A: for Advent

I don't write enough.  I don't write enough to finish my novel or blog all my ideas.  I don't write enough to appease my sister, my mom, my husband, or my closest friends.  I don't write enough to be faithful to a calling on my life.  And I don't write enough to feed my soul.

A while back I came across a fun idea to blog through the alphabet.  I wanted to give it a go, but then I didn't.  And I didn't for so long that I wondered if I ever would.  Then an idea to write a post about something I read popped into my head, and in church this morning it dawned on me that it's an advent post, and advent starts with A.  So here we go.  (Hopefully you can read a post on zebras or zoology or ziplock baggies in December of 2016.  We'll call that a win.)

This has been a hard advent.

Family members have given up watching the news.  Eyes are regularly filled with tears threatening to spill.  People are dying, hate is filling the news . . . I met a woman who said she and her husband were talking about their children growing up and wondering what world would be here for the children they might have some day . . . and whether they should even have those children.  Life is hard.  And this advent doesn't feel much like a season of joyous anticipation.

Some advents are.  Some years the air is bursting with excitement as we count down the weeks until the Christ candle is lit and all the presents are ripped open.  It's more of a "Hey, you guys!  One more week down! Only three to go! Can you hardly wait?!"

But this year.  This year it's more of a pleading.  A "How long do we have to wait?  I don't know if I can do this another day, let alone another week.  Come, Lord Jesus. Why are you taking so long?"

My oldest daughter and I just finished reading the Harry Potter series together.  I loved them even more this time, reading them with her.  The 7th book was especially meaningful, and I love that we read it during advent.  There is a scene that caused those close tears to fall and my voice to catch so much I had to pause. My daughter looked at me when I did, both of us lying there in my bed.  She just looked up at me, and I smiled while the tears fell and said, "This is life. This is what keeps us going."  She smiled and nodded, and we read on.

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry's despair, which was like a promise of a feast . . .

He saw Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling . . .

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads: The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach.  Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . ."

"Something happy?" he said, his voice cracked.

"We're all still here," she whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now . . ."

There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the stag burst forth from the end of Harry's wand . . .                                    {Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p649}

This has been a year, friends.  Mine started with my dad in surgery to remove cancer from his body.  Along the way between then and now, friends' parents have been lost, jobs have been taken, pregnancies have been deemed "high risk," Beirut, Paris, San Bernadino, Colorado, Oregon, airplanes have been blown out of the sky, and, just last week, a friend's 17-year-old daughter committed suicide.

Life is wearying, and this advent feels like more of a lament than a joy.

As the pastor said during last week's funeral, this in between is a hard place to live.  

It is, isn't it?  This in between when Jesus was born and died and resurrected and ascended and when Jesus comes again to set everything right can feel like hell on earth.  It feels never ending, and I worry sometimes that it may be all consuming.  This might be the death of us.

At least that's how it feels.

But then, there's someone there. Someone who stands next to me and whispers, "Did you see God right there?" Someone who lifts me up and helps me stand. Someone who says, "We're still here. And we're still fighting."

And then there's Hope.  

I was asked on Friday what is my happiness. "If you really knew me, you would know my happiness is . . ."

And my answer was, "Hope." 

My happiness is Hope.  This year, in the midst of all this darkness and fighting and lamenting and crying I quit taking my antidepressant. The main reason was crazy, foolish even perhaps.  But I also wanted to see if I could do it.  And so far I have.  Because my happiness is Hope.  It's seeing a glimmer of God, of His people fighting, of all of us together lamenting His advent.

On Friday I was also challenged to share my happiness.  So . . . I give you Hope.  I wish for you, in whatever your lament, Hope.  Deep-seated, rooted somewhere you can't even see Hope.

Empowered Through Pain

It's been an interesting 14 months for the Bierenga family.  I've alluded to some of our family's journey here and here and again here.  I have wrestled over the last year with how much to write, whether to write, and what to really say.  In the end, I still haven't written.  I know I will, because that's what I do.  But I still need a little more space to really climb into it.

At the same time, something settled in my brain on Monday that I have to share.  Then it will feel real, and public, and permanent (remember, that's true about the internet).

Monday dawned dark and early, and I was in a bed at my parents' house.  My parents were on their way out the door.  I needed to shower so my sister and I could join them in a curtained room in the surgical prep area of Hackley Hospital in Muskegon.  The morning was freezing cold, and we shivered our way to the hospital before the sun was even considering breaking the horizon.  We found my parents in the last "room" on our left.  Dad was lying in the bed, and Mom was sitting on a chair next to him.  We spent our time there together, just the four of us, for the first time in years really, now that Sara and I are married and have five kids between us.  We were together while the nurse prepped Dad, while the anesthesiologist talked with him, while Sara prayed for Dad and the surgeons and the cancer to go away, while the surgeon checked in with him, while the surgeon prayed for the surgery team, while I read a sad note from a friend whose battle with cancer is nearing its final days, while we laughed and took pictures and read comments from friends who are praying.

And then it was time for the team to walk him to the Operating Room.  Nearly eight years ago, my dad left for Iraq.  That goodbye was hard.  That goodbye was for 400 days and thousands of miles and time zones and bombs and war.  That was the hardest goodbye I've ever had with my dad.  This one nestled right up against it.  So much was riding on that bed.  My daddy was riding on that bed.  And how do you kiss him goodbye hoping and uncertain and wishing and dreaming and desperately loving?  We did it.

While we were waiting in the Family Waiting Area (while "The 700 Club" played on TV, so that wasn't super helpful), we all tried to occupy ourselves.  Sara worked on a training for work.  Mom read Facebook and played Candy Crush and Words with Friends.  I read a book for the Baker Bloggers Program.  And while I was reading, while the surgeons were collecting samples of my dad's insides for biopsy, while hundreds of people around the country were praying, while we were trying to distract ourselves, it hit me.

I was reading the section entitled "Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain."  Kevin Harney wrote:

Suffering is suffering.  It is ours as we walk through it.  It invariably leads to tears, sorrow, heartache, and struggle.  It usually comes unannounced and we rarely know when it will leave.
Most of all, suffering can crush our faith or strengthen it.  The decision is ours.  Will I cling to Jesus through my pain and with tears streaming down my face?  Or will I turn my back and walk away from the only One who can carry me through?  Will I curse God or bless his name even if my teeth are clenched in agony as I worship?  Will I let the presence and power of God fill me to overflowing when I have nothing left to give, or will I seek to make it through in my own strength?
Powerful people seek to face suffering by relying on their own reserve of strength and tenacity.
The powerless throw in the towel as soon as the winds shift, long before the roof comes crashing down.
But the empowered hold the hand of Jesus and let his strength and presence carry them through the tempest of suffering, loss, and pain.  The empowered know that they can't weather the storms life will bring, but that the Maker of heaven and earth can place them under his wings and shelter them no matter what comes their way.

I read that, and then I looked up at my mom and my big sister, and I said, "I'm empowered.  And I'm empowered because we're empowered.  That's what you and Dad taught us."  And it's true.

Our faith isn't perfect.  My grandparents made their mistakes, but they instilled in my mom a faith that is her own.  And through their own struggles and journeys and heartaches my parents have given me a faith in the Maker of heaven and earth and His shelter and peace.

Just over 19 years ago, I left home.  I moved to a secular college because I wanted to forget my parents' faith and find my own.  During that time I made mistakes, and I said and did some hurtful things in my "enlightenment."  But I worked hard to build my faith.  And now there I was.  Sitting in a nondescript and uncomfortable waiting room while my dad underwent cancer surgery, and I realized that the faith I have is now my own, but it's also my parents'.   I'm empowered by the presence of God in the midst of my pain and suffering.  But every single day of the journey we have walked since November 2013 I have seen the same empowering written in my parents' words.  It's been in their strength, in their hope, in their peace, in their prayers.  That didn't change when Zack died.  It didn't change when my dad was pushed into retirement.  It didn't change when our house was broken into.  It didn't change when Dad was told he had cancer.  It didn't change while we waited in that room together.  It didn't change today when we were told that my dad's lymph nodes and all margins of his prostate are clear of cancer.  And I know without a doubt that it wouldn't have changed if we had been told his body was riddled with the disease.

Harney goes on to talk about being "propelled onward by the call and mission of God."  He says that our journey of faith is not really any different than Abraham's when he was still called Abram and he followed an unknown God from the land of his family into a new land where God would build His kingdom.  "Who follows God like this?" Harney writes.  "Abraham and Sarah.  Peter and Andrew.  You and me.  We hear his call.  He leads us on a mission day-by-day and moment-by-moment.  We go, not knowing where it will lead us but trusting the God who calls us to follow him."

And we do.  The journey might lead us through betrayal.  It might lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.  It might lead us through cancer or job loss or the breakdown of a family.  But through all of that, the good and the bad, through the pain and the joy, we live with a tenacious faith that knows "God can see the end of the road even when [we] can't."

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks for lending me your faith when I was a little girl.  Thanks for letting me go off and try to build my own faith.  And thanks for letting me find a faith that was yours all along.

Finding Hope

I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.  It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter.  (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me.  Any time I'm around books.)

It's a long, long book.  Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read.  Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else.  At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long.  And then he says it.  On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

And that's it.

That's what all these things have in common.

And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers.  Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research.  And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza.  Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.

"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years.  The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds.  But they have hope.

I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD.  He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was.  But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.

For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me.  It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it.  Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it.  Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings.  Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School.  We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died.  And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere."  Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.

As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction.  And all I have to offer them is this.

Life is messy.

Life is violent.

Life is confusing.

But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.

Oh, my God.  He will not delay.
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always.  Always.

{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}

When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .

We used to be a bit more innocent.  A bit more naive.  A bit more trusting.  And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two.  Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.

My last post was in May. Early May.  That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down.  I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party.  We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family.  It was busy, and it was fun.

And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail.  It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone.  He asked me to call him back right away.

My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car.  So I prepared myself for that.

Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."

Robbed.  Awesome.

Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken.  We also determined our back doors were both toast.  And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.

So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen.  We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done.  And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door.  And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them.  We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers.  And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.

Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace.  There are also emotional ones.  There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing.  There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police.  There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank.  And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids.  Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.

We've installed a security system.  And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects.  And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.

But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson.  Or maybe relearned it.  There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God."  (Ps 20:7)

And I know He won't let us down.  Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal.  I trust in the name of the LORD my God.

A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.

In Response to Another Tragedy

On my way home from picking my daughter up from school this afternoon, I felt compelled to sit down when I got home and put some thoughts on paper.  As I opened my computer, I came across something a friend had posted on his Facebook page.  I have to say, Max really got it right with "A Christmas Prayer."  It sort of took away everything that I even dreamed of writing.  Because I just didn't think I could add anything.

So I was going to write, "What he said."  I know some people who read this don't read Facebook links to articles that people post.  I hope you'll read this one.  Because he's dead on.  We need Jesus to be born anew in us this Christmas.  Our world is in desperate straights and needs Him.

But then I thought a bit more about it.  I thought about how as I was watching the news this afternoon, while my little ones napped for the first time all week and my oldest was safe in her classroom in a community very similar to Sandy Hook, CT, my chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe well.  I thought about how it felt like September 11, 2001, all over again.  I thought about how the only thing I wanted was to hold my girls in my arms every day for the rest of my life.  And I thought about how when my daughter was in Kindergarten two years ago, there were only 21 kids in her class.  That would have left three survivors.  And then I thought about the survivors in that Kindergarten class at Sandy Hook Elementary and wondered if they could really be called survivors.  And I thought about that mom and how it felt to see her son walk into the classroom and open fire on her and the little ones in her care.  I hope she didn't see him.  I hope he caught her with her back turned.

So, in light of all of that, I wanted to share something after all.  I wanted to beg, along with the Church and children of God way back in the time of Isaiah, God for something.  Father God, send our salvation.  Rescue us.  Bring us Home.

Come, Thou long expected Jesus
Born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us
Let us find our rest in Thee

Israel's strength and consolation
Hope of all the earth Thou art
Dear desire of every nation
Joy of every longing heart

Born Thy people to deliver
Born a child and yet a king
Born to reign in us forever
Now Thy gracious kingdom bring

By Thine own eternal Spirit
Rule in all our hearts alone
By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne

By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne

"Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus" by Charles Wesley (arranged by Chris Tomlin)

And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did.  Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.

Hopefully . . .

The Thirty-first Sabbath - Taking Our Turn

Yesterday in church, our pastor shared an email from one of our members who is currently in Thailand, visiting her son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren.  She wrote about the church service she had attended that morning--along with Christians from 40+ other countries.  And then she said something like, "As we worshiped God, I thought about the sun rising around the world, calling God's people to gather and worship Him--brothers and sisters in India, children in Africa, and you there.  Just as the sun's light spills across the earth, we gather, hour by hour, to give Him glory.  May He be with you as you take your turn."

I loved that.  "As you take your turn."  I did that yesterday, and it was a lovely service--begun in worship with friends and ended with blueberry cobbler shared with old friends and new friends.  And all day long, this song fluttered through my brain:

It's the song of the redeemed
Rising from the African plain
It's the song of the forgiven
Drowning out the Amazon rain
The song of Asian believers
Filled with God's holy fire
It's every tribe, every tongue, every nation
A love song born of a grateful choir

It's all God's children singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns
It's all God's children singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns

Let it rise about the four winds
Caught up in the heavenly sound
Let praises echo from the towers of cathedrals
To the faithful gathered underground
Of all the songs sung from the dawn of creation
Some were meant to persist
Of all the bells rung from a thousand steeples
None rings truer than this
And all the powers of darkness
Tremble at what they've just heard
'Cause all the powers of darkness
Can't drown out a single word

When all God's children sing out
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns
All God's people singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns

"He Reigns," by Newsboys

Taking Off Our Shoes

"Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground." Exodus 3:5

Picture this with me:
 
Moses is out, minding his own business (or rather his father-in-law's business), and there is a bush.  Okay, pretty common.  But this one is on fire.  And it's not burning up.  And Moses approaches it, which probably isn't what I would have done.  I'm quite certain that I would have wandered away--quickly--in the other direction.  But Moses approaches it.
 
Then a voice speaks out of the bush.  And it calls him by name.  Yet he still doesn't wander away--quickly--in the other direction.  He stands there, and actually tells the bush, "Here I am!"  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have said that or stuck around to find out what the crazy bush said next.
 
But Moses does.  He waits.  And then the bush, God, says, "Do not come any closer.  Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground."
 
I wonder at what point Moses figured out that it was God.  Obviously he had to know something was up because there was a bush on fire and not burning, but did he know that was God?  Or was it when he heard his name come from the fire?  Perhaps it wasn't until he was told to take off his sandals?  Or, maybe it wasn't until the next words came:
 

I am the God of your father: the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. 

 
Either way, Moses gets it, and he hides his face from God, because he is afraid to look at God. 
 
Moses and God have a special relationship.  Later in Exodus we read that God spoke to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend (Exodus 33:11).  Exodus ends with Moses spending so much time in the presence of God--with his face uncovered--that he needs to wear a veil to protect the eyes of the Israelites from God's glory radiating from his face(Exodus 34:29-35).  But here, now, at the beginning, Moses takes off his sandals, and he hides his face.  Because that's what you do in the presence of a holy God.
 
I've been thinking a bit about this since our pastor's message on Sunday.  He talked about focusing on God--making Him big--instead of dwelling on the thoughts and opinions of people--making them small. 
 
Some of the commentaries I glanced at as I was looking up Exodus 3:5 suggested that by telling Moses to take off his shoes, God is saying one of two things.  Perhaps He is referring to taking off the shoes like we (men, mostly) are told to take hats off in church--it's a sign of respect, not for the place of worship as much as the Subject of worship.  So, while it's holy ground, it is only holy because God is there.  Another commentary suggested that it was because shoes get filthy as they walk along the ground, and taking them off is a symbol of shedding the dirt and filth of everyday living.  So we, too, need to cleanse ourselves of the dirt and filth of everyday living when we go to stand in the presence of God.
 
I hope it isn't too much of a leap to say that maybe taking off the shoes to stand in the presence of this holy God could be about recognizing that life is a bit different there.  Recognizing that my "shoes" (sorry, Pastor Tim!) might be the things that keep me from being fully God's--whether it's people's opinions, or my fear, or my pride, or my sin--and they need to come off.  I'm pretty certain that if I encountered that bush, I would have steered the sheep in another direction as quickly as I could.  The shoes would have helped with that.  But, if Moses had done that, would he have gotten to speak to God face to face later in his life?
 

“Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.”
--Elizabeth Barret Browning

 
Holy, God.  Help me see You.  Help me walk toward You.  Help me take off everything that hinders me from standing fully in Your presence so that I might talk to You.  Face to face, as a man speaks to his friend.

Being a Monument

I love Washington, DC.  It is one of my favorite cities, and one of my favorite places to be is sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial as dusk falls on the city.  The lights on the Washington Monument, the White House, the Vietnam Veterens Memorial . . . it's all so beautiful and poignant.  I love what it represents, and I love to be in the middle of all of that history.

Our country is big on monuments.  DC is obviously full of them--they're all so different and the artists have done so much to capture the moment, the memory, the people, the commitment, the struggle, the honor, the beauty.  Everywhere you look in that city, you are reminded of the wars we have fought, the freedom we have won, the men and women who sacrificed so much for us.  Downtown in my city, monuments remind me of a woman who refused to move from her seat on the bus to a seat that society demanded she take.  They remind me of a president who was our "native son."  In Oklahoma City and New York City, they remind us of the horror that men can inflict on other men--and of the heroes who will always step in to help.  In Rapid City, SD, they represent the first 150 years of our nation's independence.  We flock to them, and they become tourist attractions (you can even buy them on a keychain so you never have to forget!).

Monuments. 

Merriam-Webster defines a monument as "(1) : a lasting evidence, reminder, or example of someone or something notable or great (2) : a distinguished person b : a memorial stone or a building erected in remembrance of a person or event."

It turns out we Americans aren't the only ones who love monuments, either.  In The Message, Eugene Peterson translates Psalm 148:13-14 as follows:

Let them praise the name of GOD--
it's the only Name worth praising.
His radiance exceeds anything in earth and sky;
he's built a monument--his very own people!

That has stuck with me since I read it in my morning devotions several days ago.  "He's built a monument--his very own people!"  We are a monument.  Us.  Apparently God wanted to create "a lasting evidence, reminder, or example of Someone notable [and] great."  (capitalization mine)

What an incredible thought.  As with the monuments erected on this earth, the Artist has created us all unique--yet He has captured the moment, the memory, the people, the commitment, the struggle, the honor, the beauty.  My testimony, my life, my story, is a living monument to the glory of God.  When people see me, may they remember.  And may they praise the name of GOD, because it's the only Name worth praising.

A Love Story

Once upon a time a boy and a girl grew up, in separate towns, with different families.  After he graduated from high school, the boy made his way to the middle of the mitten to begin the rest of his life.  Two years later, the girl also left her home and her family to settle into a new town, make new friends, and (eventually) marry her high school sweetheart.

Because life doesn't always work they way it's planned, the girl's relationship ended.  Three months later, the boy accepted God as his Savior and began attending a Christian fellowship group.  There, the boy and the girl met.  One day, the boy and the girl were assigned to call each other with a reminder about their volunteer work for the group.  The boy made the girl laugh.  But that wasn't love.

The boy and the girl became fast friends, and they discovered that God wanted them to get married.  So, fourteen years ago today, they did just that.  They danced to "Shameless," and they were in love.  But that wasn't love.

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death should separate you and me.  Ruth 1:16-17

Even though they had a beautiful wedding and made wonderful vows to each other, and even though their friends all wished them happily ever after, things went differently.  Three years after they married, the boy and the girl realized that they didn't want to be married to each other anymore.  They decided to separate.  While they were apart, they discovered that God truly had other plans for them and their marriage.  So they fought.  Instead of fighting with each other, they fought next to each other, for each other.  And that was love.

I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.  Joel 2:25

Over the years, they have settled into a deep friendship and into their lives together.  There are now three beautiful girls and one child in heaven.  A household of two has become a household of five.  They haven't always been happy, but they have always been committed . . . to each other, to God, to their family.  And that was love.

It's hard to know--or even imagine--what life could hold next for the boy and the girl.  They have their plans and their dreams, but they don't know.  Today they are in love, and they are best friends.  God has helped them go and stay together.  One day death will separate them.  But until then, God truly has repaid them for the years of their marriage that the locust stole, and He has given them love.

And we're dancing in the minefields
We're sailing in the storm
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for

So when I lose my way, find me
When I loose love's chains, bind me
At the end of all my faith, till the end of all my days
When I forget my name, remind me

'Cause we bear the light of the Son of Man
So there's nothing left to fear
So I'll walk with you in the shadowlands
Till the shadows disappear

'Cause he promised not to leave us
And his promises are true
So in the face of all this chaos, baby,
I can dance with you

"Dancing In the Minefields," Andrew Peterson

Beau, I love you.  I'd happily be the girl who went to Central and met you and married you and fought with you and fought for you and fought next to you and birthed our beautiful children and worked with you to raise them and spent fourteen years (so far) dancing through the minefields with you.  Because He promised not to leave us, and His promises are true.  So I'll walk with you in the shadowlands 'till the shadows disappear.  530

Things We Know Nothing About

This is yesterday's blog post, take two.  Along with knowing nothing about the beautiful future and plans God has for us, sometimes we are forced to acknowledge that we know nothing about the days God has numbered for us or the countless ways He protects us every one of them.  Today is one of those days.

Addie is madly in love with horses.  She especially likes to see the "horsies in the sand" at a riding school we discovered on Michigan in between Grand River Drive and Crahen.  She asks to see them every day after we drop Ellie off at school and again after we pick her up.  Most days I comply, because I like the drive up the hill on Michigan, and, let's be honest, there's just something about horses.  Today I told her we had to hurry home from picking Ellie up so we could wrap Beau's birthday presents and the girls could make cards for him.

So there we were, on the highway.  We took the Fulton entrance onto I-96, like we normally do.  I was grumpy, because the cars in front of me were not accelerating on the entrance ramp.  They were holding us back.  We managed to get on the highway (at about 55 MPH), and I merged into traffic, quickly getting my speed up to 70 MPH. 

Just west of the East Beltline overpass, I noticed something flying through the air a few car lengths ahead of us.  It looked like a rod or something, but my brain struggled to process what I was seeing.  All I could think was there was nowhere for me to go but forward.  At 70 MPH it doesn't take long to traverse a few hundred yards, so it didn't take long before it became clear that there was going to be an impact between my van full of precious girls and this object.  I had enough time to slow down and pray that it wouldn't come through the windshield just as it seemed to land on the road in front of us.  With no other option, because I knew swerving would be the worst thing I could do at that speed, I drove over it.  The thunk it made startled the girls and was quickly erased by the ding of my check engine light.

Deciding I should head straight to the car shop--it was 4:00 on a Friday, after all--I drove to our normal car repair store where they were able to get our car right in to assess the damage.  After about an hour, we learned that the damage was close to $2,000.  I'll end up getting a new bumper, air conditioning compressor, ambient air sensor, and maybe even a new radiator!  Exciting times.  We have insurance to pay for the damage after we pay our deductible.  The money for that is in the bank, and it may even end up being only a comprehensive claim, which will save us $800.  Jehovah Jireh.  God provides.

But, as I reflect on it, none of that is the point.

The point is that there are things we know nothing about.  If I had it to do over, obviously we would go see the horsies in the sand today.  But I didn't know anything about what was on the highway, so I made the choice based on the 20 minutes it would save us to avoid that extra stop.  I also didn't know anything about the rod of metal flipping through the air on the highway.  If I had, maybe I'd have been grateful that the car in front of us didn't accelerate fast enough and held us back.  Maybe if it hadn't, we would have been a bit further down the highway where our windshield would have met a metal rod at 70 MPH.

How many times in my day, in my week, am I in the middle of things I know nothing about?  How often has God had me be just far enough to the right or just fast enough or just late enough that I missed a disaster?  When my dad was in Iraq, there was story after story about him or others he worked with being in just the right place or leaving where they were just in time or "randomly" not being where they always were at that time--those stories meant the difference between their lives and their deaths.

It's no different for any of us.  So thank you, God, for having me and my precious daughters in the palm of your hand.  Thank you for having Beau there, too.  And for having such care for all of us that nothing can happen to us without it first passing through Your hands.

What is your only comfort in life and in death?

That I am not my own, but I belong, in body and in soul, in life and in death, to my faithful savior Jesus Christ.

He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil.  He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven: in fact, all things must work together for my salvation.

Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him.

Heidelberg Catechism, Q & A 1

Becoming More Than Yourself

I have recently begun to enjoy watching golf on television.  During that time, I've gotten to "know" a few of the golfers on the PGA tour and enjoy following them.  Typically my favorite golfers seem to develop a curse once I admit to liking them, and they don't do well, but then again I do like to root for the underdog.  That made it especially fun to see Bubba Watson and his pink driver win the Masters on Easter Sunday.

What made it the most fun, perhaps, isn't the way he won or even the fact that he never had a professional golf lesson growing up.  It is summed up in this simple statement: "I never got this far in my dreams, so this isn't a dream come true."

That really got me thinking.  I have a lot of dreams.  But I can't even begin to dream where I'll really end up in my life, what is actually in store for me. 

Several weeks ago, I entered a contest to get a devotional printed in a new Moms' Devotional Bible that Zondervan is publishing.  I never expected to make it through to the final round, and I burst into tears when I got the email from them telling me that I was a finalist.  Now, there are two days left until I hear whether my devotional or the other entry is the winner.  I've gone through several emotions since learning I was a finalist, and I keep thanking God for taking it this far--and asking Him to prepare me for when if I don't win.  I don't want to be too disappointed.  And, to be honest, like Bubba Watson, I never got there in my dreams.  I never dreamed about being published in a devotional Bible.  I never really dreamed about being a Christian author.  I have dreams that involve my stories, but the truth is that I have no clue what my future really looks like. 

When I start to get cocky about my writing or about my teaching or about any work that I'm doing, there's a voice that reminds me of the reality of who I am.  I'm a child of God.  He has given me the talent that I have.  Thomas Kincaid's mother told him when he was young that his talents were God's gift to him.  She went on to say that what he did with his talents was his gift to God.  That's what I need to remember, too.  So when I live out what I think are my dreams, instead I need to just live out my love for God.

In my Bible reading this morning, I came across these words of Jesus (as recounted in The Message in Luke 14:11): "What I'm saying is, If you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face.  But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself."

I need to cut that out and hang in on my music stand when I sing on the worship team on Sunday morning, on the mirror in my bathroom, on my computer, on my dashboard . . . I need to write it on my heart and engrave it on my hand.  Whether being simply myself is using a pink driver in my golf game or writing from my heart or singing loudly, that's who I need to be.  Because that's who God made me.  And, when I give it to Him--do it for Him--it's more than enough.  And He will make me more than myself.

A (Wo)Man After God's Own Heart

2001 was a rough year for our family and friends.  It began with several family funerals and ended with 9/11/01, when our grief became corporate, shared by the country.  Tucked in between were a separation between my husband and me, a desperate fight to come back together, and the death of my husband's best friend's twin brother.  It was a year from hell.  And I have never learned more.

Today in my Bible readings I read four different psalms.  The thing that strikes me most about David is that, despite his royal mess ups, God calls him a man after His own heart.  The sinning surely isn't what does that.  The sinning is just part of his job description as a human being.  We can't get away from that.  Now, maybe we don't do it quite as "big" as David, but I don't think that measurement is something God cares about. 

I think what God sees in David is his honesty.

In three of the psalms that I read today, David went from running "straight to the arms of God" (Psalm 11) to declaring, "Long enough, God--you've ignored me long enough" (Psalm 13).  Now I know that the psalms aren't necessarily listed in chronological order, but I do believe that God had everything to do with how the Bible is laid out.  He isn't surprised by the change in David's tune any more than he was surprised that Samuel "prayed his anger and disappointment all through the night" after God said that He regretted making Saul king (I Samuel 15:11 The Message).

And the best part is that God isn't angry about any of it.  I think He loves it.  In the heart of 2001, my Writer Friend shared with me a story of her high school boyfriend.  He and his dad used to play fight, and his dad would pat his shoulders, encourage his son to come at him with all he had, and say, "I can take it.  I've got big shoulders."  She said, "Beka, God can take it.  He's got big shoulders."  Another friend pointed out that while I was crying on the floor, God was lying there holding me and crying with me.  I began to picture Him sitting in His throne with me in His lap sobbing and pounding my fists on His chest.  And I've never been closer to Him.

I know that God is the only one who could have spared our friend's twin brother.  I also know that God is the only one who could have softened the blow from the bull's hoof on my cowboy cousin's chest, keeping his aorta from rupturing.  I also know that God is the only one who could have kept the planes in the air on September 11, despite evil's best efforts to crash them into buildings.  But I also know that God is the only one who can hold me while I cry, dry my tears, and help me heal.

So whether it's praying my anger and disappointment all night long, pounding my fists into God's chest as I continue to grieve the loss of one of our twins, or dancing with joy in front of Him, He is worthy of my honest praise.  It's the thing that makes me a woman after God's own heart.

Worthy, You are worthy
Of a childlike faith and of my honest praise
And of my unashamed love
Of a holy love and of my sacrifice
And of my unashamed love

"Unashamed Love," Jason Morant

The Second Sabbath

Arise, my soul, arise; shake off your guilty fears
The bleeding sacrifice in my behalf appears
Before the throne my surety stands
Before the throne my surety stands
My name is written on His hands

He ever lives above, for me to intercede
His all-redeeming love, His precious blood to plead
His blood atoned for every race
His blood atoned for every race
And sprinkles now the throne of grace

Five bleeding wounds He bears; received on Calvary
They pour effectual prayers, they strongly plead for me
"Forgive him, O forgive," they cry
"Forgive him, O forgive," they cry
"Nor let that ransomed sinner die!"

My God is reconciled; His pardoning voice I hear
He owns me for His child, I can no longer fear
With confidence I now draw nigh
With confidence I now draw nigh
And "Father, Abba Father," cry!

Arise, arise, arise, my soul, arise
Arise, arise, arise, my soul, arise
Shake off your guilty fear and rise!

Words by Charles Wesley, Music by Kevin Twit

The First Sabbath

Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be
In working or in waiting, another year with Thee.
Another year of progress, another year of praise,
Another year of proving Thy presence all the days.

Another year of mercies, of faithfulness and grace,
Another year of gladness in the shining of Thy face;
Another year of leaning upon Thy loving breast;
Another year of trusting, of quiet, happy rest.

Another year of service, of witness for Thy love,
Another year of training for holier work above.
Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be
On earth, or else in Heaven, another year for Thee.

--"Another Year is Dawning," Frances Havergal