Myself a river

A friend of mine prayed for me the other day and as she was leaning in and trying to listen to what God was saying she saw a picture.

Something like a river or ribbons of different shades of blue, moving and turbulent, yet with a rhythm. When she asked God what it meant she perceived that it was something like contained chaos and, even more, perceived that the river was headed somewhere.

In that image my heart hears that all the elements all the misdirections of my life, all the dead ends are accounted for and are the many shades of blue in the stream. I feel many shaded in my make up with inclinations and abilities that don’t coalesce, but the picture would say that who I am and the events of my life are all flowing together to one destination.

That is a great comfort to know that my life is contained in God’s sight, in his desire for my redemption and his desire for a kingdom of people that is his own. Nothing about me has got him stumped. He is not wondering what to do with me.

Thanks be to God.

The luck returns

Did I forget to mention that the plant survived. About a week or so after whacking off all the dead stuff it started shooting out new leaves. At the same time it started shooting out blooms.

It's lush and full again, fuller than it ever was, in fact. The leaves are a dark green with a burgundy hue underneath and more vibrant than when I bought it.

Maybe I have to thank the mystery bad do-gooder who desecrated it in the first place.

Is this like how God used the Babylonians to judge Israel or how Jesus took hold of what every farmer knew, the seed has to die before it can live.

God uses everything, everything. Doesn't matter what. He is more confounding and wonderful than I think I will ever understand. Even when we get to heaven, I think there will still be things to wonder at and not quiet understand, but there will be love, lots and lots of love, Oh and some lush green plants too.

Zacchaeus

You know. . . he’s the one spectating up in the sycamore tree while Jesus walks by.

This morning in my work place devotions we considered what person in the bible we wanted to be like. There was one I wanted to be like who I aspire to and then there was this fondness I found myself having for Zacchaeus because we’re alike.

The image of him up in that tree stays in my mind, curious and drawn to what is going on. He’s heard a lot of wild stuff about this man coming through town. He’s skeptical by nature and thinks he’ll get a good look at things before making up his mind.

That’s me, if ever there was a picture. I’m curious and drawn, but I stand on the edge. I’m pretty sure no one has noticed. No one has minded my presence at all.

Then suddenly the man whom all this clamor is about turns round looks straight at me and says “come down, I need to stay at your house.”

Yep, me and Zacchaeus are kindred here. Shocked that we’ve been called out, but glad too. We’ve no intention of saying no to this man. The way he noticed, the way he knew, and the look in his eye are to real to be denied. We climb down and get more intimately acquainted.

This story keeps playing out in my life. Just when I think I’m nice and cozy and hidden away in the corner someone says my name. It’s the shock of notice that stay’s with me and the realization that I can’t really hide. There’s the “who me?” that always pops up and the sudden fear that I won’t have what is needed, but then I find that I do. More and more there is the thrill of knowing that when Jesus calls he knows what he is doing and I can trust that what he has given me is enough.

God's Voice

Lately, I've been seeking after God's voice. I've been seeking after his presence. If you were to ask me what my plan is next concerning things (like my job) I would tell you my plan is to stay close to Jesus.

This is the only thing about my life that I've come up with so far as something I'd really like to do. This makes me happy. It's not easy, it's not clear, it can make you look very foolish, to your friends, your family, even yourself, but I would perish with out his voice even though he doesn't' always come with answers.

I felt like a failure Sunday afternoon, when I returned home from church alone. I spent nearly the whole day with acquaintances and friends, yet when it came to the end I left the gathering alone and came home alone and spent the early evening feeling defeated.

I was tiered. I pushed back a little against the horrible accusations that I was failing and was failing God at my task to find meaningful relationships. It lifted a little, not all the way though and it followed me through my dreams and into my morning, where I was faced with the other failure which is my inability to finding meaningful work.

During my morning break at work I went to the little prayer room down stairs. I tired again to come before the Lord with the defeat because I know that what he really wants is whatever is there. I sat before him saying something like, "I'm not doing anything. I'm not coming up with anything to get out of this situation. What are you doing with someone like me? I'm doing it all wrong. I'm doing life all wrong. I don't know how to do it right, have a right thought or come up with a pleasing idea or plan for happiness."

And then so strangely as I was pouring out the self defeat I felt a stern presence and Jesus say he loves me, adores and cherishes me right now, but it was not relieving. It was burning coal held to my pride. I could hardly bear to hear it. I objected, "that can't possibly be true" and him saying back "it is." The thought and presence of his love washed over me, while I continued to find it unbelievable, while my pride wished that I had done something to make him proud and worthy of his love. He did not relent. I did not melt, but wanted to.

I did feel seen. I felt his patience. I felt that he was holding me tightly and I did feel that somehow this is what real love is about. Things aren't well, but he offers his love now. I got up, and went back to work hoping that the stone in my chest would crack and let it in, so that all the other voices would perish and I would walk freely into his love.

Later, much later, in the day I stopped agreeing with the defeat and agreed with his love and his perfect unseen plan. I even agreed that I must also be patient with me, especially when I feel the pressure of everyone else's expectations pressing up against me and the pride in me that wants to have a good answer for people when they ask.

What to make of dreams?

Last night I dreamed about all the dissatisfying or broken things in my life, right down to the dripping faucet in the bath tub.

I laid down with all hope of receiving pleasant life giving dreams. I woke up wondering why I dwelled all night in the impossibles of my life. Center stage where two relationships that have and are breaking my heart. One is from my distant past and one is currently, ongoingly, constantly throwing itself in my face.

It's this last one that I really didn't want to spend my restorative sleeping hours mucked up in. I awoke feeling unclean, unholy and as if somehow I had failed my lord again by what I am still holding onto and cannot let go of, not even when I'm sleeping.

Maybe it wouldn't be so upsetting if I hadn't have read what I did before I went to bed. It was a passage from Psalm 68. I discovered it yesterday morning and kept reading it through the day. It arrested me with it's beauty and power and promise.

When you went out before your people, O God,
when you marched through
the wasteland,
the earth shook,

the heavens poured down
rain before God, the One of Sinai,
before God, the God of
Israel.

You gave abundant showers, O God;
you refreshed your
weary inheritance.

Your people settled in it,
and from your bounty, O God, you
provided for the poor.

So when I laid down I hoped I'd dream about this, that I would wake up refreshed, that the weariness would have been washed away by all that God filled rain.

As I'm writing this now though, I've begun to have a kinder thought for myself. Maybe it wasn't just me doing the dreaming. Maybe God was throwing up to me all the things that he is going to march through and shake. Maybe I don't have to blame myself here for not letting go and dwelling on these old things and not trusting him. Maybe he was just letting me remember the litany so that when it all changes, when the bounty comes, I'll remember where I started and that he hasn't missed a thing not even that dam drippy faucet.

The Waiting

It's been one of those days. I actually pleaded with God at lunch to not have to come back to work. I tried to argue that I've been responsible and I’ve faithfully come back at least a thousand times. Couldn't he come up with a legitimate reason for me not to return this afternoon? Please, please . . . pretty please?

Well I'm back and the whole thing reminds me of something I saw yesterday.

I took a little walk in the afternoon to try and wake myself up after a nap. I was walking down one side of the street and from the other side of the street, down at the other end of the block, I could hear a child wailing and crying. It was immediately recognizable as a sort of self pitying, I didn't get my way, my life is ruined, cry. I looked around thinking there would be a few children hanging about; maybe they had gotten in a fight or something. As I tried to make out where and what tyranny might be unfolding, I saw a lone boy riding his bike up the street toward me. The more I looked and listened the more I realized that all this noise was coming from him. As he wailed and peddled and shouted his way closer, I began to make out what he was saying. "I hate her, I hate her, she's the worst mother in the world, I hate her!" He spewed it all the way by me without a flinch. I don’t know if he didn’t see me or he just didn’t care.

Along with all sorts of other things bubbling around in me as I witnessed this, was the cringe of recognition I had as I felt his strain to find a curse deep enough to match the disappointment. In someway too, there was the bolstering to try and convince himself that she really was the worst mother in the world, maybe evil incarnate.

What a relief it would be if she was. There would be no requirement, no responsibility to obey or honor such a person. He could be free to disregard her and go and do or be whatever he liked without question.

So as I drove back to work today under the unction of responsibility to my employer this little boy’s cry leapt to life in me. There was this seizing of self pity and anger. I actually shed a few tears as I drove onto the premises and walked very slowly back inside. I might have been tempted, like the boy, to accuse God of being unloving and even cruel if it hadn’t of been for something that happened about forty minutes earlier at the beginning of my lunch hour.

I left for lunch in a hurry eager to get away from the phone and to hear myself think without interruption, maybe even to hear what God might be thinking about my situation.

And here’s the situation, as best as I can say in a short space. It’s really more that I’ve been in a state of intense longing lately. I won’t try to name the nature or circumstances of it all, but you could say I’m in a state of meta-longing. One of the keenest things I’m longing for these days is for a deeper intimacy with Jesus. Which I’ve been cultivating for awhile, but the longing has gone deeper than what I can get at and so I’m waiting. I’m waiting for God to do what I cannot. By the lunch hour today I was distressed by it all and bordering on exhaustion with it. I left work and went to Whole Foods full of my angst. As I’m wondering up the prepared foods aisle I hear Tom Petty singing this refrain,

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to heart
The waiting is the hardest part

Everything in me looked up, expecting God to be right above my head. And the dawning came over me. "I’m not lost to you? You know? You know, you see and you know and now I’m crying, I’ve got actually tears in my eyes right here next to the sushi. You love me and you haven’t left, you followed me to the grocery store and you know about the waiting. Thank you . . . thank you."

The Lord is relentless and He loves me, even if I have to go back to where I don’t want to be and do what I don’t want to do. One day I won’t, but God knows that the waiting is the hardest part.

Caring

I was just out walking on my 15 minute break. I was thinking about caring about things. I mean having a passion for specific things like trees for example.

I was thinking about the lost stewardship of the earth and that if God had originally designed us to take care of it and continue to cultivate all that's in the earth then he must have put a desire in each of us for some specific thing, more specific than someone else.

I wondered about what my more specific was. What do I just care about more than my neighbor does? What am I called to remind my neighbor of in that caring? What do they remind me of that I don't feel as deeply about?

I thought about creatures. I care a little more for horses than some. I thought about God. I care a little more for worship than some. I thought about words. I care a little more for words than some. These things continue to mark me and form many of the decisions I've made. I can hear God blessing the caring, "yes, this is from me" he says. "It's not a mistake, you are not mistaken. Take up your stewardship again."

My First Lesson in Worship

It took me a long while to really understand worship. When I moved back to Colorado about 5 years ago I was not on good terms with God. I didn’t feel he was loving toward me, nor did I have a whole lot of loving thoughts for myself. I believed, but only by faith. Rarely did I have an experience or feeling that God loved me. Daily life was megaphone loud with his absence.

I’m stubborn though and so I kept hanging on to faith but longing for more. I didn’t want to just live in the realm of propositions and mere intellectual accent. I wanted to know the gospel was real and real for me. I wanted to be the intimate friend of the Lord that the scriptures talked about. I wanted to know His favor and love. Fortunately, there were enough saints around me that had struggled like I was and whom I trusted. An integral part of there lives was frequent worship.

I was pretty cynical about worship. I disliked and was even incensed with worship music, most of it seemed cheesy and seemed to ignore the darkness I battled with and especially the battle I had with loving God. How could I sing lines like, “I could sing of your love forever,” when I wasn’t even sure I could say it once? If there is anything I truly dislike its dishonesty. But I knew I had to try something, or else nothing may ever change. I would at least give my self a chance to put my self in the way of His presence. I started to occasionally attend a music worship service on Friday’s.

It went badly. God never seemed to show up. I’d leave in the same state of mind I came in with, sometimes worse. I did a lot of complaining about the lyrics of the songs, especially if it was upbeat and peppy. I couldn’t stand peppy. I complained about my life. I tried not complaining, I tried to hear something different than the normal train of thought in my head. I sat, I stood, I sang, I was quiet and mostly there was nothing. I felt like a fraud amidst the people around me that seemed so into it. Did they know I was not into it? Did they know that I was really an outsider, that I was not really experiencing God, that I could not say I was His friend?

I went on like this for sometime. I don’t really recall how long, maybe a year, till one Friday came around. I was unemployed at the time, which made the days pretty difficult, unending and unsure. I went to noon worship, more as something to do than as something to restore my soul.

It was no good. I felt the same and now disappointed. I felt like my chance was over. Usually I would concede and leave immediately, but when the music ended I just couldn’t get up. I sat there while the band packed there things and prepared to leave. Just then someone I’d never seen before sat down at the piano and started to play.

It was beautiful. Where had he come from? Where was this music coming from? Why weren’t more people here listening to this? At first I was mistrustful as I listened. I didn’t believe it could be as good as I was hearing. I kept waiting for something cheesy, or cliché, or for one dishonest note, but as he kept playing my cynical skeptic was run off, the tension left my body and I melted into the chair. The music was so easy to be with. I didn’t have to fight with it or rewrite it in my mind.

But the most important thing in that moment was I let myself believe it was from God, for me. Even though I was sitting there in a mess, he opened the door and let His beautiful self wash over me.

That was my first true experience with what worship is; to be all present with who you are in the presence of who He is. The door had been cracked opened, wide enough to hold a light of hope for me so I could find it again.