felt a little funny about sharing me with this passel of kids, but he handled it well. 

So, here I am…. a short, white woman walking through this neighborhood completely surrounded by a sea of sweet brown faces.  Whenever one hand let go of mine, another little hand eagerly reached for it.  My husband was way ahead of me on the sidewalk, and he looked back to tell me we had picked up a few more kids.  I turned around to see about 15 kids of all ages trailing behind me.  I felt a little like the Pied Piper, all these kids following me up the hill to the park, but in that moment a wave of heaviness settled over me.  Tears stung my eyes, and I felt that the Lord lifted the veil for me just a little so I could see.

So close, I can almost taste it.
So close, I just barely missed it.
A glimpse past the veil, before all goes dark again. 

Jesus loved children and wanted them to come to Him.  “The Kingdom belongs to such as these,” He said. And to these, the ones who eagerly joined me yesterday to go get a free hot dog and to hear the words of Christ preached.  I felt a little like a child myself…with empty hands and nothing to offer, only eagerness to accept what was given me.

I wish I had taken each little face in my hands and said to them, “Jesus loves you so very much.  Follow Him.”
Next week, I most certainly will do that.  

Sometimes when I am struggling with doubts and am absorbed with what’s going on in my life, what feels unjust to me, with what I have found to be so bothersome or discouraging–sometimes the Lord uses those precise moments to hand me something so completely unexpected that I almost don’t know what to do with it.  He peels back the selfishness and the self-absorption, helping me to see, to really see what is happening with His Kingdom today.  It rarely happens when I’m feeling comfortable or well-adjusted or “in good favor” with the Lord.  It happens when discontentment has taken up firm residence in my heart, when I feel rebellious towards the Lord, when I choose to ignore His voice and to listen only to the litany of complaints I can so quickly compile.  I think He gives me these “kingdom moments” then, at those particular times for two reasons: one, to pull me out of the funk I’ve settled myself into because He is not okay with leaving me how I am [praise Him for that]; and two, to give it to me when I know I don’t deserve it.  I know I can’t earn grace, but sometimes I think I’m doing so well spiritually that I pat myself on my the back a little and count the Lord as lucky to have such a compliant Christian on His team.  {I shudder to write that, but it’s truth.}  So, He seems to wait until I am fully aware of my pride and selfishness and absolutely sick of myself to show me the things He wants me to see. 
It’s then that the full weight of grace settles over my heart and drives me to my knees in humility {i.e., humiliation} and thankfulness.  I could never earn these gifts, any more than I could earn the gift of salvation.

So close, I can almost hear You.
So close, I just barely obey.
A moment passes by, You’ll find me chasing after lies.

I wish I could hold on to clarity like this all the time. Being human and on this side of the veil, I’ll let it go and be searching for it again soon.

But for now, I can’t let go of the conversations I had yesterday, of the deep sweet grace that reverberated in the voices of all kinds of people sitting under a park pavilion, singing “Amazing Grace,” of the unrestrained joy of the children who grasped my hands and wrapped their arms around my waist for hugs.  I felt like I got a glimpse of the coming Kingdom.  The one that’s here and at the same time, not here.

Your Kingdom’s come, Your Kingdom’s here, Your Kingdom’s coming soon.
All this pain and darkness in my heart will finally be through.
And I can’t wait to see Your face, to shed this earthly frame,
To throw off all that hinders and holds back.
Jesus, You’re so close,
Please be so close.

I can’t quite put into words what’s been floating around my head lately.  But I’m gonna try.

When I started studying Matthew earlier this year, I knew I would be challenged by what Jesus said–both to His followers and to those who opposed Him.  I knew I would feel convicted by His frank honest assessments of the human heart.  I knew I would be tempted to skim over some of the things He said that are hard to understand.

But, I didn’t know I would identify so much with the Pharisees.

Yeah.  I am a modern-day Pharisee.
I feel like I need one of those “Hello! My Name is ___________.” badges.
Or like I need to stand up at a Pharisees Anonymous meeting and introduce myself as a white-washed tomb. 

I have long been about rule-following and standard-keeping more than I have been about disciple-making and grace-giving.  It goes against the grain of my law-keeping hubris to be bigger on grace than I am on correction, because I feel like I can measure law-breaking.  I can sum up a person by how well they obey or don’t obey.
But I can’t measure grace. It just pours out–overflowing, healing, goodness.  And it shames me in my finger-pointing, gnat-straining, camel-swallowing judgments.

But Jesus.  Jesus.
He just calls a spade a spade while simultaneously overflowing with compassion for all the lost sheep who are floundering in their distress and dispirited dejection.

When I study Matthew in the early mornings, watching the sun rise and filter through the trees in my backyard, I feel like I’m observing Jesus–like I’m right there, in Capernaum, watching Him tell a man lying on a mat with bits of roof scattered about on his lifeless legs that his sins are forgiven, and then–when that was too shocking and blasphemous for my associates–that he could pick up his mat and walk.  I envision that man jumping up with as much spring in his step as my energetic 4 yr old, grabbing up his mat, while weeping uncontrollably that this Man had healed him AND declared him forgiven for all the years of bitterness and jealousy as he watched his friends roam freely on their for-granted legs.  Because if that Man could heal him, then He was right when He said this former-paralytic’s sins were forgiven.  I can see the Pharisees with their ornamental robes and Scriptures attached to their foreheads….mouths gaping open…backing away quickly, quietly. 

I see Jesus strolling up to the despised tax collector’s booth where Matthew is hard at work swindling the people to line his pockets as well as the hated Roman government’s coffers.  This was a guy you avoided unless it was tax time and even then, you dreaded his inflated taxation.  You bit the insides of your cheeks to keep from screaming when you paid him because you knew he was cheating you while also working for the enemy.

But Jesus.  He just walks right up to Matthew and says, “Follow Me.”  Simply. Succinctly.
And Matthew.  What in the WORLD.  He just gets up and follows Him.  No looking back, apparently. I would give a whole lot to just see the look in Jesus’ eyes when He squarely faces a future-disciple and says, “Follow Me.”   Compelling. 

(Note: As a Pharisee, at this point I would have been outraged that Jesus went outside the religious circle to look for followers.  I mean, He was a rabbi of sorts–a teacher.  What is this smattering of tax collectors and fishermen?  Why not those training to be among the religious elite?  That makes for a much more appropriate group.  Right?  No.  Not Jesus.  Weak things to shame the wise, and all that.  Why is He is just not fitting into the box I want Him to fit into?)

And here is the point where I am totally thrown.  I read Matthew 9 this last week, and I can’t stop thinking about it.  Round and round it goes in my head, I can’t stop recycling this story.  You’ll see why in a minute.

After Jesus asks tells Matthew to follow Him, Matthew throws a feast for Jesus (see Luke’s parallel in chapter 5).  And who does he invite?  All his friends.  His comrades.  His peeps.  (Sorry.  When am I ever going to use the word ‘peeps’ in a blog post unless I am discussing marshmallow Easter candy?) Matthew’s friends are obviously not from his Wednesday night synagogue prayer time.  They’re fellow thieves tax collectors.  And “sinners”, which I translate to mean  “known sinners.”  People whose reputations preceded them.
And Jesus comes to eat with them.  Not stiffly, uncomfortably, and nervous about what people will think about Him eating with these folks.  No. Not Him.  He is reclining at the table with them.  Now, I know this is traditionally how they ate–reclining (which sounds like a tradition we MUST resurrect).  But, I don’t get from the passage that He’s nervous about being seen there. According to Matthew’s account, Jesus is eating at Matthew’s house and the other tax collectors and sinners come to eat with Him.

And this is what has just decimated my self-righteous approach to ministry.

Jesus went to them.  The sinners, the people of ill-repute, the tax collectors, the despised, the folks hated by the good, God-fearing man.  Jesus went to them.  He willingly ate with them and spent time with them, no matter how questionable it looked to the religious group.  He knew who He was and what He was about. This Man, this God-Man—with the absolutely pristine record, the only flawless human to walk this earth–He willingly subjected His reputation to being sullied by the religious elite so that He could reach the ones who knew they needed Him.
When the Pharisees questioned Jesus’ disciples, asking, “Why is your Teacher eating with the tax collectors and sinners?”, Jesus just straight up said that He came for the ones who were sick and knew it.  If you thought you were well, then I guess you just didn’t need Him.  He came for the ones who were sinners and knew it.  He came for the ones who would be desperate for Him.
And in true Jesus-fashion, He hits them with a zinger that just…pierces my heart.
“Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire compassion, and not sacrifice,’ for I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”  (9:13)

A couple of things.
One, Jesus models something here that I believe we have missed. Right before He goes back to heaven after the resurrection, Jesus tells His disciples to “Go and make disciples of every nation.”  Go.  Not expect them to come to you.  Go and make disciples.  He modeled this by going directly to the sin-sick, broken down people who were totally and completely marginalized.  He sought them out!  And as a result, they listened and many believed that He was who He said He was.
This, this is what I believe the Church of the past couple of generations has missed in this country.  We have expected people to clean themselves up and come to church to hear about Christ.
Why are we not going to them, embracing them in their sin-sickness and giving Christ to them?  They don’t need to clean themselves up to come to Christ.  Christ does the cleaning-up when He has given you a new heart. 
Second.  What are we so afraid of?  Many of us who have grown up in the Church, who have been careful to carry as unsullied a reputation as possible–we are so careful about offending another Christian that we refuse to even associate with people who are desperately dying in their sin without Jesus.  Just like good little Pharisees.

I.Don’t.Want.To.Be.A.Pharisee.Anymore.

I want to take my cue from Jesus who looked out at the people who were distressed and dispirited and felt compassion for them in their lostness and wandering.  I want compassion to compel me to hold out the One who saves to the ones who need Him.
I was once so distressed, so desperately dead in my sin.  And Jesus looked at me in my distress and saved me.  How could the Son of God associate with the likes of me?  I know how ugly my heart is. But He did.  And not only did He save me, He made me a part of His family. 
I want this truth to drive me to speak the Gospel and show compassion in the places where it might make me look bad.  Why am I so concerned about what other people think?  That’s just stupid.  And an excuse.

On Sunday, my husband preached the sermon I have been both longing for and dreading.  He is working through Luke, and of course–OF COURSE–the text for Sunday was the parallel passage of what I had studied in Matthew all week. {sermon link coming soon}

I cried more tears than I thought were possible as the Spirit weighed heavily on me.  Even now, a couple of days later, I just can’t shake this feeling of conviction and near-suffocation. 

The upcoming changes within our church in how we will approach evangelism and disciple-making both terrify and thrill me. Applying this in my daily life, too….scary.  {Again, why am I so afraid?}

But I am ready.  So ready to tear off these self-righteous hindrances and to take Jesus at His Word. 

I am moving very, very slowly through the four Gospels this year (hey, it’s January, so you know I haven’t gotten very far), and writing down everything Jesus said.
I want to have an up-close chronicle of what He said to do and to be in order to be His follower, to identify oneself with Him.
Last year I studied John very closely and noted everything Jesus said in regard to what one had to do to have eternal life.  Short answer: repent of your sin and believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God.
I wanted to shift my focus this year and see what Jesus said to do while we live as aliens and sojourners on this earth before we get to our real home.  I am certain that I will be shocked by how loosely I follow His commands (if I follow them at all), especially in regard to how I treat others and bear witness of Him in my life.   I know, I know, I know that Christ-following can’t be limited to what I don’t do (although there is a lot of behavior to avoid and stay away from, of course.  Hating my sin is always a good idea. All my sin is ugly sin and needs to be put to death every single day.  Jesus said.). 
But Christ-following is also encompassed by going, doing, speaking, being, and making (disciples).

In Matthew, we only have to get to chapter 5 before we see Jesus opening His mouth and pouring out wisdom that we could never come up with on our own.  I am convinced that following His words closely–and taking Him at His word–will change how I live.
I’m tired of regular faith that walks away from the Word mostly unchanged. (Is that really faith at all?)
I want to read the Word and see my sin reflected so I can flee from my selfishness and pride (for aren’t those the roots of all my sin?).
I want to read the Word and with open hands and beg the Spirit to change me.  (Only He can.)
I want faith that has arms and legs, hands and feet. (In other words, faith that is active.)
This Gospel was not meant to be gathered into my heart and treasured all alone.
By definition–GOOD NEWS–it is meant to be shared. 

I am writing all this down if for no other reason than to put to words what I am learning and how the Lord is using His Word to push me out of my comfortable self-contained faith, and instead to go and make disciples.  It is a little terrifying.