And they were overjoyed

They appeared to the shepherds in the field that night, those angels. The Glory of the Lord shone around them and they were terrified. A righteous terror accompanies seeing the face of God. And surely the proclamation of the birth of Christ was seeing the face of God. Emmanuel, God with us.

Moses' face shone for days after seeing the face of God on that mountain. The shepherds were terrified. I wonder at the face of Mary when she saw the face of her son—the face of God. I wonder what Joseph did. That perfect, precious baby, head laid in hay: such humility. The God of the Universe sleeping in a manger. Perhaps righteous terror accompanied the parents on that day—moved to tears by a little baby who slept and breathed and was holiness.

That day was the realization of salvation—the birth of the life-giver. John Piper says it best: “Christmas cut history into two ages: the age of promise and the age of fulfillment.” Surely the birth of Christ realizedthe promise of a Savior—the promise of God-come-down. What mercy, grace, and joy is ours.

And then those magi. Those wise-men, astrologers. They saw the star in the east and decided they must follow. Perhaps righteous terror leads to feet that move and follow and trust. Perhaps righteous terror leads to faith.

It was prophesied, “But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for out of you will come a ruler who will be the shepherd of my people Israel.” {Micah 5:2}

And that star, it was prophesied about too. “A star will come out of Jacob; a scepter will rise out of Israel.” {Numbers 24:17}

The birth of Christ moved us from the age of promise to the age of fulfillment.

Balaam prophesied about that star, and look how he describes himself: “one whose eye sees clearly, the oracle of one who hears the words of God, who has knowledge from the Most High, who sees a vision from the Almighty, who falls prostrate, and whose eyes are opened.”

Surely seeing the face of God is accompanied by righteous, prostrate fallen, on-the-knees, face-to-the-ground, kissing the feet, terror. Surely that terror leads to faith that moves feet, and faith that moves mountains.

Maybe feet are the first biggest mountain that faith moves.

The Magi “went on their way, and the star they had seen in the east went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was.”

It stopped at that manger-site. It stopped where humility met glory. It stopped at the face of God—the realization of salvation.It stopped at a little baby boy, head in hay, cribmates with a goat and a calf. It stopped at a barn with a new mama knelt at the feet of her baby son.

It stopped at a barn with a man and a woman knelt at the feet of their God.

The star went ahead of them until it stopped at the Christ. It wasn't a day-trip organized with step-by-step instructions. It was a long journey to see the face of God, led by one star saying, stay the course. He has come. Come and see.

His star went before them. I'm reminded of the Israelites in the desert, led by a pillar of fire by night and cloud by day. He led them to the Promised Land, just as that star led the Magi to the Promised One.

“In all the travels of the Israelites, whenever the cloud lifted from above the tabernacle, they would set out; but if the cloud did not lift, they did not set out—until the day it lifted. So the cloud of the Lord was over the tabernacle by day, and fire was in the cloud by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel during all their travels.” {Exodus 40:36-38}

They carried the tabernacle through the desert with them—the presence of God; it was the age of promise. The Glory of the Lord would fill the tabernacle as the cloud settled upon it. The presence of God was referred to as Shekinah—the dwelling, physical manifestation of the presence of God. The Israelites carried that tabernacle around and it was filled with the Glory of God—the Shekinah Glory.

And then those magi and those shepherds and that mama in the barn saw the fulfillment of Shekinah Glory—the tangible, physical, dwelling presence of God. The Incarnate Word—the Word-became-Flesh. A baby in a manger—Emmanuel, God with us.

So many parallels between those Israelites following the Lord's Glory cloud and those Magi following the Lord's Glory star. Shekinah Glory, God with us.

But what joy on that day to not have the star itself be the only realization of His Glory, but rather Shekinah Himself laying in that manger, living and breathing and sleeping and being holiness.

Being Glory.

Christ's birth carried us from the age of promise into the age of fulfillment.

“When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. They opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold and of incense and of myrrh.”

Seeing the face of God is accompanied with righteous terror that moves hearts and souls from the age of promise to fulfillment. The magi couldn't help but fall prostrate, bowed down at the feet of God and worship. Shekinah Glory filled that barn, and filled the hearts of those men laid down flat at the feet of a baby. They gifted Him with all their most precious.

Shekinah Glory—the Face of God—moves hearts to bow down and open up and give until it hurts.

Because that's what Shekinah Glory looks like. It looks like the God of the Universe bowing down flat, humbling himself to a small baby in a manger who would later be murdered at the hand of brutal men he came to save. It looks like the God of the Universe opening himself up and loving and serving and allowing Himself to be vulnerable and open and free to all of mankind. He became flesh—the Incarnate Word. Shekinah Glory looks like Jesus Christ giving His Life in service to God, loving the least of these—giving until it hurt so bad that nails were driven through hands and thorns driven through His head and whips driven through skin and boulders driven into graves that sealed in death.

But then Shekinah Glory dwells and manifests itself as Lord, and the baby in a manger is seated at the Throne of God, and the man on the cross put in the grave is raised to life, and the one crucified at the hands of men is worshiped and praised, and men bow down because they have seen the Lord and they were overjoyed.

Shekinah Glory dwells in us, and we too, are lifted to new life in Him who took on our sin, our shame, our death, and gave us His life instead. Shekinah Glory—the presence of God—came to be known by men. He came and dwelt and lived among us, that we may know the Glory of God.

And the only response to knowing the Shekinah Glory—the only response to seeing the Face of God, is righteous, prostrate fallen, worship at the feet of Jesus Christ.

Shekinah Glory has come. Emmanuel, God with us.

The Miracle of Obedience

You say 'Rejoice always,' just as You told the paralyzed beggar to 'Get up. Pick up your mat and walk.' It's ironic—those commands; given to ones who absolutely, obviously, and almost comically do not have the strength to obey. And yet Your words brought the crippled one to his feet and they bring joy to my crippled heart—the one that, on its own, doesn't love, only hates; doesn't give, only steals; doesn't beat, only flatlines; the one that doesn't live, but is dying.

But those words “rejoice always” beckon forth blood which pumps and travels and fills, and it courses through this old, paralyzed beggar of a heart and causes it to beat with joy and love and peace.

Ya know, maybe obedience itself is a miracle. You tell the beggar to walk—his walk of obedience is miraculous. You called Lazarus, a dead man for 4 days, to come out of the grave and live, and He did. You told the blind man to see, and His eyes were opened. You told the deaf man's ears to be opened, and they were; His tongue was loosed in praise.

You pick the least likely, don't You?

     the paralyzed to walk

     the blind to see

     the deaf to hear

     the mute to speak

     the sick to be healed

     the fatherless to be a father or mother

     the depressed to rejoice

     the addict to release

     the prostitute to be faithful

     the criminal to be freed

     the last to be first

     the low to be raised up

     the dead to live

     a baby to save all

     A Lamb to defeat death.

I see myself in all of them—the poor beggar, the blind, the deaf, and the mute. My eyes, ears, and heart, too, are in desperate need of a miracle. I am in desperate need of Your word commands.

But maybe none of this is by ourselves and our own strength. Maybe all our hearts are old crippled beggars stuck on the dirty ground-mat that can only rise at His words “get up and walk.” Maybe joy is only a miraculous act of obedience to His words “rejoice always.”

And maybe His commands aren't constricting, but liberating. Maybe they are an invitation to experience the Divine supernatural at work in our own minds, hearts, souls, and bodies.

Maybe it all comes down to this promise from Ezekiel 36:26

“I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.”

A responsive heart. Your words are the invitation to obedience; the invitation to the miracle. You asked the paralytic on his mat “Do you want to get well?” This question preceded the miracle. It preceded his walking and his healing and his rejoicing. Maybe that's the first step: to want to be well. Maybe that's just another way to say repentance. To want to see the Lord. To want to rejoice. To crave His goodness. And just as a good Father does, He gives to His children what good they want. The paralytic wanted to be well, he was commanded to be well, and he was well.

I look throughout the Bible and see so many healings and miracles, and I get so caught up in the excitement of the healing moment that I miss the healing process. The miracles start with a humble walk to the feet of the Healer: an admission of sickness and need--repentance. The miracle begins with a desire to be well, and a surrender to be made well. And then His commands are answered in miraculous obedience from His strength, not ours. The crippled walk, the blind see, the deaf hear, the dead live, and we are freed. We are redeemed.

“You came near when I called you, and you said 'Do not fear.' O Lord, you took up my case; you redeemed my life.” {Lamentations 3:57-58}

“Jesus answered, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'” {John 14:6}

Candles

Everything is dark. People line up for miles, staring straight ahead in silence. In their hands, they hold a smoking candle—no flame or light, just melting wax, smoking: time running out. As that melted wax collects in a puddle at the bottom, so do their tears. They line up, and stare straight ahead because that’s what they’ve been trained to do. The candles grow shorter and shorter as the wax melts, and as the candle grows shorter, so does their time.

Their backs are turned against a gate: one they’ve never seen, but one they’ve only been told of. They’ve been told it looms high and it’s unbreakable and impenetrable and irreversible. But it’s only what they’ve been told. They’ve never seen it because they’ve never turned around. They’ve never looked. The one who calls himself the gatekeeper has threatened them against turning around. He’s told them the gate is too tall and they’re too small and their guilt is too big to ever make it to the other side. He’s told them to keep standing on that line, staring straight ahead into the darkness as their smoking candle melts and their time runs out.

Their tears fall. They collect and coat the candle in wet—and the hooded gatekeeper laughs and tells them the tears will hold in the darkness. He tells them they’ll never stop falling, lower and lower. They believe him, too, because they’ve never seen anything other than darkness. Oh, but if only they would turn around. If only they would turn toward the big scary gate they’ve been told of, they’d see that the gate’s doors have already been flung wide, through One Man’s Arms flung wide.

And then steps forth a figure from the gate. Though they don’t turn around, the dark hearts can tell someone has entered the room—Someone without one of those dark, wet, smoking candles.

The true light that gives light to every man is coming into the world. {John 1:9}

They stand in that line and stare straight ahead, into the darkness.

And I’m one of those soldiers lined up with the wet candle. I can’t see what’s in front of me, because that’s what it’s like in the darkness: you can only see what’s immediately in front of you. So you go to what looks good now, because in the darkness, there is no beautiful future.

I stand in the line and stare straight ahead, into the darkness.  Every few seconds the gatekeeper says “that one,” and then they drop, cold blood flowing into the bloodthirsty ground. We are soldiers lined up to be executed, though we don’t know it until the gatekeeper says “that one” to us and we drop. Because it’s all dark, and in the darkness everyone is blind.

But then I feel a presence behind me, one who is not the gatekeeper. I keep looking in front of me, because that’s what I’ve been trained to do: to stare into the darkness and be what I am—a soldier awaiting execution.

I feel the air shift as He walks around me and makes His way to face me. He’s standing in front of me now. He came for me. I gasp: first at how beautiful He is, and then at how dark everything around me is. I had no idea. For it is light that makes everything visible. {Ephesians 4:14} I begin to shake and tremble and I squeeze out the words “What do you want?”

             “That one,” He says, as He points at me.

And I fall to my knees, just like thousands in this same line before me. But this time it’s not in death, but in life. I fall to my knees as I let those words soak in: ones that, for the first time, have been spoken for me rather than against me.

“That one.”

He wants me. My tears begin to coat His feet as I realize this magnificent truth. He wants me. My tears are as the melted wax once was, falling and falling, but rather than killing, they’re building and restoring and gifting. My time is no longer running out, for in His presence time is no such thing. He is infinite.

I gaze up at Him and that light He carries—the one that dispels the darkness. From His lips come those words: “Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” {Ephesians 4:14} And He reaches out and touches my dark, wet, smoking candle with His lighted one—the Scepter extended from the hand of the King. {Psalm 45:6}

My own candle is lit now—something the gatekeeper told me would never happen.

Because the darkness has not understood the light. {John 1:5}

He extends His hand to me and lifts me from the mud and mire I’m kneeling in and gives me a firm place to stand. {Psalm 40:2}I realize that I know nothing of this Man who has come to save me. I’ve done nothing for Him, and I know nothing of Him. “Where are you from?” I ask Him.

            “Over there,” He points. “And so are you.”

He again takes my hand and turns me in the direction He’s pointing—in the direction of the Light, so that my back is turned against the executioner and I see that the Gate is flung wide into His Land—the one of Light and Grace and Truth. {John 1:14}

It’s the Kingdom of Light.

And He asks me, “Won’t you come with?” My heart leaps for joy because His light has illuminated all the underworkings of the darkness, and I realize that I am being rescued, not constricted or punished. I’m being saved into the Kingdom of Light, where I am a daughter, not a soldier on death’s row. {John 1:12} It’s repentance, really.

So I say yes and run toward the Light because once I’ve tasted and seen, it’s all I want. {1 Peter 2:3} And it’s all I need. It’s repentance, really.

And now I’m living in the Land of the Light—a daughter in the presence of her King. My candle is lit and the flame burns, and I’m refined in the fire of His love. Though it does not stop burning, I am never burnt. {Isaiah 43:2}

Day and night, we dance. It is in this Kingdom of Light that I learn who He is and also who I am.

“Go show them,” He says, as we dance among the gardens laden with mercy and truth.

“Go show them,” He says as we dance across the ocean’s edge coated in grace and renewal.

“Go show them,” He says as we dance through the Golden Gate that has been flung wide for all of His children that are still standing in that line on the other side.

So I do, for I was once one of those dark hearts living in the darkness, but I am now a child of the Light, which means I live in all goodness, righteousness and truth, seeking to please Him in all things. {Ephesians 4:8-10}So I go. And though I dance into the kingdom of darkness, the Light does not leave me. It is not muted, nor is my laughter. For in His presence there is fullness of joy. {Psalm 16:11}

“Let light shine out of darkness,” He says, as we dance behind death’s row and make our way to the front of the line laden with blood that need not be spilt. {2 Corinthians 4:6}

           For the hands I’m holding have already been opened wide and emptied for our sake.

And He pulls me closer and smiles and so do I, and I’m caught up in Him—a daughter dancing with the King in front of death’s row. My gaze is never broken from His face. And In the middle of the battle field between the captives and the enemy, my candle burns bright in the fire of His love. As we dance, gazes are broken and redirected onto this Body of Light that moves and breathes and sings and dances because of the King of Light—the true Light that gives light to every man. {John 1:9}

And with our steps in sync, we dance toward the child being born again into the Light, as He extends that scepter toward His child and lights the dark, wet, smoking candle with the fire of His love.

So we dance toward the Gate in joyful repentance as we celebrate the redirection of His once lost child who has now seen the Light and has been found. We dance toward the Kingdom of Light, with our eyes forever fixed on Him.

And my little candle continues to burn with a fire that will never be quenched.

Come Like the Rains

I sit on this bench: immobility in a park meant for enjoyment. I sit, and I look down, focused on myself. It is dry out. My heart matches the grass: dead without water to pour into it and sun to shine on it. And then, something cold hits my arm—a small droplet of refreshment: I’ll call it revival, for that’s what it does to me—it sends a stroke of feeling through me, awakening me to a world outside myself. I look around and up to the heavens, searching for the source.

I, again, become distracted by my own thoughts. And then another falls on my knee. I flinch, shocked that one small drop of water can carry this much weight—that it can offer this much newness. I search for the source, curious about where this is coming from. I want more, but I still don’t know it.

And then comes another, and another. My forehead is hit: renewed. My cheek is touched: revived. My hands are coated: remade. My eyes are turned upward: opened.

It started out slow, one drop at a time calling me from that park bench: I ignored it.

But then, with my eyes turned upward, I see the heavens open up as more and more of these droplets of refreshment, renewal, and regrowth fall to the ground to touch me: to make me new and alive and awake.

I can’t take my eyes away, and I never want this rain to be taken away. I am brought to my feet, standing in the middle of an open grassy field, crying out, “Coat me in Your renewal! All of me!”

I am desperate for more of this grace: more of this newness.

I think back to who I was two years ago. I was that girl sitting on a park bench, too obsessed with self to really recognize the God who began sending drops of grace and renewal and revival my way. As each would touch me, I was awakened a little more to the source of refreshment and life itself: Jesus. But here’s the thing about God’s love: if we’re looking for it, we will find it.

One of the most beautiful promises of the Bible is this: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” (Jeremiah 29:11-13)

So turn your eyes to the heavens, and cry out: “Coat me in Your renewal! All of me!” Stand up from the park bench you are sitting on, and stand in the open: the place where God has access to all of your heart, all of your mind, and all of your soul—all of you.

And then, watch as He pours out His love upon you: His love will come like the rain. It is sent from Heaven: something we can only receive. We cannot earn it—we must simply open our hearts to receive it. It falls to the ground to touch us: the ultimate picture of humility. Jesus left His throne to know you. He was nailed to a cross to know you. His love will fall from Heaven so He can know you. He will never stop pursuing you unto new life, just as the rains chase the dry grass.

So let our dry hearts stand thirsty below the heavens, crying out: “Coat me in Your renewal! All of me!”

Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord; his going out is sure as the dawn; he will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth.
Hosea 6:3

                                           
                                                              

You Dance with Me in the Rainstorm

Right, left, breathe in, breathe out. These words I repeat to myself as I walk through this cold, dark, empty field. The sky sends strokes of anger toward the ground I stand on, threatening to destroy me. Explosions sound all around me. Cold, hard droplets of rain pelt my face. It stings.

I wish I had never left home, I think to myself. Why did I leave those walls of safety surrounding me? Why did I leave my box? And then I remember: to grow. A journey requires that I leave. I think of the flowers of this field. It was only once they burst forth from the safety and comfort of their underground dwelling place that their beauty was displayed for all to see. It was only once they were exposed to the elements of rains, winds, and sunshine that they could grow. I realize that it is the same for me: I cannot grow without leaving my safe and comfortable box. And I cannot expose myself to the sunshine without also being vulnerable to the winds and the rains.

So I walk. I walk in this rainstorm. Right, left, breathe in, breathe out. I shiver from the winds and the rains that swirl around me. They close me in, and I feel breathless. I fall to my knees and shrink into a twisted mess of flesh and bones lying upon a cold, dark floor. I have hit rock bottom. I lie here, alone. I lie here, unable to go on.

And then I get angry. I am mad. I lift my face to the sky and scream out “God, where are you?! Stop the rains, and stop the winds.”

But it doesn’t stop. The winds keep blowing, and the rain keeps pounding. But above all the elements’ noise, I hear a whisper that sounds like peaceful, rushing waters:
                                                    “Be still and know that I am God.”

And then, a firm and gentle Hand surrounds mine. I turn and look into the eyes of the One who has the authority to dismiss the winds and the rains, but chooses to sit with me through it instead. I look in His eyes, and He whispers “I’m not going anywhere.”

He takes my hand, and slips His other around my waist as He pulls me into a close embrace. “Dance with me,” He says. He turns this cold and dreary night into one of intimacy. He dances with me in the rainstorm. The wind and the rains don’t disappear, but no longer do I notice them, for my attention is now fixed upon Something so much greater.

The winds are cold, so He pulls me closer. I now notice His warmth more than this cold. My heart burns and aches and breaks, so He whispers “I love you” and my heart is made whole. The elements do not disappear, but my awareness and fixation upon them do. I am now lost in the Eyes of the One who knows me, the Hands of the One who formed me, and the Heart of the One who loves me. I am lost in the Arms of the One who holds me through it all.

And then I whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what, dear one?”

My answer surprises me: “Thank you for this rain storm, for without it, I would not have this dance, I wouldn’t know Your warmth, and my heart wouldn’t be whole.”

And with this, He pulls me tighter and we dance and we dance and we dance.

And with every step, He whispers “I love you.”

His love pounds harder than this pounding rain.

His warmth is greater than this freezing cold.
His strength is surer than this wind.

So we dance and we love and I thank Him over and over again for this song.
I thank Him for the rain.

 

Eyes Turned Heavenward

I look heavenward, and there He stands—eyes glowing: blue and red and blue—deep, deep blue. They glisten and gleam with His love. I look into them and I melt. They are so piercing, so inviting, so warm. I step into them, and I’m in His presence.

I look heavenward and there are His Hands, reaching out to me. Those Hands—so big and warm and comforting and all-consuming. My hands slip easily into His and I feel so sure and secure.

I look heavenward and I see that love, poured out on me in overwhelming mercy and grace. I look up and I see Him, smiling down on me, His Bride. Though I have not seen Him or heard Him or touched Him, I have. I know Him. My heart knows Him well.

He is from another land. I must get there. But how? How am I to be with Him when I’m stuck down here in this little sub-world? How am I to be with Him when everyone around tells me “No, you’re here. Live here,”? It seems to make sense, it does: Living for and of and in this world, but there is something deep within me, this innate desire, that says ‘no, there is more.’ There is so much more.

My thoughts are consumed by this distant Land.

So I take a risk. I jump. I disobey culture to obey this heart’s desire put here by Him. I go and as I jump, I rise. I rise to that other land and it is there that I’ll meet Him. How could I sit here while He’s up there, preparing a place for us? I must go.

 

I set out in this boat on a dark river.

I row and I row and I row. And it hurts and it’s hard and I’m alone, but I fix my eyes Heavenward and I say, “All this for All of Him.” And as I go, rowing through this dark land, little candles float in the water toward me, lighting the way: notes from my King saying “come on, dear one. Keep rowing. You’re almost here.”

And as each candle floats toward me, I am filled with its light and its warmth and the love propelling it forward. My strength is renewed, and that same love propels me forward. I draw out of His love and that’s what moves me forward on this dark river, leading me Heavenward to be with Him.

 

I reach out into the water, brushing the surface as I scoop up that first candle. Attached is a note. I savor every word:

The same power that conquered the grave lives in you. I live in you. Draw out of My strength—it will never run dry.

 

The wind starts to blow, and my arms grow tired. And then I whisper those words “I draw from Your strength, Father.” The winds don’t die, and the waves don’t stop, but I am filled with strength from Above that overcomes every blowing wind and every roaring wave.

I continue rowing, and I grow tired. I grow complacent. I stare down into the dark, dark water—a deep abyss reaching far into the earth, threateningly cold. I shiver. But then, something within me whispers, “look up,” and as I do, I catch a glimpse of a small light, floating towards me. I row towards it, and scoop it up, nearly dropping it and extinguishing its flame in all my haste. I open the letter. It contains two words:

Choose joy.

Really? Choose joy? Father, this life is hard. I am tired. I am sore. I want to go home. In self-pity, I row forward, grumbling to myself. I stare down at that same dark river, flinching as water droplets leap from the surface, coating my arms and my face in cold agony. Those words come back to me: choose joy. I look up into the sky and gasp at the sight: stars strung out across the whole expanse, declaring the Majesty and Love of my Father, who is calling me forward. The water is still cold and dark, and I am still tired and sore, but He is good. He is infinitely good. The Heavens declare His praises—what makes me think that I am exempt from this declaration? So I choose it. I choose joy. I open my mouth and praise flows forth, and as it does, my feelings follow suit. I am smiling and laughing, and my heart is light—quite the paradox: darkness dispelled by light, winds and waves muted by laughter.

So I row forward, smiling and delighting in the Presence and Majesty of my Creator. Coming from the opposite direction, a woman floats by me in a boat. She grumbles and sneers at my joy, attempting to mute my laughter and still my smile. I open my mouth to make a snide remark back, but as I do, another candle floats toward my boat. I open the note, heart pounding in frustration at this woman:

She does not yet know the fullness of My grace—won’t you show her?

My heart pounds, but this time, it pounds with urgency. I must show her—I must show her that this joy and laughter can be hers. Her darkness, too, can be dispelled by the Father of Lights. She does not yet know. And again, He whispers, “Now that you know, you are responsible.”

Give my heart away, Father. Don’t let me keep it, shiny and new, all boxed up and comfortable. Release it. Spend it. Bruise it. Scar it. Beat it. Throw it around. Wrap it around. Use it. For when it is used, then does it beat the hardest.

As the winds grow stronger, so does my smile, and as the waves rise, so does my laughter. In Your presence, O Lord, there is fullness of joy. The night grows darker, attempting to mask my delight in darkness—seeking to blind me to this Light of my Father. I begin to feel silly, laughing and smiling in the darkness. So I stop, but I feel a gentle nudging on my heart saying, “Please, don’t stop. I delight in your delight.” And then appears another candle, its note saying:

Your identity is not earned, it is given. I have given you the identity of My Bride—do not let this world blind you to that.

Given, not earned. I am set apart for my King. So I ask not the question, “how does this make me look,” but rather the question, “how does this make Him look?” His mercies pull at the corners of my mouth, and my lips are loosed by the warmth of His gaze, and joy overflows, spilling over into the deep, cold water: a little bit of light in the midst of all that is dark.

The night is long. I am as a watchman, waiting for the morning. I am waiting for the Dawn, where Morning replaces all mourning. I grow restless and anxious. I am tired of this river—this journey. I want something new. My mind drifts to a distant future, wheels spinning and planning and writing the story of my life. I almost miss the next candle floating past me, but just in time I snatch it up, struggling to focus on the note in the midst of my daydreaming:

Patience, dear one. Have I not told you that those who trust in Me will lack no good thing? My grace is sufficient; you have all you need.

But what about my wants and my dreams and my plans? His Spirit whispers, “let’s dream together, but let Me plan.” And then I remember: my God wrote the story of salvation—a baby born of a virgin, a man nailed to a tree. He is the Master Author, weaving and dreaming and perfecting. His endings are always perfect, always good. Why would I want to hinder the will of my Father? This river is where I need to be—this journey. This place. Another candle comes, its note a continuation of the last:

I am working, even now, for your good. I am writing, editing, altering. I am weaving beauty out of ashes—forming beautiful sentences and paragraphs and books out of seemingly empty, void, and worthless letters. Individual moments coming together in beauty and grace. I am writing a poem out of you, dear one.

And so I row forward, not by my own strength, but by His. I row forward with joy escaping my lips in sounds of praise—a city on a hill, a light in the dark, pointing others to the Grace of my Father. I row forward, my heart wearing the Ring of my Beloved—a wedding vow He’s given to me, His Bride. I row forward in the knowledge that I am His, and He is mine, and He is all I need. Each stroke of my oars and each turn of my boat pull me closer to the Fullness of His Presence, and each is written into His Story. May my life tell the Story of His Grace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shelter From the Storm

I look out my window.
Frosted ice crystals falling down,

                                                    down,

                                                      down.

A whole other world behind that single pane of glass. Time slows. Quiets. Swells.

It holds more and it holds more fully.
Emotions heighten. Feelings follow suit.
Every second I’m seeking refuge. Not often do I enter that world to wander aimlessly, but I am purposeful. I have something I’m here for.

The flakes float, blanketing the ground in a layer of newness. It’s redemption, really.

See, but this snow—this gently falling, whispering snow—is powerful. Let us not forget to delight in its presence—the fresh life it brings, and also to stand in awe of its capacity to destroy. Let us not pick a side and forget the other.

It’s quiet. With each passing snowflake, I hear the whisper of my God’s “Be still and know that I am God.” Be still. But go with purpose. Seek refuge.

A homeless man rides his bike behind that pane of glass. He stops at our trash can. Our trash can. He’s seeking refuge from the storm. How often do I do this? Seek refuge in the trash of this world, while all the while my precious Jesus is saying, “No, look to me.” He lifts the lid and begins to dig, his eyes scanning for a glimmer of hope—something worth pulling out and holding dear. What makes me think that this single pane of glass is enough to hold back the Kingdom of God? I enter in. I reach out, a grocery bag of cans: a gift. He thanks me and as I walk away, I think “Oh, but there’s so much more. There is a refuge, and His name is Jesus.”

 

How precious is your steadfast love, O God! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings. Psalm 36:7

I come back in, leaving my boots at the door, slide back onto the warm couch. A shelter from the storm.

What right have I?

In Christ, you have the right to be loved, and the command to be love.

He says,
Look at the snow. It is slow. It quiets the chaos of the world, with a gentle “be still.” It is purposeful. It falls to renew. It covers the ground to usher in Spring. It points people toward refuge.

And then, I get it.

I do not have to BE the refuge, for it is not I who saves. I must point people TO the refuge: Jesus.
I must point, not with one finger or a head nod. Not with a couple words here and there. No, I must point with my whole body—my whole being. My everything. I must go. I must say. I must reach.
I must fall slowly, purposefully, to the ground, blanketing others with this newness Christ has birthed in me.

May my life be like this snowfall—always falling to my knees in humble adoration of Christ my King. May my life point to the One who is greater than I—the One who offers shelter from the storm.