Crucifying Christmas

Don’t worry.

This isn’t about Walmart greeters or Starbucks cups.

Sunday before last we had some visiting musicians at church that played “Mary Did You Know.” Now, time for a little confession…I believe that Mary Did You Know is one of the top three worst Christmas songs ever… every bit as good as Little Drummer Boy and Do You Hear What I Hear.

While they were playing the song, for the first time, I could imagine Mary there, holding that baby. I mean, we read that Mary wrapped Him in swaddling cloth and laid Him in the manger. But realistically, she must have held that sweet little thing, nuzzling Him, tracing the outline of a little nose, touching ten tiny fingers, leaning into Joseph to show him the dream that rested on the infant’s face.

I sat there imagining Mary and looked around for someone with a baby near me who i might convince to let me snuggle for a minute or two. Drats. None at hand.

After that morning I went from part time carol singing to full time, like it was my job.

This morning I went into work early this morning and hit play on some of my favorite Christmas music. Oh there was the best of them all, with its grit and its darkness, its admittance of struggle and shadow. It is a walk on a damp fall day, the smell of wet decaying earth around you, coat pulled tight around you for it is colder than you anticipated. Winter is coming.

I sing it all year long. I sing it in those aching times when I just long for His company and His comfort.

O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel

O come, Thou Day-Spring
Come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death’s dark shadows put to flight

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, o Israel

I could continue but these are the two verses I always pick first. Captivity. Gloom. Death. Shadow. Who is this writer that he would make such a depressing song, 4 lines of “Look at my woe!” Followed by 2 that are just the same over and over.  Over and over. Christmas should be hope and joy and love and peace. Who is this writer?

I think, perhaps, the writer is someone who knows the Bible. I think the writer is someone who knows the history of the people of Israel. I think the writer is someone who knows us.

In Matthew 1 starting at verse 18, it reads: “This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.

But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: “The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel” (which means “God with us”).”

Joseph entered what should have been a time of celebration, the advent of his marriage, and he is met quickly by a reality which doesn’t match his expectations. He should have been joyful is instead overwhelmed by mess….divorce, presumed infidelity, shame, scandal, a blow to the pride, and trying to manage himself in a way that was to his standards, legal and upright in the sight of the Lord.

The angel doesn’t come and change the situation. He doesn’t say the pregnancy was a mistake and apologize for Joseph’s hurt feelings. He doesn’t stop what Joesph sees as the problem.

He just changes his perspective.

This mess, says the angel, this thing you see as a problem, it is the design of God to bring the salvation of all. It is the design to bring “God With Us.”

What of your life are you walking into THIS Advent season pleading God to come into? Captivity? Gloom? Death? Shadow?

Could this word not be for you? Could the mess you are consumed by be the design of God to bring about salvation? Change your perspective and like Joseph move in the direction of God’s command.

But changing your perspective is not nearly enough. We must also change our expectations.

We have been trained by Hollywood, like little Susan Walker, to think if we just believe in Santa enough, we will magically get a house far from 34th Street in a nice neighborhood and all will end in true love.

We are looking for the big flashy miracle to prove at Christmas that He does exist. We have been around long enough to know He does big, flashy miracles. We celebrate the biggest each spring. It is the shining moment, the Resurrection, the conquering of the grave, death defeated. Oh, it is glorious! Christmas without Easter, oh it is nothing at all.

So why bother to celebrate Christmas at all then?

Perhaps, just perhaps, it is to remind us, just as the Israelites needed to learn, that God did not come to be an earthly king. He came lowly in a manger. He came into a world without a place for him to be raised by parents who just months before were on the verge of divorce to a government hell bent on murdering Him.

All of this in the arms of Mary, she held this tiny baby. Oh Mary, did you know?  When you tipped him towards Joseph to show him this little face, I want to imagine that you had the humanity that I have, tempted to think, “This is it? This is what the angel spoke of? This is who is supposed to save us? A baby? He can’t fed himself or clean himself! How is this going to work?”

Time never turned back. There was no big showy miracle. Just a baby.

I have to ask, are you holding a baby when what you’d really like is for God to show up like Resurrection? Even if you’ve changed your perspective, you’ve said, this mess is blessed, it is of God and I’m consecrating it to Him…are you still walking around looking for the wrong cave? You’ve run inside and there are no discarded grave clothes, just this terrible box with a little baby inside who can’t do anything for Himself.

And you stand there gesturing to this disappointment, eyes upward, and yell, “I didn’t agree to this? I have some suggestions on how to sort this out. Are You listening? WHAT AM I EVEN SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?!?!?”

I’ll tell you. You don’t throw the baby up on the cross! You don’t demand what God is withholding for a later date. You don’t scream for big signs and wonders while you stand before the greatest wonder of them all. You appreciate that in your captivity, your gloom, your death and shadow, oh, He came.

You cradle that baby. You lift it up and you nurture it. You hold it as a precious fragile beginning and do everything you can to protect it. You tip it to others so they might see this sweet thing the Lord has given you even if you have NO IDEA how God will use it.

He came and He stayed and He will come again!

Is it true or is it not?
Is it true?
Or is it not?

If it is not true, than go and find comfort in the fireplace and the family and put your mind to rest that it is of no consequence, now or ever.

But if it is true….if this little baby was born God with us…..If His very nature is the answer to God’s command from the earliest history of man for the conquering of our greatest enemy, that He is with us….oh it is of EVERY consequence. Everything hinges upon it!

Find Christmas, dear one, find Christmas not just where you weren’t looking for it, but find Christmas where you were specifically saying God couldn’t be there.

And find Christmas, my friend, in the little bit of life that hardly fills more than two hands, that can’t support itself, and care for the promise of God that He has already given you to tend to.

Come and worship.

Rejoice,
Rejoice,
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel.

 

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Sarah Writes A Food Blog!

Now, I don’t want y’all getting jealous or anything, but tonight, like, several people asked me for my soup recipe. Several. I said the directions out loud, but then one of them said I should write it down. So this is how I came to the decision to write my food blog post!

Food blogs like to give lots of info before they just write down like the how much of everything, so if you just want that, scroll to the bottom, but realistically, it’ll make more sense if you read the steps.

Sarah’s Delicious Soup.

Step 1. I knew I had some things that turn into soup and I know that soup is an easy economical choice when feeding a large group of people. Also, my kids really like soup, so even if other people’s kids think soup is gross, I won’t have to listen to my kids whine later that they’re hungry. Anyway, I had to go to Walmart to pick up my medicine after work, so I bought a few more things that go in soup in case I didn’t have what I thought I had at home. This was at around 4:30. (This is important later.)

Step 2. Drive home. Be surprised the kids aren’t home. Find 2nd biggest pot. Pour in the big box of broth from Sharp Shopper. That’s not nearly enough broth.

Step 3. Get out chicken bouillon. Add 6 more cups of water and 3 of the big bouillon cubes.

Step 4. Cut up the leftover half of the onion that looks totally fine from the veggie bin. Scrape it in to the pot.

Step 5. Add salt to make it boil faster, because who knows how long this will take and you have to be at the Taylors at 630. Shake in like 4 shakes of pepper, 2 or 3 shakes of garlic powder and 3 or 4 of poultry seasoning. *Poultry seasoning comes in a small container marked poultry seasoning and after Thanksgiving at some point it was marked down to like 35 cents a container or something, so you bought 4 and use it in most everything  you cook that involves chicken. It’s like basil or parsley or like dehydrated chicken or something. It smells Thanksgiving-y. 

Step 6. Husband and kids arrive home. Chop up carrots while husband comes in. Husband stares in soup pot and glares at the onion. Point out that he never eats your soup, so you put onion in it. He says he always eats your soup. You say that is not true at all, or if he does he complains it’s gross. He says he used to eat it all the time with the tortellini. Point out that you can’t eat gluten anymore and anyway he always said that the soup ruined the tortellini. He says nu-uh. You say, well this soup has onion in it. Add the carrots.

This is the correct amount of time in which to allow the stuff in the pot to come to a boil!

Step 7. Cut up 2 celery stalks. Give a third to your daughter. The rest of the steps must be accomplished while telling someone to stop screaming Junie B Jones or mumbling it, but rather reading in a nice normal voice after she’s swallowed the mouthful of celery.

Step 8. Add one cup of rice. This seems like a good time to do that.

Step 9. Open a can of peas, a can of sweet corn, a can of beans. Once a guy told you he made his soup without draining his canned veggies, and his soup was good. Dump in corn undrained. Drain most of the pea juice, because pea juice sounds gross. Dump nearly drained peas in the soup. Drain like a third of the green beans because you don’t want it to turn out too green beany. Dump it in, too. It will need more veggies. Nobody wants more peas or corn. Open one of those jumbo cans of green beans and drain some of that juice off and dump it in. There. That should be plenty.

Step 10. Cut up mostly the dark meat from a rotisserie chicken. Throw some to the cats. Chase off the bully cat who is eating it all. Perform a very large begging the other cat to eat pantomime and then shoo off the bully cat again. Put the rest of the chicken in a container to pack for the kids’ lunches. Decide that people will notice if you only put in dark meat and think you’re just trying to hide that you’re not giving them white meat. Cut up some white meat and add it.

Step 11. Now here is the tricky part. Stare at the soup for a minute and wonder how long it’ll take for one cup of rice to get big. There seems to still be a lot of liquid. Free pour rice in. Like maybe another 1/4 cup. Maybe 1/3 cup. Enough so that you have time to think, “Um, I’m sure that’s good now.” Then shake in some more pepper, salt, garlic powder and poultry seasoning. Then get out the onion powder, because half an onion is probably not enough. Shake in some of that.

Step 12. This is actually the most important step in all my soups. Add 5-7 shakes of Frank’s Red Hot Sauce. It doesn’t make it taste like hot sauce. It just gives it a boost of flavor and warmth. This is like legit cooking directions because in the 90s my mom used to buy Turtle Island Soup kits and all of their soups included a tiny bottle of hot sauce to add to the pot, because it makes all soup better.

Step 13. Now you send the person reading Junie B Jones away and call in someone else. You try to get information about when their next social studies quiz is and walk in and out of the kitchen a few times before telling them that since you’ve caught dinner on fire before when cooking for life group you can’t go off and look on your computer on the other side of the house to find the info for him. So make up a quiz on the spot about the Native Americans and their languages and the Powhatan’s main town when the settlers came and be sure to point out that the Disney movie while nice and all is inaccurate.

At this point you should have let enough time pass to realize the rice got really big. Like there might not be enough liquid after all. Pour like half of a cupful of water in the soup. Not like a measured half cup, but like, half of a plastic cup. You fill the cup most of the way up but don’t put it all in because that’d be too much. Then you’re sure you’ve ruined the seasoning ratio. Shake in some more salt, pepper, and poultry seasoning. Sniff the poultry seasoning and be happy Thanksgiving is on the way.

Step 14. Turn the soup on low. Remember that you probably should have had a lid on it or something. Put a lid on it. That might keep it from evaporating. Leave it like that til it is time to leave. Stir it one more time and hope it doesn’t slosh in the car.

While it simmers you can make Mrs. Remnant’s Pumpkin Fluff and gluten free buttermilk biscuits, which are totally easy and actually good, but you need like 5 more minutes than is left after you complete Steps 1-14 in order to make sure the biscuits are all done. That turns out fine though if you have good friends like the Taylors who will tolerate your blowing into their house all like HEY CAN I USE YOUR OVEN! That’s probably because they know they can keep an eye on things so you won’t catch the dinner on fire. Which only happened that one time.

This is a lovely meal. All the grown ups liked it and everyone else’s kids didn’t seem to hate it. Just mine. So, I don’t know what happened there, because I made it just like that last month and they loved it. Eh. Shrug.

Recipe

Total Time (However long it takes to get home from Walmart on Port which I left at maybe 430? 445? to leaving to go to the Taylors at 630…toldya it’d be important about going to Walmart.)

1 box of chicken broth from Sharp Shopper (maybe Swanson?)
6 cups water
3 big ol bouillon cubes
Half an onion that is totally fine
6 or 7 baby carrots
2 celery stalks (plus however many it takes to satisfy the kid)
1 can undrained sweet corn
1 normal sized can of sort of drained green beans
1 jumbo can (not like cafeteria jumbo, but like family jumbo) of sort drained green beans
1 can of mostly drained peas
3-15 shakes each of all of the following: Garlic powder, salt, pepper, onion powder, poultry seasoning, Frank’s Red Hot Sauce.
All the dark meat off a smallish rotisserie chicken minus what you feed the cats
Enough white meat so you don’t look like a jerk
1 carefully measured cup of white rice plus like…some more.
1 half of a plastic cup of water
The lid to your second biggest pot
Social Studies notes

Hope you enjoy my soup!!!

What Even Is Holiness?

Point blank, holiness is for weirdos.

The first time I heard “in the holiness tradition” I was pretty sure I just needed to pretend it hadn’t been said. If I were to repeat that phrase to most of my friends, they’d check my pockets for snakes and tell me to go find my big white tent.

It didn’t get any better either. “Entire sanctification,” they said. I mean, come on, guys. That is neither hip nor cool. Holy Spirit talk should be reserved for Pentecost. But Pentecost came and went, and these people were STILL talking about “the power of the Spirit that lives in us.”

In my youth, after Pentecost, we put away the banners with the felted tongues of fire and began to talk about what Youth Sunday would look like this year. Growing up in a church where we prayed corporately reading lines from the bulletin, I was happy to sticker the little flames over the disciples heads and talk about how they all spoke in different languages. I could list off the fruit of the Spirit but as far as this theology was concerned that was sort of it for me.

I listened through a few years of sermons which preached from this theology and just didn’t get it. Mostly I could make everything mesh with what I already believed and rewrite the messages I’d heard to suit my viewpoint. I could hang when they referred to it as “second blessing” which was comfortable in like a folksy, NPR phraseology sort of way, but every now and then someone would say “perfection” and I’d have to sigh quite deeply to drown that nonsense out.

I sat through conversation after conversation and explained how holiness is simply spiritual maturity. It is just learning to act like a decent human being. Sometimes I could badger people into agreeing with me and feel like a conversation winner, and sometimes they just looked at me like I had two heads. Life kept moving on, I behaved like a decent human being (for the most part) and I felt fine enough going to a church in the holiness tradition, because yo, check me out, I’m super spiritually mature.

There came a day where I finally had to have a conversation with myself. “Something has changed in me. I am waiting for it to go back to what it was, but it’s not going back. I know what these people would call this from the pulpit, but I am NOT using those theological terms and I am NOT ready to address the difference publicly. I might need to take a minute and think about, what even is holiness?”

I studied. I prayed. I engaged in conversations. I listened more carefully to the sermons being preached in my presences and I got online and dug into sermon archives to see what I’d missed the first time listening through. I beat my brains against the rock of this theology trying to see just how it could be so, how what I was experiencing could be what these words were describing.

And one day it came to me….

And for the friends I have who don’t really get what I’m talking about when I start talking about holiness, this is what I’m trying to say.

I pushed out to sea in a boat built for me by God sent to carry me across the ocean which separates here from eternity. The horizon stretched out beyond me, unimaginable that I’d ever reach it. I sat in that little boat, and watched as I drifted away from shore. I peeked over the edge and could see the bottom with shells and rocks and I dipped my arm in and tried to reach over the edge to grab a particularly pretty one, but my arm was not long enough.

“Strange,” thought I,”but this ocean seems deeper than I imagined.” And that thought began to needle at me. Because I understood what the water was. The water, that which held my little craft aloft, was grace. It was cool and it was shiny and it was constantly in motion.

It started out as a shallow curiosity, just how far below one might find the sea floor. Wasn’t it Paul who’d said, “And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” Paul wants me to figure out how deep the ocean is! Well, if anyone could figure it out, I am super smart AND super insightful, lots of people have said so.

I reached in my gear and pulled out a ruler. I’m even equipped to measure this! I reached my arm over the edge of the boat again and find that the boat has continued to pull towards the horizon. Deeper and deeper still the ocean grows and my silly little ruler is to short. The further out I traveled, the more this bothered me. This ocean…this bottomless well of His pardon….I should be able to grasp it’s depth, certainly! If thousands of years ago Paul could grasp it, surely I can with all my modern book learning.

I look up and see my Savior approaching, walking on the water towards me, and I know this may be my only opportunity. I call to Him, even when He is a long way off, “How deep is it?!?!” No reply. I draw breath in all the way to fill up my belly, “How deep is it?!!?” I bellow. He just continues to draw near.

Now all I want to do is figure it out before He reaches me. I scramble about the boat, looking for a yard stick, a fish finder, something, anything that I can use to measure better, but all I can come up with is this one limited little 12 inch ruler. It is obviously not enough, but it’s all I have. I drop my arm back in the water, stretching that ruler down as far as I can. I have to have an answer. I have to be able to properly thank Him for the depths of this ocean.

He reaches the boat and I sit up, dripping wet from all my leaning. He reaches a hand towards me, but we have a conversation to settle first and my hands are gripping that ruler tightly. It is my only means of measurement and if I let it go, I will have no way to solve this.

“It’s really deep,” I say, unable to look at Him, embarrassed that I couldn’t figure out the answer, ashamed of how stupid I must seem.

“Mm-hmm,” He replies, seeming almost uninterested in my intense theological quandary.

“I was pretty sure I could figure out how deep and how wide and how vast this ocean is, but this ruler is like, super short. I don’t want to complain about the gear in my boat, but I sort of fill unequipped to measure this.” I shifted uncomfortably on the boat bench.

“Mm-hmm,” He replies again.

“There is still time though. The horizon is still a long way off. Do you have anything with you that can help me? Sonar? One of those tiny submarines that I’ve seen on the Discovery Channel?” He looked at me quizzically and smiled. “I thought not,” I sighed.

He walks alongside of my boat while I consider my situation. After some time, minutes, hours, days, years, I don’t know which, I turn my face to Him again.

“It’s really deep, isn’t it?” I ask again.

He nods and smiles at me, “Mm-hmm.”

I look at my ruler and then at the ocean. I look at the face of my Savior and see His hand still out-stretched.

I reach once more over the edge of my boat…and release my little stick.

I don’t even notice it floating away as I place my hand in His hands, rise up, and step out of my boat. I have seen that the depths of the ocean of grace are not found by my limited understanding of measurement.

The depths of the ocean are found in walking on water in the company of my Savior towards a beautiful horizon.

There are no felted tongues of fire, no snakes, no tents. There is no hard to explain theological language to comprehend. Just me and Him, not worried about how strange it appears to see the two of us, wrapped up in conversation now, strolling further out to sea, foot to wave, together, hand in hand.

That, my friend…that is what even holiness is.

Roosevelt and Ohio

When I first meet Pastor Vic he asked where I was from. “Washington Court House, Ohio,” I’d replied, prepared to explain the usual answers. No, the whole town is not a courthouse. No, we didn’t live in a courthouse. Yes, that was it’s whole name or you can just say “Court House” and we’d know what you meant.

Instead, he said “Really? I sang at a small church there once.” He couldn’t remember the name of the church and after suggesting a few without him finding anything that stuck out, I closed up the conversation and moved on with my kids off to the rest of my Sunday.

We had that same conversation a few more times after that. The last time he shared it, he said the name of the pastor that he’d been invited by, a name I knew from the church history of our church back in Ohio. This pastor in this new church I was attending, had come and sang in my church in the middle of nowhere Ohio. My church.

This has remained as the first moment where I really began to see just how sweetly the story that God has written over this move and this chapter in our lives. One could call it a coincidence. And maybe that’s all it is. Maybe I search too much for meaning in meaningless things. Regardless, this was one of those moments where I feel the breath of God on my ear as He leans in and softly says, “I see you there, Sarah. I have had plans for you for a long time. I know what I’m doing. You can trust me.”

There have been many of those moments over the past few years, where I have seen the words on my pages and recognize the handwriting.

This morning I climbed in the car with two friend to go call on a third who is laid up with a bum ankle. I questioned the direction we were taking and tried to convince them of a right turn when they went left. Set comfortably in the backseat, it didn’t take but a moment to figure out I didn’t have the wheel in my hands, so to just relax and see how we’d get where we were going.

We rolled past JMU and bounced over train tracks as their chatter turned towards the old days in the history of our church. They indicated that the church was really close to us, we could drive past it if I liked. Oh, I liked.

“Rose…” I began to say and felt like I was about to mispronounce the street name, and then flying past my mind’s eye was Rose Ave, part of my Ohio church, a dear ministry which I just nod “right on” when I think of it. “Roosevelt Street,” I said. There was this moment of connection between the two places, as if one had passed the other and waved at a familiar face across the street.

To the right we turned. “Where is it?” I asked, anxious to see just exactly what sort of building housed this family before I joined it. “Right there, behind that tree.” As we pulled past this heavy laden apple tree, there the old church stood. They allowed me to step out and snap a picture. Back in the van I climbed and we continued on our way.

As we rounded the block, I showed them where I lived my senior year of college. “You lived right by the church!” Oh…I did. I lived right by the church, not more than two blocks away. I had no idea.

We continued our morning through stories brought about by familiar locations, our planned visit, through biscuits and coffee, pugs and cats and a lot of laughter. I looked at these three other women with me and was simply satisfied that I had found these people. I knew I had to look at that picture when I left their company, to consider the different direction we’d traveled that morning, to revisit that moment where Rose Ave recognized Roosevelt Street in my brain, to put my eyes back on that corner.

I opened Instagram and posted the picture. This building that I looked at saw the growth that demanded a much larger space, saw the hand of God and saw the brokenness of man meet. This building realistically looks like it could be housed on Rose Ave in Ohio and fit naturally there, less polished, evidencing additions built within limitations of space, worn by time, in the heart of a neighborhood that is reminiscent of Rose Ave’s neighborhood.

When I came to this church it was a long time before I could understand why this church, why these people. They didn’t look like what I imagined myself serving. They didn’t match my image of where I should be called. This morning looking at the roots of the family tree my church is built out of….the history of my church….the foundation of my church…I recognized that this place, these people, they have some Rose Ave in them.

Then there was a whisper, a breath on my ear, “Zoom in.” And I did.

There on the street sign on that corner…Roosevelt St. meets Ohio Ave.

The air slipped out of my mouth. I heard Pastor Vic telling me about his coming here from Ohio where he’d lived and about how he’d been to my tiny town in Ohio decades ago to sing one Sunday. Ohio to Roosevelt.

I thought about how just around the corner from where I lived in college was a story being written for me, about how I had no Ohio in my life yet, and that it would take nearly 10 years in Ohio to even begin to make me into who He could use at this church and how He brought us here. Ohio to Port Road.

Then I recognized the handwriting and heard the whisper as it was read to me, “”I see you there, Sarah. I have had plans for you for a long time. I know what I’m doing. You can trust me.”

Grieving With Hope

I’m awake again in the middle of the night for the 12th time this week. 23rd time this week. 47th…how many days are in a week again? There tapping it’s finger on the front of my face, is a sensation with just enough pressure to make me wonder if it is a major headache brewing or if it is something more sinister which has crawled out of a bad dream and won’t let me be. I can’t sleep.

So I’ve prayed through my nights this week. For family, for friends, for miracles, for release, for lost already and looming loss, for storms which left devastation and storms on the way, for spoken and unspoken things.

A wise man spoke about putting arrows in your quiver to draw out when you are in battle. Those arrows are truth. Those arrows are scripture.

I reach over my shoulder and pull one out. Etched on the long thin line it reads “Sorrow may last for a night, but joy comes with the morning.” I place the weapon in ready position, take aim at the darkness and let it fly.

I reach back again and my fingers find the next. “Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Steady the bow, loose the arrow and it is out beyond me.

The last I draw out is rougher. I roll it back and forth between my fingers while I consider it, consider if it is safe to use. Consider it’s impact and implications. “We don’t want you to grieve like other people who have no hope.” I set it up to shoot and take it out and reread it.

“We don’t want you to grieve like other people who have no hope.”

It has been years since I first read this verse and feared the message communicated was “Don’t grieve, because grief is some sort of evidence that you are without hope. Swallow the sorrow. Smile.” Oh no. It has been many years since God said to me, “Sarah, grieve. You are allowed to grieve. Just, do it with hope.” I understand that it is not hope versus grief. It is hope pack inside grief, or the other way around, I’m not certain which.

How to manage this feat? How to shoot this arrow at my clock which tells me another hour has gone by and the sun has not yet risen. How do we grieve with hope? What is the difference?

Once more I reach over my shoulder and find the first two arrows, returned to the quiver. Easier in my hand they find their way to the bowstring again.

“Sorrow may last for a night, but joy comes with the morning.”

Sorrow happens. A nod to that final arrow. A confirmation that grief is allowed. Beyond that is the first clue. Joy comes in the morning.

I glance out my window and see no sun on the horizon, but I am assured it will make its way, journeying the same path. Certainly if all the light of noonday were to appear in the heavens at this moment my eyes would darken themselves. No, nighttime has stars and a moon, just enough to feel my way through, just enough. The first difference is that we know even when the moon is new and the stars are obscured by clouds, we have an assurance, a basic, take it for granted, fundamental belief that the sun will rise. So too will joy. So too.

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”

There was a time when the only arrow I could find read “Ye, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” I reached again and again and it was the same, over and over. Until someone handed me this arrow and I saw, I may walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but the shadow which is over me is the covering of the Almighty. Under His wing I find protection and defense, but also the light of the world. The shadow of the Most High is no lost impenetrable black valley we find ourselves in at times. It is a place to stay, to find refuge, to rest and remain.

We all will look up and see shadow, the question is what is bigger, our grief or our God? Not what do we make bigger or an instruction to cram the responsibility of somehow growing God in our own estimation on top of our hurt, but simply, which is bigger? If the answer is honestly God then He will have no trouble defending you from your own grief.

Again I touch the third.

“We don’t want you to grieve like other people who have no hope.”

We.

I think maybe I understand. We. I am awake tonight praying for, seeking the word for encouragement to give away. We.

We are not alone. Job’s friends sat in silence and mourned with him, sackcloth and dirt. The disciples clung to one another in the boat as the waves thrashed about. David’s men worried over how to deliver the hard news of child loss for fear of his devastation. Three went in the fiery furnace together. We.

Tonight I am awake for friends. Another night they may lay awake for me. We.

*************

Lay down in your night, I will send you a light.
Cover your face with your hands.
Lay down in your night,
The sun will soon rise,
Morning will begin again.

Lay down in your night, the seconds tick by,
A metronome steady and true.
Lay down in your night,
I’ll keep watch by your side,
I will wait here with you.

************
I moved my computer off of me and fell asleep last night. I return this morning to finish this post. The sun came up this morning. It rose, and I look again to the promise that joy comes with the morning, and yet I know, for some of my friends it is still midnight.

So I go again to prayer, to looking towards my fortress, to addressing the One who casts a shadow of refuge in the valley of the shadow of death.

For the assurance of His promises, I pray to the Lord.
For the overflow of His Spirit, I pray to the Lord.
For midnight to give way to dawn, I pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear my prayer.

 

Is Unity Even Possible?

It would be wrong to describe my time of late as “reflecting on unity.” That phrase makes it sound like I have a tree and some tea and I’m watching the sunrise and thinking peaceful deep thoughts. No, I am learning through growth, sometimes with a stretching that must be akin to being put on a torturous rack and wrenched beyond what I can tolerate.

This is not just some singular thought that is staying nicely within the lines of one lesson, but rather it is bleeding into many parts of my life. It is political. It is professional. It is ecumenical.

You can hardly get online anywhere without worrying over the division around us. As I type my left hand wishes to type one way and my right another. Should I point at the hypocrisy? Should I announce my positions? Should I offer advice to the church? Should I take the opportunity to speak to the nation at large (or lets be realistic, because the nation at large doesn’t read my blog, so perhaps it’d be better to say “the nation at small.”)

I would not be true to where my heart is, where my words pour from if I left my faith out of this, however this is something I feel is not a specific word for the church, and so this is my starting point.

1 Corinthians 12:20 “As it is, there are many parts, but one body.”

I was turning the chapter this lies in over in my head on my drive to work this morning. It occurred to me that nowhere in this passage does it says “Work towards unity.” There is no reference to striving or to effort spent drawing the thumb towards the hand and saying “Be more secured to the body, thumb.” There is no indication that one body is responsible for the other part becoming attached, becoming useful, becoming used. No, the body is all created, and there is an underlying message, a starting point, which says, “This is the body you’re stuck with.”

There is flexibility in life. We can move from one people group to another. We can change churches, change jobs, change political allegiances, change zip codes and move to Canada, but the same experience will arise over and over until this concept sinks in. This is the body you’re stuck with. The body you’re in is created and formed already, you are just a piece in it.

You will no more be able to force unification with your body that you could jam toe into your ear and expect something to work. Your toe would be connected to your ear, certainly, and your toe and your ear would be discovering new things about one another, but both would be rendered useless in function.

In the same way, the foot will never truly be able to comprehend the purpose, the function, the design, and the application of skills required for the ear to move waves in the air from floating in the world into the brain. And furthermore, it’s not necessary for the toe to understand it all.

Would it be nice and helpful? Sure. Does it teach the foot to value the ear as uniquely wired and wonderfully made perfect to the purpose in its existence? This heel surely thinks so! But at the end of the day, whether each part can grasp the purpose or function of the other is secondary to the individual part performing and perfecting its purpose!!!

If each of use would spend our days working to be exemplary in our own created nature, to serve our purpose naturally, then our body will function with the radiant beauty of a professional ballerina moving in a way which will cause everyone watching to hold their breath in awe.

We need to know enough about each other to work together. A hand must know that in order to feed the body, the mouth must open, however it is not the responsibility of the hand to open the mouth! When the hand holds the mouth open, it can’t do it’s job! We get so busy trying to explain to others how they should be functioning, when and where and why and how they should be doing their job in the way we think it should be done, that we miss completing the task in front of us, and while the hand and the mouth try to figure out how to open and shut, the rest of the body starves.

Hands, stop using your fingers to point out flaws!
Eyes, stop casting sideways glances!
Mouth, stop bossing about the rest of the pieces!

Rather…

Hands, feed the stomach.
Eyes, travel ahead to protect the feet from stumbling.
Mouth, pray for the body.

Friends….if unity possible?

I think the point is that we are already unified. We don’t seem to have much choice about it. We just need to learn to operate in harmony by doing what we were created to do to the best of our abilities and trust that the rest of the pieces are doing this as well. This is accomplished with the practice of some very basic directions that we are able to do if we actually want to do this.

I need to hear this as much as anyone else.

Do your part. Do it well.

 

 

 

Fear Is A Liar

       Ringing in my ears as I walked through life this week was the grainy recording of FDR addressing the country and declaring this, say it with me, y’all, “The only thing we have to fear. . .is fear itself. . .”
In my childhood this quote stood tall and mighty next to JFK’s “Ask not” and MLK Jr’s “I have a dream” in defining who I was as an American. Americans, like MLK, strive towards a more compassionate and unified future. Americans, like JFK, seek to serve. And Americans, like FDR, are not afraid of anyone or anything, no way, no how.
Or, at least, we were.
It is undeniable that we are no longer a nation of challengers, a country full of men and women, shirt tails tucked, chins raised, eyes to the sky ready to face whatever may come our way. We are instead scattering, all pointing to the blue above with one hand and covering our faces with the other while we cry out “it’s falling!”
This is not a political statement. It has political applications, but this is a cultural one.
I keep coming back to this conversation. It’s different people, friends, family members, strangers, people from all walks of life. We are afraid. We are anxious. We are nervous. We have fallen into what FDR spoke of and I can see he was right.
Fear, friends, has it’s claws dug into our backs and it is a terrifying and terrible thing to witness. I’ve spoken into it before, but I will say it again. Fear is the enemy and the enemy is fear.
I’ve been hearing songs lately that say just what dear departed Dr. Klamet told me years ago, that fear is a liar. Fear is not real. You won’t prevent bad things from happening by being sick to your stomach with anxiety anticipating the worst and you won’t actually feel better should those bad things come to pass because you can say that you worried about it being just as it is. Fear can’t change the future, all fear can do is steal the joy of today.
I sat by a river and told someone this a few months ago. I sat on a stage and said the same. I sat in an office and there it was again. And tonight I sat in my bed and typed it to a far away friend.
Fear is a liar.
Fear tells us one little lie and he buys us for nothing. He must only claim to have the payment in his pocket, but he never is indebted to produce the purchasing price.  We give the weight, the value, the credit for fear to speak to our hearts and minds when we consider the lie as if it were or as if it could be truth and in that moment we arrange to foot the bill.
It is us who pays. We pay in our health. We pay in our relationships. We pay in our self care. We pay in our appetite. We pay in our sanity. We pay in the weariness in our soul. We pay and we pay and we pay until we are broke and broken.
And what we heard, never was so.
Oh there are things that are terrifying. There are things which sink stones in our stomachs which pull us underwater and threaten to drown us in sorrow.

Drugs.
Bombs.
Politics.
Riots.
Racists.
Assailants.
Bullies.
Kidnappers.
Accidents.
Corruption.
Fires.
Floods.
Cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.

     Which of those is improved by adding fear? Which of those is solved by fear? Which of those will be more easily handled should they be handed to you is you are also clenching your fists around fear? None of them!
But which of those have you seen resolved, overcome, defeated, restored, put out? I know, I am not naive, that it is not always a story of victory with no cost, not always a story of victory at all. But as long as you have seen one wildfire put out, you can believe that this too will be extinguished. And there is truth, absolute truth, that at some point, there was a wildfire that was the first to be put out.
There is hope.
There is hope, friend.
Even if all these things come to pass, even if we are struck from all sides, even if our lives and our bodies are destroy, there is hope. These things of the world….they are just a moment. And we have the power to choose, moment by moment, will we live in love or will we live in fear?
1 John 4:16-18 talks about how God is love and how those who have God, have love. It goes right into telling us that perfect love drives out fear. They cannot exist together. It concludes “He who fears is not made perfect in love.”
There are things I hear that stop me in my tracks for a moment. There in the distance I can see the waters rising up, building into a huge wave which threatens to crash on top of me and press me down into the undertow. But I have the choice. I have the choice to say, “I will not be pulled under.” I have walk on water kind of power to make the choice to not believe the lies.
The only thing that causes me trepidation is the idea that I might be overtaken by fear, because I cannot jam perfect love in the same space as complete fear. Cancer cannot press out perfect love, nor can fire or flood destroy it. Evil people cannot silence perfect love, nor can an accident catch it off guard. But love, it cannot exist where there is fear.
We must be on guard against fear.
When the adversary whispers lies…don’t believe him.
There is always hope.
And some may think I’m a fool.
Some might think I am simple.
Some might think I’m obnoxiously and naively holding on to a false belief system that will fail me.
That’s ok.
I’m not afraid of what people might think of me for having hope.
I’m not afraid of anything….except fear.

Is Speaking Truth Love?

In college I went with a group of kids to hear a speaker at EMU. I have long since struggled to remember if it was Max Lucado or Phil Yancey, but those are two names written down the sides of bookshelves quite frequently in those days. Most often I credit this bit of wisdom shared there to Max Lucado, but I’m covering my bases here. The words are clear, the speaker is fuzzy.

The words were: We have to speak truth in love. To speak love without truth is a lie, but to speak truth without love…that is no truth at all.

Let me say them again: We have to speak truth in love. To speak love without truth is a lie, but to speak truth without love…that is no truth at all.

For this strong minded, loud mouthed little girl, that was a shifting comment. If you knew me in college, you could rightly describe me as someone who speaks her mind. She will tell it like it is. She says what others are thinking, but won’t voice. If the truth cuts like a knife and leaves a wound, I was certain the other person would be reminded every time they looked at the scar I’d caused and be reminded of truth.

I can remember those days like they were just a year or two ago. Because, probably they still were. Truth, friends, TRUTH!!!! I know truth! And people need to know it. They cannot go astray. They cannot be misled. And where they are veering to the left of the right it was my responsibility to correct where I saw deviance from the most strict, most honest line.

I loved that quote from college but for many years when someone would quote from Romans “For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate, I do” I would hear my heart cheer in response, “My mouth, y’all. Welcome to my mouth.”

I’d flip from Romans to James 3 and read “All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.” Then, knowing the struggle to do what I want to do, but doing what I don’t want to do while trying to tame an uncontrollable beast…I was certain there was no hope of overcoming this.

Sure, I gained some manner of control and learned how to restrict my comments and opinions so that I could generally function as a socially appropriate person, but truth would get me every time and I would be unable to hold it in. If I am commanded to speak truth, then every time you choose silence when you have truth is a lie. Or so I thought.

I want to preface what I’m about to say with this disclaimer: What I am working through in my head does not involve situations where one must speak truth to defend a victim or to report illegal activity. Does. Not. And I am in no way encouraging people to lie. I absolutely believe in the high value of honesty and the piercing impact it has when employed.

But, here is the thing. I would see people look at the mark I’d left behind when I’d whipped out truth, and they didn’t seem to be grateful for the reminder that they should be realigning themselves. In fact, they would often go the other way. But why? I’d spoken truth. I’d even been intentional to do it in a kind and compassionate manner.

The past few days I’ve been reflecting on the mighty and terrible power of speaking one’s mind. I’ve reflected on a few moments in the past years or two where I’ve learned more about controlling my mouth than I ever learned in the first 34 years.

I had many stories to reflect on. Times I’ve told the truth and it made people mad. Time I’ve told the truth and the person didn’t hear me. Times I’ve told the truth and people have acted like they agree to get me to be quiet.  How I have felt the burden for truth. How I have felt the responsibility to say what “needs to be said.” How I have held to the belief that to hold your tongue is to lie, every time.

My friends, just because you know something to be true, it does not mean that the way to speak truth in love is to open your mouth. The quote that is often attributed to St. Francis of Assisi is true: Preach the gospel at all times and when necessary, use words.

I have in the past year taken some theological questions via email with a dear friend and spiritual leader in my life, if no longer official by certificate of membership, his grace and wisdom is a voice I will always covet to speak into this walk. I have taken via email the same questions to another spiritual leader in my life, and I don’t know why I think the answers will ever be any different from one to the other, it helps to have these two voices who are willing to help me hash things out and help me simplify the matter at hand. The topics have varied, but as I look at our conversations in the rearview mirror, I am finding that they all boil down to this…

Me: I have a truth and the rest of the world won’t conform to it.
They: Extend grace.
Me: Also, they can be mean and hypocritical because they lack the understanding of truth that I have!
They: Extend grace anyway.
Me: I could extend grace better if I could accompany it with truth.
They: Are you willing to look at your truth, to lean in and to be open to a truth that is outside of your very capable brain?
Me: Yes, but I’m right.
They: Ok.

And a few days later the conversation changes.

Me: I may have been wrong in my analysis of truth.
They: Ok. Tell me.
Me: New truth. Presentation of evidence. Conclusion.
They: Excellent! You have done well to lean in on this!
Me: I don’t feel so much like I need to argue about it with that person anymore….but it’s still not fair that they get to be mean and hypocritical.
And then this…..
This every time….
They:  Whose problem is that?
Me: Oh.

While processing a theological point in the past month, I went through this same conversation sequence with one of these great men and when we reached the point where he said, “I think that your confusion over other people’s responses is their problem… not yours.”

Oh my heart. Or rather, oh my ears. They were finally open. This person has said this to me for nearly a decade in one way or another. He has spoken that same truth over and over while I didn’t hear him.

You know what I have heard though? I have heard him allow me my strongly held beliefs, even when they are the exact opposite of my own. I have heard him encourage me to follow God’s word to me and God’s leading on my life even if it points me in different directions than he’d chose for his own.

But what speaks the loudest to me from both of these men is this. I have heard them not say things. They have held their tongues and chosen words carefully to be as clear as possible without giving more information than I needed at the time. They have not used the application of truth from their lives to attempt to realign my beliefs or actions into a forced submission of what they think and how God has convinced them to walk.

What has spoken to me louder than any other truth they’ve helped me find is when they’ve chosen to reserve their words and allow God to speak to me. 

I have stayed in the conversation because they have not told me to be quiet by pressing their rightness over my wrongness. They answer my questions as honestly and reflective of their interpretations to the best of their abilities, and those have helped me process concepts. But concepts are concepts.

What is speaking into my heart, what is changing me, what is absolute proof to me that entire sanctification exists alongside of ongoing gradual sanctification while I watch layer after layer being pulled back on my life, is the love, is the grace, and is the commitment to allowing God to be the truth giver, and not having the arrogance to think they have all the answers, not every story needs to be told. Neither do they bear the burden of responsibility to change my mind.

I am slowly but surely learning, it is my responsibility to work out my own salvation, not everyone else’s around me. I am slowly learning how to speak truth in love by closing my mouth. I am slowly learning that if I want to communicate truth in love I have to be committed to a conversation that could last for years, to play the long game, because truth is eternal, truth outlasts a conversation. I am learning to trust God more in this way.

I will close with how I responded to the comment that my confusion over other people’s responses being their problem, not mine.

It is something to consider that the more I learn, the more I come across the idea that the rightness and wrongness of the rest of the world is not my problem. I should write that on an index card and pin it to my desk.

Today I think I shall do just that.  🙂

Speak truth, y’all, and now how to do it with your mouth closed.

The Church On Tangier Island

Sometimes missing church happens, but in this day and age with all the technology available, you can find a service to livestream any hour of the day. That is, you can find a service to livestream unless of course you are visiting Tangier Island.

When you go to Tangier you are going there to disconnect, and disconnect you shall, because unless you stand by this one large mud puddle near the beach or this a certain plank on the seldom used dock behind the Muddy Toes library, you won’t have enough signal to text, let alone find a sermon.

I’d resigned myself to being churchless this past Sunday, until, as we rode the golf cart around the corner to our B&B, I saw the marquee. Service after service was listed. I saw that there would be 2 services that evening and my curiosity was piqued.

Cats, gnats, beach, bikes and ice cream, I have experienced Tangier.  But I’d never stepped foot inside the little white church on the corner. As it turned out, we’d come on homecoming weekend. No football games and pep rallies for this event, homecoming weekend is just what it sounds like. When the folks who’ve left the island return. There is a festival style party with bounce houses and a stage. People who’ve gone off to serve on the mainland in ministry come home and help lead in the many services offered all weekend long.

I have in years past looked with curiosity at the small white church on the corner, but we’ve never been there during a service. This would be my opportunity to find out just what church on the island is like.

I entered up the steps into a small entry. No signs necessary to find my way to the sanctuary, I needed only allow myself to be led by preacher who grasped my hand as I entered and swinging our handshake to the left guided me a step and a half forward into a wide well light room.

Oh, I thought, I know this kind of church.

The light came generously through beautiful stained glass windows. The wooden pews formed sort of a semi-circle facing the pulpit which was raised about the congregation a few steps. The pews were soft and shiny and one could imagine that in just the right Easter dress you could slide from one end to the other if you got a good start. This church and others like it smell the same, a mixture of dampness (this one with a tinge of salt air), Murphey’s Oil Soap and a few centuries of potluck casseroles.

This church would be the same as others I’d been to, I was certain, where eyes don’t lift 3 feet above the ground the entire service, gazing from hymnals during singing, watching your knees during the sermon, and checking in your purse or your pockets for a mint or something else to pass the time.

A strong woman took to the front and raised a mighty welcome and immediately my head popped up. She greeted everyone and I strained to understand her thick island accent. For the first minute or two, she could have been talking about coffee and crabs, boats and buoys, for all I know, but it was pleasant. After a moment, the strange vowels sounded natural I could understand her, and I was smiling with her joy expressed of services I’d missed that morning and the day before, of seeing friends and family back to visit. “Hey!” she’d called. An island word, a greeting so common to her and a joy she’d found to share with a man she knew from Africa, teaching him how on Tangier one local greets another. “Hey!” the congregation rang back.

Something seemed to let me know I wouldn’t be knee watching this service. I looked from window to window, from pew to pew, and the familiarity of an old time church was still in the tangible building, but something fresh was in the room, too.

As the service got underway, we sang old hymns, songs that I’ve been singing to myself this summer and missing. I love the new worship music, but sometimes it’s nice to sing “How Great Thou Art” without a kicking drum solo in the middle. One lady in the choir had a solo, and though the style of her singing was classic, it was full of newness. A duet of two middle aged men sang and old song and sounded about like two pleasant men singing until something moved the songs from their mouths, deeper, and it resonated from within them and spilled thickly into the air around us all.

The missionary woman came again and invited joys and concerns and testimonies, and people rose to their feet and shared, joy upon joy and then one man, certainly in his early 60s stood and shared how grateful he was for his salvation. With a tremble in his voice and a tear in his eye, he spoke more sweetly about how much his faith meant to him than I may have ever heard. Ever. So unexpected to me and so precious was that moment, that I could only think “What is this place?”

The visiting speaker took to the pulpit and said that when he’d been asked to speak on homecoming weekend, he knew right away what he’d preach from. I tried to pull up a fast verse in my head with the word home in it and predict where we were going, but he went straight into his verse, from Proverbs 22 “Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set.” Well, that doesn’t have the word home in it at all!

He gave a fine message where he spoke about his favorite national landmarks, and then moved to his favorite island landmarks. He shared the story of the history of faith on the island brought ashore with Rev. Joshua Thomas, a great story unto itself. He told of revivals that had happened on the island, where hundreds of people came forward to receive Christ. He referenced a revival on the island as recently as 1996.

Then he made this point. The landmarks WILL fall. The island, which is slowly being taken back into the sea as they pray for the funding needed for a second sea wall, the island too will fall. The people, good and faithful though they be, will also pass, from this life to the next. They are not immune to the passage of time. None of these are the landmarks. Not even, he pointed out, would he say that the revivals were landmarks. Those prayers and songs and times ended and people moved on from the altars.

No, he said, Christ is our landmark. Remove not Christ from your life, for He alone is the only which is unpassable, unshakable. He will remain.

And he closed expressing hope for another revival. It doesn’t matter that the most recent revival they’d experienced was in 1996, no time was too soon for more of God. His hope was for revival. His hope, he said, is that when people speak of Tangier Island that they say “They are a godly people.”

I will say of Tangier Island, they are a godly people. Do I know each of them? No. Do I think that they are free from the ins and outs and ups and downs of life? No. But this I know. While we on the mainland download and upgrade our faith, Tangier carries on, with hymnals and stained glass, with pews and and a pulpit. The service I experienced was dynamic and dear. It is not something you can manufacture for a special weekend. It is very obviously natural to them.

If you get the opportunity to go visit Tangier, include in your stay over a trip to the little white church on the corner.

Two last notes worth mentioning, if only so I can remember them years from now.

First, on the island there is a second church that I didn’t get to attend. I thought about the old joke about the man shipwrecked on the island who when rescuers arrived they found he’d built many small buildings. He showed them around his village he’d built pointing here and there saying “That’s my house, that’s the diner where I eat. That’s my church.” They saw another structure he hadn’t named and asked about it. He made a disgusted face and said “That’s the church I used to go to.” I wondered what it must be like to be on an island with two churches. On the mainland, we often ignore the churches in our neighborhood, viewing them as competition or not viewing them at all in our business to only view ourselves.

In the sermon, the man was thanking God for all the ways He’d blessed Tangier and set Himself among them. In this piece, he took time to thank God for the other church, for their work and their ministry to the island.

And secondly, as we entered the church there was a dog trying desperately to gain access to the sanctuary. He was shooed away repeatedly and I chuckled at how interested he was. Towards the end of the service, a woman rose and tiptoed out of the front door and returned a moment later. A minute or two after this, as our heads were bowed in prayer, I saw the woman in front of me jump a little. She spun around and mouthed something to people behind me.  Leaning forward, her shoulders went up and down with a little effort and then she popped back up, carrying the holy little mutt and taking him back to the entrance, she pitched him a little unceremoniously out the door.

It was as if I was reading a left out chapter from James Herriot’s Dog Stories. ❤

This service, these moments are enough to encourage you to give Tangier a visit and to find that church in session, but if that’s not in your ability, pray for those people, for their hope for revival and for their sea wall.

Resting Place?

Y’all, I’ve been busy. Like buuuuuuuuh-issss-eeee.

It has never been so apparent that I have spent the ten months before taking this job waiting for the phone to ring at a desk. My mornings, noons and nights have been jam packed. My muscles are pointing at each other saying “She hasn’t used me for a while, Has she used you? No?” A friend noted that she hadn’t seen anything from my blog in a few weeks, and I confirmed that it wasn’t a trick of Facebook choosing not to show her my posts, but in fact I hadn’t posted anything new in a long time.

Oh, I’ve started posts. You would not believe all the phenomenal expressions of the starts of ideas I’ve had the past 5 weeks, but before I can look back over things and hit post, I either run out of time or collapse asleep exhausted.

I have been doing and serving and helping and giving. I have done my honest best to do it with a good attitude and when I felt the stress level rising to walk myself into some private conversation with God, to seek out the counsel of a friend, or to sing and then sing louder.

But I have been living in anticipation of Tangier Island.

I am heading to Richmond with the kids today to join my parents and then rising before the sun tomorrow to head to the boat. A couple of days disconnected from the world, surrounded on all sides by rest and recovery? I can hardly wait!

It was with a body tired that I sent my mind to the ferry, checked out in the middle of the week. I have earned a break. So when it was suggested on Thursday that I help out  the next day building the pergola at the Resting Place at the fair, I was very clear. I would NOT be doing that. I was all served out.

Friday I drove in to do the last little bit at work I needed to do and start my vacation ASAP with some time spent with a friend I had missed during my busy season. What better to recover my spirit that lunch with my friend Jen.

Jen and I are so alike that I best describe her to others saying, “She is like my brain outside of my body so I can talk to myself and not appear crazy.” Whatever it took I would be hanging with her today. Girls lunch out? Running errands? Help her settle into her new house? Whatever it took I would hang with her today.

I did my few things and then texted her.

Me: Hey! What are your plans today?
Jen: Helping set up the Resting Place at the fair.

Ha. Ha. Hardy har har. I get your point, Big Guy.

So, even though I’d adamantly refused to go do that the day before, laughing and assuring the people who suggested it that I’d see them Wednesday, I turned the wheel towards Rt 11 and showed up at the fairgrounds.

I wouldn’t say that I built a pergola yesterday. But I spent a few hours doing little tasks like spray painting buckets or holding a corner post of the pergola so the people who know what they’re doing could build it. And I did that with an interesting assortment of people. It was a few hours of laughter, joking, bouncing ideas around and arranging furniture.

I had to stop and smile when I remembered that last year I knew for some time before that I wouldn’t end up helping with this annual offering my church has at the fair, and sure enough, fair week rolled around and my appendix went phooey on me. This time I am headed out of town for the first half and unavailable for the second half, but it was nice getting to see what goes into preparing for rest.

I was sure a few days ago that should I agree to show up and do any physical labor before my trip, I’d end up even more tired, but as I pulled out of that parking lot I had that same feeling I had every time I volunteered last year. It was as if I’d gotten more out of the experience than I had given.

I said to another friend this week, “You have to choose to take time beside still water, or else you’ll sat down and that’s no fun. It says ‘He leadeth me beside the still water.’ Sometimes He has to trip us to force us to sit down and rest.”

I don’t know that my brain is put back together enough for a well written conclusion this morning. But can I encourage you to do something?

Don’t count out the idea of rest. Rest and recovery is every bit as important in our spiritual, mental and emotional lives as it is in our physical lives.

And secondly, don’t count out the idea that rest might be found in doing something.  There was more relaxation in being helpful with good friends than I would have found on any couch. I have found little in life as restorative as doing good work that I don’t HAVE to do.

If you are at the Rockingham County Fair this week, stop out at The Resting Place and enjoy a moment of relaxation.

I’ll be thinking of and praying for the island of respite I’m missing at home while I’m sailing out to an island of respite in the Chesapeake Bay.