Sandra, the Jewbu

It happened in a Trader Joe’s parking lot.  A not-so-by-chance meeting with Sandra, a brokenhearted woman on a spiritual journey.  I was making a run to pick up some items for my son and daughter-in-love after they just had a baby.  I pulled into a parking space along the right side of a nondescript sedan.  The driver of that vehicle was making her way around the back of her car to the passenger door.  As she moved beside my newly positioned car she commented about the dark, scattered clouds that loomed in quiet indecision.

“It’s going to pour,” she directed through my window before she opened her door.  

“It’s going to do something,” I returned affably before rolling up my window and turning off the car.  I couldn’t exit, though, because she was fumbling through something on her seat.  I waited… and I waited, and I waited.  She appeared totally unaware, but I figured since we had just spoken, she would soon realize the situation.  So I waited.  After a few more minutes, she did.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed as she caught sight of me over her shoulder.  She quickly shut the door and took a couple steps back.

“That’s okay,” I replied as I exited my vehicle and headed in the direction of the store.  “I've been there,” I threw over my shoulder, relating to being totally consumed in thought. 

“Not where I've been,” she called behind me.  Her tone was odd.  It was filled with defeat and a sadness that deliberately fought against itself.  Like a gentle hand on my forearm, it stayed my course. 

I turned around and responded inquisitively, “Where would that be?”

“With your boyfriend telling you you’re worthless.” She listed off a few other derogatory remarks from him, in a poor attempt to appear un-maimed.

A bit jolted, I looked at her short frame, wrapped in a shapeless navy sweater jacket which she filled out.  Her shortly clipped auburn hair was faintly speckled with gray, and its natural thickness held the feathered style into place. She wore glasses with rectangular lenses that were rimless so you saw more of her small face.  “How sad that your boyfriend must feel so bad about himself, that he’s trying to make you feel bad about yourself,” I replied with a ‘Karyn’ response instead of the standard, ‘oh I’m so sorry.’  I don’t know why I say these things, and to strangers; admittedly, it is weird!  In hindsight I had no idea how that response would be the springboard for a half-hour conversation with lasting effects. 

She went on to say a few disparaging remarks about him with her broken heart peeking out from behind a forceful dismissal of the man.  I commiserated and said, “I’ve learned that at one time or another everyone will let you down.  The only one that has never let me down has been Jesus.”  It was the truth.  It was my truth and what I felt the Holy Spirit was prompting me to say.  I prayed in my head, ‘Lord, what do you want me to say?  What does this woman need to hear?’

“Well I’m a Jewbu,” her fast-paced speech didn’t miss a beat. The look on my face must have indicated that I would need an explanation.  “I’m Jewish, but I started exploring the Buddhist faith,” she accommodated my confusion.  “That’s a Jewbu, but Jon Stewart had a guest on his show the other night that called himself a Buju.  So I guess it can go either way.  My boyfriend says I’m nuts and should forget all about it.”  With a quick inhalation and rising excitement she explained how she would go downtown and chant with other Buddhists.  She named the statue that they chanted by, but I can’t recall it.  My imagination drafted a picture of a gong, but I’m sure that’s not right.  While I don’t remember the name of the object, I do clearly remember the weighty impression of needing to respect her journey and to trust God for the rest.

Her enthusiasm continued, “Chanting transports me spiritually.  We chant nam-myoho-renge-kyo and it’s amazing that everyone starts off on their own key and once we all get going we are soon in harmony.” 

I sliced the following into the conversation, “That’s not unlike what I experience in worship.  I especially love when we sing an a cappella song and others begin to harmonize. It is a beautiful thing.”  

Sandra confessed that she had tried unsuccessfully to pray to Jesus in the past.  Like a baby bird waiting to be fed, she opened and closed her mouth twice to demonstrate that nothing would come out when she tried.  My heart literally hurt.  To think that something could actually hold back the name of Jesus Christ from passing across our lips was next to devastating to me.  She explained that she grew up in the Jewish faith which was harsh to her.  The upcoming weekend was Yom Kippur and she teared up as she remembered her parents, who had passed on. “They are all gone now,” she said with a grief that clutched more to her culture than her beliefs.  I know that feeling and I felt her loss. Somewhere in the midst of this part of our conversation we had introduced ourselves.

“Sandra, you only know half of the story,” I explained, referring to the Old Testament. “Jesus came and atoned for us all.  He is the way, the truth and the life.  You are chosen.”

“Yes, I know the Jews are chosen,” she cast that privilege aside, a bit too carelessly I thought.  “But I've had people proselytizing over me before and I just couldn’t stand it.  I’m more of a metaphysical person.  I’m thinking of moving to Oregon so I can chant outside.  I hear there are great places to chant there.”

“I understand that, having come from a New Age past,” I related.  “But I still experience God in nature too.”  The conversation took turns that I felt ill equipped for, so I just kept praying, Lord, give me your words, as Sandra wrapped me into her spiritual story.  Again I was assailed with the sense that I needed to be respectful of where she was on her journey.  So, I don’t know how it happened, and I definitely don’t recommend it, but we were soon holding hands and chanting!  Now you have to understand, I’m the person who won’t even say ‘Namaste’ when I’m done with yoga and here I was in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s chanting with Sandra, the Jewbu. 

I think it started with me saying, “Can I pray with you Sandra?”

“Don’t be proselytizing over me!” She emphatically answered.

“I’m not going to proselytize over you.  I just want to say a prayer,” I returned calmly.  I didn’t even know what ‘proselytizing’ meant, I just hoped that praying wasn’t it!

“If you pray, then I want to chant,” she bartered.

After a cautious moment, I agreed.  I took her hands to begin to pray, but she started her chant instead. I listened and prayed silently for protection.

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo,” she repeated over and over with her full bodied voice, yet the sound fell flat like an empty echo.  Maybe I was preoccupied in prayer, and maybe she felt awkward chanting in a parking lot, but all in all it had a rote quality to it and I suspected she felt unmoved as well.  After less than a minute she stopped, pulled her hands away and then explained what the chant meant.  “It’s a chant for happiness and for asking for things that you want.”  I’m sure she gave me a better definition than that, but those are the two points that I pulled from her statement.  I've later learned that it actually means: I devote myself to the Lotus Sutra of the Wonderful Law, which I know for sure she never mentioned.

She swiftly began to introduce another topic, but I thought, not so fast!  “Okay Sandra, I want something,” I insisted and recaptured her hands. What I wanted was for her to know the hope and fulfillment in Jesus Christ.  What I wanted was her heart to find its journey’s end in his arms. 

As I readied myself, her eyes gave me a raking assessment – an up and down look which gave me the impression she was grading the make of my clothes, rather than my intent.  I must have met with her approval because we ended up saying the chant together.

Just because the chant had no meaning to me, doesn’t mean it didn’t evoke what it meant.  I knew the inherent danger and prayed again for protection, not wanting to make myself spiritually vulnerable.    

“It’s my turn now,” I asserted. “I want to pray.” She didn’t have much of a choice, but she didn’t balk either.  In Jesus’ name I said a short prayer that she would come to know Him personally, experience Him deeply and know His love. 

I suppose you could argue that she tolerated me as much as I tolerated her, but we each chose to honor each other.  Once we dropped hands she shifted the conversation again, and with this unspoken cue we began to walk toward the store.  In that space of time I had mentioned that I was visiting from Nashville, to be here for the birth of my first grandchild.  She asked if I knew of Gruhn Guitars.  A friend’s brother had moved there in the 70’s to repair guitars and now was so successful he was in an American Express commercial. This friend, by the way, was horribly bullied as a child and Sandra, pointing to her red hair, was evidently bullied as a young girl herself. 

Her narrative continued down different trails as I grabbed a shopping basket and entered the store.  She said she no longer belonged to any category.  She was 60 years old and wasn’t a grandma because she didn’t choose to have children (a big life regret). She wasn’t married or a girlfriend anymore so she didn’t have a group to which she belonged.  She remarked that her friends would give her a hard time if she didn’t wear designer clothes (I realized then that this was the reason she so pointedly assessed what I was wearing).  She retold a time she was in a conversation with a couple of women and when they discovered she wasn’t a grandmother, they abruptly ended the conversation and walked away.  She blamed their political affiliation as the reason.  I interjected saying that that wasn’t because they were either liberal or conservative, that that behavior was just rude.  She continued with her fears that an Evangelist would be elected President, and on and on.

We were by the open refrigerators with dairy and cheese products when she shared a story about her father, tearing up again with his memory.  “My father was in hospice care and just before he died he called out for a Father Cooney.”

Admittedly, feeling a little fatigued from our conversation I was confused.  “Wait, your father was Catholic?”  I thought she had said he was Jewish in a very big way.

“Of course not, he was Jewish!” she exclaimed.

“That’s what I thought.  Then why would your father be calling out for a priest?”  I wondered if there was a piece of this story to which I might not have lent a proper ear.

“I’m sure he found his way into a church some time in his life, like I have,” she replied somewhat flummoxed, trying to make sense of it herself.

            “Sandra!” Suddenly it clicked and I was supernaturally alert.  “It was Jesus!  He was face to face with Jesus, that’s why he called out to the priest.”  Goosebumps did a happy dance on my arms, and I’m certain it wasn’t from the cool air creeping out from the refrigerators.

            “That’s what my brother said, ‘It’s that Jesus thing,’” she parroted with a masculine tone of voice, then continued saying “and he’s an atheist.  I don’t talk to my brother these days, but that’s a whole ‘nuther story.”

            “It’s that Jesus thing.” I went straight back to the Jesus part.  “Sandra, that’s incredible!  You just gave me goosebumps.  Do you see that it’s Jesus?  You have the most amazing story about Him with your Dad.  That’s incredible!”

            She downplayed it, and I couldn’t believe it.  She didn’t discredit it, but I could see that she saw it as just another thing that happened, not God chasing after her.  She couldn’t even see that I was standing there as a result of God pursuing her too.  I’d never experienced something like this before, where a non-believer had the better testimony!  How does that happen?  It took me a moment to recover from such a big let-down, but Sandra didn’t notice, she went off on another conversational tangent.  This time it was about the current global threats; ISIS, Ebola, etc.  Her voice escalated with fear to the point that, I believe she actually said that the world was coming to an end. 

I sighed and nodded my head in agreement that things in this world weren't hunky dory and then said that I needed to get my son’s coconut milk ice cream.  “It was nice meeting you Sandra.  I wish you the best on your journey.” 

We said good-bye weeks ago, but Sandra’s story has lingered with me.  I know Jesus loves Sandra, our little chatter-box, but she’s blind to his passionate pursuit.  Instead, she’s been embraced by Buddhists who appeal to her metaphysical nature and, she told me, don’t care what type of clothes she wears. 

How is it we can look at the same thing and see it differently?  How is it that she can’t see that Jesus has no categories, no political affiliation, just hope?  The fact that Sandra can’t see Jesus pursuing her breaks my heart, furthermore, what she does see and associates with Jesus hurts me even more.  

My encounter with Sandra has given me much to ponder, but for now, I just want to end this witness by saying that evangelizing is not a spiritual gift of mine and I don’t feel like I do it well; however, if I’m talking about myself truthfully, Jesus is going to be part of that conversation.  Moreover, when I share my story about Jesus’ love and deliverance, no one can ever dispute it.

Sandra is an example of how we all have hurts and struggles.  I follow a God who calls me to share how he has impacted and healed my own hurts and struggles, so others may know he can do the same for them.  Like the healed man in Mark 5:19-20 Jesus tells us all, “Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.” So the man went away and began to tell in the Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him.  And all the people were amazed.  I just want to encourage you to do the same… just share YOUR story.  That’s all Jesus asks us to do.  

Don't Pray for Patience

I hear it all the time, “Pray for patience.”  Some people even recommend purposefully practicing the act of waiting to help develop patience.  I don’t know about you, but there is a major disconnect for me with this philosophy.  Instead, the only thing I find that I wait for is patience itself!

If you are like me, you may need a more radical way of looking at patience.  When I first pondered this troublesome word (troublesome to me because I could not master it), I was led to the Fruit of the Spirit in which patience is one of nine virtues that reflect a follower of Christ.  They are all excellent virtues which I really want to have.  I dwelled on the fact that they were described as fruit.   To me fruit is a by-product of a tree or vine.  Think about it… how does fruit grow?  It doesn’t just pop out on a branch, does it?  We don’t get instant apples, or groves of grapes.  Fruit grows and is nourished from the vine it is connected to.  In John chapter 15 Jesus calls himself the vine and he talks about how to get this fruit:  “No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine.  Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.”

Fruit cannot make itself because the vine is what produces the fruit.  This got me thinking about patience being a by-product of something, or rather something that develops from an attribute of Jesus (the Vine) rather than our own efforts (waiting).  In fact, I believe each Fruit of the Spirit has a divine attribute of God that gives it life, is responsible for the formation of the bud and the continuation of its growth through constant nourishment (remain in me). 

Jesus has shown me that what we really are searching for are the attributes of God, instead of figuring out ways to produce our own fruit.  When we adopt the attributes of God as virtues they make producing fruit easier!  Granted, God’s attributes are vast beyond measure, but when we know what they are we can pray for and practice them in order to produce better fruit. 

Let’s get back to patience.  Waiting ≠ Patience, the divine attribute of HUMILITY =

PATIENCE. Since God is humble we can obtain patience: From a lowly manger birth to a borrowed tomb, the human life of Jesus exemplified humility.  True humility is an accurate understanding of who we are in relation to God.  It is realizing you are not omnipotent and that you have limits.  Humility doesn’t think less of ourselves; it thinks more of others.

While God loves us for who we are, we don’t necessarily love others the same way.  Especially when we are behind someone who is unskilled at using an ATM machine.  Don’t we want everyone to move as fast as or even faster than us?  Don’t we want them to have prices on all their groceries when they check out so that we don’t have to wait for a price check?  From waiting in line to relationships that get out of line, our patience gets tested at every turn.  If we’re honest we expect others to be as capable as or even more capable than we are.  The ugly truth is that impatience rears its ugly head when we elevate our own needs above someone else’s. 

Patience is an expression of humility which is the antidote to impatience.  Humility puts aside our ego and says that I am especially loved by God… along with everyone else!  When you are mature in humility, patience no longer becomes a waiting game, but rather the reflected virtue of our humble Savior.  Praying for and practicing HUMILITY will give you more patience.  It transforms “Mirror Vision” to “Window Vision”.  Remaining in Jesus helps develop humility so that you can see beyond yourself.  When you realize that we are all flawed, fallen and forgiven it reminds you how deeply loved we all are.    The love that fuels humility helps us think of others first, it attempts to understand others and it makes no demands of others.  This love is strong enough to remove the impatience in our wait and extends grace in its place.  I encourage you not to wait for patience anymore. Instead, live patiently because humility has found a comfortable home in your spirit.

I'd love for you to share your thoughts by posting a comment below, and I encourage you to share if you know anyone else who fruitlessly prays for patience too!

I invite you to follow me on twitter @karynhumphries and visit my website karynhumphries.com

Linda FAITH

I am overcome with conviction for my continued lack of faith.  A dear friend’s father had a major heart attack last week and has possibly suffered brain damage.  He is not spiritually saved; in Christian terms that means he doesn’t have a relationship with Jesus.  Knowing my friend’s passion for The Lord, I know this weighs heavily on her heart, maybe even more than his physical condition.  It was not looking good all week, but yesterday she shared that he made some meaningful movements, which were incredibly encouraging. 

I don’t know what will happen… I’ve been in similar situations before.

I recall the cancer battle of the son of another friend of mine.  There were scattered moments of hope, fostered by incredible health gains along the way, but ultimately he lost that battle.  I give credit to prayer and the powerful faith of The Northside Community Church, and others, for those hope-filled, miraculous moments. I no longer put anything past the strength of FAITH that The Northside has.  It is quite a phenomenon to me.  I know they are currently being vigilant in HOPE for our dear friend and her father.  

Perhaps that’s the real miracle of FAITH: the VIGILANCE in doubt, the PERSEVERANCE of belief through the reality of dire circumstances and the ultimate TRUST that no matter what happens, you’re NOT WRONG for making a stand in FAITH. This FAITH knows that our God CAN, and our God WILL.  It is not dependent on a feeling, or even vulnerable to what we sense in a situation.  The outcome is dependent, in some proportion, to the diligence of BELIEF on our part.

 My long-standing prayer has been Mark 9:24, “I do believe, help me overcome my unbelief!”  I think of how Jesus didn’t do many miracles in his hometown of Nazareth because of their lack of faith. (Matthew 13:58)  I tell myself that I have to let go of my previous experiences where healing did not take place, and take on the banner of, “I WILL BELIEVE no matter how remote the chances are.” I need to take responsibility for the lack of faith I brought to those previous experiences.  I need to dare to be wrong, to be confident even when shrouded in doubt and to elevate my earthly view to a new perspective. 

I need to INSIST in the BELIEF of the outcome, not just PERSIST in prayer.  So in addition to my prayers, I will say in my heart and mind: 

-          I BELIEVE that her father will make a full recovery and have time with Jesus on both sides of eternity.

-          I BELIEVE that my friend will be able to remain in Nashville and not have to leave because of unemployment.

-          I BELIEVE that a young life can still be filled with God’s glory, even if poor choices have changed its trajectory.

-          I BELIEVE I will do what I am meant to do for The Lord.

I BELIEVE my God is capable. I BELIEVE I have a part in the miracle.  What I must do is put my own skin in the game.  I need to be defiantly hopeful even when the circumstances are steeped in a convincing reality that lures me to believe, “It won’t happen.”  “They aren’t capable.” “It’s just too much.”

Additionally, I have to realize that some of the sad outcomes may just be someone else’s miracle.  Who am I to presume to know these things?  We will all die… for believers, who isn’t to say that that is the biggest miracle and blessing of all?  I pray for The Lord to give me His eyes to see the power of faith and my responsibility in it.

In the book Kingdom Woman, Tony Evans gives the account of faith by a woman named LINDA.  He was scheduled to speak at a crusade in an open stadium where stormy weather threatened the event.  They gathered to pray and most prayed, “If it’s your will God, hold back the rain.” Linda chimed in and prayed, “Lord, Your name is at stake.  We told these people that if they would come out tonight they would hear a word from God.  We told them they would hear from you.  Now, if they come and You let it rain, and You don’t control the weather, then You will look bad. We told them that You wanted to say something to them, and if You don’t keep back what You can control – the weather – someone could say that Your name is no good. Therefore right now I ask in the Name of the Lord Jesus Christ for the rain to stop for the sake of Your Name!”  Despite reports that heavy thunderstorms were coming right at them, Linda sat on the stage, not with an umbrella, as others were, but with a confident look of expectation instead.  Tony goes on to report, “The rain rushed toward the stadium like a wall of water. Yet when it hit the stadium it split.  Half of the rain went on one side of the stadium. The other half went on the other side.  Then it literally met on the other side of the stadium.”  All the while, Linda had sat there with a confident look on her face. 

Linda’s confident belief backed up her bold prayer.  That’s what I want!  I want me some LINDA FAITH! (Can you hear the child tantrum within me?) I want to sit confidently before the storm and refuse to take an umbrella because even though I see the storm menacingly approaching, I can KNOW The Lord won’t let it rain because of my UNWAVERING belief, because of my PERSISTENT belief, because of my WILLFUL belief! And even if it doesn’t happen and I am WRONG, I’d rather be wrong TRUSTING Jesus, than be right in doubt.  I’d rather please God than be surprised by Him.  Because according to OUR FAITH it will be done (Matthew 9:29) and without OUR FAITH it is impossible to please God! (Hebrews 11:6)

To my many friends who have the Spiritual Gift of faith, thank you for your example; thank you for being Linda’s in my life.  To The Northside Community Church thank you for helping me see God in a bigger way; Your FAITH ASTOUNDS ME!

http://store.tonyevans.org/p-430-kingdom-woman.aspx

Dancing Barb

This post is about a very dear friend who succumbed to cancer last December.  I penned these words in my journal as a letter to her, and then later shared them with her husband.  With his consent I now share them with you.  Barb’s life was an incredible witness of living Jesus out loud.  She inspires me to choose joy and to share God’s love no matter how I feel.

Dear Barb,

I so admire your love for God and your radiant reflection of Him to the world.  I remember many of the amazing things you did and your impact on others, but there was this one time that really punctuated your selfless, carefree, loving-life attitude.

We were with Northside Community Church at Navy Pier for a ladies night out.  There was an area with a DJ and most of the ladies were having a blast on the dance floor.  I secured one of the few open spots to sit and saved you a seat.  You danced a little but your meds caused your legs and feet to burn and hurt, so you didn’t last long.  You weren't visibly uncomfortable but I could see your smile ended a bit prematurely as you interacted with the other ladies.  So, while you didn’t want to take the seat I patted beside me, you were grateful for the bit of horizontal space in a very crowded area. 

As we sat and watched the ladies having a loud, fun time, a gentleman who appeared to be homeless began dancing off to our right, away from the main body of dancers.  You of course noticed him.  You have a special radar for those outside the graces of civil society.  So, what do you do? Even wracked with pain, you rise and join him dancing.  You complete the picture – bringing what would be considered odd and sad; a dirty, shabbily dressed man dancing off to the side by himself, into the beautiful picture of a man dancing with a lady.  He was delighted and his face lit up with fun.  You were absolutely glowing!  Despite the pain and the fact that your legs weren't working well, you were lighting up the dance floor. 

I marveled at your determination to be joyful over succumbing to the clutches of pain that latched on to your legs and feet, trying their best to keep you in your seat.  But they never stood a chance!  And when our eyes met as you did a slow turn that involved many careful baby steps, you assured me that you were having a ball and that this man was the biggest blessing of your day! 

Oh Barb, you are one of the rare ones who receive even more blessings by giving blessings.  I think that sums up who you grew to be in Christ.  You were purposeful with your life – which was to live on purpose for Christ.  Because of the hope we have in Him we are assured a seamless transition when we die, but frankly there was no transition for you in spirit on December 4^th, because you were living eternal life as soon as you loved your Savior.  The truth Barb, is that you have not skipped a beat.  While everyone has wonderful stories of you dancing, your real story is about looking for and finding opportunities to share the love of Christ, as best as you could, with those around you. 

Most of our times together weren't dancing, they were girlfriend times experiencing life together as women and mothers.  We contemplated God’s mysteries, questioned His thinking, praised His graciousness, trusted His timing, and loved His mercy.  Your choice to love life despite your fate is proof to me that choosing Jesus is the only way to make that possible.  You lived out Philippians 4:8,

Whatever is TRUE

Whatever is NOBLE

Whatever is RIGHT

Whatever is PURE

Whatever is LOVELY

Whatever is ADMIRABLE –

If anything is EXCELLENT

Or praiseworthy,

THINK about such things.

Barb that is what you did in life.  That is what everyone saw and was in awe of.  I celebrate you and your choice to live out Jesus. And for all the blessings you received by blessing others, may you have an endless supply of crowns to cast at the feet of our spectacular Savior, now that you are gloriously face to face with Him. 

In my mind I see your glowing smile as you danced with that man at Navy Pier and I know just what you look like now dancing with the God, who became man, so we all might know His full blessing.  Thank you Barb for living and loving graciously.  I have been profoundly blessed by you…. Here’s another crown dear, aim well for me!

Love Karyn~ 

Share if you care & follow me on Twitter @karynhumphries

The Cafeteria Lady

There was a woman who was in my life for less than 5 minutes. She said no more than 8 words, she never told me her name and she remains faceless in my mind to this very day, but she profoundly impacted me in a way that has shaped who I am today. 

This powerful experience happened when I was in college.  I was pretty full of myself and fueled by grandiose plans for a prestigious future.   One day during lunch I carried my food tray to a table that a cafeteria worker was wiping down.  I felt sorry for this woman as she bent over the table at such a menial task, so I decided to brighten her day. 

As I said, I barely remember what she looked like; I can only remember that her face was really weathered and framed by the tight curled coiffure of a “wash & set”. The deep lines around her eyes revealed too many years of hard work.  She wore an unfashionable blue work smock, and white orthopedic shoes.  (Hard work and no fashion…, I didn’t think anyone should be so cursed!)

I sat down, smiled and complimented how well she did her job.  Without a pause, or indication that she sensed my pity, she graciously responded, “Everything I do, I do for the Lord.”  I think she may have removed a track from her smock pocket, placed it down on my tray before she smiled and moved off to another table, but honestly I was too stunned to even notice or reply.  I sat there watching her make her way to the next table with my mouth ajar, stunned at such a regal response.  It was truly beautiful and I was speechless. You can ask anyone who knows me and you will find that I am seldom rendered speechless! 

At that time in my life I had never thought that everything or even any little thing I did, could be for the

Lord.  My mind turned over this incomprehensible thought a dozen times before I internalized the truth.  It didn’t matter if I were wiping tables or running a fortune 500 business, as long as I gave Him the glory, there was no difference in His eyes. 

Her message and powerful witness was a gift that changed the path of my life.  It gave me confidence as a young woman in the workplace, my sanity as a mother and, to this day, no excuses.  I wish I knew who my cafeteria lady was so that I could thank her, but God knows and I have confidence that He’ll re-unite us in heaven where I won’t notice what she’s wearing, but rather  I’ll notice the beauty that I overlooked all those years ago.

Don't Call Me Religious

In a conversation with a co-worker many years ago, she described me as religious and I found myself deeply offended.  She didn’t accuse me of it, or even compliment me of it; it was part of a deeper conversation surrounding death, illness and suffering.  She just sort of made note of it.

I was initially thrown for a loop.  As a child, having been raised in what I call a culturally religious family, I performed sacraments that were empty and meaningless.  I adhered to doctrine that I didn’t understand and I never, ever cracked open a Bible.  I knew who Jesus was, kind of, but I knew more about rituals and liturgies than about His righteousness and love.

The insufficiency of religion is what propelled my spiritual walk, and for that I am grateful.  So after years of seeking, accepting and learning about Christ, when my friend called me religious, it hit an old nerve.  I surprised myself by responding with calm conviction that I didn’t consider myself religious at all, that I had chosen faith as a life-style instead of religion. Faith that includes a church, the Bible and a relationship with Jesus Christ.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I am not bashing any church or denomination.  I am criticizing my own empty, uneducated, spiritual condition that was going through the motions, but wanting more. With Easter approaching, I think of the many church attenders who will hear only liturgy instead of love, and may know of Jesus, but don’t really know Him.  I ache for those who know that there is more and I want to give you assurance that there is! 

Easter is a beautiful celebration, without it you can’t have Christmas.  The birth of baby Jesus is meaningless without the resurrection of the (divine) man.  Andy Stanley says, “It wasn’t the teachings of Jesus that sent His followers into the streets, it was His resurrection.”    I Corinthians 15 reports that after His death Jesus appeared to more than 500 people, in the flesh.  In that passage the Apostle Paul says that if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile.  I am by no means a scholar, but I don’t know of any other spiritual teacher/leader who did not meet with a final, mortal death. Jesus says to Thomas in John 20:27-29, “Put your finger here; see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” People, this really happened; it isn’t a fairy tale, a folk lore or a piece of fictional fantasy.  I choose to trust the guy who conquered death; I choose to give my faith to the one who loved me that much!

Jesus’ sacrificial death is not only proof of God’s love for us, but the invitation of eternal life (made possible by… ta da… the resurrection!).  Back in I Corinthians 15 Paul writes in verse 19, If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. This point drives deep into my heart.  How sad is it if Jesus’ teachings are only a coping mechanism for me in this life, with no promise for tomorrow?  There is so much hope beyond today and there is so much power that is available to me through the work of the cross, really!  I live this out in the minutia of my days as well as in the mess of tragedy.  More importantly, many others, besides the Disciples, died for this truth.

I know I sound religious, but I’m not!  I’m in love and I am deeply loved back.  This love gives my faith carte blanche, this love attracts my obedience and this love endures even when I doubt.  This love is bigger than my insecurities, my insufficiency and my iniquities.  I celebrate this love this Easter in sacraments that are now filled with beautiful meaning because I understand the cost, the love and the victory that makes eternity available through the resurrection; a very real and historical event.

I love how Jesus, in another conversation with Thomas, addresses eternity.

“I am going there to prepare a place for you.  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you with me that you also may be where I am.  You know the way to the place where I am going.” 

Thomas said to him, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” 

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me… Believe me when I say that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; or at least believe on the evidence of the miracles themselves.”

(John 14:2-6, 11)

This Easter, I believe afresh in the miracle of the resurrection that opens the door to eternal life. This incredible piece of history inspired the Disciples and continues to inspire great works of faith in all of us who believe.   I don’t think religion did this, I think Jesus Christ did.  I will take relationship over religion any day!  I revel in the reality of the resurrection – the cross is bare, the tomb is empty and our Savior lives! Join me this Easter in really celebrating this incredible truth~ 

PONDER - The kitchen table

PONDER: verb, 1. to consider deeply; meditate. 2. to weigh carefully in the mind. – Syn. 1. Reflect, cogitate, deliberate, ruminate.

Witness & Ponder came about because I wanted to share pictures of Christ moving in others (Witness) and deep thoughts that make me wonder, question and ultimately affirm the life of grace that I have chosen in Christ (Ponder). 

My last post portrayed my personal witness; this post cracks open the door of my mind, which can be a beautiful, yet scary place.  It is a disparate land of lush contemplation and spiritual inspiration that cohabitates with scattered thoughts, notions, judgments and fears.  In order for pondering to take seed, every aspect of my brain needs to harmonize in order to sprout anything of value.  Otherwise day dreams would reign without reason, fears would frolic without divine assurances, and fragmented thoughts would never have a home. 

To ponder is a gift of a surplus sight, it is a discipline, but mostly it is the beauty of a visceral thought that won’t let you go until you search out its destiny. The latter has been mostly my experience – I can’t boast in discipline; I can only boast in the blessed earnestness of the Holy Spirit. 

To be able to ponder something in this day and age is a challenge with all the distractions of life snatching away any focus I can muster.  The noise of life alone bombards my senses; like elusive, hovering gnats, that return to annoy you no matter how many times you swipe at them. (Nature’s noise is the exception here).   You know what I’m talking about, life: TV, kids, pets, cell phone, neighbor’s radio, traffic, grinding breaks of the garbage truck…. all the way down to the hearty din of my own disjointed thoughts!

But there are times when something will capture my attention enough that I need to lower the volume of life in order to attend to it.  It is here, in my pondering, that revelation and inspiration are born.  It is a profound process that reaps interesting results.  I don’t always get answers, but I experience the beauty of the process because the process always includes God.  The internet can provide all the information I may need, but knowledge falls short of comfort, insight, transformation and meaning. 

For many years my inspiration for “pondering” has been Mary, the mother of Jesus.  Here you have a young girl who chooses to ponder her circumstances, rather than freak out, complain, deny or run away.  But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.  (Luke 2:19).  I know she had personal visits from an angel to assure her, but think about that for a second – she could have freaked out, complained, denied, or ran away then too!  An uncommon teenager, facing uncommon circumstances, who chose to plumb the depths of her situation with God and ultimately chose uncommon trust.  Yeah, I think she was one incredible young gal!

You don’t need life shaking circumstances to ponder; you can ponder anywhere - at least I do.  Sometimes I’ll look at something; like my new, handcrafted kitchen table and take a moment to acknowledge the people who imagined it, created it and assembled it in order for my family to eat on it and serve on it.  Then I look around my kitchen and imagine how overflowing it would be if the people who had imagined, created and assembled everything in it were standing there.  Suddenly my kitchen has new meaning and gratitude flows.

So, I invite you to ponder with me. Bring God into your thoughts for His truths, let Jesus reign over your fears and allow The Holy Spirit to usher your fragmented thoughts to a place of new meaning and gratitude.  Mary did it; we can too. 

The Beginning - The Marble Block

My story begins with a telling tale about a woman’s relationship with God at a pivotal stage in life.  It started a journey into a spectacular realm of love and grace with irrevocable changes.  Below is just a portion of this tale, which occurred decades ago. Some of you may have already heard my Marble Block story, but I thought it would be a fitting beginning to a blog dedicated to witnessing and pondering the grace of God.   Even though this is my story, it could really be yours.  The circumstances in our lives may be different, but the hand of God sculpts each of us, as long as we are willing. Whatever your circumstances, whether in joy or pain, my prayer is that you are willing. THE MARBLE BLOCK When I had my first child something strange happened in my life.  It wasn't the obvious “new addition to the family” transition, but rather an internal adventure to rival that of Alice in Wonderland.  It was as if someone had placed a gigantic block of marble on my lawn, right out in front of my house.  The monstrosity was an immense, rough-hewn, piece of rock with intricate veins that swirled throughout.  It wasn’t exactly a sight of beauty, in fact it looked quite the eye sore and I was bothered that my neighbors were all privy to it.  I figured in some way or another this had to do with motherhood.  After all I had had no formal training in the field of parenting.  So I decided to go to some of the experts to get some advice on how to handle my marble block.   The Grandmas were first.  I asked them, “What should I do with it?”  Each one handed me a chisel and instructed me to use it on the marble.  So for the first few months and into the first year I chipped away at the solid, dense piece.  It was a difficult job, keeping me up most nights with sleepy rituals of guesswork that spilled into my confused days.  Feeling unfulfilled with my progress I went in search of more answers. Next it was the doctors.  They could only offer me a hammer, but combined with my chisels I felt I was making progress.  Although, it wasn't long before my frustration grew. I hadn't even breached past six inches of the massive rock.  It was looking worse than when it first appeared on my lawn.  I was feeling embarrassed that all my neighbors could see my slow, pitiful progress.  I was, after all, an educated woman with a keen sense of order and propriety.  I’d met every other challenge in my life successfully; why was this so difficult?   Then, through a network of other mothers more resources came to me.  I attended seminars, read books and shared sculpting techniques with others that had discovered the same big rock outside their door when motherhood arrived.  I acquired better tools - power tools that rivaled my husband’s.  My buffing technique had improved but still the marble wasn't glistening.  I became discouraged as I compared myself to other mothers who seemed to sculpt effortlessly.  I grew tired of the constant chore of picking up after it.  Its dusty shards and slivers were a nuisance.  There were even times, when in error I had chiseled too much and marred a limb or two of the emerging image from the stone.  I would become sad and disillusioned then stop for a while.  Although when I began again, because of some inspiration, I became so engrossed that I sometimes created a hazardous environment with all the debris.  Through the years a form had begun to take shape, which inspired hope.  Yet I still couldn’t master the technique that would bring the rock to life, give it its shine, or display its glory.   I discovered that there was a piece to the puzzle that was missing.  I had searched out family, friends, physicians, educators, professionals and my peers but I hadn’t explored the church.  Now the church didn’t give me any additional tools, but it did give me a manual.  From the hand of the creator Himself, came tips that inspired more than just hope, they instilled a purpose.  Suddenly each and every stroke, chip and buff had meaning.  I was given this rock for a reason.  Most of the time I moaned and complained about how unfulfilling it was to tend but I realized that all along someone counted on me to complete it.  There even came a day when I realized that I was actually enjoying myself.  What had begun as a chore had developed into a labor of love.   With habitual care and attention the figure within the rock began to reveal itself to me, and the more I saw, the more I wanted to see.  What was so important that God would want me to invest most of my life attending to?  Limb by limb the figure almost appeared to be bursting from the captivity of the cold, hard rock.  I could see that my toils, tears and triumphs were meant to liberate it.  With one more cut into the stone, the visage appeared and knocked me off my feet in shocked surprise.  I couldn’t believe it…. The image was of me!   At first this made no sense at all but upon closer examination I understood.  It was the promise of what I could become for God by being a mother to my children, a wife to my husband, a daughter to my parents, a sister to my siblings, a friend to my loved ones and a woman of God to the world. Within that cold block of marble was a child of God waiting to emerge.  It was I. It is I.  It is who God intends for me to be. My work is far from done.  There are whole portions of rock that still cling to my form. There are scars that still have to be buffed out. There are dull portions that have to be shined up. But I still have my manual and it tells me that all that is expected of me is faith.  So I keep working.  Now I bring every shard and chunk of marble to God.  He quietly takes all I have to give and doesn’t expect perfection.  All He wants is for me to love Him with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind and all my strength.  It’s the least I can do for the price of freedom, the debt that was paid by His son, Jesus, for me.   I found God’s truth for me within my Marble Block.  When I was encapsulated in the world’s cold, dark, dank perceptions and expectations of myself, I never got to see what God really saw.  He gave me the means to discover who He wanted me to be when I became a mother.  God freed me from taking ownership of what I believed were the world’s expectations of motherhood.  He took my inability to find satisfaction and fulfillment in that role and showed me that no matter how good I was at it, He wouldn't love me any more - and no matter how bad I was at it, He wouldn’t love me any less.  In His eyes I was a lot more than the poor mother that I was in my own eyes.  I became a better mother once I realized that I would never be the perfect mother with perfect children.   The joy in this freedom was born out of a lot of pain.  My potential as a mother is continually realized through God’s grace.  His grace removes the fence of expectations between myself & Him and myself & the world.   It is grace alone that allows us to honestly accept the ‘who I am’ in each of us.  It is that grace that transforms the ‘who I am’ into what God intended all along.  It is only with His grace that I am able to truly live this life!