Sitting in Saturday's Dark

It’s Saturday.

That awkward space that lies between the Friday when Jesus died, when we look at the Cross and all He experienced, and Sunday, when we celebrate joyfully His resurrection.

This day is my favorite. This is the day I need to reflect on perhaps more than any other. This is the day that challenges me.

Because this is the only day in all of history that Jesus didn’t breathe. This is the day that every hope was truly dead. This is the day that it looked impossible to redeem.

This is the day of waiting, the day that the disciples woke up and tried to figure out how to keep breathing when their hearts were shattered. And they couldn’t distract themselves with work or business; it was the Sabbath. They were left to their thoughts and their sorrow.

Where had they gone wrong? Where was God? Was this all that was left- broken dreams and a dead Messiah?

They had left everything, banked every hope on the man they watched die yesterday. Maybe they understood, maybe they knew what was coming.

But I don’t think so.

They were just human. They saw the man they believed to be God die. How can God die? Don’t you think they questioned their judgment, their belief that He was the one they had been waiting for? Maybe even that He was who He said He was? I would have. How could they not? He was dead and laying in a tomb. They saw the blood. They knew.

This day is dark and full of uncertainty, questions, and brokenness…but God planned it this way. I can’t say for sure why, but I have a suspicion. I think He knows that we need to learn how to wait. To lament. To learn to rely, to be stripped down. Friday was so emotional and I’m sure it seemed insane, but this was the day of emptiness. Of brokenness.

This is the day that tells me God is ok with the broken places. This day reminds me that God is ok with questions and aching hearts who are trying to understand. That God planned a day of waiting in the middle of the worst and best things, respectively, to ever happen on the earth, says that He is patient. There will never be a worse day for this world that the Saturday when Jesus lay dead in a grave 2016 years ago. This is the day that tells me over and over that nothing is beyond redemption. The One who planned all along to redeem the death of Jesus- perfect, both God and man, who wrapped the fullness of God’s character in flesh and bone- still redeems. So even when I am sitting in the dark, in places that haven’t seen redemption yet, I can wait in hope because this darkness is real, but it cannot compare to the light that is coming. That even though the death is real, the life that is coming with the dawn is what speaks the final word.

I don’t want to miss the wait.

Naturally, I hate waiting- especially for answers. I want to understand and I want it yesterday. I want to feel better. I want to move forward. But seasons of wait, just like the Saturday before Easter morn, stop me and remind me that my hope is not in the good that is coming, but the God who comes close and sits with us in the dark, in the silence, in the loss. He is ok to wait—the One who never has to wait, who created the very concept of time. He says waiting is good. He sent Jesus “at just the right time”, the Bible says. And He saw fit to leave a day between the death and the resurrection. There was a reason, and His Spirit whispers to me not to miss it.

So I will wait. Here, with Him, I will stay and remember and wait for the dawn to come.

Scars.

We try to define you, to make you easy to understand. To grab and yank and push and pull and try to control you. We wrap you up in ideas and sayings and anything that looks nice and pretty because the unresolved is painful to our Western souls.

But You are so much more. You are ever so much more. And I wanna know you as you are, not as I want you to be. I want you to be bigger than a list of characteristics to rattle off, deeper than a formula for a way to live. Get down deep in my heart. It's cracked and beat up, scarred and totally imperfect, but if you'll have it, it's yours. I have only the tiniest glimpse of how beautiful it could be, you here with me. Cause these cracks? They can be the start, like the first tear in a birthday present, of you getting down to what's inside. The bruises? They can find the grace to heal in your hands. All my weariness? I'm told there is rest where you are. And oh how I want to believe that: that I can lay down, and stop striving. That I don't have to be anything, anything except with you.

You whisper again that you know what it is to be scarred. And as you reach your hand out, I feel the tissue where they healed, and the imperfection of it all--how can you, holy and perfect, wear imperfection still? I forget you still choose to be like me in this, that I might remember: that's how far you came. And that I don't have to be perfect or tied up in pretty ribbons or even whole because nothing is yet as it will be. You wait, and you long for us, until you can come and take us from all of this. When finally there will be nothing in between us but love and joy in one another forever. And you yearn, from the deepest part of you [and how deep is the heart of God? Is there any measure for it?] for us to know you now. To delight in you, because you have loved us with everything you are. [And what is the measure of that?] You gave everything, absolutely everything, up to come and take our hands and all our brokenness and lead us home. And you still wear those scars, the scars of my rebellion, to remind: that you came that far. That you chose me, knowing the cost, and would choose me all over again. You wear those scars like a tattoo, a declaration to all who see of just how far love will go. You wear them still to remind me that it's ok to bring my scars. That I will be scarred by this world, this life. But that just as you rose from death to life, and just as you later brought us with you, wounds don't ever have to be the last word with you. Your scars, they display your power. They're memorials of the day when you flipped everything upside down and death itself turned backwards- so what can you NOT do?

Surely my weak knees and frail arms and fickle heart are not too much for you. Surely they can't turn back your love, love that came so far and already paid the fullness of its cost. Surely those scarred hands that hold me close even when I squirm and fight and yell like a four-year old that I don't want you and can take care of myself and when I am a broken 7 year old who just needs and needs and when I am a 20-something who thinks she knows far more than she does and is slow to actually learn-surely those hands, those arms, are big enough, strong enough, to take me-all my weaknesses and scars and fears and shame and pride included- and make me whole. Not flawless. Those aren't the same thing. You leave my scars, my limps, because they are testimonies of what you have done. Could you make me whole and leave no trace? Of course. But then I would miss every bit of the beauty, the wonder, of pointing to my scars and saying, "See that? That was a deep wound; it pained me for years. He healed it." and "This one? This sin kept me wrapped up for a long time. It owned me but I didn't even know I was enslaved. It's still healing, you can see. Isn't He so good, to set me free? To teach me how to live free?" The scars are the stories of your faithfulness. You didn't have to heal us-but you did. You could have left me lost and broken-but love is never content with less than what's best for the beloved.

You wear your scars because they are the proof of what you went through to bring us home; and if we live this life trying to look like you, laying ourselves down, dying to all our selfish pride, and suffer for any and all if that's what it takes (and it does) to love like you, then we might just have some to match yours when we get home.

He: An Easter Reflection

He bore my shame so I didn't have to.

He was forsaken by God so I never would be.

He was crushed so I could be healed.

He suffered without cause so I would never suffer meaninglessly.

He was punished so I could go free.

He died so He could raise me from my grave.

He was condemned so I could stand in mercy, not judgement.

Though He was the rightful Son, He was laid low and disgraced so I could be spared such disgrace.

He was perfect and covered my imperfection with love and sinless sacrifice.

He chose a grave to break my chains.

He walked a path of suffering, loneliness, and sorrow so that road would lead me to life.

He embraced death to bring me home.

His loving arms guide me to the Father and lift my face to see His eyes of love on me.

Because He fought death and beat it forever, I am no longer held captive by fear.

Now face to face, heart to heart, I am accepted, beheld as righteous, adopted, and free-

                                                       

                                                  Beloved.

                                                  

                                    This day proves the promise

                                    that I am and always will be,

                                                His beloved.

When Christmas doesn't feel like Christmas {for every hurting heart}.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

here where strife and shame have a standing invitation.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

here where hurt has overstayed its welcome by months, years.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When traditions are overturned and stability is void.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When parents become children and children become the caregivers.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When quarreling has a plate set at dinner.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When extravagance is pursued to cover what is missing.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When you are surrounded by “family” who are strangers.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When hate seems to have won the day.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When we are lonely.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When sorrow steals the light from our eyes.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When nothing shines like it used to-

Not the lights or the tree or the gifts or the stars

That wait with anticipation.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When nights are sleepless, aching, empty.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When bitterness has dug its roots into your soul.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When love is far from sight,

Far from our arms,

With no return ticket.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When we fight instead of sing,

When we throw words like flaming arrows,

And scar hearts made for eternal love.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When the sky is dark,

And we are sitting in the ashes,

Cold and shivering,

Wondering when, or if,

Dawn will ever break.

 It doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When we are crumbling under the weight

Of worries that bend our backs

And break our spirits.

And it doesn’t feel like Christmas,

When we are worn out,

Threadbare from hurry, needs unmet,

Grief, depression, suffering-

Name the poison.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas when life is this hard.

But the truth is Christ still came,

For exactly these reasons,

For the aches in our souls

that we can barely endure-He came.

Because He knows us;

He knows that we are dust,

We are weak and lonely and poor in spirit,

Whatever else in the world we may be.

And He saw us, and loved us in our broken state.

And so He came.

To deliver. To renew. To right every wrong.

To comfort. To redeem. To give life,

Where we had only ever tasted death,

To bring the love of God to us.

When we could never reach His heights,

He came to our depths.

Because He is pure love,

And love will not be deterred.

Love will not rest while the

Beloved groans in chains they cannot break.

So He came.

Laying down all His glory, He came.

Becoming one of us, opening Himself

Up to the suffering we face.

That He might love us,

And give us hearts to love Him back.

So Christmas is still here,

The morning still comes,

Though it may look nothing like we

Once had hoped,

Hope still lives,

Because Christ still lives.

And here after the manger

And after the Cross,

We wait with longing in the “not yet”,

To see the “yes” to every promise He has made.

Even as we ache, we can wait with full hearts,

Because we have seen and tasted Love Incarnate

Because He came,

And He comes again,

Not as a babe but as a beautiful King,

Who sustains galaxies with His words,

Who is redeeming all things even in this moment,

When we can’t see it yet,

And who will make everything right

and better than we can ever understand.

‘Til then, we wait with hope,

Even though tonight that first Christmas seems a universe away.

Because Love has come and Love will return,

And Christmas is real here-

because Jesus came. 

Lift your drooping hands, love.

It's not about us.

We forget.

If you think we don't, I would ask you to ask yourself: do we feel as though we get to choose who we love?

Because Jesus didn't do that. 

Jesus didn't walk around, secure in his Father's love, love a select few, and dismiss the rest.

He died for the ones who were dead in love with themselves. And he breathed life into our empty chests and taught us how to love by experiencing the way he loves us. He called us his own and promised to always be loving us, every moment from the moment we first breathed until forever. 

And why I'm sitting here writing about this instead of out there living it, I don't know.

Yes I do: it's called fear. 

I don't trust Him to come through, and my love has grown so cold. I don't know when it happened or how it happened, but here I am, somehow thinking I get to choose who I love and who I don't. 
Like I earned this or something. 

But you can't earn grace. It's poured out freely, a gift given. He didn't spare any expense in His quest to have us; He didn't try an easier way or give less to begin with. He sacrificed what was most precious to Him. Because that's what love does. We know that, deep down, don't we? Love gives whatever is required for the good of the beloved. It's the theme of our favorite love stories, the real life heroes that break our hearts; when a man dies for the woman he loves, we hold it up as a beautiful ideal. It is the nature of true love to pour itself out.

Jesus did that. Literally and sacrificially and willingly.
Before we knew his name.

Who dies for someone who doesn't love them back?

He did.

And what if when he says follow me, he's asking us to do the same? Because he is. 

And I think for me that's why following Jesus is the hardest thing ever. 

Because I'm selfish. And fearful. And I somehow forget that I had no part in this whole being rescued thing.
I mean, I was dead and he brought me to life. It's not like I could control that.
But I wouldn't have stopped him. I wouldn't ever want to give up this life I've found, even when I forget that I wasn't the one who found it- it was given to me. 

Don't you want that to change the way you live? I do. And can't you see just the tiniest bit of how beautiful it could be if we did live that way?

What if I believed him, that all he says is true, and lived like it?

Even though I'm terrified, I know deep down I want love that gives everything away. I have tasted what this world has to offer, and it leaves me worn out, bitter, and empty, cold as stone. 
But You, Lord, give life. You have loved me my whole life, even when I fight you. And you promise that loving like you is what's best for me; otherwise You wouldn't call me to do it. 

So Jesus, teach me how to have love like that. Love that is thoughtless as to its own needs, trusting You to provide. Love that doesn't discriminate or play favorites. Love that is radical and real and doesn't care who is or isn't watching. And love that will give everything away because it understands that everything it has is grace, and grace is meant to be poured out. Because real love is not afraid to bleed.

I can't fix my own heart. I cannot "get over" my own selfishness. I'm forever broken without You. I am not there yet, but you are faithful and you will be faithful to teach me.

And.....help me to remember that you teach not with words, but with life. Give me grace to choose to love, to embrace every chance that comes, and let those actions form that love in me. Forgive me for all the times I've held back, all the times I've chosen my ways over Yours.

Jesus, you are worth it all.

Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees,and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed. (Hebrews 12:12-13, ESV) (really, the whole chapter is incredible) 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking through the desert

I had texted her in a moment of weariness, walking to class. I’m still not exactly sure why I did except I had decided to be real. Sunday night I realized I wasn’t ok after all. These weeks have been hard. I was feeling the weight during this long day of this long week, and she had said to text her anytime, so I did.

“What I need more than anything else (with sleep at 2^nd place and people to actually do life with, people who are pouring into me at 3^rd) is Him. I’m so dry and I don’t even desire Him right now. Like, I want Him maybe, but I want so much else more. That’s me being honest. And I’m so weary that I don’t have the energy to fight through to get to him. And I know in my head He can find me where I’m at. That He’s here. But I am not reaching. I’m just worn. And thin. Thin is a perfect word. “

When I got out of class, I had to rush across campus to my next class. This is always a brisk walk to make it in time, but today I had a project due. Oh yeah, and it started pouring about 10 minutes before my class had ended. Rushing across campus in the downpour? I suppose so. I didn’t have time to wait. Another girl from class and I ended up walking next to each other, keeping each other company as we hurried across campus, getting soaked to the skin. We were laughing because it was just such an awkward situation for everyone. I can’t explain it. We were walking through water up to our ankles (cause even the ground wasn’t ready for that rain), and laughing, because it was so ridiculous. What else was there to do?

We parted ways and I walked up to the building right as it stops raining (don’t worry, I made it on time). After class, I pull out my phone. And that’s when I read it, hours after it was sent:

“….it is okay to be in that place. God knows that you’re tired and that you care. Give yourself some space to rest and just be. Being dry is not pleasant, but it can be a blessing when we discover how God’s love comes through for us in that desert place. I am praying for you and will be asking for His buckets of living water to be poured out on you.”

Did you hear it? It took me a minute, and then that phrase sunk in: “His buckets of living water to be poured out on you.” And I’m standing there soaking wet. You can call it coincidence. But I don’t believe in those anymore.
What I realized in that moment is for a few minutes today, I [dry, bone-weary, stretched thin, sick, sleep-deprived and overwhelmed] laughed as I rushed headlong through a storm I couldn’t escape.

“We discover how God’s love comes through for us in that desert place.”

Historically, God has done great, beautiful works in deserts. It seems so odd to me. And I’m not just talking about manna and quail and water from rocks [provision]. I’m talking about the cloud and pillar of fire, where He came to be with His people [His presence and guidance]. He speaks of winning Israel back by saying He will “lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her there (Hosea 2:14).” His desert is a place where Israel raged against Him over and over, grumbling against Him, worshipping idols, letting their hearts wander far from the good God who had loved them and rescued them.

Yet His desert is a place where He shows up and kindles a new fire in His people for Him and only Him. Everything else that would satisfy them is stripped away from them, and they come to know that all they think will satisfy them is nothing, worthless if they don’t have Him. And they never needed it anyway. Because what they crave, what they cry out for deeper than anything else, is all of Him. All the goodness they think they’ll find in love or prosperity or a good name or even the food to get them through the day…nothing lasts. And when it fails, it’s like bread that turns to ash in your mouth. It leaves you bitter.

I’ve been that way. Caught up in this life, chasing after what won’t fill me up and only leaves me wanting more. Story of my life. The story of this season is a little different. I’ve been trying to live out of my strength, not His. I’ve been trying to do it all, rise to every occasion, not seeking His heart or His face, letting Him get crowded out. I’ve created my own desert.

But He is still the God who is faithful in deserts, even when His people are faithless. Hallelujah. And hallelujah, we don’t have to fight our way back or find our way home. The point of the Cross is that we couldn’t get home on our own. And so He came to us in our deserts and showed us the way: give up control. Trust Him, follow the One who makes ways and rivers in the desert (Isaiah 43:19), that He’s always, always leading us home. And even if it takes us 40 years to get there, He doesn’t ever ever let us go; even when we’re not reaching for Him, He’s holding us.

He gives goodness here, in the weariness, the wondering, the waiting, the stress, the pain, the tension of this life.

It’s Himself. He’s the treasure in the desert.

Oh Lord, help me seek—and find You. Help me remember nothing else matters.

Why? (Compassion)

07. 07. 12: Somewhere in the moment when I realize that all I can do for you isn't enough,

That I can't fix your problem, can't change the life you can't change either.

That you're stuck and there's so little I can do.

When I look at you and there's nothing I can say; I can't even comfort you,

Because I don't speak your language. But I wonder, if I did, if the words would mean anything,

Or if they would be more for your sake, or mine.

Somewhere between the moment where I turn and walk away, cause you need too much,

More than I can give, and the moment where I turn around and look you in the eye. 

When I see you as a human, a heart, someone's child,

and not a problem, a nuisance, or a discomfort to me;

somewhere in that moment where I teeter on the edge of a precipice,

terrified, yet ready to fall, ready to move, ready to bend and break and cry and actually

use this thing called a heart; when I'm brought to a point of laying 

down my comfort for and trading any superiority for your survival…

somewhere in there is where I find that elusive character called compassion. That creature we talk about so much but rarely see. When was the last time it made an appearance? 

When did it last darken our doors? Darken? Yes, darken. We have not seen it in so many years 

that we've forgotten what it looks like. We've changed it in our minds to this bright and airy thing,

full of light and joy. That is no compassion-only a lie we've created 

because we're too scared to see the real thing. 

For compassion, this thing we've watered down, is raw and real and wild and deep. It 

sacrifices, it goes to great lengths, denies itself, defying self-centeredness; 

it kicks comfort in the face. 

We are unprepared for it, and truly, we don't want it. 

It is hard, harder than we ever dreamed it'd be. So we traded the truth for a lie that we could stomach.

It costs little to give out of our abundance, our excess. 

In fact, to give in that way keeps us from having to give anything at all; 

it keeps us from having to give of our hearts. To hurt with, to cry with, to sit in the dirt with. 

It is a cop out, a lie masquerading as truth. 

It is me still being self centered-  giving as little as I can to make you go away, so you leave me to my comfort; patting myself on the back for throwing some change your way,

when I've held back my heart and my arms from you. When I've kept humanity at bay by turning you into something to be kept at bay too. 

Why? Why do I refuse to love you? Why do I close my heart when you walk up? Why to I cross my arms, begging inwardly for you to go away, just as you beg for me to look at you, to love you, to meet you where you are, face to face; to satisfy your pressing needs? Why do you make me so dang uncomfortable? Why do you bring out the worst in me?

Because the truth is I care more about my comfort and my way of life than I do about your survival. I care more about my happiness than your health. I care more about my entertainment than I do about your hunger. I care more about my clothes than I do about your children. I care more about myself than I care about you.

You scare me. And you make me uncomfortable. Your needs are too great, and my love too small. Your existence challenges my lifestyle. If I took you into account, I would have to rethink every decision I make. It's too much. The cost seems too great. The cost? For what? 

My comfort, for your life. 

My pride, to love you as I would love myself. 

My haughty eyes for your full belly. 

My clean hands for your heart to know you're not alone.  

My fear & my discomfort, for your need. 

You challenge me. You remind me that I don't live for myself. That I can't live for myself. You reach deep down to the core of my soul, and you touch something there, something my depraved heart forgets. Something that my selfish soul wants to forget so I can live as I please.

Once upon a time, I was you. Worse, actually. In my pride and self sufficiency, I was blind to who I actually was. A beggar, longing to be filled. Seeking anything and everything from any who passed by. With grasping hands, my hungry heart sought sustenance. I was the one passed by, left in the cold, by those who considered themselves better. Eyes averted from my wretched state, hearts locked away.

One saw me. One stopped. One reached out his hands. He gave me food, water, love, life. He came often, as I sat and begged. He sat with me. One day he asked if I wanted more than this. Of course you know my answer. He said it would mean leaving all I knew. I would have to give up my dreams of being seen, of being wanted, of being loved by those passerby. He would ask me to give up my seeking, but I would be satisfied. I would gain more than I ever dreamed. He could give it. And he would. He had one requirement, one thing to ask: "Follow me."

I have been, these 10 years since. Sometimes I would find myself unsatisfied. Not because it wasn't offered, but because it didn't look like what I desired. So I would go back on the streets, begging again, thinking something had changed. He always knew where to find me, always came back for me, never let me go or gave up on me. He still doesn't, even though some days I still fight the urge. He fights with me. He tells me how much he loves me. How he treasures me. How he sees all I am, even if the world doesn't. How I'm his favorite, his beloved. He holds me tightly, gently, and when I seek from him, beg of him-I am satisfied. His goodness overwhelms me. I don't deserve it. Not the slightest bit. I don't know what he sees. But still he stays. He fulfills all his promises. He forgives my faithlessness. He is faithful.

I was you. But for grace, I would be there right next to you. HOW can I not love you? How can I not be to you as he has been to me? Have I learned nothing from him?

O God, teach me Your ways, that I may bring Your name & Your heart glory. That they would see the love You have through what You've done for me, what You've made of me, what Your love has grown in me. Let me not forget where I was, who I was, when you called my name. Or even who I was yesterday. Your love knows no requirements, no boundaries, no limits, no conditions, no end. Pour it out through me. Let me only embrace as You embrace. Would You please give me eyes to see as You see? Let me give as You gave-that terrifies me, for You gave everything. But who am I to hold back? Who am I that I have any right to choose? Who am I that I deserve Your attention, Your affection? No one, nobody. Your Love is all that gives me worth. Your faithfulness makes me all I am. I have nothing to give, not to You, not to them. I am Yours, I am Yours, I am Yours. Move, love, seek, serve; live through me. I am wholly Yours. 

(For the homeless of my city and the Roma of Europe.)

Isaiah 58. Micah 6:8. Isaiah 61. Isaiah 29.