Monthly Archives: October 2013

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10/29/2013

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Getting Honest

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Heart Cracked Open

I’ve been emotionally wrecked. From the seemingly trivial losing one of my favorite students to another school, to the deeply personal things God is working out inside of me, to being powerless to keep my friends from making decisions that are wrecking their lives, there’s been a lot going on in this heart of mine.

While preparing to start my day the other morning, I boldly (and foolishly) challenged Life, “What else have you got for me?”

Moments later I came across a message informing me that a missionary friend’s 16-year-old son was killed in a motorbike accident.

Dear God, will it never end?

Tragedy and I communicate on a first name basis. Oh, I wouldn’t say we’re friends. She’s more like that person who makes me cringe when I see her coming down the hall because I know we’re going to have a long conversation that I don’t want any part in.

“Hey, Tragedy, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know. Just wrecking lives and stuff.”

And by the end of our conversation, I feel tired all over. But I think the thing I hate most about Tragedy is that she makes me feel so insufficient. Because, as I’ve said before, my arms aren’t big enough to cradle the whole world all at once. And this world has wounds that are bigger than I am. And superglue may work just fine for busted heads, but it doesn’t do a whole lot of good when it comes to broken hearts.

I don’t know what to do with broken hearts. I may be able to sweep up all the pieces, but I guess I’m not good enough at puzzles to figure out how to put them back together. And I wish with every fiber of my being that I could put them back together. But all I have to offer a broken heart is my own heart breaking in response.

I feel like I’ve spent the last few days falling on my knees and saying, “Okay, God, here’s my heart cracked open. Do with it what You will.”

And I know that He will.

I know that God is big enough to restore even the most broken of hearts.

So I think I’ll tell myself the same thing I told myself when I lost Maggie five months ago:

There’s still Someone who can make sense of the pieces where others have failed.

There is a God who makes beautiful things from broken things.

And that is the knowledge I cling to when the world rocks crazy and my heart lies in fragments on the floor.

Yes, I still believe in a God who redeems the messes we’ve made of our lives. I still believe in a God who accepts the sacrifice of a broken heart. And I still believe that these paths paved with heartache are ultimately the best thing for me.

So here I stand with heart cracked open, fully and finally alive.

 

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10/16/2013

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Paradoxes and Mysteries

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Unconditional

In youth group this week, we were talking about God as our Father. When I got the girls into small group, one of them looked at me and said, “I get that God loves us, but what I don’t understand is why.” She then expounded upon what horrible beings we are and basically asked why God even bothers with us.

Whoa.

It’s probably a good thing that I don’t think it’s my job to give answers, but to spark discussion, because those girls have rendered me speechless time and time again.

Because I don’t think there’s a “why” answer when it comes to love.

Love is not something that can be explained logically; it simply is. At some point you make a choice, conscious or unconscious, to love another person and that is simply what you do. If we flawed human beings can figure that out, wouldn’t you suppose that a perfect God would be capable of the same thing?

The love my student was describing to me had stipulations. God should love us… until we fail Him, in which case He should turn His back on us forever.

But that’s not what love does. And God is Love, so that’s not what God does either.

So here this girl is asking me why, and I’m simply sitting there with my mouth poised in an answer that never comes. Because I don’t have an answer. Not really. I can’t explain why God loves us even when we spit in His face any more than I can explain why I still love my brother even though he once punched a tooth out of my mouth.

He’s my brother, and I love him; we’re God’s children, and He loves us. I could have said that to my student the other day, but I don’t think it’s a satisfactory answer for most people. I don’t know why it is for me.

I’m always a little hesitant to say this because it seems like it shouldn’t be possible, but I’ve never had a problem with the Unconditional thing. Maybe it’s because I spent a lifetime in church, where it has been permanently ingrained in my being. Maybe it’s because I have parents who would still welcome me home if I showed up on their doorstep pregnant or strung out on drugs. Or maybe it’s because my personality type according to Disney has been summarized as “Most likely to remain faithful to you even after being transfigured into an anthropomorphic clock under a curse that you caused.” (I never saw any similarities between me and Cogsworth until that moment, but now I kind of feel like I need to watch Beauty and the Beast for the hundredth time.)

In any case, I can do the Unconditional thing. I think that’s the piece of God’s image He gave specifically to me, and I’m grateful for it. Even though it has torn my heart asunder a thousand times, I’m glad I can still love freely and deeply.

Because I want to be the one who would leave the porch light on for my children to come home—perhaps in far worse shape than I would choose to find them—but home nonetheless.

I’ve always only ever wanted to be someone you can come home to.

I had a conversation with a preschooler one day. She sat down on the bench next to me, screwed up her face like she was thinking real hard, and finally asked, “Why does Brookie love you so much?”

As if I could know the motives of a child who couldn’t yet speak a word more than my name. As if I could put words to what happened in my heart when I first held her infant form in my arms. I chose her, and she chose me, and there’s not a child or teacher in that school who doesn’t know that Brooke is Miss Rebekah’s baby. How do you explain something as miraculous as that?

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why do you love me so much?”

There was a moment’s pause as she thought about it. “I don’t know.”

And she snuggled up under my arm because the whys didn’t matter.
Because she knew she’d always have a place between my shoulder and my heart.
I love her, and she loves me, and it’s the sort of thing that’s unconditional.
And we all need a little bit of unconditional.

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10/10/2013

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Getting Honest

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The Tragic Life of Disobedient Sheep

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” ~John 10:27

Sometimes I think that verse should read a little more like this:

“My sheep hear my voice, and they know it, but still they choose to ignore me and go their own way.”

Because the actual version makes it sound too easy. Like maybe the sheep didn’t hesitate to follow the Shepherd’s voice. I wonder how many people can actually say, “I listened, I followed, The End.” Because I’m ashamed to say that it doesn’t always look that way for me. In fact, most times there’s a struggle before I finally give in. Generally the way this works for me is: I hear Him, I argue, I prolong the inevitable, I make myself miserable, then I finally say, “Okay, God, You win.”

But that’s not the way Jesus tells it.

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”

It’s that simple. Or, it should be.

You know, I often resent sheep analogies, because if there is one thing I’ve learned from befriending a family of farmers, it’s this: sheep are stupid. Whenever Jesus starts comparing His followers to a bunch of sheep, the only thing that comes to my mind is the story my friends told of a whole herd of sheep walking single file down a train track until they all got wiped out. Every. Single. One of them.

Come on, God, I’m not that bad… Am I?

Can I make a confession here? Sometimes I’d rather not follow the Shepherd. Sometimes I’d rather do my own thing. Because sometimes what God asks of me is not what I would choose for myself. And sometimes His instructions don’t seem to make sense. And sometimes the path He leads me down is dark and scary and painful and no-really-you-would-not-believe-how-much-this-hurts hard.

And so I hesitate, like the silly sheep that I am, lingering a little longer in this place because I prefer it to the unknown journey that lies ahead. And I choose my own path. And I stay right between the lines, not even bothering to wonder what is making that strange whistling noise up ahead.

And you’d think I’d come to my senses when those before me start getting thrown from the tracks. You’d think the train barreling toward me might be enough to make me flee from my path. And sometimes it is. Sometimes that’s what it takes to send me running back to the Shepherd’s arms. But sometimes I’m prone to travel the path of destruction because that’s what happens to stupid sheep that wander off on their own.

But the sheep that follow even when they’d rather not…

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.” ~John 10:27-28

I think those sheep have a much better ending, and I think it’s the ending I want for myself. So I’ll choose to follow. Even when I think I know better. Even when I’d rather stay behind or make my own way.

Because when I hear that voice, I know it is ultimately leading me into the place that is best for me. And why should I argue with that?

walking on train tracks

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10/02/2013

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Live the Journey

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On the Corner of Boundary and Adventure

I don’t know who named the streets in Beaufort, South Carolina, but I could hug the guy who juxtaposed Boundary and Adventure. In the eight years I’ve been heading south for September I’ve been drawn to that street—Adventure, that is. Funny thing is, I never set toe or tread on it until a little over a week ago.

And it makes sense, I suppose, that I’ve never turned down that road in the past. Because Boundary Street will take me where I need to go. It’s the main drag through town—the road everyone drives in comfort knowing it will lead to all the important things, while Adventure Street is just a little road that leads to God only knows where. Hence the name “Adventure,” right?

I think life is a lot like the streets of Beaufort. Everyone says they want a little adventure, but they’re too afraid to step outside the familiar confines of the boundaries they’ve made for themselves. I’m guilty of it, too. That’s why I made a little detour on the way to the beach last week. That’s why I pulled my car over to the side of the road and took a little stroll that fine Saturday afternoon.

I’m guilty of singing Disney tunes as I go throughout my day. I can’t count the number of times the lyrics, “I want adventure in the great wide somewhere” have come out my mouth. And in the moment I think I mean them, but I don’t. Not really. Because I bypass Adventure and keep on cruising down Boundary more often in life than I care to admit. I could have the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack blasting from my car speakers as I sing along with the reprise of “Belle” and still drive right past Adventure Street. Because Boundary is so comfortable and familiar and I never have been one for scenic routes.

But I think we all need a little more Adventure in our lives. I think we all need to take those detours that lead us down abandoned side streets. I think we all need to do a lot more than sing about the adventure we want to live. So get ready to slow down and take a right turn up ahead.

Adventure is calling your name.

boundary and adventure