Good Friday’s Clarion Call In A College Town

I am a disturber of ducks.

I see the mallard first, standing on one leg atop a small rock near the reeds. He is so still, so perfectly iridescent with his blue green head. I instinctively grab my phone and stupidly try to sneak up on him. He drops his hidden orange leg. I see movement of a speckled brown and white mound. The mallard’s mate is ruffling her body up and over a divet in the ground she’d been lying in. I could have stepped on her lovely, camoflaged self.  She and her companion slip almost imperceptibly into the pond. It is clear in the way they make small circles in the water and shake their tail feathers they are agitated. I slide the phone back into my pocket. I am a disturber and an agitator. All I  wanted was a picture of a one-legged duck I could post on Instagram.

On a rare Friday off with nothing needing doing, I had headed to Bates College for a walk around the pond. I needed to get out of town, away from the familiar walking path I normally take in my neighborhood. Bates is pretty and small in that New England collegiate way. I love the place. It’s a miniature sanctuary in the middle of the city. Even though the sound of traffic can be heard in the distance and students and faculty are always out and about, it never feels crowded or noisy. The cat o’ nine tails that edge the pond and the path that encircles it seems to buffer the mad, mad world that contorts a few hundred yards away.bates.jpg

I love it when I’m lucky enough to hear the bells toll. They make me think of God. To me they are a clarion call to pray, to celebrate, to remember. Sometimes they peal wait. Sometimes they clang make haste. 

On this day I was trying to find my way back to right thinking. On the first go around the pond, it was the mallard that reminded me how reflexively tied I am to getting the right picture instead of picturing the right thing. I quickened my pace. I was thinking that school is hard and that the brokenness of children was taking its toll and nothing in this mad, mad world seems right. Nothing at all.

We are Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
Up is down. Down is up.
Right is wrong. Wrong is right.

These children.
Living in a world so far off course it is hardly recognizable.

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These children are not afraid of the monsters under their beds, but they are afraid of going hungry. These children are not afraid of the latest horror movie or the blood-fest video game some teenager has shown them, but they are afraid that they’re stronger than the adults in their lives who are supposed to be taking care of them.

They’re afraid that getting to school, preparing a meal, finding clean clothes and staying away from abuse is all up to them.

“And whoever receives one such child in My name receives Me; but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him to have a heavy millstone hung around his neck, and to be drowned in the depth of the sea.

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These children. So quick with a hug and a fist.
So quick with a profanity, so quick with a gift. Here, I made this for you.
So quick to hold hands, small fingers imperceptibly lacing through mine.

The tales they tell while they are coloring.

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It is on the fourth go around the kid hurt that tries to choke the hope out of me by whispering, “You will never be able to fix this,”  is loosening its grip.

Of course, it’s true. I can’t fix it. Every school day I am confronted with the reality that humans are a messed up lot and we’ve messed up our wee ones. However,  I do not have to give in to the Despiser of our souls, the one who loathes children from their womb- beginnings and is hell-bent on destroying them the moment they inhale their first God-given breath. “See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in heaven continually see the face of My Father who is in heaven.

By not giving in to his lies that all is lost in the next generation, I become a disturber and an agitator of another kind. I become like Jesus, who turns tables on the plans of the enemy.

When the bells tolled four o’clock as I rounded the bend near the Arts Center, I was awakened  once again that I am not the fixer. I am a bringer. I can bring what has been fixed for me on today’s Friday, the Good One.

I can bring mercy and I can bring hope.
I can bring hands that guide, pick up, and rescue.
I  can bring hands that wash, hands that button and zip against the cold.
I can bring hands that wipe tears.

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I walked up the natural amphitheter and turned back toward the pond. It was settled for me again that to believe the gospel of Jesus Christ is to believe that the cross is enough for a mad, mad world and all its children. To believe that Jesus fixed it like He said He would back in the beginning. This is my clarion call. This is my prayer. Let the bells toll.

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But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.

 

 

 

 

The Wind And Its Mercy

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The wind blew my neighbor’s screen door right off its hinges. I had woken earlier in the night to its howl. I thought it was the train. Then the bang of tree limbs against the side of the house penetrated my sleep haze. It’s just the wind. I rolled over and went back to sleep. I like the wind. My mother does not.

Perhaps it has something to do with her jostling about in my grandmother’s womb during the Hurricane of 1938. hurr1938(pvhn3.wordpress.com)

When I say I like the wind, I mean I mostly like the wind. I have a line. It’s an invisible line, but I know when the tempest crosses it I find I’m the first one up at the window scanning the sky. I’m watching how fast the clouds move…how far back the trees are bending.

I remember one night when I was little having to leave a big tent in a hurry, my father throwing one of my sisters up onto his shoulders. He wouldn’t let another sister go back to get a sneaker that got pulled off her foot as hundreds of us made our way across a mud-sodden, shoe sucking field. The wind whiplashed our hair into our mouths and pressed our shirts into our chests.

In the headlights of the cars trying to leave the field -turned -parking lot, I could see my father’s face had gone tight, the muscles working at his mouth. It was an unfamiliar sight as he was, and still is, a man who is hardly afraid of anything. A man who, two summers ago, didn’t blink an eye in an overhead lightning storm, calmly rooted to his front porch regaling me with yet another story while I jumped from my rocker at every flash and peal. He is a man who stares down dangerous things like copperheads and bully police officers.

Yet, even this man has a line.

That night in Pennsylvania when word came during an outdoor church service that a tornado had touched down a mile away, instead of staring the thing down, my father chose to high-tail us out of there. Wind does that sometimes. It makes us want to run.

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Most of us welcome its cool gentle breeze on a hot day. We breathe in her autumn flurry as she rustles the leaves into a dance.We laugh out loud at her gusts that carry our kites over the dunes.

It’s when the wind takes a turn and threatens to knock us down…to fiercely flatten us…promising to pummel then push us up against a wall…it is here that we learn we are at its mercy.

It’s like when you decide to walk the two miles to the doctor’s office for your son’s nine month checkup on a beautiful fall day, only to have the pediatrician say, “I don’t like the look of his liver….I need to run some tests.”

A gust flutters your heart on a very long walk home.

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Or when you’re dreaming about the new house your husband is building and what your new kitchen will look like and maybe there will even be a sewing room. You overhear the girls giggling about the color of their new shag carpet and finally, the boy will have his own room. Then one day you and the kids are abandoned, the place you’re living in, with its ugly lime green cabinet and mattress- on- the- floor beds is abandoned, too. That new house? Just a wind ravaged shell of framed nothin’.

Hurricane force winds changes the whole landscape of your life.

hurricane katrina(Hurricane Katrina in Black and White- http://biotech.law.lsu.edu/)

Maybe it’s the day your uncle kisses your aunt good-bye, tousles his sons’ heads and whispers in his six month old daughter’s ear right before the end of it. You never walk the fields of his farm with him again because a man came drunk-careening down a hill at six o’clock in the morning and didn’t see your uncle pull out of his driveway.

You taste the bitter pill of a tornado’s destruction.

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Wind.
It blows seeds and rips trees.
How do we live with its uncertainty?
How do we breathe peace when we don’t know what the next storm will bring?

The only way to embrace all the windy days is to realize they are all His.

Who has ascended into heaven and descended?  Who has gathered the wind in His fists? Who has wrapped the waters in His garment? Who has established all the ends of the earth? What is His name or His son’s name? Surely you know!

Surely we know, we need to know His name is Jesus. The One that can hold the wind in His fists holds us, too. He is the only One who promises to get us to the other side.

That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.”  Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him.  A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped.  Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.

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For the life of every living thing is in his hand, and the breath of every human being.

But as for me, I trust in You, O LORD, I say, “You are my God.” My times are in Your hands…

My times are in his hands when an out of the blue incident happens in a far away land and my son is there in the midst of a storm that blows hard for six days and I can’t go to be with him. I know he is being buffeted about, that a dishonest and injurious wind has him pushed up against the dark side of humanity  and nothing nothing nothing is in his control or mine or his dad’s. We get bits and pieces of the truth like debris blown about desperate for a place to land.  I know this boy. He who has stood up to injustice his whole life is now facing some of his own and that his heart, my heart, so many hearts are being shaken to the core and I can’t do a thing about it.

I am at mercy.

Mercy is not just a thing one receives. It’s a place. It can’t be seen, but one knows when one has been there. We are smart to get low when the ferocity of a tornado or hurricane blows through the landscape. And we are oh so wise when we find ourselves at the threshold of God’s ferocious mercy and we realize we must get low.

It is in this place of mercy where God’s majesty and power and His amazing amazing amazing love that we discover how much this love covered us. How much His love rescued us. How much His love searched through the rubble of our sin-blown, wind blown lives and put us back on solid ground.
And not one of us deserved it.

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So like God to cloak His majesty and power in invisibility and then show the results of His power in the dirt, the bud, the water, and yes, the wind. Dare I say, the human heart, too?

“The wind blows where it wishes and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from and where it is going; so is everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

This is the wind of mercy.
This is the wind of grace.

Many heartfelt thanks to all the friends who rallied around the Traveler and helped him move forward. There are some windy days when we just need a little help from our friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Put On Your Boots

It is the middle of February.

It is the time of year when Winter says “Hold on, I have no intention of leaving anytime soon. Keep your hat on. And your mittens. And your really long scarf. Just because it’s raining and puddles brim deep at the end of the driveway in forty degrees, I’m keeping the landscape under the grip of snow and the rivers still slogging slow under thin ice for awhile.”

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I am slogging too.

Slogging is that thing of working really hard….grinding it out.

Progressing at a slow and heavy pace is what one does in February.

Like the river across the field as it makes its way toward the Falls by the bridge, its moves so imperceptibly underneath a weight of white.

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I, too, am moving  forward.
I am slow, but I am sure.

winter mountain hiker

February cold brings an arctic blast that blisters the skin and shivers the bones.

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In the icy words.
In the the frosty glare.
In the sort of flinty resolve that stubbornly resolves to quit rather than persevere.
It blows the harsh wind reality that sometimes things just don’t work out.

Did Jesus, in His humanity, ever think, just once, that things might not work out?

Jesus-disciples

Was it when Judas believed he knew better how this salvation plan should go down that he so willingly betrayed Him with the kiss of friendship?

Or maybe it was before that when His friends were in a sleep deep and He in a deep bloodsweat?

Or perhaps it was the time Peter demonstrated his loyaly to Him with his big fat mouth and a sword, then later when a girl connected the dots that he and Jesus hung out together all the time… he cut and ran…followed by the rest of the gang.

Its so easy to  slide off the rails when people are involved.

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Especially when disappointment comes and unmet expectations get in the way of thinking straight. Or you get the call another relationship has blown up. The times someone else is done with you and leaves.

When these things happen you do one of three things.

You think….whatever….and stay stuck in your cynicism.
You quit.
You buy a new pair of boots.

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I bought the boots.

I have a nice pair of black fur-lined boots, but they weren’t up to the slogging I needed to do during recess with my students. The boots I had were okay for moderate snowfall, but too low on the calf and not super waterproof for me to really get into with the kids.

I needed boots that would take me into the deep stuff.

I needed to be able to navigate a terrain that required lifting my legs up high just to go a few feet. I needed to be able to go where the kids were going. It was either that or stand on the sidelines and watch from a distance.  My other option was to quit recess duty altogether because it was just too hard to stay involved.

It’s true.
Sometimes February can be the coldest month and it’s true, sometimes things really don’t work out.
Not everyone buys into what you’re trying to do.

Sometimes when you take a step forward you fall through the crust of disappointment that makes it feel like all the hard work you’re doing doesn’t matter.
Sometimes you get the snowball of criticism in the face.

So you have a decision to make.

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You can put on the boots.
You can keep slogging.
You don’t give in to sideline living.
And you never, ever quit.

Jesus never quit.
Not a kiss, nor a sword, not a flattering promise, or an abandonment were enough to keep him from doing what He came to do.

He came to us and for us. He loved more than all the other loves. He poured his own sinless blood. He slogged it out.
For. every. single. human.

I put on my new boots yesterday and took a different route than I usually do on my walk about town. I followed the river to the Falls.20160217_142726

Here’s the thing about February.

She might tell us we need to keep our winter gear on for the next several weeks, but there is something she’s not saying. Underneath all that white stuff still blanketing ground?

Mud.

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Keep slogging.
Don’t give up.
You’ll leave footprints.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Geraldine

There is no snow.

The landscape on Rt 11 bleeds a bleak brown in forty degrees.

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Christmas comes anyway.

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Twinkle lights have been strung on the small lilac tree at the side of the house and the big wreath with its old red bow graces the fence.

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A peeling shutter bears a smaller one with a sign telling the postman where to leave the packages so the rain doesn’t slog all over them. Window boxes are filled with pine and winterberries. At the edges of a dark kitchen Handel’s Messiah can be heard playing.

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I can’t find the candles I put on the windowsills.  When the Fiery Irishgirl moved in last Thanksgiving, I put boxes on top of boxes to make room at the inn and I promptly forgot what it all is and where it all needs to be.  It has become one big puzzle shuffle of boxes and cartons and totes.

A year of living with my black-haired beauty and her little man turned ten makes the house merry and bright and we are learning how to make room for the things we are hungry for.

A bit of space.
A bit of quiet.
A bit of beauty.

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The rest of our things, the rest of our life, has been stacked, towered and leaned and we are learning to just go with it.

Things.
There are so many.
We think we need them because of the life remembered that comes through them.

Photographs.
Baby shoes.
A ticket stub.
A baseball cap.
A recipe scrawled and butter dripped by a grandmother. A dish polished smooth by a great-grandmother.

Today I pull Christmas boxes from a closet cave.

In one of the boxes buried beneath sword-wielding nutcrackers and winter wonderland snow globes lies the nativity story told in yarn and plastic. There is a bit of reverence here as I peel back the paper, humble lodgings, this. So like God to tuck away majesty in the ordinary.

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I am remembering the day Geraldine came bearing gifts.

My eye caught her awkward gait going past the window one day just before Christmas. She banged on the door threatening to crack it wide open. I opened up to see her standing there in a huge black Russian fur hat, (which she wore all year long), a man’s coat and two or three dresses layered over stained trousers tucked into broken down work boots. She stepped into the kitchen and promptly shoved a package wrapped in convenience store wrapping paper and wreaking of cigarettes into my hands. Merry Christmas.

Geraldine.

A not-so-quite old woman, hair white and wild from never combing, toothless, a Harry Potter-esque scar on her forehead, (“A beer bottle come flyin’ out a window and got me right in the head back when I was livin’ in Auburn. Stupid people.”) I’d find her pacing in front of my kitchen window every few days, her signal that she wanted a visit. As I’d step into the driveway to greet her she would, with shoulders leaning forward, take two steps back. Like she wanted to be close, but was afraid.

My hands were deep in mulch the first day I met her. Cleaning out a small flower bed just days after moving into our new house, I leaned back on my knees and caught a slight movement to my right. Pushing away leaves, a flicker of white flashed. I looked up. At the corner of the neighbor’s house stood this woman dressed in a stained white slip layered over a frayed housecoat. Her legs, bone china sticks, peered above a pair of work boots.

old boots
(Google Images)

I said hello.

Nothing.

Again, hello.

She inched closer. I shielded my eyes to get a better look at her.

Her white hair stuck up and out in every conceivable direction. When she turned slightly I could see it had matted and there was burdock stuck all through it like she’d taken a nap in field somewhere.

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She stood before me filthy, smelling like cigarettes and urine. Small crusts of dried food edged the top of her hairy lip. Rocking forward, her voice cracked.

“Whatchorname?”

No hello.
No handshake.

Right off Geraldine wanted to know my name and she wanted me to know hers.  From that day on she spoke my name every time she saw me. She spoke my children’s names. She shouted my husband’s name. She loved him best, I think. She spoke the dog’s name and got it wrong. Instead of Gideon, he was called Gilligan until the day she moved away.

In the beginning she wouldn’t come into the house. Truthfully, I wasn’t too keen on it, either.

The smell of her.

It was a presence that settled into the room, settled into you long after she’d gone.  When she began patting, then hugging me, I had to brace myself for the assault of what it means to truly be unclean.

dirty hands
(Google Images)

The Christmas Geraldine came with her gift was the Christmas when a sword pierced my heart and I realized I wasn’t doing her any favors by being her friend. I wasn’t doing her a favor by being nice to her, or trying not to stiffen when she touched me. There was no goodwill in the occasional sighing and whispering complaint when she showed up unannounced wanting company. Instead, it was me God was doing a favor for by allowing her to become my friend. This strange, dirty, simple-minded woman, who some might count among the least of these, schooled me that day.

Geraldine rocked and swayed in the way she always did, smiling toothless.

“It aint’ much and I figured the kids would like it too cuz of the baby Jesus and everything….”

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I unwrapped it, my head bowing, my eyes spilling.

Cuz of the baby Jesus…

How did she know? Had I shared the gospel with her? Had I told her about Jesus? How did she know that His story, His coming, told in plastic and yarn would be the one thing that would mean the most?
Would be the best gift.

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Yes, Geraldine schooled me that day when she saw past my religious do-gooding, which turns out to be nothing but starched up kindness and propped up politeness.

christmas cookies
(Google Images)

The sort of kindness that drops off Christmas cookies, but won’t step into the squalor of a dirty apartment. The sort of politeness that will speak to the unlovely, but never look them in the eye.

Geraldine could see better than me. She knew what would bless me the most because somehow she knew me. No token gifts from this lady. No propped up religiosity. No proper pretty packages, no crafted tags and bows.

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(Google Images)

These days Geraldine’s Christmas story is given a prominent place in the dining room. I put it right where I can see it. Truly see it. The majesty cloaked in the ordinary.

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Like Geraldine. My friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listen, November Speaks

“Nature should be read as one of God’s books which he made to reveal himself.”-                                                                                                                  Richard Baxter, 1656

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Saturday the brittle sound of brokenness cracks loud. Metal tines scrape and drag the piles of russet brown and speckled gold debris that just 40 days ago still swayed green above my head.

Not so now.

The garden has the musky smell of things dying and returning to the earth. I pull the last of the purple coneflowers and black-eyed Susans. Their roots resist like they don’t know it’s their time to go.

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

   a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot…

The rake cuts deep into the dirt and its handle cuts deep into me. Skin separates from the crook of my thumb. There is blood.

I never wear gloves and sometimes I think this is not the best idea, but it doesn’t stop me from reaching into the dark places to pull out the spent blooms because I want to feel all of it. In April, I touch a stem and leaf’s beginnings and in November I touch their endings.

I need to touch the message of the gospel with my bare hands.

scooping dirt

A hard thing indeed, this time to uproot.

All those tendrils and root- wisps have a strength that belie their size as they cling cling cling to the life they know is still in the dirt.

Sometimes it takes muscle.
Sometimes it takes a cutting away.
Sometimes it takes blood, sweat and tears.

I grip a mottled stem still green in places and pull. The slow ascent of the stem begins as I pull harder harder harder until it finally rips apart from its home in the ground.

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Life does not depart easily. Yet when November whispers, “It is time to go” the trees and flowers eventually bow down and give up their leaves.

The melancholy of November is the melancholy of the gospel.
It is the beginning of a coming darkness.

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For me, November speaks of darkness coming to another garden. A garden wet with its own spilled blood, sweat and tears. A garden where Jesus asks His father twice, if at all possible, if there is any other way, perhaps he, too could stay earthbound.

…yet not my will, but yours be done.

Nobody, no living thing, ever wants to die. It wasn’t part of the original plan. Nothing about death seems right.

Trees without leaves, a child without his mama, a mama without her baby, a man without his wife. Must the ground claim everything?

It used to be after the glorious shower of Autumn was over and the landscape was left brown and wanting, a dark shadow would come and live at the edges of my thoughts. In New England, the barrenness of November can mean a wait of almost six months before new life springs from the ground again and for some of us this would mean a silent fight to keep joy.

leaves and lampost

Now, when clouds hang low and twilight comes early, the message of the gospel resounds in the rustle of fallen leaves. All is well because the darkness holds no power. It can only point to a coming light.

The gloom of the cross held for a moment, but could not keep, the most glorious of Light, Jesus. The ground could not claim Him. And because of Him, it will never claim us.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.

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These days I embrace November and her message of the gospel.
Darkness has no claim over me.

Joy pushes past the edges of my thoughts and I smile at the crackle of leaves as I stand in an empty garden.

I know what’s coming.

(Listen here to “Light Of The World, You Stepped Down Into Darkness”)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBKzCpkXJR4

The Mystery Of Inequity

It’s not fair.

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So said some of the wisest of children at the bruised end of injustice.

It’s not fair having to move to the back of the line when someone has slipped in undetected by the teacher and cut.

Cut you out of your rightful position.

You were blithely going along, minding your own business, doing the right thing and this…this person….this selfish, entitled, ungrateful person elbow-jabbed right past you and took your spot.

You’ve been re-positioned, moved aside, cast down.

You’ve been left.

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You’ve been cut out of line.

Cut out of your job.
Cut out of your family.
Cut out of your country.

The stroke of a CEO’s pen, the closing of a door, the whizz of a bullet.
Life’s gut piercing elbow jabs, these.

Isn’t anyone going to do something about this?  Doesn’t anyone see what just happened?

The injustice of it all can be too much to bear.

“In my futile life I have seen everything: there is a righteous man who perishes in spite of his righteousness, and there is a wicked man who lives long in spite of his evil.”

So said one of the wisest of men near the end of his days.

“But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;
    I had nearly lost my foothold.
 For I envied the arrogant
    when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.”

The mystery of inequity.
A wonder, this thing called Un-Fair-Ness.

One steps into the arena of old age, having been buffeted by abuse, abandonment, poverty and hands gnarling from disease, while another one, the one who abandoned, is seemingly unaware of the emotional cost others have had to pay for his choices. This one lives where the fireflies dance and the grass slopes green into a grove of trees, his hands not gnarled, instead muscled from the planing of  boards and the swinging of hammers.

The first smiles past the wince of all her cares.
The other whistles because he hasn’t a care.

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Life is so unfair….all of the time.

“They have no struggles;
    their bodies are healthy and strong.
They are free from common human burdens;
    they are not plagued by human ills.”

Jesus followers, God lovers, do-ers of good, they so often find themselves at the edge of a cliff only to have the winds relentlessly pounding at their backs, pushing pushing pushing. It takes everything, every heal digging bit, to keep from being tossed over the side.

“Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure
    and have washed my hands in innocence.
 All day long I have been afflicted,
    and every morning brings new punishments.”

The cheaters and the stealers and the mockers and the smirkers seem to dodge bullet after bullet after bullet. They keep making more and more money. They keep their health and the spring in their step. They never, ever have to push past a crowd to grab His healing hem.

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But God….

The coffee-skinned girl lies on a guerney, rolled to her left side and wrapped in a simple white sheet. This young woman, full of mouth and cheek-boned beauty only looks up. Her eyes never meet the interviewer’s, who, bent low, whispers questions. Days before the girl found herself chained to a tree while men from a warring village broke her apart for their own pleasure. She, ravaged to the point of no longer able to bear children, lies on a cot, serene and pristine, her eyes wide up. My eyes are wide brimming.
What is she looking at?  

“For the brokenness of the daughter of my people I am broken; I mourn, dismay has taken hold of me. Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has not the health of the daughter of my people been restored?”

The interviewer tells her she must be angry at her perpetrators and at the incredible violence done to her.

Silence.

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Then.

In a whisper laced musical, she says, “I love Jesus. Who am I to judge these men? That is God’s to do. I trust Him.”

Who says this?

Who can speak words barely heard, yet when they come out of her mouth they are like a balm covering and seeping and cleansing and forgiving every ravaged, jagged, rugged cut?

Is there no balm in Gilead?

gilead tree

Yes. Yes, there is.
The balm Jesus smeared on another tree.

Only someone who has been in the sanctuary and experienced the Presence can say despite pain and brokenness that fairness and judgment is God’s arena. Only someone who has seen God in this way can leave their enemies with Him. They accept the mystery of inequity, not because they understand it, but because they’ve seen Him.
They keep their eyes wide up.

When I tried to understand all this,
    it troubled me deeply
 till I entered the sanctuary of God;
    then I understood their final destiny.

What does fairness have to do with anything at all when God Himself holds the times, the seasons, the epochs in His hands? He, who has and will make everything right. Jesus, who is Sovereign above anything and anyone invites us into His sanctuary, His dwelling place where we can truly see who He is.

It is there under the weight of His glorious that I really see. I see Him. I see others.
And then I see me.

Without Him, I too, can be a cheater and a stealer and mocker and smirker.
And it is not fairness that I will want.
It is mercy.

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The Aha Of Understanding

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I have 423 friends.
Of these, seventy four say they follow me.
The truth is I can barely count on two hands what’s really worth counting.

In the social media world I am to be pitied.

In the blood, sweat and tears world someone should smack me upside the head and wake me from my virtual reality coma.

No one can maintain, never mind sustain, four hundred and twenty three relationships. No one can do it with seventy four, unless, of course, these relationships are defined by likes and hearts and hashtags. Even Jesus, out of his twelve closest mates, had only one best friend if the beloved John had anything to say about it.

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C.S. Lewis writes, “Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: What! You too? I thought that no one but myself….

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It is a realization we get when we sit on the bench, or laugh across a junior high cafeteria table or bump shoulders at the office water cooler, and look into the face of someone who gets what we get. Sees what we see. Has thought the same wild, fantastical, out-in-left-field things we’ve thought.

Somehow we are surprised by this.

Surprised that we have made a connection based not on economics or popularity or a shared neighborhood, or even likes or dislikes. Instead, our connection happens with this other being, this different human, because of the Aha Of Understanding.

It is on this path of true understanding that friendship at its purest, deepest level occurs.

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It is not to be confused with the path of total agreement or even the sharing of the exact same philosophies or values.

It is an even deeper the path; one of knowing and being known.

Sometimes we speak this knowing with words, oftentimes without.
I know your joy.
I know your pain.
I know why you think that is funny.
I know why that makes you cry.
And you know it about me.

Jesus said it like this: I no longer call you servants, because a master doesn’t confide in his servants. Now you are my friends, since I have told you everything the Father told me.

I have told you everything…..

We come to an understanding even in the Kingdom.

Shouldn’t it be so in our closest relationships?

In this particular Aha moment we walk toward a place of simultaneous deconstruction/re-construction.

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When we meet someone who gets us and we get them, our prejudices, fears, and inhibitions deconstruct…maybe not right away….but cracks begin to appear in our protective walls and something inside is….relieved. It is because the weight of not being known is, and always has been, too much to bear.

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The marvel that is The Aha Of Understanding is that while a deconstruction is happening, a re-construction is going on, too. It’s like we can actually feel strands of unbreakable cords being woven together right there in the kitchen, all of us still in our pajamas and bed hair and morning breath on the 26th year of Girls Weekend.

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Friendships are formed within seasons and I am blessed to say that many of these I will take with me into eternity.

The season of my girlhood, the years that saw me awkward and acne-ed, flat and crooked in all the wrong places, was a season when four friends sat on the bench with me and in due time we experienced our Aha moment.

We shared Harry’s Pizza, cokes and Friendly’s french fries, football games, basketball games, a scary gym teacher, a funny math teacher, Pine Tree escapades, drive-in mishaps, cars, boyfriends, locker rooms, beds, beach towels, and beers. It was in these places we championed our successess and confessed our failures.
We knew and we were known.

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Five girls, some of us soft in the belly now, yet soul-muscled from forty years of letting down walls and constructing unbreakable bonds, mark the calender for a weekend get-away every summer where we come to an understanding.

We see and are seen. We get and we are gotten. We have embraced the deconstruction and the re-construction.

To my girlhood friends: here’s to GW2016