Thoughts

My dear friend

2011-06-01T02:10:00.000-07:00

What did it feel like?

I imagine you felt powerful because of the way you had a specific and obvious sway over people. And these people changed their behaviors, which in turn changed the occurrence of events. And soon enough – everything was different because of you.

If only it had been different in a good way.

Did you feel satisfied when you saw justice accomplished, correctness established and accuracy enshrined? You held everyone else to the exact standard of preciseness that you voluntarily prescribed for yourself. How wonderful it must have been to witness your personal definitions of “right” and “wrong” being embraced by those around you. You relished their eager looks of earnest yearning for your approval. Am I doing it right? Is this what you meant? And a slight nod of your head provokes tears of relief and floods their pitiful faces with pleasure.

Your idea of leniency was scrubbing the floor behind someone when they missed a dirty spot. Perfection would have demanded that you instruct them to clean it again. Your concept of grace was allowing someone to sit on your couch in your home. After all, they did not deserve an invitation.

So popcorn crumbs on the couch or honey smear in the kitchen cabinets was a clear indication that your goodness had been trampled upon. Your distribution of liberty was obviously not being respected by others. It was time to pull in the reigns. When people forget that everything they have is due to their subordinate position to you, a righteous slap in the face of truth will bring back their harsh reality.

Did you know that it was all fake? That every conversation we exchanged was bridled with fear. I was scared of you, and I had very good reasons to be.

I would never come before your folded towels or bleached linens. My person would never contain as much value as a correctly made bed. And it was crystal clear that my importance as a human being was negated by the fact that my everyday life was messy, complicated, and emotional. There was no relationship – only sustained interaction because of your “Christian” charity.

I reject you. I fight the way you made me feel insignificant, incompetent and undeserving. I rebel against the idea that the entirety of my self-worth is derived from orderly appearances.

My life is messy, and I love it. My God is forgiving, and I cherish him. I delight in the minutes of breath entrusted to me, clinging to the moments of joy I briefly experience as a molecular representation of the galaxy of brilliant eternity that will be the summation of my life.

And I do this, my dear friend, in spite of you.

If I could be a stranger

2010-05-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

I wish I could be those people, the strangers who just walked into your home, welcomed with open arms and genuine smiles. The visitors who feel loved for their existence.

I hate being inside your home, where I am expected to feel approval because of my place in the family. Assumed to know you want me here because I’ve been here before.

Because I am not at all sure. I’d give anything to know it was true.

I don’t want to do anything wrong. That is what I concentrate on when I am around you. Step far enough. Not too much. “She didn’t clean up after herself” and I remember the shoes I left in the hallway. “He never cleaned the kitchen” and I scrub every dish in the sink. Please don’t let me be one of those people you talk about later, I silently wish.

Sometimes when I am desperate and especially vulnerable, I don’t care so much that you do want me here, but it would be so terrible to know for certain that you did not.

Take that away. Bring some of it back. Just tell me what to say and think and feel and I will do it!

And then you do, and I hate myself for responding like an eager puppet, lifeless without your dictation.

I envy your strangers, your guests, your friends. I wish I could be anything... other than your family.

Selfish

2010-05-26T11:54:00.000-07:00

I must be the most selfish human being on planet earth.

I went to a funeral today for a sixteen-year-old girl who died in a sudden car accident. I cried along with everyone else, not because I knew her, but for all the lost potential. Moments she would never live.

And I imagined if it had been my own sixteen-year-old brother, and the instantaneous grief I felt over that thought made my stomach churn and my hands tremble.

I went through each of my brothers and sisters. And my mom and dad. I thought of what I would feel. What would be going through my mind if they were snatched from me, and if I sat in a church mourning their death.

And then I imagined my own funeral. And nothing hurt.

I did not grieve over the years I had left, or feel my soul wrenched by the pain of separation. My stomach stopped cramping and my breathing slowed. My eyes dried and my body felt firm, suddenly composed.

So I have decided that I want to die first, before anyone else. Jesus, it can be today or tomorrow, or years from now. But please let it be before anyone else.

And that is why I am a selfish person. I just don’t want to hurt.

Green Beans

2010-02-05T10:07:00.000-08:00

Green beans. That was what the argument was about.

The options were green peas or green beans. She had already confirmed the reception menu items of meat, bread and dessert. We had reviewed the dress, talked about the flowers, fretted over the length of her veil and the song to be played while she walked down the aisle. The only thing left to decide was the green beans. I was sure they would be preferable to peas, and she passionately disagreed. Our conversation had escalated to loud voices, and it appeared the debate had ended when Dad poked his head in the room and told us to be quiet. But we didn’t – we just inched closer in bed together and whispered. After all, this had to be decided tonight. She was already ten years old, and I was seven. We didn’t have that much time left.

So many boys would probably want to marry us. Giggle.

But we would only pick the perfect ones. Serious.

I would be her maid of honor, and she would be mine. Smile.

None of it happened like we planned. I want to get over it, but I feel like I’m letting down those girls. They only believed the best would happen to them. They were manipulative and loving, mean and loyal. They slept in the same bed when they had their own rooms. They stole each other's clothes and fixed each other's hair. They hated that the other one always had the most romantic boy story to tell, and they secretly thought their sister was the prettiest girl in the world.

It was her wedding day. Late that night, I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall and cried. Thousands of miles away.

I am so sorry, little girls.

Closure

2010-02-04T07:01:00.000-08:00

Do you love me?

Are you sure that you love me?

Do you?

Closure is a beautiful thing.

It makes me feel less guilty, when I finally ask forgiveness. Sometimes it makes me feel happy, because I clarify how I really felt all along. Other times it leaves me with a strange bittersweet twinge of regret, because time has vanished like sand through my fingers, impossible to retain. Although I wish I had done it differently, something inside urges me towards gratefulness, wrenching me away from condemnation. Could it all be for good?

Peter spent years of his life devoted to Jesus, making sacrifices, appearing ignorant, pushing forward. He was rash in his decisions and fervent in his devotion. He promised he would follow Jesus to the end, and I think in the deepest place of his heart, he believed he would.

But when the chains were shackled and the beatings began, Peter buckled under the questions. Of course he was not with this man. He had never been with him. Everything Jesus was experiencing—humiliation by the spiritual leaders, degradation by the mobs. This was not the promising kingdom of light and power that Jesus had spoken of! Maybe he had been wrong the whole time.

Across the courtyard, Jesus looked at Peter. Uncovered, bare and naked before the piercing glance of the Son of God, Peter knew. The depth of his betrayal was sinking in, and ashamed tears of self-hatred and bitterness fell like rain.

Three days later, Peter rushed into the sacred tomb of his fallen leader. Respect for the dead or reverence for the departed—no such thing entered his mind. He found the clothes lying there. Understanding of “I will rise again” started forming in his heart.

(I am going to insert myself here. It is a story, after all.)

Then Peter wondered. Will Jesus have anything to do with me? Will he even recognize my existence? If there was some way that I could get an audience with him, where I can talk and he can just listen… where I tell him over and over how I regret what I did. How I buckled under the pressure and all I need is one more chance to prove my extreme devotion to his cause. How I loathe the essence of my being. How I cringe at the memory of my words.

Early one morning, there Jesus was, on the shore. They were almost about to dock the boat anyway, but Peter jumped over the side, into the water, and started swimming. His desperateness obvious, his eagerness apparent. This was his chance.

And Jesus made them breakfast. Of all the spiritually-enriching, wisdom-imparting activities that could have taken place at this moment in history, one of the last times Jesus would ever walk the earth in human form—he made them breakfast.

Friends, eat with me. I know you are hungry. And so very fragile and weak. But fisherman, you are the foundation of my church that will last through generations, seeping into every fragment of human existence, preaching my life, loving my lost, beaming my light.

Peter sat and his heart bled inside. Should he start now? Was this the right time to begin his apology speech, carefully crafted and tastefully planned?

“Do you love me?”

Jesus asked and Peter affirmed, again and again.

I like to think that the third time, Peter took a step closer to Christ, contesting emotions surging through his being. Anger over the idea that Jesus so thoroughly doubted his devotion, pain since he had given Jesus reason to do so, and desperation that Jesus be convinced of his resolve.

And then it happened. Jesus said that not only would Peter be the rock of his church, but he would be crucified for his beliefs. Somehow, the man who denied Jesus in the courtyard because of possible implications arose as a leader who walked towards the same type of horrendous death Jesus experienced.

Complete reconciliation. Closure that marked the beginning.

You betrayed him, and then nails punctured your flesh because of the depth of your love for him. You feigned that you were unacquainted with him, and then the influence you had on others for him was a relentless torrent that could not be stopped.

Yes, it was all for good.

Regret

2009-12-23T06:20:00.000-08:00

One shot is all you get.

No day can be relived. No moment can be reclaimed.

Regret and remorse are not a possibility, but a certainty. We are only human, after all.

I wonder what kind of regret it is easier to live with.

Regret that I did something, like a stupid choice, or a wrong decision. Regret that I went there and chose to say that, to release words of harshness, crudeness. Once I heard their icy hatred in the air, I knew I could never take them back.

That I formed a judgment against that person, without knowing their situation. That I treated them with the contempt and impatience of someone superior, clearly communicating that my estimation of my own value was far greater than theirs.

That I kept talking when I should have listened to her, because she was keeping it all inside. Or that I leapt when I should have paused, ignoring the voices in my head that told me to be still.

Or could it be that I will regret inaction. The times I didn’t pick up the phone and call. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so lonely if I had.

The questions I never thought to ask. I wonder what stories of my family’s past are lost forever, because they didn’t think I was interested in knowing.

The time I sat there motionless, observing the grief of loss. Even though I did not have the right words, nothing was the worst thing I could have done.

When I did not put anything in the offering plate as it passed. When I did not tip the waitress as much as she deserved. When I did not express my appreciation for what was given me, my respect for those who led me, my adoration beyond belief for those who think I am worth their investment.

One more “I love you” wouldn’t have been that hard to give.

Any kind of regret is difficult. But perhaps at the end of my life, I would prefer to know that I tried and failed, and crashed and burned.

Instead of sitting and waiting.

Dear Myself

2009-10-31T09:48:00.001-07:00

Today I woke up at 9am, and made myself some coffee. Justin wanted sausage biscuits and gravy for breakfast, but we were out of milk. So I slipped on a sundress and flip flops and walked five minutes to Cupecoy Market to buy a half-gallon of whole milk. On the walk back, I searched for a cloud in the sky. I only saw blue. We had breakfast together and then Justin went to campus to study. I cleaned the dishes then packed a bag with a towel and sun block lotion. I walked ten minutes to Mullet Bay Beach, which was almost deserted. The waves were small today, gently lapping the sand and quietly crashing into the rocks. The warm sand and hot sun made me sleepy as I lay there. Just as it was beginning to get unbearably hot, I walked into the ocean. The sun was so bright that the water was literally sparkling. I dove in. I tasted salt water on my lips and felt coarse shells under my feet as I came up from under the cold waves.

Dear myself: if life ever becomes ridiculously hard or exceptionally stressful, remember today. And then smile, because at one time in your life, you had it all.

Better Than This

2009-09-30T17:47:00.000-07:00

“Are you excited today?” the Baptist preacher’s voice asked with exorbitant inflection in his southern drawl. With one fist raised in the air, “heaven awaits us, the only thing in this life that we can look forward to.” Several heads in the congregation nodded, and one old lady on the second pew dabbed tears from her eyes. “If you aren’t excited to see Jesus today,” and the piano started playing choppy chords of the invitation hymn, “then you come down to the altar and give your heart to him.”

I bowed my head and closed my eyes in obedience and conformity to church protocol. But I had a secret. Confused guilt was the pervasive emotion in my mind as I sat with my hands crumpled in my lap, unable to agree with any of the sentiments I had just heard. I’m sure my thoughts were not as easy to express then as they are now, in retrospective reflection, but I was thinking something like this:

If I saw Jesus today, I would be mad as hell.

Because from my understanding of our church’s teachings on Christ and the afterlife, that would mean only one of two things: either I had died, or Jesus had come back to earth to take all the Christians to heaven with Him.

Both were unacceptable options to me.

This unsettling progression of thoughts happened quite frequently in my childhood and adolescence. There was simply no way for me to join the fervent enthusiasm for and pleasurable anticipation of seeing Jesus in the immediate future, since imagining that taking place only made me feel the rush of resentment.

There was so much I still needed to do. I want to get married to a very handsome man, and have children, probably five. I will live in an elegant house with a huge bathtub and a wrap-around porch. I will pack school lunches with string cheese everyday, not just on special days. I will wear lovely expensive dresses, where my husband is just amazed when I walk out of the house because I am so beautiful, and then we will go out to eat—not at Shoney’s, but somewhere even nicer. He will help me read stories to our children at bedtime, and then we will sit on our porch drinking apple cider when it is very late, maybe past midnight…

It was breathtaking—the plans I had in store for myself. I thought it ridiculously unreasonable for God to expect me to be excited to leave.

But something happened.

It’s a little difficult to express—the words get all jammed up in my throat when I try to articulate them. I definitely do not have a desire to leave this life.

But at the same time, if I was to leave, I just wouldn’t mind so much.

Perhaps it’s because I found the love of my life. He was still with me in the morning when I awoke, holding me close.

It could be that I witnessed betrayal. I am now beginning to comprehend the risk of human relationships, and how trusting made her vulnerable.

It could be that so much done here is so very temporary and futile. They wasted tears and blood and sweat, and at the end, had nothing to show for it.

Or maybe it’s because time passes and age advances. I saw her stare, stranded with only memories in a hallway of detached nurses and metal wheelchairs.

Maybe it’s the fact that I saw a fraction of a glimpse of real suffering, and realize how full of shit this world is. Jesus, the 2 year old baby girl, raped by her uncle and now HIV positive. Despair so strong that merciful relief means ultimate escape.

Regardless of the agent of change, I am different now. Sometimes I even want to join the old lady at the front, expectant eyes raised to heaven…

…thank you that I am alive. But it must get so much better than this.

This moment

2009-06-25T07:07:00.000-07:00

This is as good as it gets.

Right now. This moment. The pinnacle of what I will become, what my life will mean for future generations, the imprint I will leave on the world when my flesh has rotted and my name evaporated into the thick, putrid air of humanity.

I’ve been deceived, up to this point. Not necessarily consciously misled, but consistently tricked. Daily existence is not valleys and mountains, rough terrain and flower-filled fields. It is a treadmill.

The illusion of traveling somewhere, with the reality of standing absolutely still.

Waiting to breathe until the stage is set, the audience is assembled, and the curtain rises—this is tragically pathetic. For most, that scenario will never be apparent. For some, it will arrive and then depart without an ounce of the fulfillment and gratification it dangled in front of our eyes, with tempting sparkles and magical pledges.

If the flicker of a candle waited to burn until it thought it would be the brightest…

I refuse to suffocate under the mantle of a materialistic culture with socialistic ideals. I claim responsibility for no life but my own. I don’t exist to improve a less-fortunate soul than me, as hypocritical charity to maintain my self-obsessed security. I don't wake up in the morning to contribute pennies of copper to my bank account, or to pay off a student loan. The glory of Christ is in this disgustingly frail shell of a being, where today I find myself alive.

I live this moment, and only God knows how many seconds I will burn.

The Bible tells me so

2009-04-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

Why are we harshest with our friends and most forgiving with strangers?

When it is someone we hardly know, the excuses come to mind so quickly. Maybe they were having a bad day, going through something rough. Or maybe they didn’t mean those words to sound so critical, or that rebuke to be so stern. I’m sure they don’t realize how they come across to people. We assume they need room to be themselves. We give them permission to breathe.

But when a friend doesn’t call back, a sister makes a wrong choice, a brother stumbles in front of us: suddenly they have committed the greatest sin of all. They know what they are doing. They are fully informed, completely knowledgeable, and yet persisting in their obnoxious behavior. Even if they admit it, we should remind them of it once more. To be sure they don’t think we have forgotten. To provide incentive for them to never mess up again.

And we push away the people that we are supposed to always love. We say love must be tough, over and over in our minds, allowing for our reactions to be reconciled. But tough love is not retribution. It is not estrangement. The reason “tough love” became a buzz word among Christians was to help the beaten wife, the drug-addicted teenagers, the alcoholic husband, who need people around them to whisper that because they are loved so much, they will be helped. Love them through the withdrawals, through the distorted pain, through the therapy.

As if in some delusional world our disapproval will change their behavior, or withdrawal of our support will bring them to their knees. As if their wrongdoing was against us, instead of Jesus.

But we can’t let people get off easy! That would be too much. More than they deserve. It would be unfair, unjust. It would be grace.

Stop shoving me away. Love me through my imperfections and grotesque flaws, forgive my mistakes and doesn’t punish me with your eyes. I confuse your rejection with my standing before Christ, something that hell itself could never take from me. I am loved by Him, this I know. The Bible, the precious words of Christ, tell me so.

The Face

2009-03-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

Did you see the most recent “Chronicles of Narnia” movie? Some call it an allegory for children—stories where magic, witches, talking animals and whispering trees are led by the brilliant imagination of C.S. Lewis on an incredible journey that relates to the Christian faith. Some say the books are better than the movies, but I personally think the films have done a fair job at being faithful to the original work.

There is a scene near the end of the latest movie (“Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian”) where a river foams up, gathers its waves, and you can faintly see a face in the water. Then the water gushes forth, collapsing the bridge where the enemy was crossing, and saving all the wonderful people of Narnia. When watching this scene, I saw the obvious link between the face in the water being God, and him saving his people. It was inspiring, I thought.

Sometime later, my ten year-old brother found out I had seen the movie, and we launched into an animated discussion about each of our favorite parts.

“Remember when the river stopped, and the waves got bigger, and then the water was huge?” Johnathon asked, his eyes sparkling.

I nodded.

“Well, did you know…” he continued, and then paused for effect. “That was really God.”

I know, I answered. He continued, unfazed by my response. “That was God’s face in the water” he repeated, with a sense of astonished reverence.

Suddenly, it hit me.

Had I really known it was God in the water? It didn’t amaze me. It hadn’t made me stop in awe. Somehow Johnathon had become wrapped up in the heart of the story, while I had merely stopped at an inspirational feeling. I had known it was God’s face. Allegory. Symbolism. Got it.

But God?! The Savior of the world, the lover of my soul. The roaring lion, and the bleeding hands on the cross. He was there, in the very midst of the battle, and used the most powerful force on earth to crumble the enemy and save the lost.
To crush my enemy and resurrect my life.

That wasn’t just water—it was the face of God! I’m not just catching a break. It is the grace of Jesus falling around me. I’m not just surrounded by safety. It’s the arms of Christ that refuse to ever let me escape. That email from a friend, was an “I love you” from my Father. The tears from yesterday’s fight were forgiveness from Jehovah. The song on the radio was a hug from God.
I want to see things for what they really are.

And after I see them, after I see Him, I want to be awestruck.

Happy Birthday

2009-02-04T18:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Mom,

I hope you had a wonderful birthday. You were on my mind and in my heart all day. I wish I could have been there to celebrate with you.

At times I've tried to express how grateful I am for your involvement in my life, and usually I just end up crying. The reason I get so emotional is because I feel afraid, and then usually experience this progression of thoughts in my mind: "I am not scared of dying -- there is no fear in that," I think. "But I can't live without my mom," and then I realize how blessed I am to have you in my life, and I feel sorry for every day I took you for granted. Advice and friendship, support and comfort... overwhelming love and prayers. I simply need you. Thank you so much for everything.

I'm sorry this is not a happy "Happy Birthday" note, because that is what I at first intended it to be.

It's morbid to talk about death and dying on a birthday. But you really scared me when you collapsed last month, and we went to the hospital. I thought something bad was going to happen. Just writing about it makes my chest hurt, and my eyes watery.

As I realize how much you gave, how many years you spent, how many hours you devoted to raising your family and loving your husband and kids, I wish with all my heart that you could have a break. Sleeping in, breakfast in bed, chocolate milk and snickers, velour outfits and an Alaskan cruise. A miniature reward preview, of the glorious treasures God has stored for you in His beautiful heaven.

I just want to be like you. In so many ways, and some of them seemingly pointless. I'll never knowingly send an email with a misspelled word. My mom wouldn't like that. I always lick the brownie batter, pack far too much when I'm going on a trip, and buy the salad dressing that "looks the best." I've got a-ways to go, I know. But there's no harm in trying, right?

I love you, Mom. Miss you and can't wait to see you.

Love,
Carlyn

Halfway

2008-09-28T15:05:00.000-07:00

I like knowing who people identify with the most, when they read a story. Is it the main character, the brave hero, the witty side-kick, the loser parent? Who do they think they are most similar to?

So there’s this story, with a rich father and two sons. The younger son demands an early disbursement of his inheritance, and after receiving it, he promptly throws it away on gambling, women, and the pleasurable life. The boy becomes a pauper, and while feeding some pigs, the light comes on. He decides to return home to his father and beg to be a family servant. Of course the father refuses to make his son a servant, but welcomes him with open arms and throws a huge celebration to welcome him home. The older son is obviously distraught over the unfairness of the situation, and complains that his hard work is never rewarded. The father tries to appease the older son, but basically, that is the end of the story.

I’ve heard plenty of sermons where we are the lost son, coming home. It’s sweet and touching, to know that we have a Heavenly Father who will throw a robe on our shoulders and a ring on our hand, and kill a cow to feed the friends.

And there are preachers who think the congregation in full of older brothers, and preach about hypocrisy and harshness. We need to let God work, they say. We can’t think of our lives as less godly or less deserving, just because God chooses to forgive someone less worthy than us.

But I just wonder if we might be missing the whole point.

Could it be that we are meant to identify ourselves with the Father? The rich one, the successful patriarch, the stable character full of wise words of wisdom. Let me explain.

The father saw the son from afar, while he was just entering the city limits, but hadn’t even made it to the driveway yet. He recognized him as his own. The resentment and anger that he had every right to harbor against his son was non-existent. Not diffused, not set aside, not pushed into a corner for discussion on another day. There simply was none.

The sight of his boy lit up his face, his mouth dropped open. Tears flooded his eyes and he started running.

No preparations of what to say, or how to behave, or how to handle the potentially awkward family tension. Before the son even arrived, before he even had a chance to experience the degradation and humbling sensation of returning with shame, the boy was met. In essence, he saw his son coming, and met him halfway.

Open arms of grace. Shouts of excitement and thrilling reunion. You are back, and I can’t believe it. I’ve missed you. I thought I lost you. Give me a hug, he says, and don’t leave again.

Stay forever this time.

I wish I knew how to do that.

To see someone who has hurt me, abandoned me, someone who has knowingly inflicted pain in my life. And to experience a sensation of love so deep that I am swept away by its resounding current. I can’t help myself. I see them coming towards me, thinking about reconciliation, wondering about forgiveness.

And I meet them halfway.

What kind of mind-blowing grace is that? You belong here, and I never wanted you to leave. Welcome back.

Jesus loves the little children

2008-09-08T15:58:00.001-07:00

(Another article I wrote when I was 14, that I found buried on my computer.)

Jesus loves the little children,

All the children of the world.

Red and yellow, black and white

They are precious in His sight,

Jesus loves the little children of the world.

How can Jesus love all the children of the world? When in their development do they become precious in His sight? How do we know He loves them?

Look at His life. A child's background or birthplace never prevented Jesus’ powerful love as He ministered to those in need. Children from Judea were brought to Jesus in Matthew 19:13, and His disciples thought He was too busy to care for them. But His heart was far too big to send them away. Later, in the city of Galilee, a man pleaded with Jesus to bring his twelve year-old daughter back to life (Matthew 9:25). The man was a well-known ruler and well accustomed to power. But yet he came to Jesus, knowing He was the only one who had both the ability and the love to heal a little girl. Jesus' touch revived her heart. Once a Greek Syro-Phoenician woman came and pleaded for her daughter's soul that was controlled by a demon (Mark 7:25). This woman was an outcast, deprived any honor or prestige from birth. And yet Jesus saved her daughter. You see, in Jesus' eyes there is no rank or degree, position, power, or race that will claim His love. He sees past all that into the heart. And that is exactly where He starts His miracles.

We know children were precious to Jesus from the minute of conception by researching Exodus 21: 22-24. In these laws, which follow directly after the Ten Commandments, God gave instruction concerning wounds received during a fight. If a woman with child was hurt during a disagreement between two men, the man who hurt her was physically liable for any damage incurred to her unborn child. Verse 23 reads, "But if any harm follows, then you shall give life for life". If you killed an unborn child, though accidental, you owed your life. God values every life He creates - even if it's only minutes old.

We know Jesus loved children, because of the way He treated them. One of my favorite chapters in the Bible is Mark 9, where we learn the story of Jesus solving a dispute with His disciples by using a little child as an example of humility. I especially love the way Jesus took the child "in His arms," as He taught His followers. Can you imagine being that little child? The one who got to sit in Jesus' lap, to be close enough to hear His heartbeat! To feel those strong arms of love wrapped around your small, fragile body. How secure that must have felt.

If children are precious to Jesus, and we are His followers, how can we claim to be neutral on the issue of abortion? Yes, we can recognize that each situation is different and unique, but also exactly the same. There is a child who deserves life, and a mother who is hurt. Everyone who has an abortion is in someway scarred by the wounds of that decision. Some make the choice out of ignorance - they just don't know better. Perhaps they don't have a caring family, or a trusted friend with open arms. Maybe all that stares them in the face is their failure, and a way to hide it.

Other mothers are aware of what they are doing - they know. They feel their baby kick inside them, wanting to live and move and breathe. But their minds overcome their hearts, and they choose death.

Then there are the few who become pregnant through a nightmare situation, such as rape. But why kill the baby? Has that child committed a crime? Punish the criminal, not the victims. And why are we so certain that God is incapable of resurrecting a tragedy by creating a masterpiece? We should stop placing human limits on an un-human God.

Yet even if we preach the message, some mothers will make abortion their choice. We will wish we could have been a stronger advocate for those beautiful eyes that will never see the light of day, the little hands that never get held, and the tiny heart that stops beating forever.

And we will grieve. Because some things just hurt.

Yet I find comfort - that somewhere, far beyond my own world, a little child comes running to Jesus. He turns when He hears the child's cry. Jesus wipes a tear from His own eye as He thinks of the familiar pain of rejection.

Then He opens up His arms, and gathers the child so close he can hear Jesus' heartbeat.

And that child knows beyond a shadow of a doubt - Jesus loves the little children.

What could have been

2008-09-08T15:40:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this poem when I was eleven, and just found it.)

Today my heart was heavy
And I wiped away a tear
As I thought of all the little smiles
That never would appear
I thought of all the little lives
That were pushed aside
So one might have a plan to follow,
A place where they could hide
And even though the children
Were never really there
I cry because of all the love
Those children can never share
But the choice is made
And that is the end
But deep down my heart aches
For what could have been

A few feet away

2008-09-08T15:38:00.000-07:00

I stood just a few feet away, watching her cry. I held my hands behind my back, nervous and feeling incredibly awkward. What do you say to someone who is about to lose everything? How do you comfort someone who has already seen the poignant face of death, and is now being called to rise in its honor once again? Life is so absurdly short, I thought. Barely a vapor in the wind.

I picked up on some of the conversation in front of me, and it sounded like preaching. Not now, I thought with frustration. Now is not the time to discuss ways to cope with grief, or the surest method to understanding tragedy that God allows. My palms began to sweat with anger. Back off, I mumbled under my breath. Maybe there is not a reason. Maybe we cannot grasp it in our finite minds here on earth. Maybe sometimes life just hurts.

And now is a time to cry. For every day that was lost, for every laugh that was never shared, for each moment wasted. For the plans, dreams and futures that are dissolved in front of our eyes. For the mistakes that cause pain and the conflict that creates walls. For the sadness that wells up deep inside when we think about how much we will miss them. Clinging to a hope of a “someday” reunion in the white clouds seems a lifetime away when you are standing together under the rain, holding their hand and pleading with them not to leave.

I stuttered my words of comfort, feebly gave an embrace and then walked away. My efforts of consolation felt so incredibly inadequate. I walked outside into a warm, muggy day. The overcast sky was cooperating with the sense of depression that settled over my soul. Another one was leaving. Another casket would be chosen. Another memorial service planned. Another few months spent counting down the days left until sickness claimed his life. Why, God?

And these were the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. They were strong Christians, leaders in the church, huge investors in the kingdom of God. Serious about their faith, fervent in their desire for God. One failure after another had sent them to their knees. But they had catapulted over the hurdles, holding onto Jesus. Believing in a plan much larger than themselves.

Now the test results had returned: lung cancer, third stage, six months left. He denied it, she crumbled under the weight of it. Their hearts were still relentlessly clinging to Christ, but that didn’t deter me from shaking my fist at God in anger and pathetic weakness.

I could pray. That was my job, my assignment, and the only thing that I could do to help. As if that would even help, my heart whispered. What a responsibility. I could hear the patronizing tone, “Look, little girl, we want you to go sit in the corner and watch while we take this person’s life, make it a living hell, and then rip it away. Now go pray.”

Pray what, Lord? That you would heal him? Touch his physical body and remove the cancer? Or that you would simply be with him as he slips away? That you would comfort, console, and bring and overwhelming sense of your peace into his and her lives.

But that doesn’t make the hurt go away, Jesus. That doesn’t make me feel any more helpless. And if this is how you treat the best of your children, those who love you with their whole heart, mind, soul and strength, what lies ahead for my life? Hardship, heartache, loneliness? Do I even have the strength to trust you for the future?

Interfere

2008-09-04T18:41:00.000-07:00

He must be so happy right now.

Mark it down! Another one broken to pieces. Just one more soul separated from the purpose laid out for it from before the beginning of time. A glimpse of eternity avoided for the shabby shadows of gratification.

Good work. You plunge into the heart of it all, aiming straight for the source of energy and light and meaning. Ripping it out without a trace of remorse or the slightest sign of regret, your design is complete.

Will you not intervene? Save once more. Spare one more.

God, this can’t be happening.

Interfere. Surely this isn’t the way it ends, because if it is, I want out. Book my flight. I want the destination where families don’t come apart and fathers don’t walk out the front door without looking back.

I want the place in the picture-book. Hands gripped tightly, pots of gold always at every end, plenty of wishes and rainbows for everyone. A marriage that doesn’t resemble a shredded paper document. Vows stronger than plastic credit cards.

He is so happy right now. He must be.

Close to home

2008-06-16T11:29:00.000-07:00

I know this feeling. When the fist of some faceless, menacing being takes my heart and begins to squeeze in a vice-like grip. Pressure escalates inside me, and my stomach begins to churn. If I had a megaphone I’d scream into it. If I had a healing potion I would swallow it. But I have nothing.

Jesus, can you take this, too?

They are so close. If this was some ordinary situation, like a tear-wrenching article written about a needy family, or a thought-provoking special about a handicapped child, I could handle it. I would know just what to do. Say a prayer, send some money...maybe even mention it to others, so they could be concerned about it, as well. This is my method of control, my resources for managing worry.

But none of this applies when it hits so close to home. When your heart bleeds when they skin their knee, or your hands sweat nervously when they run out on the basketball court. The emotional connection complicates everything.

God, I’m worried. I’m anxious, and my heart hurts. This is completely out of my control.

Father of mercy, protect them. God of love, don’t let them go.

Completely Blessed

2008-05-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

Beads of perspiration dripped down my neck and face, as I persevered toward the two-hour mark. I could tell I had entered an upper-class residential area, because the road became quieter, and smoother. The noisy passing cars which had seemed to smother me with exhaust fumes became more sporadic, and then seemed to disappear entirely. Stone walls lined both sides of the road, with giant gates appearing every so often. Villas or vacation rentals, I thought. Everything seemed so deserted, so void of movement or activity. And then I saw it sliding open.

It was a tall, polished wooden gate, and it slowly disappeared into the wall. Behind it stood a majestic, massive estate. Enormous bay windows, three stories high, with a spacious porch overlooking a deck pool and a perfectly manicured lawn. Stone pathways led to iron benches and wooden swings, while cascading tropical flowers covering everything. It was paradise, brilliant and breathtaking.

After three seconds of gawking, I glimpsed her back as she turned to close the front door behind her. The owner maybe? Or the wife or daughter of the owner, perhaps. I continued my exercise routine, picking up my pace. Those brief moments of staring had been enough to emblazon the images in my mind.

It started building slowly at first, and I didn’t even recognize it. As it strengthened, I felt my heart rate accelerate rapidly. Despite my sweat-drenched face, I felt my cheeks begin to burn. Resentment had reared its ugly head.

I searched for reasons why living in the lap of luxury could possibly be frustrating.

Nothing.

I began to think of why some people deserve to live like royalty, while others have nothing. Like me.

Again, I came up empty-handed.

The gap between their life and mine seemed to stretch for miles. Perhaps even worlds apart. And it was not fair. Not right. I work hard, I heard myself whining. But my entire life savings would be pennies in the pockets of millionaires like these, I thought with despair.

Ouch. It pinched hard and fast. I brushed it away as I would an irritating mosquito. It appeared again, this time scratching my arm and leaving a red mark. I refused to give it the satisfaction of my attention. Relentless, it jabbed through my flesh and pierced my soul, drawing the blood of remorse and tears of shame.

God, I cried out, forgive me.

I woke up this morning, and unlike others, I had a bed, with a mattress and sheets to climb out of. I had running water to wash my hands, and soap to clean myself with. Unlike millions of people in the world today, I had a refrigerator stocked with food. Milk and eggs, cheese and butter. Such lavishness that many people will only imagine. And then I had freedom—to go, to stay, to read and write and learn. I chose what to do today, just as I will choose tomorrow, and the next day.

And the next.

This is what some people search for their entire lives. What I am privileged to enjoy. What I dare to take for granted.

Such extravagant wealth. Such enormous riches. God, first make me see them. Make them stare me in the face, as I crumble to my knees with the overwhelming sensation of gratefulness.

And then make me give them away. Compel me to share them with others. Let a mindless passion for generosity overtake me, as I see my life for what it is. Completely blessed by you.

Beatitudes. (why do they even call them that?)

2008-05-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. –Matthew 5:9

The beatitudes are some of the most poetic teachings of Jesus. Beautiful, melodious, impossible to obey.

Become poor and meek, mourn, hunger and thirst, be merciful and pure, allow persecution, be a peacemaker.

In essence, Jesus describes himself, and then says, “its your turn.” Be like me.

Jesus, could you possibly be mistaken? I’m supposed to become rich because I love you so much. New cars and houses, and all that stuff. Since you are going to bless me, I’ll be laughing and singing, not mourning! Oh, and the hungry and thirsty part—I hope you know that I would really prefer a full pantry, a stocked refrigerator, and a little extra for going out. Mercy sounds painful and purity sounds boring. I’m definitely not signing up for the persecution part, and what the heck does the peacemaker thing mean?

A peace maker. To form or create peace? Sounds right. Within relationships: between families, between friends, between enemies. It could also mean to induce harmony and unity. Within the world: to promote amnesty, to solve problems without retreating to violence and vengeance.

But ultimately, peacemaking is about reconciliation.

And the heart of the message is once again, the cross.

Like when Jesus bent down to the prostitute woman, and claimed her multitude of sexual sins as his own. When he found the treacherous politician and asked to share a meal with him, or when he looked the cold-blooded criminal in the eyes and said, “you don’t deserve forgiveness, but it is yours.”

But how can I attempt the work of the Master? Ah, my most effective and often-used excuses are those full of self-degrading humility and false pretenses of lowliness. After all, I am nothing but molded clay. Dirt of the earth, scum of the sea.

Jesus prods gently. “Indwelled clay,” he corrects. Alive dirt, a pathetic human possessed by a force much more powerful and holy than I can comprehend. A molded being patterned after the very form of God himself. My status should not be of pride, but of profound awe.

You want me push people towards your Word, to nudge them in the direction of your salvation. You want me to take on the character of Christ, and become a reconciling witness. Leaving the ultimate choice out of my hands, but prayed over in my heart.

God, let your way be clearly shown and obviously apparent in me. I surrender. Make me a peacemaker.

Pray what?

2008-05-09T05:56:00.000-07:00

I stood just a few feet away, watching her cry. I held my hands behind my back, nervous and feeling incredibly awkward. What do you say to someone who is about to lose everything? How do you comfort someone who has already seen the poignant face of death, and is now being called to rise in its honor once again? Life is so absurdly short, I thought. Barely a vapor in the wind.

I picked up on some of the conversation in front of me, and it sounded like preaching. Not now, I thought with frustration. Now is not the time to discuss ways to cope with grief, or the surest method to understanding tragedy that God allows. My palms began to sweat with anger. Back off, I mumbled under my breath. Maybe there is not a reason. Maybe we cannot grasp it in our finite minds here on earth. Maybe sometimes life just hurts.

And now is a time to cry. For every day that was lost, for every laugh that was never shared, for each moment wasted. For the plans, dreams and futures that are dissolved in front of our eyes. For the mistakes that cause pain and the conflict that creates walls. For the sadness that wells up deep inside when we think about how much we will miss them. Clinging to a hope of a “someday” reunion in the white clouds seems a lifetime away when you are standing together under the rain, holding their hand and pleading with them not to leave.

I stuttered my words of comfort, feebly gave an embrace and then walked away. My efforts of consolation felt so incredibly inadequate. I walked outside into a warm, muggy day. The overcast sky was cooperating with the sense of depression that settled over my soul. Another one was leaving. Another casket would be chosen. Another memorial service planned. Another few months spent counting down the days left until sickness claimed his life. Why, God?

And these were the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. They were strong Christians, leaders in the church, huge investors in the kingdom of God. Serious about their faith, fervent in their desire for God. One failure after another had sent them to their knees. But they had catapulted over the hurdles, holding onto Jesus. Believing in a plan much larger than themselves.

Now the test results had returned: lung cancer, third stage, six months left. He denied it, she crumbled under the weight of it. Their hearts were still relentlessly clinging to Christ, but that didn’t deter me from shaking my fist at God in anger and pathetic weakness.

I could pray. That was my job, my assignment, and the only thing that I could do to help. As if that would even help, my heart whispered. What a responsibility. I could almost hear someone saying in a patronizing voice, “Look, little girl, we want you to go sit in the corner and watch while we take this person’s life, make it a living hell, and then rip it away. Now go pray.”

Pray what, Lord? That you would heal him? Touch his physical body and remove the cancer? Or that you would simply be with him as he slips away? That you would comfort, console, and bring and overwhelming sense of your peace into his and her lives.

But that doesn’t make the hurt go away, Jesus. That doesn’t make me feel any more helpless. And if this is how you treat the best of your children, those who love you with their whole heart, mind, soul and strength, what lies ahead for my life? Hardship, heartache, loneliness? Do I even have the strength to trust you for the future?

Helen

2008-05-09T05:29:00.000-07:00

There was a floor of black earth, and thick walls of dried mud. The intense African sun pierced through the doorway, as our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. She sat across from us, on a faded, thoroughly worn-out couch that sagged until it was only a couple inches off the ground. Ancient yellow foam poked out from the threadbare fabric covering. The putrid stench of human sweat and excretion was suddenly overwhelmed by the light breeze that entered through the doorway. I inhaled with a prayer of gratefulness. Maybe this wouldn’t take too long.

We counted them. Little brown pills, round white ones, long red capsules. Yes, they were all there.

She took them with a brief nod, grimly smiling her approval.

“Helen weaves baskets,” we were told, and we politely bought two. Forty shillings each.

She was going to kill us a chicken, and I shuddered at the thought. The loud, gawking animals sputtered in and out of the house, some lean and others just starved. They ate from the piles of rotting garbage strewn about the landscape. Do not kill one of them for us, I thought to myself. There would never be a time when I could be hungry enough to eat such a rancid piece of meat cooked in such conditions.

So she gave us some melons. Fruit from her garden, I guess. I didn’t really ask.

Outside again, I welcomed the extreme heat that seemed to dehydrate my body in seconds. Although it was steaming, at least it was fresh air. She walked with us, and I noticed the bony elbows and ankles that protruded from her homemade dress. Her frame was frail, nearly decimated. But she had her pills, thanks to us, and they would help make her strong again.

She told us they would make her strong again.

“Goodbye,” we said, and I held my breath as I hugged her lightly. Momentarily feeling her body against mine made me tremble inside. There just wasn’t much of her.

She waved and called out after us until we were nearly out of sight. Next time you come, I will kill you a chicken, I think is what she said.

Drenching my hands with sanitizer, I wondered just one thing. Why me.

Helen had AIDS. She would not get strong again. She would not even live very much longer. The pills would help her system fight the symptoms of the disease for a short time, but they would not heal her.

She had contracted it from her husband. When he learned of her positive-HIV status, he abandoned her. But he had several wives, each with their own house. So he allowed Helen to stay on the land he had provided, but he refused to support her or the children he had with her.

And so Helen and her children did what they had to in order to survive. Helen wove baskets with dyed ropes made from straw. And she raised chickens, and sold the eggs to other families in their rural community.

The chickens. Her source of livelihood—that is what she was going to kill for us to eat.

I was amazed that someone with so little could have so much to give. But that was just it—she considered herself blessed beyond measure, and loved beyond belief. She was alive, and she was going to thank Jesus for every day that she breathed.

And so I asked myself, why me. Why am I the one with issues of self-pity and pathetic neediness? Why am I absorbed in my massive list of wants and desires? Why do I never have enough money left over to give to the church, or to a stranger in need? Why do I entertain myself with toys and things, ignoring the spiritual thirstiness of my soul?

Helen is most likely gone now. I don’t pretend to understand the social injustice and poverty she suffered. But Mercy was awaiting her just above the clouds.

Without reservation, refusing to hesitate, ignoring self and submitting to Christ. God, help me give it all.