The Hand and the Heart

I just took a Spiritual gifts test. It was useless from the standpoint that I am no clearer on what God wants me to do than before. My heart, however, was rubbed raw and exposed.

For the test, I had to rank myself on a scale of 1-5 for each statement:

[paraphrased]

"I have a strong desire to help others in time of struggle." YEAH!! 5!! I can't think of anything more beautiful than being the tool God uses to comfort and heal.

"I carve time out of my schedule to be involved with people." Umm...maybe 3. (No, Aubrey, be honest.) 2.

--

"I love the Church and long to see her growing and fulfilling the Great Commission." 5 again-gotta love the bride of Christ, right? My brothers and sisters!

"When I see a need in the Church, I step in and fill it." [Scrolling through a mental list of needs...financially challenged family with lots of kids and no nights out, prayer request sheets, conversations with the "awkward" people, conversations with the "perfect" people...]. Another 2.

--

"I believe that I don't have to worry because God is in control of every situation." 5 of course; I couldn't agree more. Isn't that part of Him being God?

"I proclaim the Gospel every time I feel God is calling me to witness." *cough cough* 2.

--

My head is almost perfectly Spiritual. I love the broken, know the power of the Church, believe in God's sovereignty. So why, in reality, do I chose my agenda over touching souls? My desires over serving the Church? My image over communicating the saving Gospel of Jesus Christ?

There is a disconnect between my head and my hand, a disparity between what I say I believe and what I live like I believe. The dividing chasm is my heart.

My hand is what I do. My mind is my intellect, how I reason and what I think. My heart is my desires, the place where my intellect and actions are joined. Proverbs 4:23 says the heart is the wellspring of life. The choices that constitute life flow from this furnace of longing, passion, hope, love. Longing, passion, hope, and love fixated either on God or on an idol. My heart is the core of my being.

And the strangest thing is, I have no power over it.

I can't control my desires, just like I can't force myself into liking the way salmon tastes. I can force my mouth to chew and my digestive system to operate, use brute and brawn to align my head and hand (it's healthy, it's brain food, lift that fork, release those digestive juices!). But as soon as I loosen the chain, head and hand are propelled as far apart from each other as possible, born away on the relentless current of my heart's desires. Desires stronger than I am. Desires that are fixated on self: self image, self satisfaction, self worth. Self tyrannizing self.

The only way for my heart to be changed is for a Higher Power to reshape it. That's why when Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 5:17 that we are new creations in Christ, he goes on to clarify that "all this is from God, who reconciled us to Himself". We are new not because we processed ourselves in the Spiritual recycle plant or even threw ourselves into the Spiritual recycle bin. We are new because He gave His Son and Spirit to make us new.

I'm praying that God will fill my heart with His desires so that head-knowledge and hand-action flow naturally together. So that even in the subconscious moments where my will has been worn away by exhaustion or emotion, my words and deeds are still steeped in His truth.

A New Light

After reading my last blog post, a friend messaged me on Facebook.

"I was wondering: I've been doing a lot of thinking recently about Old Testament Messianic prophecies. In the section of Isaiah 42 you quote, God is speaking to the Servant, whom we now know to be Christ. How does that fit in with applying the passage to us and saying that we should open blind eyes, bring out prisoners, etc.? Is it because Christ perfectly did all of those things, and we are called to be like Him?

It doesn't seem to me that the passage can be applied directly to us because of the part that says, "I will give you as a covenant for the people." I don't believe that can apply to us at all. However, I do believe that the passage as a whole puts forth a lifestyle that we should strive for. Currently, with the limited thought I've put into the matter, it seems like the link between the passage and us is Christ--He fulfilled this passage, and we strive to follow in His example as well as fallen humans can.

What are your thoughts?"

This is what I said back:

Thank you so much for your though provoking question. I've been reading through Isaiah and finding a lot of encouraging passages, but not paying as much attention to the context as I should. I didn't realize this until I read your message. I re-read through Isaiah 42 (as well as John MacArthur's commentary on it) and the passage is talking about the Messiah. Before, I had thoughtlessly assumed it was speaking of the nation of Israel, since most of the book of Isaiah is. I believe the promises to Israel apply to Christians because we are grafted into the promise through Christ (Romans 9 & 11) and are now God's nation (1 Peter 2:9-10). Isaiah 42 isn't talking about Israel, though, it's talking about Jesus. I misapplied Scripture in my post without realizing it.

I do believe that being saved means confessing Christ as Lord (Romans 10:9-10), and it also means that we are called to imitate Him. God has called us to conform us to the image of His Son (Romans 8:29). So our purpose still applies, but not directly through the Scripture passage I used.

I'm going to go correct that on my blog. I am so thankful for you pointing out my misinterpretation. Scripture is the Word of God, and the last thing I want to do is distort it in any way!! You've also challenged me to start reading the Old Testament with more thought, care, and research.

     In a way, I'm thankful I misused the Isaiah 42 passage. That sounds terrible, doesn't it? But I am thankful, because I hate making mistakes. I hate being wrong. It's humbling for me to be confronted on an error, and I desperately need humility. Day in and day out, I find pride keeping me from serving God as I should because I'm more focused on my image, my agenda. Even the smallest chance to learn humility is such a blessing. I'm thankful for a friend (who I honestly don't know well at all) who is brave enough and loves Scripture enough to point me towards truth. I'm thankful for the example to me, because that's the sort of friend I want to be. I'm thankful for the challenge to study Scripture more carefully. 

     Oh, and above all, I'm thankful that Isaiah 42 is talking about the Messiah. Because the Messiah is Jesus Christ, my Savior, my Lord. I'm one of the prisoners He rescued from the dungeon. I'm the darkness His pure light shone to. As I study through Isaiah more carefully, there are treasure troves of verse I never noticed before, pointing towards Him. My purpose still stands: to shine, to speak the Good News. But the light I shine needs to be all His because His light is the brightest, and the words I speak need to be all His because only His name brings salvation.

To Be

Lately I've been meditating on Isaiah 42:6-7:

"I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness;

I will take you by the hand and keep you;

I will give you as a covenant for the people,

A light for the nations,

To open the eyes that are blind,

To bring out the prisoners from the dungeon,

From the prison those who sit in darkness,

I am the Lord, that is my name;

My glory I give to no other,

nor my praise to carved idols."

     I love this passage for a lot of reasons. For one thing, the poetry: "I will take you by the hand"..."a light for the nations"...."prisoners from the dungeon"...Reading passages like this humbles me, because my God is a writer, a writer who hears the flow of words, who threads them beautifully. A better writer than I will ever be. But really, language is just a shell for the vitalizing truth of these verses. Here God lays out our purpose: we are called to shine, bright white against our soiled world. Radiant. Pure. We are called to descend in the dungeon, to take the hand of those who are mired in the dark stench of sin and lead them into His light. But this purpose is bundled between two blindingly powerful proclamations-"I am the Lord!" "I am the Lord, that is my name!"

We shine, rescue, proclaim, and love because God is Master of the Universe. It would be shameful to subjugate our lives and wills to anything less. But since our God is the very source of existence, existence naturally flows back to Him. The world exists for His glory. Each person exists for His glory. The love God shows us pre-existed within Him; He only chose to manifest it through Christ because of the depths of His grace (Ephesians 2:7). I have a grand purpose, and every trace of it is bound up in His Lordship.

Full

      I've been to a lot of places since I last wrote, places like stress and exhaustion, and stillness and warmth. And in a more literal sense, I went to Oral Roberts University for the NCFCA national championship. I arrived at nationals feeling wind-swept and desolate. A sense of finality hung around the car door slamming and the hotel doors opening and the elevator trip up to our room. I arrived empty, but I left full.

Mollie<3

Hannah's hotel ballet

    What I love about my speech and debate friends is the warmth, the acceptance. If I say something that comes out wrong, there's no uncomfortable stares or awkward silence-it's painted over with a laugh and becomes an inside joke. Everybody hugs everybody. There's no pressure to conform-poets and baseball players and classical musicians and rappers and computer geeks genuinely appreciate each other's different interests and abilities. 

     Conversations are interesting, about personality types or the truth about Abraham Lincoln or the effects of music on behavior. It's really refreshing after being daily deluged with dozens of canned exchanges about weather, sports, celebrities. And conversations are deep, probing the flaws in humanism and the truth of creationism and personal struggles. Questions like "What has God been teaching you?" and "Why do you not watch TV?" are refreshing after the halfhearted "How are you?", asked by someone who doesn't really seem to care how you're doing. NCFCA people care.

     Of course, there's plenty of hilarity, too. Like Larry the Cucumber becoming a vigilante in Switzerland, and Ben's unforgettable Christian pickup lines. Oh, and this:

         Nationals brought competition up a level, but it also brought the relationships up. Maybe it was the "common enemy" factor-Region IV was finally competing against other regions instead of itself. But more than that, we got to spend time together outside of our suits. Monday night after checking into the hotel, we went out to dinner at this burger restaurant called Mooyah's (according to Ethan, that's the sound the cows make when they die, 'cause that's not demented at all). A group of us decided to walk back to the hotel, but ended up playing in a ditch instead. It was a ditch running in front of a private school called Victory, so there was a regal stone bridge with shimmering golden letters crying "VICTORY" arched over this pathetic trickle of mud. We laughed for a long time about that one. Anyways, after the clumsier half of us got our pants soaked, we decided it would be better to swim in a real pool. We ran to Wal-Mart to buy swimsuits, reflecting our excellent, well-cultured sense of homeschool fashion. Really, it was just because Wal-Mart was on the other side of the ditch.

   The next day, intense outdoor games of ultimate Frisbee and capture the flag turned us white kids into giant tomatoes. Swimming and theological discussions were our respite. During the tournament, there was much coffee consumed and much cafeteria pizza eaten, because almost everything else in the cafeteria was quite cardboard-esque. The tension of competition offered lots of opportunities to trust God, and lots of chances to encourage and be encouraged. At the end, some sported radiant trophies and other a flimsy certificate or two. I learned from both kinds. At the after-party, trophies and the lack thereof were drowned out by the stomping and the clapping of the Virginia reel. A handful of us stayed until past four in the morning, discussing suicide, Biblical counseling, and the balance of grace and truth. And making goat noises. And building introvert caves under tables. And watching Doctor Who, or rather, watching Greg and Grace watch and recite each word of a Doctor Who season premier.

    Some of my best memories have been forged at Oral Roberts University, but they are carried in the hearts of dozens of dear people I wish I could see more often. It's times like these that I am indelibly thankful for texting and for social networking. I know I won't be able to keep up every friendship, but I hope that someday we'll bump into each other on a university campus or city sidewalk, and then it will all be the same. I'll never forget you.

My Region IV family<3


"I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always offering prayer with joy in my every prayer for you all, in view or you participation in the Gospel from the first day until now. For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus. FOr it is only right for me to feel this way about you all, because I have you in my heart...since you are all partakers of grace with me. For God is my witness, how I long for you all with the affection of Christ Jesus. And this I pray, that your love may abound still more and more in real knowledge and discernment, so that you may approve the things that are excellent in order to be sincere and blameless until the day of Christ; having been filled with the fruit of righteousness which comes through Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God."~Philippians 1:3-11~

The Art of Holding On

            Except for a smoldering orange patch crowning the hill which had hidden the sun, the whole sky was a grey twilight-blue. And I was in the middle of it, standing on the peak of a sloped gravel road. My shoes were in my hand; I felt the roughness of each sharp pebble beneath my feet. The ground all around me sloped downwards and sideways until the it vanished altogether, popping up again as trees and hills in the distance. My private gravel road was an island in that sea of trees and hills. The wind pushed my hair back from my face. Lifting my hands, I could feel it rush through my fingers. It laced in between each one of them, blowing through like silk ribbons. No matter how tightly I clenched my fists, I couldn’t catch hold of the wind-ribbons.

They made me think of Dicey’s Song, a beautiful book Mrs. Brock gave me to read a week or two ago. I have a nasty habit of reading quickly, devouring the plotline and the characters in one late, lamp-lit night. Dicey’s Song is the sort of book I’ll have to go back to, stretching it through afternoons and rainy days. Dicey felt the wind-ribbons, too.

“She thought to herself, she had to let go of what had gone before too, didn’t she? The people of last summer. And who she had been. Dicey felt as if she was standing in the wind and holding up her hands. She felt as if colored ribbons blew out of her hands and danced away on the wind. She felt as if, even if she wanted to, she couldn’t close her fingers around those ribbons. Dicey knew that she was sitting very still on a train, moving across the night. She knew her hands were wrapped around the wooden box that held the ashes of her momma. But she felt as if a wind blew through her hands and took even Momma away. What did that leave her with? The wind and her empty hands. The wind and Dicey.”

            Lisa and I were stretched out on my bedroom floor, reading through the names on the back of my Regionals t-shirt from 2010. Some people I thought I would hold onto for a while have slipped through my fingers. Other names, names that were only strings of letters to me then, have blown back around in the wind and become woven into my life without me hardly realizing it. I feel helpless.

            Lately my life has been tossed by the wind, fragmented. I leap between the world of speech and debate and my regular, San Antonio world. Sometimes the leap leaves me with a bit of jet-lag, and I don’t know how to connect to people in one group when I first leave the other. Ribbons are slipping through my fingers, out of my reach.

Words make more sense on paper. Writing doesn’t puff away as easily as thoughts. I wish I could write everyone I know a letter, telling them exactly what they mean to me. (Because even the people I talk to only once or twice have a place in my heart, especially if they are one of the many who took the time to draw me out when I felt most alone. That’s a lot more often than anybody would realize.) But the wind keeps blowing, and time and friends and words and emotions are snatched away and jumbled and sometimes blown back. Other times they are tossed from my island forever. I’m left with two ribbons that manage to stay wrapped securely around my heart.

            Dear friend, please don’t let me go. Even if I seem absent when I talk to you, even if I joke or forget to text or act like I don’t care. Even if I’ve just met you, or if we don’t know each other well yet. Please try to hold onto me. I need you, I want to know you, all of you.

            And even if the wind blew away everything I thought to cling to, this would stay constant: 

“As high as the heavens are over the earth, so great is His steadfast love toward those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does He remove our transgressions from us. As a father shows compassion to His children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear Him. For he knows our frame, He remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting.” (Psalm 103:10-17)

Sometimes I wonder what Dicey wondered-

“You tell me to let go. But you told me to reach out, you told me to hold on. How can I do all those things together?”

            I can’t hold onto all the ribbons on my own. But if I cling to Him, everything will eventually be woven together with His love, for His glory. My God is faithful, from everlasting to everlasting.

{beginning to breathe again}

I can't honestly claim to have any connected trains of thoughts right now, but here are a few scraps:

    Regionals is over. It's nice to breathe again. We got home Saturday, and I spent the afternoon wandering in the greenbelt with the camera which belongs to my mother but has been kidnapped by me.
 



(this one is edited a bit)

 

 

Normally I don't care for taking pictures of flowers and trees. I like taking pictures of people, because they have faces and faces mean stories. I love trying to capture personalities. But flowers are nice and still if you want to relax. And the squirrel definately acted like he had personality.



 

Here are a few thinks I've jotted down in my notebook, things I've been thinking about:

    "Could I die? Could I bear the pain of flames crawling up, burning slowly limb by limb, a worm with searing, gnawing teeth? Would I throw myself before the bullet or let fall the guillotine blade without a quiver? I think I would. But would I love enough to surrender mundane everyday? To deny myself the comforts of my flesh? Perhaps not. And maybe that is where the martyr truly lies: a grave of minutes and appearances and preferences relinquished for love of One who needs them not but deserves them all."

       Isaiah 51:12-13: "I, I am He who comforts you; who are you that you are afraid of man who dies, of the son of man who is made like grass, and have forgotten the Lord, your Maker, who stretched out the Heavens and laid the foundations of the earth?"

"I will boast in You because I embrace what You hate

And You love me anyway.

Because I every day doubt your faithfulness,

But You are still faithful.

Because I look to physical idols for satisfaction,

Yet You still offer me joy.

Because I am hopelessly weak and broken,

But You are willing to repair me and use me.

Because I run away but You,

 In Your infinite wisdom and grace,

Insist on pulling me home to Your heart."

Voices

I haven't written in a while. I haven't had anything to say, and I haven't had time to say it. Sometimes I think one of those causes the other.

There have been tournaments...

 

 

and concerts

...and LOTS of prep for the above. Solo concertos to learn, ensemble pieces to mesh, choir parts to memorize, speeches to polish, rounds to debate, CX questions to prepare. Unique opportunities to lead and teach have also come up which I am so thankful for. But they, too, devour time. And then there's choir tour this weekend. Regionals the week after. And this little thing called school I've got to squeeze in somewhere.

    All of it amounts to noise in my head. "This is due in two days!" "Your concert is tomorrow and you're still not hitting the harmonic." "You won't pass the geometry test because you haven't had time to study." I'm glad I have an organized brain and I've always been good at focusing, getting things done, but blessings can be curses. I can't get the voices to be quiet. This season will pass, life will settle down. The voices will sleep. But what frightens me for the now is that all that noise will drown out the one Voice worth hearing, the voice of God.

    His voice says the most important thing is to "love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength" (Luke 10). Loving God comes out in spending time with Him, and in "love your neighbor as yourself" (Luke 10, too). But the leeches of schedules and responsibilties have attached themselves to my heart and mind, sucking out my soul and strength. God gets the residue, the leftovers, when He should have the best of me. So I'm struggling, struggling to find the balance between my commitments and God's priorities. The one thing I know I can't let go of is my morning quiet time. I don't even turn on my phone before I've read the Bible, and prayed. Still, those voices nag at me, keeping me from really soaking in Scripture and really pouring out my heart to God.

    I like being busy, but busy with writing and friends and God's work. Honestly, I'm looking forward to when this wave of life subsides.  Until it does, though, I know I need to glorify God where I'm at. I pray that He will show me how.

Spring Reminds Me...

"For the love of Christ controls us...if anyone is in Christ, he is a NEW creation. The old has passed away, behold, new things have come. Now all these things are from God who reconciled us to  Himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation."

           

           God is the source and the lifeblood of the universe, and He imprinted His especial thinking, feeling, creating image in humankind. But we chose rebellion. Every day we sin, scorning the Hand that made us and sustains us. So the world is broken, cracked from the core. And each human heart is a picture of the world: rotting away, aged with sin, destined to crumble. But there is a restoration. We can be made NEW.

      Because I have put my hope in the person and work of Jesus Christ, the gate to glory has been opened. Out goes my sin, in comes the joyful purpose I was made for. I am controlled by the love of Christ. As His love takes the place of my rebellion, I become it. I am new. Just like every spring. Today, the cracked old trees in the ditch behind my fence are wrapped in green. Out from the piles of leaf-skeletons sprout chutes, and the chutes blossom into color. New.

And someday, it won't be only hearts that are new. The grass won't only be green in the spring. 

Then I saw a NEW heaven and a NEW earth; for the first heaven and the first earth passed away, and there is no longer any sea.  And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband.  And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them, and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.”

 And He who sits on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things NEW.”

(Revelation 21:1-5)

When I read this passage, its promise brings me to life. All the weariness of living for the God the world hates, of battling sin and sacrificing myself, is worth it. Because there's a future beyond now, a bright and eternal future. I will live in a new world, lit by His face.

When Worlds Collide

      There's not just one world-not really. There are billions upon billions, a world for each person who has breathed, thought, believed, doubted, loved. If you imagine the thousands of years earth has spun, that's a lot of people. Just right now, there are over seven billion souls. Seven billion worlds.

     Yes, worlds. We all may look at the same stars each night, but even those we see differently. We use lenses that are tinted by our own personal disposition, experiences, and beliefs. Those qualities are so strikingly different from soul to soul that it's like living in different universes. I mean, I dance in grocery stores all the time. It embarasses my little brother (backwards, I know), but I can't help it. I wonder how many people I dance by who see my vibrant world in blacks and greys. I wonder how many souls I've brushed up against who aren't here anymore because they lost hope.

            I snapped this photo at the San Antonio Stock Show and Rodeo because of the man in the booth. At least sixty, working a balloon dart booth with a traveling rodeo...not exactly the American dream. How different his story must be from mine, my story of friendships and relative wealth and opportunities! Maybe he had that, once, and lost it through bad choices. Maybe he regrets that now. Or maybe he has always struggled financially. Maybe he grew up without a father. I don't know; pretending I did would be judgmental and pretentious. But chances are he sees the world very differently than I do.

    Christians tend to see things in a similar light because we all "have the mind of Christ" (1st Cor. 2:16). But even then, we have different stories and burdens that we carry to the Cross. And even after Christ loosens the chains of sin, its residue will cling to us until the day this fallen life ends. I go through dark places sometimes with my own sin. Imagine how much darker those pits are for those who have no escape! In a non-negative way, our personalities shape our worlds individually, even with the united mind of Christ. Different things make us laugh and cry, and although we are called to love all men, there is no denying we love some more than others.

    Even though there's this plethora of parallel worlds, we can only BE in one, our own. There's no way to jump the borders into someone else's. Yes, we can empathize. Yes, we can get to know a person quite well. But we will never know the deepest parts of their hearts; only God is a soul-searcher. And we can never become them. I have my parent's DNA and I've been raised with my parent's constant influence, but I am not my parents. "By the grace of God, I am what I am" (1st Cor. 5:10). What we can do, though, is catch glimpses. And based on those glimpses, we can reach out and touch someone else's world.

    My younger cousin made me this sweet picture. Read the poem! It awoke me to a reality: I mean something to her. In her world, I am important. I never grasped that before. It's frightening that I've touched her world without knowing it, without even thinking about the influence I want to have. Glimpsing myself from her perspective has made me wonder: who else am I impacting without knowing it? There are people in my life that I would do anything for; am I that to someone? Most importantly, when they look at me, do they see the love of God?

    So I challenge you: try to catch a glimpse of someone else's world. Try to reach outside of your own soul and touch theirs. It may be painful, seeing from their view. But I know I'm the happiest when I'm not thinking of myself, and that only happens when I'm thinking of how I can point others to Christ. I can think of very few things more beautiful than choosing to see, and choosing to love.

Here

Some days I just want to get out of America.

    Even the average "poor" person in my country is in the top 5% of worldwide wealth. This wealth means there is enormous pressure to have certain things, wear certain clothes, go certain places, and look a certain way, to have lots of friends and a special activity that you shine at. I feel this pressure every day. I see girls around me that are prettier than I am. I see them texting a bunch of admiring guys. I see them with more Facebook friends than I have, and a LOT more profile picture likes, and it's hard not to be envious.

     I know these things aren't important. Almost every day I read Psalm 90 to remind me of how futile  human existence is-"For all our days pass away under Your wrath; we bring our years to end like a sigh. The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty, yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away." Looking back on the annals of history makes my mind spin: so many centuries have come and gone, so many billions of people have lived and loved and died. Who knows them now? Their names are almost all forgotten. One day grass will grow over me, covering my life and my memory. The people I worry so much about impressing will be gone, too. Ultimately the only way my finite existence can become of any importance is by serving the infinite God. So it doesn't really matter when I flip open my phone and there are no texts waiting for me, right? Except it's hard to align my hopelessly illogical feelings with what my head knows.

    It feels like if I could just be packed into one of those little Ugandan churches and feel the thunder of their bilingual worship roll over me, then I could finally rest in the heart of God. If I could experience their poverty and hold their dying babies and see the joy they still have because the Lord is their strength, then I could trust Him. If I didn't have to worry about the little things like mascara and cell numbers, then I could do great things for the Kingdom of Christ. Except, that's not how it works.

    I am discontent not because of where I live but because I don't really believe that God is enough. I am "prone to leave the God I love". If I run away to Uganda, my sin will chase me there. God has planted me in America, in my family, my neighborhood, my church, my city, to reach out to the people around me. Because He knows best where I can glorify Him. He knows how my tiny piece is going to fit into the grand puzzle of His plan. So HERE is where I am. It's a good place.

And you know?

God is just as much HERE as He is in Uganda. He is here in every passing face, in every Word of Scripture, in every moment. I just have to look for Him.

Where shall I go from Your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to Heaven, You are there. If I make my bed in Sheol, You are there. If I take the wings of the dawn, even if I dwell in the deepest parts of the sea, even there Your hand shall reach me and Your right hand shall cover me.

 

(Psalm 139:7-10)

Lover of Light

     I finally finished Les Miserables. When I started it a few months ago, I thought I would never finish. Ryan and I counted: EIGHTY-SIX Kindle pages for ONE PERCENT of the book! And when I finished, I wished it would never end. Les Mis is one of the most beautiful, powerful books I have ever read. Victor Hugo examines the world through the lens of man's soul. The lens isn't rose-colored; Hugo lays bare the depravity of our disfigured human hearts, and the lies and atrocities proceeding from them. But at the same time, Les Mis does not abide in the shadows.

     Probably the most heart-wrenching storyline is Fantine's. Fantine sold her hair, her teeth, and her love to provide for her estranged daughter Cossette. The people of Montreuil-sur-Mer saw the gaps in Fantine's mouth and pronounced her grotesque. They saw her on the prostitute's corner and, in all their moral virtuosity, declared her disgraceful. Everyone who could have lifted her up instead passed by with averted eyes. I wept, because I saw the whole picture of Fantine's life. I saw that Fantine was used and abandoned by Cossette's father. I saw that she had placed her daughter with a foster family to keep her from the shame of illgitimacy. I saw that she was decieved into believing that her Cossette was desperately ill and in need of expensive medicine. I saw Cossette in perfect health, being used for slave labor while Fantine's money lined the pockets of a criminal innkeeper. I saw the sacrificial love for her daughter that Fantine lived by. But the townspeople only saw the shame Fantine had been forced into, and the hatred their shunning spawned in her. Hugo writes, "Those who do not see, do not weep."

     There are so many things we do not see. I don't know the stories of the people who sit on off Judson Road with misspelled signs, or the homeless man whose eyes I saw peering out from a pile of cardboard and towels under a downtown bridge, or the rude old man in the grocery store, or the barely dressed girl in Wal-Mart. Certainly they are sinners. We all are. There was a great deal of darkness in Fantine. But somewhere in Fantine, in those broken people around me, is a light, a trace of the image of God. I want to see their pain, their stories, their hidden light. I want to be a part of bringing out that light, seeing it redeemed, like Monsieur Madeline rescued Fantine and brought out her light.

     2nd Corinthians 5:16 says, "From now on" [now that the love of Christ controls us] "we regard no one according to the flesh". We don't see people the same way. Verse 18: "All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to Himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation." Through Christ, God has brought me back to Himself and given me new life. Now it is my blessing and duty, granted by Him, to bring people to His "wonderful light" (1st Peter 2:9).I cannot see everything, but I know the Light, and because of my great God I can see Him everywhere, even in the blackest corners of the blackest souls.

I will strive to be a Lover of the Light.

Art as Imitation

     This year, I've been able to teach art to my younger brothers, and some of my cousins. I'm not even really a very good artist-I started drawing because it was something my brother could do better than me, and Heaven forbid that! But I do love painting, and I have a tiny bit of knowledge to pass on.

            Art is what I'm drawn to-literature most of all, but drawing and painting and music have their place in my heart, too. If I have free time, I hole up in my room with my violin or pencil or most often laptop to materialize the ideas in my head. But I came to a point where I started to wonder, is this a waste? As a Christian, I am "called to proclaim the excellencies of Him who called [me] out of darkness into His wonderful light" (1st Peter 2:9). Artistic expression is fun. It's invigorating and freeing. But in the end, isn't it just selfish indulgence, like watching TV or wasting time on Facebook? Shouldn't I  be out preaching the Gospel instead?

The answer is yes, and no.

    The goal is to glorify God, to proclaim His excellencies. Preaching the Gospel is absolutely one of the most important ways to do that, but it isn't the only way. Colossians 3:17 says "whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God". Eating and drinking can glorify God. So can art.

    God is an artist, a Creator. He "formed me in my mother's womb" (Psalm 139). The sky is declaring his handiwork (Psalm 19).

He fashioned this ladybug, and

He delighted in sculpting this little cutie.

    Edith Schaeffer was so right when she said, "A Christian, who realizes that he has been made in the image of the Creator God...[is] meant to be creative on a finite level."

     I can write words that tell of God's greatness, and weave stories that point people to Him. I'm doing a Bible study with a girl in my neighborhood, and when we get together, we're going to paint. Whether your art is soccer 

or water polo

or ballet

or carpentry

or drawing 

or harmonica playing 

or baking 

or interior decorating, you can use it to draw people in: into yourself, or into God. God who gave you the abilities. God who is the first Creator, and who everyone, whether they realize it or not, creates in imitation of.

Wheels and Winds and Wandering Souls

There’s a sign tied to the ride’s green gate. It’s fluttering and hard to read, but I finally make out “Ferris Wheel Closed Due to High Winds”. I try to ask the man running the Ferris Wheel if it will open again soon, but he is inside the shut gate, eating a sandwich that he appears very absorbed in. Sierra starts walking away, but I stay rooted and she’s holding my hand, so she has to stay, too. I stare at the sign and wish for the high winds to settle down to a nice, gentle breeze.

     I feel Sierra backing in to me. An old man is trying to grab her hand. I pull her close, but don’t bother running away. I could knock the man over, that shows how frail he is. And he’s old-seventy or so. His dark, wrinkly skin hangs on his arms more like a loose-fitting jacket than skin. He stretches his gnarled, trembling hand out to mine. The fingers are twisted in directions fingers were never meant to go. Some of his nails are an inch long; others are broken off in rough, jagged lines. I gently push the withered hand away. He grins at me, a toothless grin, and then totters off. I feel heavy inside.

        Once he had been as innocent as people get, only crying and sleeping and eating and wanting to be held and loved. I wonder what brought him from that to this, stumbling around drunk at a carnival in rags and bare feet. Did he choose a hard life for himself, or had he never known anything else? And if he had never known anything else-maybe his father had beaten him, or maybe he didn’t know his father at all-then why am I walking around in new shoes with a wad of bills in my pocket? Why him and not me? I try to follow the weather-beaten man with my eyes, but he is lost in the back-and-forth swarm of people.

      Suddenly the carnival’s neon colors seem garish and gaudy. There’s no enchantment to the music-box tunes or painted ponies or shouts of the balloon man, and the popcorn smell feels overdone. All I see is the grey concrete underneath me and the faces going by. So many faces. So many souls. And so, so much wandering.

Hello There.

I might
(just maybe)
start to blog again

because,

life is beautiful...

...and weird...

...and sometimes confusing.

         I've been learning how to think and pray and talk, things I thought I already knew how to do, but I didn't really. God is shaping me into the image of His Son and giving me a whole new perspective on the world-"In Your light do we see light!" (Psalm 36:9). Living this perspective comes first, and it's wonderful, even in the times it hurts because I have to relinquish my desires-especially in those times. But for me, not writing about life is impossible. When I keep the words inside, they get bored and start fistfights in my head. For real. And sometimes, when I do write things, I want to share them. Not always, but sometimes.

 So my little blog is revisited. And to be perfectly honest, more than anything else it's because I'm not afraid of being called a nerd anymore. (Seriously, name one high schooler who blogs and isn't homeschooled!) 

        I guess that's another part of the new perspective God is hammering into me, little by little. As Paul says, "If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ." (Galatians 1:10) Even the tiny things, even writing and ignoring my insecurities, are part of becoming who God wants me to be, which is just a trifling, infinitesimal part of the BIG master plan to glorify Him. That's the purpose the world spins upon.

And so, here I am. Hello again!

Love,

Me