Trial by Fire

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Surely the righteous will never be shaken;

they will be remembered forever.

They will have no fear of bad news;

their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the Lord.

Their hearts are secure, they will have no fear.

Psalm 112:7-8

Just last night, I was talking with some folks about the importance of building a firm foundation of trust in the Lord. We talked about (me, with a new assurance) the fact that storms, wind, and rain are promised to come. It's not an if, it's a when.

I always thought I'd be a woman sure enough of His goodness to be able to endure bad weather, but if I'm honest, I feel like I was hanging on by a thread over the last few months. I did not live like one who knew she was being grasped tightly by a loving God. I did not operate out of the above scriptural truth. I was swimming in my own fear.

So, I'm strapping on the tool belt and bringing out the hammer. I'm praying to be able to drive nails into what's immovable and believe with my life (and not just my words) that, come what may, in Him, I cannot be shaken. In a season of peace, I want to be fortified with this truth.

Sure, I truly believe I'll mourn again. I'll endure rough patches, and watch others I love fight through difficult seasons. None of us are immune. Despair waits around the corner. And, when we come upon it, we can sit in the dark for a while, grieve loss, and feel sad. But, in the end, we stand in the hope in the Gospel, in the end, we can walk into the light.

** This verse always reminds me of Patty.

Celebrating Beauty

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You don't have to be impressed. My most recent revelation isn't anything you haven't heard before. But, it's true. It's something that I've heard and 'known' for as long as I've walked this earth. Only recently when I said it out loud and understood it with my life experience, did I realize it's profundity.

Struggle, hardship, and difficulty are synonymous with life itself.

Peace and joy on earth are coupled with heartbreak and sorrow.

Ashes and beauty take turns.

The most recent season of my life has been one of the tougher I've endured. Hell, the twenties themselves haven't been altogether peachy. Every year has brought with it loss, self-doubt, financial uncertainty. The Lord has broken me time and time again, revealed my selfishness, my false self-sufficiency, my ugly ugly sin.

And in the midst of all of that, there has been great joy. And astounding beauty. And plenty of laughter.

You see, they go together. They weave in and out of each other like fabric fibers. Once I get through one hard thing, it doesn't mean I'm excused from life's hard knocks forever. Financial/relational/aspirational peace may eventually come, but only in Christ does it really last.

If I'm going to enjoy this life, I'm going to have to choose to celebrate who my God is through it all. When life is colorful and easy, I'll have to remember to praise Him, from whom it all flows. When I grin and bear through the worst, I'll put my pennies in the bank that, it too, is grace.

Shauna Niequist says, "When you realize that the story of your life could be told a thousand different ways, that you could tell it over and over as a tragedy, but you choose to call it epic, that's when you start to realize what celebration is."

I've seen the underside of beauty this week, in the lives of my church, in the hearts of my friends. I've realized that if it's not me, it's her, or her. Unrest isn't hard to spot when you look for it in the lives of the people you love.

But hope—a believer's underground root system—is there to be noticed. Life is in the heart-pricking depth of someone's words, it's in the flowers in your front yard, it's in the toothless grin of your six year-old next door neighbor. Lord, open our eyes, that we might see the epic story in the daily and the Divine.

A Heart's Reminder

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Put things in front of your eyes to remind your heart.

These words—repeated over and over in Martha Zimmerman's Celebrating the Christian Year—have become words I often murmur to myself. Unless I'm careful, when it comes to observing holidays and traditions throughout the Christian calendar, I succumb to the catchy tunes and color palettes of big box stores. It's easy to do. My default mode is passivity. I let things happen to me, rather than create the reality I want to live within.

In my finer moments, I have the courage, strength, and energy to grab a hold of life as I want it to be. Yesterday, I made a batch of these soft pretzels, a historic symbol for the Lenten season. Without milk, eggs, or sugar, they were designed for a time of fasting—their little crossed "arms" assuming the posture of prayer. In a small way, putting them in front of my face (and more precisely, my mouth), pushed me to remember Christ, through whom all things were made. Christ, who brought and end to all my sin and shame.

Learning Late from Lent

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Do we really believe that we are held by a God whose love does not let go? Though we may thrash and tug and try to walk away, do we really believe that God's grip on us is tighter?

This lent season sure is good about reminding me of depravity. Too good. I admit that, far too often, I get stuck in the pit of my utter helplessness. I forget the long arm of Christ that has reached down from heaven to pull me out. During this last week of reflection, I want to really think on the goodness of that Friday. When he died, he gathered up our shame and guilt and took it with him to death. That leaves us with an undeserved lightness. Let's live in it. And give thanks for the way He grabs us between the fingers, even when our arms are crossed.

Kinfolk

This is what I want to be about.

Kinfolk Magazine.

Consolation

So proudly I'll hold my head

As each tomorrow comes,

That those who look at me with think

I walk to singing drums

And maybe some of them will say

They wish that life would be

Just half as gay and nice to them

As it has been to me

If they should bring me little griefs

And little dreams to heal,

I think that I could help because

I'll know the way they feel.

"Consolation," by Helen Welshimer

Life after death

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When I look back at this most recent season, what I see are a thousand things I wish I would have done differently. I wish I would have been more patient. I wish I would have depended more heavily on the words of Scripture and the biblical pattern of life after death.

These words from Shauna Niequist's Bittersweet could have well been my own. I've let some present darkness allow me to forget that there is light. I've allowed death to remind me of my frailty, my humanity. I've let Lent ingrain in me the deep wretchedness of my sin.

But, what about Spring? What about Easter? What about resurrection? God's pattern is newness after loss. It's hope after despair. It's beauty after ashes.

Several weeks ago, my pastor talked about murmuring the truth to ourselves. If we can't get on a high hill and shout, we can at least summon a little volume to give voice to Gospel so that we can hear it again. I need to hear over and over again, even if my proclamation starts small.