When this journey began a few months ago, I remember sitting across from a beautiful friend and pouring my heart out. In the midst of those snotty tears, I told her I knew the other side of this was the Lord glorified and me made stronger in Him.
I told her that. That was my stock line. I repeated it to several people.
But I didn't believe it. I didn't think I would ever be one of those people.
The night this journey began, I remember laying in the hotel room floor crying out to the Lord, begging Him to be real to me.
But I didn't believe He would be.
I've spent the past 24 hours packing up my apartment. The dishes, the clothes, the books (oh good gracious all the books) were, I thought, going to be horrible reminders. On the 10 hour drive back to my apartment on Thursday, I asked the Lord to shield my heart from the boxes.
But I didn't see how He would.
Standing (well, sitting) here now, I can absolutely attest to Him making me stronger, being real to me, and shielding my heart. He has never been more to me than He is now. I cried out last night in thanks- I have never been more in love with my Savior.
As I crossed the last thing off my list from yesterday (pack Christmas stuff. That's right, my nativity AND Christmas wreath were still displayed in my apartment!), I stood in awe of the way the Lord has picked me up and taught me to dance with Him.
For the first time in my life, I feel inadequate to praise Him. If only I could paint beautiful masterpieces, or sing in such a way that turned ears and hearts toward Him, but I'm me- clumsy, inartistic, and not the best singer. So I continue to do what I know to do. I write into the unknown about the grace and love of the one who has laid a claim to my heart. Not good enough, I know, but it's all I have.
I remember praying to laugh again. These past few days, I've done nothing but laugh. The ways He is answering my prayers continue to draw me into Him. And I don't ever want to leave.
That, I believe.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Stories
I'm 25. Sure I should be able to conquer Disney movies but I just can't.
I still fast-forward when Belle is being chased in the forest by scary things.
I still cry when Stitch and Lilo both find "family."
No matter where I am, I am still overcome with missing my Mom when Eleanor sings "My Mother" to the baby penguin.
What can I say, I'm a sucker for a good story. Even when the parts are scary, or sad, or make me cry, I love a good story. So knowing how the story will end, and after I've seen it once, I fast-forward through the parts I don't like.
I love good stories in life. Life imitating art. Beautiful.
I got lost today driving to a friend's school. There were only 2 roads (that I knew of) and I traveled down both. No dice. Either road. Long roads. Long Kentucky farm roads. People on trackers. Next time I'll actually write down the directions.
On mile 16 of what was to only be 7 miles, I found myself talking to the Lord, wanting Him to write the next chapter of my story the way I wanted it to be written.
Lord, it would bring you glory. Bringing these things to pass would cause people to praise you. Everyone would know it was You that orchestrated this good.
Wow, what a pompous attitude from one seeking to bring the Lord praise. It is in these moments I am thankful the Lord doesn't smite me. In my car. On long Kentucky roads where no one would find me.
It was almost instant. The knowledge in my brain of what my heart has known for so long. Want a good story? Want a story that is full of every possible twist, subplot, and brilliant ending? How about a God whose love is so strong, He ransomed your heart with His son's blood.
Getting lost down those flat and perfect Kentucky roads was one of the most amazing things to happen to me. It was there I realized what the Lord had been trying to make me understand for so long now: He is my only story.
He is my only story.
His love, His goodness, His mercy are my stories. Anything else is just a blessing for me. He doesn't need my praise. I need His blessings.
But He is my story.
Belle makes her way back to the castle and to the Beast who is now her Prince, Lilo and Stitch find the family they both seek, and the Chipmunks make it back to safety. Good stories.
Good stories that don't hold a candle to the story He has written.
My story.
I still fast-forward when Belle is being chased in the forest by scary things.
I still cry when Stitch and Lilo both find "family."
No matter where I am, I am still overcome with missing my Mom when Eleanor sings "My Mother" to the baby penguin.
What can I say, I'm a sucker for a good story. Even when the parts are scary, or sad, or make me cry, I love a good story. So knowing how the story will end, and after I've seen it once, I fast-forward through the parts I don't like.
I love good stories in life. Life imitating art. Beautiful.
I got lost today driving to a friend's school. There were only 2 roads (that I knew of) and I traveled down both. No dice. Either road. Long roads. Long Kentucky farm roads. People on trackers. Next time I'll actually write down the directions.
On mile 16 of what was to only be 7 miles, I found myself talking to the Lord, wanting Him to write the next chapter of my story the way I wanted it to be written.
Lord, it would bring you glory. Bringing these things to pass would cause people to praise you. Everyone would know it was You that orchestrated this good.
Wow, what a pompous attitude from one seeking to bring the Lord praise. It is in these moments I am thankful the Lord doesn't smite me. In my car. On long Kentucky roads where no one would find me.
It was almost instant. The knowledge in my brain of what my heart has known for so long. Want a good story? Want a story that is full of every possible twist, subplot, and brilliant ending? How about a God whose love is so strong, He ransomed your heart with His son's blood.
Getting lost down those flat and perfect Kentucky roads was one of the most amazing things to happen to me. It was there I realized what the Lord had been trying to make me understand for so long now: He is my only story.
He is my only story.
His love, His goodness, His mercy are my stories. Anything else is just a blessing for me. He doesn't need my praise. I need His blessings.
But He is my story.
Belle makes her way back to the castle and to the Beast who is now her Prince, Lilo and Stitch find the family they both seek, and the Chipmunks make it back to safety. Good stories.
Good stories that don't hold a candle to the story He has written.
My story.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Palm Sunday, Bring the Rain, and Stellan
While not completely unexpected for those of you who know me, this is not a game of requiring you to pick the one thing unlike the others while I sing for you one of my favorite Sesame Street tunes. Which I sing very well. And do the dance. There wasn't a dance? Oh, well there's one now.
It's about faith, about waiting, about expectations. It's about hope and all those things we can't see but know when they are absent.
Of the whole Liturgical calendar, Palm Sunday is always the hardest Mass for me. The Lord always seems to use it in the exact way I need. And He uses the same part each year. The same reading. You'd think I'd be prepared for it each year. But nope, every Palm Sunday it sneaks up on me and usually leaves me covered in tears.
Several years ago, I was wrestling with who exactly was at fault for crucifying Christ. Was it the chief priests or was it Pilate? Legalistic, party of one, thanks. Being a big fan of the law and all things government, I had the best argument as to Pilate's non-guilt. Then came the Palm Sunday Mass and it's responsive reading. (the crowd's response in bold) "Then what am I to do with Jesus, the so-called Messiah?" Crucify him! "Why, what crime has he committed?" Crucify him!
It was then and there I finally got it. We did it. Pilate, the chief priests, Judas, they all played a role but it was us, our sin that crucified the Lord.
Fast-forward a few years to yesterday when I sat in the pew at my beloved Church and realized quickly what was approaching. I knew it was Palm Sunday but I had completely forgotten about that reading. All the sudden, I'm there all over again. This time as one of the crowd at the cross.
He saved others but cannot save himself! So he is the king of Israel! Let's see him come down from that cross, then we will believe in him. He relied on God; let God rescue him now if he wants to. After all, he claimed, 'I am God's Son.' "
Tears started to flow and as best as I tried to bite my cheeks and think of Lilo and Stitch scenes to stop the tears, I couldn't. Which is sad because honestly, Lilo and Stitch does the trick each and every time.
I might be going out on a theological limb here, but it struck me that I am just like that crowd. I believe the act of Christ overcoming death is the point, not necessarily the time he took to do it. I believe the saving and redemptive act of the resurrection would have been just as powerful had it been 3 min after His death instead of three days.
And I think of what a powerful statement, a powerful giving of grace to those in the crowd to die, rise again, and pull Himself off the cross. He could have done it. And those people in the crowd, those of us who wanted proof right now would have had it and some faith to boot.
But He didn't.
He waited three days. Three long days where His followers must have thought differently about leaving their nets. 72 hours where those who wanted to believe would have to hold what this Jesus had said in one hand and reality in another. He was dead.
Had they heard Him wrong? They didn't have the Gospels of Matthew or Mark or the Letters of Paul to remind them of His words of promise, words of comfort, words of wait. I am confident there were a few followers, like myself, who must have spent those three days in distress. They had given everything up for this Jesus. And He was gone.
And just when hope was lost, when faith might have taken its final breath, He overcomes the piercing finality of death.
After Mass, I came home to a new post by Angie at Bring the Rain and an amazing new song by Selah reminding me that though certain times feel unfulfilled and unrestored, they are really just times where grace is about to be amazing.
Then today after checking for updates on sweet baby Stellan, MckMama's post included the words to one of my favorite Casting Crowns songs calling us all to praise You in the storms of life.
Palm Sunday, Bring the Rain, and sweet baby Stellan. All chances for us to just wait. Wait in hope, wait in faith, wait in the total and complete fulfillment of all the things we know He'll do.
I believe it was the waiting those three days that made His resurrection all the more glorious. One the most incredible homilists I have the privilege of hearing weekly told us yesterday that Palm Sunday began Holy Week- the most sublime week of love in the history of the world.
Firmly holding to the belief that faith, that love, that deliverance means sometimes waiting for the tomb to open and death to be defeated so that He may be glorified all the more.
It's about faith, about waiting, about expectations. It's about hope and all those things we can't see but know when they are absent.
Of the whole Liturgical calendar, Palm Sunday is always the hardest Mass for me. The Lord always seems to use it in the exact way I need. And He uses the same part each year. The same reading. You'd think I'd be prepared for it each year. But nope, every Palm Sunday it sneaks up on me and usually leaves me covered in tears.
Several years ago, I was wrestling with who exactly was at fault for crucifying Christ. Was it the chief priests or was it Pilate? Legalistic, party of one, thanks. Being a big fan of the law and all things government, I had the best argument as to Pilate's non-guilt. Then came the Palm Sunday Mass and it's responsive reading. (the crowd's response in bold) "Then what am I to do with Jesus, the so-called Messiah?" Crucify him! "Why, what crime has he committed?" Crucify him!
It was then and there I finally got it. We did it. Pilate, the chief priests, Judas, they all played a role but it was us, our sin that crucified the Lord.
Fast-forward a few years to yesterday when I sat in the pew at my beloved Church and realized quickly what was approaching. I knew it was Palm Sunday but I had completely forgotten about that reading. All the sudden, I'm there all over again. This time as one of the crowd at the cross.
He saved others but cannot save himself! So he is the king of Israel! Let's see him come down from that cross, then we will believe in him. He relied on God; let God rescue him now if he wants to. After all, he claimed, 'I am God's Son.' "
Tears started to flow and as best as I tried to bite my cheeks and think of Lilo and Stitch scenes to stop the tears, I couldn't. Which is sad because honestly, Lilo and Stitch does the trick each and every time.
I might be going out on a theological limb here, but it struck me that I am just like that crowd. I believe the act of Christ overcoming death is the point, not necessarily the time he took to do it. I believe the saving and redemptive act of the resurrection would have been just as powerful had it been 3 min after His death instead of three days.
And I think of what a powerful statement, a powerful giving of grace to those in the crowd to die, rise again, and pull Himself off the cross. He could have done it. And those people in the crowd, those of us who wanted proof right now would have had it and some faith to boot.
But He didn't.
He waited three days. Three long days where His followers must have thought differently about leaving their nets. 72 hours where those who wanted to believe would have to hold what this Jesus had said in one hand and reality in another. He was dead.
Had they heard Him wrong? They didn't have the Gospels of Matthew or Mark or the Letters of Paul to remind them of His words of promise, words of comfort, words of wait. I am confident there were a few followers, like myself, who must have spent those three days in distress. They had given everything up for this Jesus. And He was gone.
And just when hope was lost, when faith might have taken its final breath, He overcomes the piercing finality of death.
After Mass, I came home to a new post by Angie at Bring the Rain and an amazing new song by Selah reminding me that though certain times feel unfulfilled and unrestored, they are really just times where grace is about to be amazing.
Then today after checking for updates on sweet baby Stellan, MckMama's post included the words to one of my favorite Casting Crowns songs calling us all to praise You in the storms of life.
Palm Sunday, Bring the Rain, and sweet baby Stellan. All chances for us to just wait. Wait in hope, wait in faith, wait in the total and complete fulfillment of all the things we know He'll do.
I believe it was the waiting those three days that made His resurrection all the more glorious. One the most incredible homilists I have the privilege of hearing weekly told us yesterday that Palm Sunday began Holy Week- the most sublime week of love in the history of the world.
Firmly holding to the belief that faith, that love, that deliverance means sometimes waiting for the tomb to open and death to be defeated so that He may be glorified all the more.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Four Years Ago...
...the world lost a great man, a true leader, and a servant of God.
His death prompted me to take a look at all the things I believed and eventually I made the journey home to Rome.
Occasionally I'll spend some time reflecting back on the influence he had on so many. His strength was found not in his might but in his weakness. He lived the real power found when you ask for the grace to suffer. His last few months with us were labored and hard to watch.
But his living forced us to ask questions about our dying. About how we look at who deserves to live and who gets to decide to die. Questions about being open and honest with our shortcomings, being real with our defeats.
For my faith, this man was the Vicar of Christ on Earth. Wearing red shoes because he walked in the way of those who were martyred for the faith. His death with dignity, but not without pain, engraved on my heart a profound lesson: Pain does not negate purpose.
Until recently, he was the only Pope of my lifetime. His impact is still felt today as seekers everywhere quietly roar through the doors of the Church, looking for the peace he so evidently possessed.
He'll always be il papa, and I miss him still.
His death prompted me to take a look at all the things I believed and eventually I made the journey home to Rome.
Occasionally I'll spend some time reflecting back on the influence he had on so many. His strength was found not in his might but in his weakness. He lived the real power found when you ask for the grace to suffer. His last few months with us were labored and hard to watch.
But his living forced us to ask questions about our dying. About how we look at who deserves to live and who gets to decide to die. Questions about being open and honest with our shortcomings, being real with our defeats.
For my faith, this man was the Vicar of Christ on Earth. Wearing red shoes because he walked in the way of those who were martyred for the faith. His death with dignity, but not without pain, engraved on my heart a profound lesson: Pain does not negate purpose.
Until recently, he was the only Pope of my lifetime. His impact is still felt today as seekers everywhere quietly roar through the doors of the Church, looking for the peace he so evidently possessed.
He'll always be il papa, and I miss him still.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
All of Me?
Many of you know a few weeks ago, I spent the weekend with a group of Dominican nuns in Nashville. A retreat had been planned there for months and there happened to be a spot for me. One of the things I loved the most about those three days was the singing of several prayers throughout the day. Morning prayers, mid-day prayers, Vespers, and Compline all sung to the Glory of God. Even a broken soul like mine could pray through the songs and not have to speak.
I love to read. More often than not, I have at least two books on my person. This Christmas, we didn't leave until Christmas Eve to come home. Rushing through the house that morning before heading off to 6:00am Christmas Eve Mass, then to the office to meet him, then to the airport to go home, I realized I was without my books. I grabbed the first two volumes of words on my staircase (i'm completely out of bookcase room - both room on the bookcases and room for more bookcases). Sitting in the airport terminal waiting to fly home, and laughing with my heart's traveling companion about how in several more Christmas breaks we'd be that couple chasing children through the waiting area, I could not put my book down.
For my very structured friends, you'll hate this book. Don't even check Amazon for it. Trust me. But for those of you who, like me, are attracted to the mystical aspects of faith, go right now and order it.
sevensacredpauses: living mindfully throughout the hours of the day is perhaps one of the best books my heart has ever taken in. It walks you through the prayers said at the seven most holy times of the day. This practice is not new to Christendom and isn't unique to His faith. It's about putting yourself, seven times each day, in the Father's hands.
Sitting with those beautiful Dominican Sisters, listening to them sing the prayers of the hours, finding myself moving in rhythm with their hearts, I knew this was a practice that would keep me grounded through this trial of my soul. I came back to my apartment yesterday and dug through pile of things from my suitcase I never unpacked after Christmas, (I traveled twice after that, moved a boyfriend across country, oh and packed an entire office and left a job- I'm okay with leaving piles in my living room) and found the book.
Opening it to the prayers for twilight, I paused and asked the Lord to show me the shortcomings of my day. As is a continual prayer lately, I begged Him to heal my broken heart.
Give it to me. Give me your brokenness.
But God! There isn't just one part of me that's broken. There isn't just one piece of my heart to heal.
Place your wounds in the wounds of my son. They will heal you.
I believe you, I do. But I can't just put this in a box and give you the box. It's my hands that hurt because they remember holding his. It's my feet because they were going to walk with him forever. It's my nose and ears because they'll never again nussle against his chest on my front porch at the end of the night. And they've got nothing on my heart and my soul. IT'S NOT JUST ONE PART GOD, I'D HAVE TO GIVE YOU ALL OF ME. I'D HAVE TO HAND OVER MY WHOLE LIFE FOR YOU TO HEAL. I'D HAVE TO GIVE YOU ALL OF ME.
Oh. I get it.
You want all of me.
Not just to pray with you seven times a day, and not just to walk in your precepts, but you want all of me.
Tears falling down every part of my face and covering the book held now forcefully in my hands, I read the Psalm for twilight prayers: Sustain me as you have promised that I may live; disappoint me not in my hope. (Psalm 119:116)
Giving You everything that makes me, I cling to Your promise- disappoint me not in my hope.
I love to read. More often than not, I have at least two books on my person. This Christmas, we didn't leave until Christmas Eve to come home. Rushing through the house that morning before heading off to 6:00am Christmas Eve Mass, then to the office to meet him, then to the airport to go home, I realized I was without my books. I grabbed the first two volumes of words on my staircase (i'm completely out of bookcase room - both room on the bookcases and room for more bookcases). Sitting in the airport terminal waiting to fly home, and laughing with my heart's traveling companion about how in several more Christmas breaks we'd be that couple chasing children through the waiting area, I could not put my book down.
For my very structured friends, you'll hate this book. Don't even check Amazon for it. Trust me. But for those of you who, like me, are attracted to the mystical aspects of faith, go right now and order it.
sevensacredpauses: living mindfully throughout the hours of the day is perhaps one of the best books my heart has ever taken in. It walks you through the prayers said at the seven most holy times of the day. This practice is not new to Christendom and isn't unique to His faith. It's about putting yourself, seven times each day, in the Father's hands.
Sitting with those beautiful Dominican Sisters, listening to them sing the prayers of the hours, finding myself moving in rhythm with their hearts, I knew this was a practice that would keep me grounded through this trial of my soul. I came back to my apartment yesterday and dug through pile of things from my suitcase I never unpacked after Christmas, (I traveled twice after that, moved a boyfriend across country, oh and packed an entire office and left a job- I'm okay with leaving piles in my living room) and found the book.
Opening it to the prayers for twilight, I paused and asked the Lord to show me the shortcomings of my day. As is a continual prayer lately, I begged Him to heal my broken heart.
Give it to me. Give me your brokenness.
But God! There isn't just one part of me that's broken. There isn't just one piece of my heart to heal.
Place your wounds in the wounds of my son. They will heal you.
I believe you, I do. But I can't just put this in a box and give you the box. It's my hands that hurt because they remember holding his. It's my feet because they were going to walk with him forever. It's my nose and ears because they'll never again nussle against his chest on my front porch at the end of the night. And they've got nothing on my heart and my soul. IT'S NOT JUST ONE PART GOD, I'D HAVE TO GIVE YOU ALL OF ME. I'D HAVE TO HAND OVER MY WHOLE LIFE FOR YOU TO HEAL. I'D HAVE TO GIVE YOU ALL OF ME.
Oh. I get it.
You want all of me.
Not just to pray with you seven times a day, and not just to walk in your precepts, but you want all of me.
Tears falling down every part of my face and covering the book held now forcefully in my hands, I read the Psalm for twilight prayers: Sustain me as you have promised that I may live; disappoint me not in my hope. (Psalm 119:116)
Giving You everything that makes me, I cling to Your promise- disappoint me not in my hope.
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