Open Hands and Dirty Fingernails

Looking back, 2016 was a year of contradictions.

I’ve seen people born…and people die.
I’ve witnessed weddings… and divorces.
I’ve walked with friends in their victories… and in their failures.
I’ve drawn close to Jesus… and I’ve pushed Him away.
I’ve sat still… and I’ve run full-steam ahead.
I’ve trusted… and I’ve doubted.
I’ve spoken words of life… and spoken words of hurt.
I’ve both lost… and gained friendships.
I’ve walked in favor… and frustration at work.
I’ve felt both constrained… and freed.
I’ve seen gains… and losses in my personal disciplines.
I’ve chosen bitterness… but also forgiveness.
I’ve seen people change… and seen people stay the same.
I’ve named my weaknesses… and my strengths.
I’ve known both deep beauty… and deep pain.

This past year tested me on every level and left me clinging to Jesus for daily bread on more than a handful of occasions. I’ve fought really hard this year. I’ve dug really deep. I’ve gotten my hands dirty so often that I’ve simply become used to the stains under my fingernails.

And while I’m truly, honestly, genuinely grateful for all the ways that God is changing me, I don’t like contradictions and chaos. It’s messy. It’s non-linear. It slows down my definition of progress.

But I know these contradictions are actually proof that I’m growing. They reveal the struggle to learn, to apply, to understand, to change, to be transformed.

And, really, to struggle means you’re alive. It means that the Holy Spirit is active and you are responding to His work in your heart. Those who don’t struggle are not growing.

But that struggle means you have to get your hands dirty. You can’t wish change upon yourself. Jesus invites Himself into our mess to help bring order from chaos and beauty from ashes because we will never be able to do it ourselves.

He has to do the work, but we have to live hands open, palms up. Surrendered. Willing. Trusting. Thy will be done.

usmc-101008-m-1558f-390 When a friend offered to pray for me this summer, I closed my eyes and laid my head on my folded arms. I expected her to start praying, but first she gently took my fingers and said, “Lydia. I think God wants you to open your hands to Him as we pray.” The symbolism was not lost on me. I immediately started weeping. But, in God’s miraculous way, I also started healing.

To struggle involves giving our wounds the attention they deserve. It offers the chance to look Jesus in the eye to ask our hard questions. And as we wrestle with God, we are thrust into closeness with Him.

And He never flinches. He never avoids my punches. He invites me to surrender everything – all my questions, all my fears and all my sermons on unfairness in the world. Because Jesus is committed to my growth.

He speaks amidst the chaos. He comforts amidst the contradictions. He rescues me every time with sure-bet promises of love, hope and hallelujah.

“Even to your old age I am he,
and to gray hairs I will carry you.
I have made, and I will bear;
I will carry and will save.” (Isaiah 46:4)

I used to criticize Jacob in the Bible because he wrestled with God. I thought he deserved that limp as a punishment for his uppity attitude. But maybe, just maybe, that limp was a trophy of grace. You see, in the wrestling Jacob gained proximity to God. He got close enough to be touched by the Father.

So, what if my contradictions and chaos lead to open hands which leads to an open heart which leads to a wrestling which leads to a closer relationship with Jesus?

And therein lies the hope. Because, if we let it, deep struggle can lead to deep relationship.

“He disciplines us for our good, that we may share his holiness. For the moment, all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.

Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed.” (Hebrews 12:10-13)

Farewell, 2016. May I steward your lessons well.

Be Thou My Battle Shield

Some weeks seem filled with battles. A series of attacks and lies and distractions which are aimed at getting your eyes off Jesus. It’s these weeks where we don’t even notice the subtle, relentless chipping away of our faith.

The Enemy works to get me to doubt God just a little bit… to put my trust in myself just for a few minutes… to believe just the smallest piece of the lie.

And let’s be real: I am not as good at fighting as I think I am.

When it comes to finances, relationships and identity, I am an easy target. The Enemy always paints current circumstances against past failures, making me look at the catalog of my sins each time. It’s a cruel history lesson that somehow I believe should be watched over and over. He disables me not with an armory of weapons, but with elementary school flash cards. “Remember this time?” … “Oh, and this looks familiar”… “Now here’s a good one”…

There have been a lot of flash cards this week. A lot of reminders of past pains, failures and losses.

So here I am. Back on this battleground where I am called to fight for the focus of my heart and purpose of my faith. Sometimes we must call in a D-Day invasion of spiritual weapons and tools.

But today it’s subtle, it’s focused, it’s quieter than you might think. It’s crafty, intense, ninja-like warfare.

My heart needs to know that I am not alone, that I am not a prisoner of my past, that God is who he says He is. And so I choose these weapons to help me fight:

Jesus succeeded so I am free to fail. His life, death and resurrection has already secured victory for me. I could never, ever have fought this on my own, so out of His great love He went ahead and just won it all outright.

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” (Romans 8:26)

“For who is God, but the Lord? And who is a rock, except our God?
The God who equipped me with strength and made my way blameless.
He made my feet like the feet of a deer and set me secure on the heights.
He trains my hands for war, so that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
You have given me the shield of your salvation and your right hand supported me, and your gentleness made me great.
You gave a wide place for my steps under me, and my feet did not slip.” (Psalm 18:31-36)

“Pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, steadfastness, gentleness. Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called.” (1 Timothy 6:11-12)

Today I choose truth. I choose life. I choose hope. I choose Jesus … to help me choose all these other things. God fights for me. He is my rock, my shelter, my only hope for victory. God wins.

“Be Thou my battle shield, my sword for the fight
Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight
Thou my soul’s shelter and Thou my high tower
Raise Thou me heavenward, O power of my power”

Love: So Much Life In One Little Word

11802592_10153479086919547_4514246557147623194_o I am sitting in the dark, looking at the stars and listening to Norah Jones croon above the sound of the summer crickets.

On my mind are all the things, people, places, decisions, wins, losses and desires wrapped up in this word, LOVE, which now has a permanent place on my wrist.

The thing is, the melancholy isn’t new. The deep feelings and introspective thoughts aren’t new. The flashbacks and longings and regrets and lessons aren’t new.

All these things were always inside my heart. And I will always carry them. They are part of my story, part of who I am.

It’s just that now you can see them peeking out through this one little word on my skin. It’s part of walking in the light of who God made me to be and the path He has given me to travel.

I got this tattoo because…

Love matters.
Love does.
Love redeems.
Love cares deeply.
Love hurts deeply.
Love never gives up.
Love brings freedom.
Love gives hope.
Love grows us.
Love changes us.
It takes a lot of love to live.
Oh, how He loves us.

So much life and so much to say, all summed up in one little word.

Where Trigger Meets Trophy

Three years ago today I was wrapping up a studio session with Mitchell, Zac and Clayton in Branson, MO for the TeenPact RENEWAL album. Impulsively, we decided to record the song, “Beautiful” by Phil Wickham. It was a whim, really. A spontaneous, compelling urge to lay down the tracks in our few remaining hours together. You can listen here to what we created.

Little did we know that half way across the country our friend Jimmy Brazell was about to sing this song as he lead worship for the last time on earth. The sun would rise over the Montana mountains on Jimmy’s last day and he would sing this prayer, this plea, this declaration.

For those of us who knew Jimmy and the team of people who were with him that day, this song has become a sacred hymn. We are reminded both of the friend we lost and the God he loved.

To be honest, sometimes I can’t bring myself to listen to this song. “Eh…not right now,” I think. But last night it came on my iPod as I pulled into my apartment parking lot. And this time I decided to sit and listen. As expected, the song evoked many thoughts and emotions. I heard voices and saw faces and replayed conversations. There is still much to grieve, much to ponder and much to grow in my understanding.

This song is an enigma to me. In just 4 minutes and 48 seconds my heart experiences the full gamut of being sad, pensive, nostalgic, angry, amazed, overwhelmed, grateful, guilty and hopeful. It is both a trigger and a trophy. And unless you walked through those difficult days/weeks/months too, it is hard to fully understand. Like so many, the year following July 31, 2011 shook me, scarred me, defined me, transformed me.

But I am really, really grateful that we recorded this song. It is precious to me — for who and what and when it represents.

So, three years later, I freshly dedicate this song to my friend, Jimmy, and the entire Brazell family who have become a permanent part of my heart.

“When we arrive at eternity’s shore
Where death is just a memory and tears are no more
We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring
Your bride will come together and we’ll sing
You’re beautiful”

Leaving TeenPact, Part 1: The Extravaganza

There seems to be an unspoken rule that when big things happen in life you’re supposed to write about them, giving voice to your emotions and informing others about the significant impact that change is having on your life.

It’s a version of therapy. An outlet for thoughts that have nowhere else to go. An answer for questions that no one seems to ask.

One year ago I walked away from my job/life/ministry at TeenPact Leadership Schools. This change was so significant and the condition of my heart so overwhelmed that I just haven’t been able to write about it.

But now it’s time to start putting some closure on this grieving process. You can read it or not; it’s primarily an avenue for me to say the things that have been left unsaid.

Oddly enough, I did not take many pictures that weekend, even though I was surrounded by beauty and beloveds. I was too overwhelmed, I think. If I stopped to snap a photo I was afraid of missing the details of the sights, smells and unspokens. I just soaked it all in.

So instead of a bunch of photos, I have a series of mental snapshots. And a few actual pictures. There is no way these words encapsulate everything or everyone. Just a meager attempt at capturing the images in my heart.

THURSDAY, JUNE 13

My last day in the office. The power went out so we sat by the windows and watched the rain. It was too dark and too weird and too sad to work.

Screen Shot 2014-06-30 at 3.47.30 PM Ben, Nate, Lauren and Carolyne arrived and we went with Aaron to record two tracks for a TeenPact worship release. Ebenezer the 5lb Gummy Bear got passed around and we discovered that biting off a chunk was better than using a knife.

Beautiful music was recorded late into the night. So amazed by the talent of my friends. It meant the world to be included in this mini-project, especially on the day that I was walking away from it. How I will miss producing those albums.

FRIDAY, JUNE 14

Carolyne and Lauren spent the night with me at the place where I was housesitting. We crawled out of bed and sat on the porch drinking coffee and talking of life and adventures and transitions. So peaceful. So happy.

I pulled into Urban Farmhouse, which had quickly become a favorite local coffeeshop. But this time there were a bunch of people who were not locals, chatting and waiting. Oh these beloveds; they were here! Hugs all around. And then we passed Ebenezer around and around and maybe around again. This crew left to buy party clothes for the ones who didn’t get the memo.

Elise and Ruth and Adam arrived for our progressive “sandwich” dinner adventure. First we went to Can-Can Brasserie where we sat by the open windows and ate creative, classy desserts as the restaurant noise spilled into the street. I’ve always wanted to do that. From there, we of course went to Sticky Rice where tots and hipster sushi satisfied our hunger. And that tot sauce. How I miss it! These three people made my evening so fun, so “this is real-life-friendship” and so happy.

We walked up the stairs of Bottoms Up. There, along the wall with the inappropriate artwork was a long table with 30+ of my favorite people wrapping up their dinner. The room erupted in cheers as I walked in, which reminded me of so many other times this group cheered for random things. I walked around the room and hugged and greeted and just wanted to squeeze each of them all over again. The group migrated to the Canal Walk and we chatted and waited and explored along the river. Walking buddies. Laughter. Arm in arm. So many levels of things going on. Downtown. Starlight. Humidity. River’s rush.

The final stop was Gelati Celesti where 50 people filed through to get local, homemade ice cream. We filled the plaza outside with stories and awkward conversations and running around. I stood amidst the swirl and simply tried to soak it all in. Here they all were — and I wasn’t responsible for any of them! This was ideal. I know they came partly (mostly?) to see each other, but that was okay with me. I was just so happy, so amazed, so humbled to see everyone. If only the clock could slow down and I could absorb everything more fully.

SATURDAY, JUNE 15

Morning breakfast and conversation with Jennifer at Paradise Diner. Stopping by the Board Meeting and being able to hug people and say thank you.

The afternoon was spent at the park. The 2011 girls sat on a blanket and chatted. The 2012 guys went shopping. The Georges were there. The Whatleys arrived as I was leaving. The Cocks’ were playing frisbee. The weather was hot and humid, adding thickness to my perception of the people and conversations swirling around.

In a mad dash, I drove to have Kirstin to do my hair. We chatted as she poked and created. Extended family was in and out. We re-did the style several times. I was late so I ran home.

Stressing about being late, I ran into the house. My room was full of boxes from my office decor. I stepped over clutter and desperately tried to get myself ready for the evening. My new black dress was simple enough to slip into, but I found that I needed to be sewn into it. I called Marybeth. She dropped off her family and came to both sew me into my dress and accompany me into the party.

My heart was beating fast. I was so late. I felt so badly to arrive so delinquently when all these glorious people were in town and had worked so hard to put on the event. There was nothing I could do about it now, but to this day I still feel guilty. Marybeth and I got out of the car and there was Elise and Carolyne waiting for me on the curb. They smiled and complimented and assured me all was well.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact Walking in was overwhelming. And a bit awkward. I greeted people. But didn’t know what else to do. Just smile. Relax. Soak it all in. Nate and Lauren were playing live music. Then followed Thomas and Jeremiah, just like the old days. My heart swelled with pride and love. Photos all around. Beautiful food. Globe lights. Fancy dresses.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact There was someone from every one of my 8 intern teams and the eras they represented. Several appearances were surprises! And beloved families from around the country. And coworkers. And my family. And the Campbells. And Michael. And so many layers of friends from so many moments in TeenPact. People I never expected to come were there! In the rush of my late arrival I missed much of the precious moments of mingling and catching up. My only true regret.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact Nathanael was the MC, which blessed me. People told stories. Some people gave confessions. Gifts were presented. There was a slideshow with live music, which I loved. Although the photos made me realize how ridiculous I am, I was mostly aware how lucky I am to have been surrounded by such amazing people for so long. We had so many good adventures. Also, favorite commercials from over the years played and it was hilarious to hear various pockets of people laughing or cheering from around the room.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact My 2013 team gave me a map with hearts on the cities where we are all from. And 20 letters to open over the upcoming year. We were leaving TeenPact together and somehow that fused us together on a very special level.

I sat with my family. How special to have them there, my biggest cheerleaders and greatest supporters. They went through a lot with me all those years. I couldn’t be more grateful. Valen came and sat with me, too. I needed that.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact To close, there was corporate worship. We all left our seats and stood in the middle of the room. Clayton, Zac, Whitney and Garrett led. I distinctly remember Clay saying that he felt the next song was for me. It was “Closer” by Charlie Hall. I closed my eyes and felt the Spirit calling me to a summer of rest, starting right then. After the singing, my dad took the mic and read a scripture for me from the story of Elijah pulling away to seek the Lord and be refreshed. Then he prayed for me. There is nothing more special than a father’s blessing.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact And then we danced. Starting at 11pm, we went strong for nearly 2 hours. From freestyle with Sarah, to polka with SharaLee, to swing with my brother, to tons of crazy line dances and who-knows-what with a bunch of sweaty guys. When “Party in the USA” came on, Peter Martin joined on the dance floor as he and I have an inside joke about this song. Even better was when Vince, Zac, Clayton and the gang changed the words to “Party for Lydia Shanks.” I love dancing, and I love dancing with these people.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact I stayed til the bitter end, saying goodbye and thank you. Then I went to IHOP for a 2am waffle. I took my hair out and could hardly think straight. I was so full of happy and sad and thoughts that I just wanted to sit and smile and observe. I sat at the table with Laura, Janet and Beth. What gems. I went home alone, but with tons of notes and gifts and a full heart.

SUNDAY, JUNE 16

I got up early and sang at church. Nathan came, most everyone else slept in.

Brunch with the Cocks’, Martins and Elise at Kitchen64. Mmm, chorizo.

Stopped Chipotle where many beloveds were gathered. Followed this by ice cream at Rita’s. And another round of Ebenezer.

Ended the day at the Watsons, watching the Miss USA pageant. And playing Rock Band. And sitting on the porch with Valen. And letting the beautiful weekend slowly come to an end.

View More: http://marvelousthingsphoto.pass.us/lydialeavesteenpact The weekend felt like a mix of both my wedding and my funeral, which is a lucky experience in the off chance I don’t get to have either. It was a celebration of life and a closing of a chapter. There were tears and there was laughter.

Aaron had said, “I tried to think of what you would enjoy — people, music, dancing, food and photos.” This party weekend was exactly all of those things.

Thank you to Aaron, Tara, Betsy, Serena, Peter and all those who made the party possible. I am still overwhelmed. Thank you to the office crew for being the best coworkers a girl could ask for. Thank you to the Board for believing in me and trusting me all of these years. Thank you to all the amazing people who traveled to be there with me that night. Your presence means more than you know. Thank you to my family, for allowing me to chase the paths God calls me to. Thank you to Elise for being there at NC and again at this weekend. I could not have done it without your friendship, presence, support and intuition. Thank you to everyone who played, sang, served, set up, photographed, spoke, MC’d, hosted, baked and participated. Each of you have made an indelible mark on my life.

To you who boast tomorrow’s gain
Tell me what is your life
A mist that vanishes at dawn
All glory be to Christ

Your Love Is My Drug

“Seizures. Feeling nervous or tense. Confusion and depression. Fear and paranoia. Anxiety or panic. Changed senses. Shaking. Pain, stiffness, muscle aches, spasms. Flu-like symptoms. Sleep difficulties.”

These are the symptoms of someone suffering through withdrawal from an addiction to a drug like Xanax, Ambien or Valium. Strangely enough, these are also the symptoms of my own kind of withdrawal. Not to be disrespectful of actual narcotic addiction by using this analogy, but it somehow makes a crazy amount of sense to me.

Addiction-6-26-12

Apparently, I’ve been dependent on people, serving and money for quite some time. These are my drugs. When I’ve felt spiritually or emotionally unstable, I’ve habitually filled my veins with these culturally appropriate opiates. People. Serving. Ministry. Spending money. And because they are seemingly innocent replacements for comfort in Christ, no one caught it. Not even me. Now I’m seeing how my “addictions” were affecting me — and those around me. I’ve been shocked and grieved and overwhelmed. And I want to change.

Quitting my job last June was like admitting I had a problem.
Being unemployed for six months was like checking myself into rehab.
Now I’m in a very uncomfortable process of detoxing.

As a natural part of my new life in Georgia, I’m being “denied” the things I used to go to for comfort and distraction. To tell the truth, those habits they made me feel good. They made me forget. They propped me up and gave me a sense of purpose and belonging. But now I’ve moved and I’m still making friends, I’m still plugging into church, I’m still learning my job and I’m on a very tight budget. My go-to’s have been removed. It’s the fresh start I asked for, but I didn’t think it would leave me quite this exposed or needy.

This weekend I found myself reaching for old habits, those emotional narcotics that would numb my senses and let me ignore my actual needs for another day. I grabbed for familiar people, but none were nearby. I groped for a service project to throw myself into, but there aren’t any yet. I craved buying something — anything — just to make me feel legitimate but there is no money in my budget for unnecessary tokens. These things were my crack, and I didn’t have access to them anymore. They screamed at me, demanding fulfillment.

858462_10151475123969547_219435877_o

I sat in my chair, unable to move, afraid of what I might do. My heart was racing, my hands antsy, my muscles tense, my mind reeling. Then I got a text from my sister on behalf of my 4 year old nephew:

“Jude says, ‘love Lala, I hope you come to my house for valentines. I oxoxox xxxx.’ “

It was like the clouds broke for the first time all week. God sent this little guy as an interruption to my introspective paralysis to remind me that I am loved and not forgotten. And that was the beginning of the detox. I decided to go for a drive to clear my head. Alone in the car, I talked and prayed and cried and wrestled with myself. My mind raced, spewing out lies and temptations that I knew were from hell itself.

There’s no time for real recovery. You’re too complicated to fix. You’ll just always be kind of messed up. No one really knows you. You need to learn to deal with life by yourself. Get a grip, you’re a big girl. You’ll be handicapped from ministry forever. Just pull away. Don’t fight. Find a local fix and forget about all this.

Each drug took a turn in tempting me to consume it for solace. But I could feel a fire in my soul, a blazing wall of protection that I knew was coming from the Holy Spirit. I remember saying no to each temptation systematically, choosing Jesus over it’s seductive siren call. God was protecting me from myself. He was fighting for me. He was not letting me go to my old substances for temporary, delusional comfort. He was giving me Himself. He held me in my shakes and sweats and tears and irrational requests. He never let me go.

And then it was over. I felt the fresh air of freedom. Peace. Relief. The fog lifted and my eyes readjusted. It’s as if the withdrawal had to run it’s course. Jesus won out.

To be controlled by anything other than Christ is bondage. And in our Christian, religious circles it’s usually a small, acceptable thing that we let slip into our lives — wanting to be a good friend, desiring to serve, hoping to make a difference, pursuing excellence, identifying with other people, collecting good stories, having fun adventures, being someone in the Kingdom. These things, left unchecked, become like drugs — controlling, unreasonable lords that demand our dedicated service. They consume us from the inside, convincing us that without them we cannot survive.

freedom-woman

But that’s the lie. All but Jesus leads to emptiness, loneliness and death. Only Jesus offers hope, freedom and life. When “the love of Christ compels us” we put things like people, serving and money under His authority. Because of the permanent victory of the cross, I walk in freedom. Satan would like me to think the he can control me with his tempting vices and sweet-smelling lies, but I belong to Jesus and as my Good Shepherd, He fights on my behalf to keep all enemies at bay. He leads me to beautiful places and His road and staff bring me comfort. I trust His hand because I have learned His heart. Oh how I am prone to wander, prone to distraction, prone to discontentment. But none of these things can control me for Christ has engraved me on His hand. I am His and He is mine. Praise the Lord.

“Now my debt is paid
It is paid in full
By the precious blood
That my Jesus spilled
Now the curse of sin
Has no hold on me
Whom the Son sets free
Oh is free indeed”

–Hillsong, from the song “Man of Sorrows”

The Absolute Nothingness of Ashes

Ashes represent death. They tell of the end of something that has been destroyed with unquenched fire, changing its very nature into tiny particles of unrecognizable dust. What once was, is permanently no longer. The end. A pile of death. Ash. Dust. Nothing.

I admit, there are parts of my life that have been reduced to ashes. I keep these losses in little jars on the shelves of my heart. Relationships that ended. Friends who died. Opportunities I wasted. Unanswered prayers. Failures. Sufferings of others. Actually, there’s currently a whole shelf just devoted to that one — ashes that represent people I love suffering from cancer, chronic illness, tragic accidents, abuse, divorce, rebellion, pain.

Ashes remind me that this world is broken. And that I cannot fix it. And that makes me mad. I’ve also been storing up boxes of questions in my heart, right next to the jars of suffering. Doubts I dared not entertain, burdens I shouldered alone, punches I was afraid to throw.

During this extended sabbatical I’ve been tackling some of the my compartmentalized questions. A book called “Glorious Ruin” by Tullian Tchividjan has changed how I process suffering:

“God, according to the Bible, is a God who suffers with us and who, in the person of Jesus, suffered for us. He’s the man of sorrows. If we needed any proof whatsoever that God is most present in defeat, that God is most present in weakness, all we have to do is look at the cross. When embraced, the cross actually frees us to be real, to be honest, to be Christian Realists instead of Christian Idealists. It frees us to call a spade a spade — to say, this suffering is terrible, and this isn’t the way things were intended to be. It frees us to look forward to the day when every tear will be wiped away, and death and disease will be no more.”

Ashes are literally a pile of loss. The physical representation of the nothingness of dead dreams and hopes and loves. Maybe that’s why Jesus said He was coming to redeem and restore not just “mostly dead” but “completely dead.” Ashes. The absolute nothing. If he can do the impossible in resurrecting ashes, is there anything He cannot do? Jesus speaks hope across time through the prophet Isaiah when He says:

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of joy instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

God likes the nothingness of ashes because it gives Him exclusive rights to the glory for redeeming them. I so badly want to help fix things and reconstruct dust particles; the helplessness of ashes frustrates me. But Jesus came to free me from the burden of having to be the world’s redeemer. Simply put, I can’t do it. And, as frustrating as that is, it’s actually really good news. I am only responsible to point the world to Jesus, our only hope.

While in Oklahoma this summer I visited the national memorial for the Oklahoma City Bombing. A field of chairs overlooks a reflecting pool with each seat representing one of the 168 people killed that day — 19 of them children. You’ll also find the remnant of a broken wall, a fence with notes from the public and many somber spaces for remembering those who died, those who survived and those who rushed in as rescuers. Walking around the memorial I sensed deep grief and fear and anger, all begging the world to never forget the unthinkable, senseless intrusion of evil. My heart was broken.

Just as I thought I couldn’t process anything else, I saw The Survivor Tree. This American Elm witnessed the horrific events of April 19, 1995 and all the unimaginable tears since then. And yet it stands. It survived. Not only is it alive, but it is flourishing. Tall, full and strong it provides shade to grieving pilgrims and hope for weary mourners. It says, “it’s going to be okay. You’re going to make it.” Without ceremony or arrogance it reminds us that life can go on.

I spent several minutes under The Survivor Tree. I rested my hand on it’s trunk and thought of all the people I know who are currently struggling to survive various tragedies in their lives. Over and over in my head I heard the words, “beauty from ashes.” The Spirit of God was giving me a vivid image of how He came to redeem death, restore hope and create life. Just like The Survivor Tree, we will live as a testimony to all who see us.

This past year I’ve come to accept suffering. My next goal is to be grateful for it. And maybe one day I will even get to the point of embracing it. And while I am not there yet, I am learning why I need to pray towards that end. Author Ann Voskamp says this:

“We may all want anything other than suffering and ashes. But this is a dust-crushed world and Christ didn’t avoid it but chose to come to it. Why embrace dust and ashes? Because it’s out of dust and ashes, God grows the impossible. Because God exchanges dust and ashes for beauty and miracles and He cares so much that He doesn’t care that it’s not fair. Because God raises whole people out of ashes and He writes mysterious grace in dust, and with Him, dust and spit and muddied things can still help us see.”

And so, surrounded by jars of ashes and my boxes of questions I am learning to look for Jesus amid my sufferings and sorrows. He came to bring comfort and purpose; I must learn to let Him into these heart-closets so that He can do His redemptive work. It’s a step of trust. Of faith. Of vulnerability.

But what do I have to lose? I can’t get anything less than ashes. I believe that these jars of nothingness will be redeemed in God’s perfect time. He is writing mysterious grace in the dust of my life.

“All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us”

–“Beautiful Things” by Gungor

Wake Up From This Winter

So wake up from this winter
Into the world of all things new
I feel you drawing nearer
Because I know your love is on the move

Three months into my sabbatical, I am happy to report that slowing down is one of the best things I have ever done. This whole summer — and now into fall — I have simplified, eliminated and evaluated much in my life and heart. Lots of reading, writing, talking, thinking, crying and learning.

And God has met me at every turn. Whether it’s been through financial provision that lets me continue my journey or flashes of revelation on a piece of holy ground, I have experienced nothing but the kindness of God. He isn’t the harsh schoolmaster I was expecting. He is a gentle Father, carefully and patiently allowing me to grow at a safe pace.

Instead of running away from pain, I have been learning to see Jesus walking with me in the midst of my suffering. He is the “suffering servant.” He doesn’t wait for me to be whole, He comes to me in my brokenness. That’s the gospel.

Instead of ignoring my questions, I have been learning to wrestle with God and ask Him my why’s and how’s. He is mighty and strong and unshakeable. He can handle my toughest questions and my hardest punches.

Instead of trying to understand God’s plan for my life, I have been learning to surrender my relentless desire for details to a God who knows and cares and loves. If I replace “need to know plans” with “need to know Jesus” then I get what my heart is actually craving. Seek first Jesus, the rest will follow.

Instead of filling my days with “stuff,” I have been learning to sit still and only choose what is best. Which is sometimes sitting on the back porch with a cup of tea and my Bible. Or playing the guitar with a 3 year old. Or sleeping in past 9am. If God has given me this time, I should use it to it’s fullest and not feel guilty about it. Rest. Enjoy. See Jesus.

It’s amazing. And refreshing. And freeing. But I had to slow down to experience it. God knew I needed this time even more than I did.

Like a eager flower daring to bloom after a long winter, Lydia 2.0 is slowly emerging.

————————–

“On The Move” Lyrics and Music by Thomas McGuire. Check out noisetrade.com/thomasmcguire to get this song for free!

Waiting Is Not About Getting Answers

Everyone who blogs eventually writes a post about waiting it seems.

But tonight’s post is not an attempt at a brilliant theological treatise. Rather it’s just the late night thoughts of an ordinary person, tapped out on an old Macbook on a dimly lit porch.

We’re all waiting for something.

Boyfriend. Baby. Wife. Job. Space. Promotion. Grades. Money. Retirement. Car. Healing. Provision. Attention. Success. Care. Opportunity. Recognition. Direction. Knowledge. Understanding. Focus. Freedom. Peace. Death.

In my recent experience, waiting makes me aware of the details. What used to be a happy blur of daily life is now sliced into bite-sized increments of analytical delight. Each word, action, conversation, coincidence is a divine message of some sort. We dissect and pour over each facet.

Half the time, the verdict is “YES! THIS IS CONFIRMATION!” I see the hand of God, can trace the work of the Holy Spirit and receive the comfort of the Savior. This kind of waiting is like following a trail of breadcrumbs.

The other half of the time I just see the space in between the breadcrumbs. My lack and need and desperation scream out in the void, deafening me with their calls of unbelief. I so want the next morsel of truth, of light, of hope. I reach out my hand and grope in the dark, hoping for something true to hold on to.

And you know what? There’s always another breadcrumb. There’s always Jesus, just within reach, holding onto me, making sure I don’t ever fall.

Sometimes I try to figure out the waiting game. But this is impossible. There is no pattern, no rhythm, no guarantee of how long it will last or who we’ll be on the other side. We just wait. Wait for the guidance or the provision or the thing we so desperately need. It can seem like an unsolvable puzzle with constantly changing variables. Our minds go crazy seeking for an answer.

But at the end of the day, we don’t wait for an answer. We wait for GOD HIMSELF.

Our earthly desires are only meant to make us long for the God who created us, they are but lights along a footpath that leads us to our heart’s satisfaction. We crave guidance and safety and love because we long for the Father who provides these things for our soul.

And God always delivers on His promises.

God the Father sent His Son, Jesus, to the earth to be our greatest, deepest, truest provision. We were dead in our sins, hell-bent and self-destructive. We needed to be rescued. So Jesus exchanged His life for ours, letting God punish Him instead. He freed us. He bought us safety. He gave us love. He gave us Himself.

You see, if God met our greatest need, how will He not also meet all of our lesser needs? (Romans 8:32)

But I don’t like waiting for those lesser needs to be fulfilled in God’s timing. It seems so inefficient. Couldn’t we just get marching orders and supplies and be on our way?

Waiting makes me dependent. It saves me from being spiritually clumsy by attempting life on my own terms and with my own limited understanding. If I would just wait for the Lord, I can lean on Him to be everything I need.

Oh that our waiting would make us crave Jesus! Wait for Him, soul. He is the One you desire. And He will come. And you will not be disappointed.

(This song has summed up both my soul’s state and my soul’s prayer many times…)

A Day in the Life of Mary & Martha

The house was bustling with the after-lunch clean up. People bumped into each other and laughed as they cleared the table. Dishes were put in the sink, each clank indicating a chime of completion. Someone offered to take the trash out. Soon the sound of chairs sliding across the wooden floor could be heard as the dining room was being rearranged.

Martha smiled. This is what she was made for. She loved the hustle and bustle of having people in her home. Hosting a crowd was not overwhelming to her; she thrived on it. To her, a to-do list was a “prepare to love” list, readying her to extend hospitality and create a safe environment for ministry. She gladly channeled her administrative skills and released her strong, warm personality for days like today.

“We’re about to get started,” said Mary as she walked into the kitchen, almost waltzing from the beauty of the day. She surprised her sister with a dancing hug while exclaiming, “This is the best day ever!” Martha laughed, agreed and playfully pulled out of the embrace.

Their two personalities were on full display today. Mary was whimsical, known for feeling deeply and pursuing life passionately. She found beauty in small things and loved to share the sweetness of the moment with whoever passed by. She was conscientious and gentle, often brightening the room with her laugh and encouragement. Martha was the yin to Mary’s yang. They were best friends in the way that only sisters can be, complementing and accommodating each other perfectly. Together, they were an unstoppable team of strength, beauty, love and good works.

The buzz of conversation died down in the living room. “Oh! He must be starting!” said Mary as her eyes lit up. All the chairs and couches were filled with travelers and guests. Curious neighbors had invited themselves over and were now filling empty spaces along the walls. Mary gracefully picked her way through the crowd, gaze fixed on what seemed to her the best spot in the room. A man offered her his seat, but she politely declined. She wanted to be closer.

Jesus was there, in the white armchair. It had been moved to the corner between the fireplace and the window so that everyone in the room could see him as he spoke. As Jesus began, the group instinctively listened. Mary sat down on the floor at his feet like a child, cross-legged and eager.

Martha smiled at her sister’s boldness and turned back to the stack of dishes still in the sink. She quietly finished cleaning the kitchen, listening to the words of life coming from Jesus. This is what her dry, parched soul needed! Martha turned towards the doorway, looking at the man they just met who was now sitting in her living room. She remembered the immediate care and friendship in his eyes. He saw her for who she was – single, middle-class, capable, bossy and desperate for deep belonging. He smiled and something in her soul resonated. Being near to him, she felt safe. That morning Martha invited this rag-tag team of guys over for lunch and now a peace filled her home, obviously resonating from Jesus himself. She had been waiting her whole life for God to bring Himself near, and this was that day.

She wiped one unbidden tear from her eye and choked back the rest. Now was not the time for a public display of emotion. Mary, however, was not having such hesitations. Tears freely streamed down her cheeks as the Savior spoke of the Father’s love and kindness. Martha loved this tenderness in her sister, but she valued service over sentimentality. She poured cups of coffee and began taking them to her guests. Mary did not want any coffee, but accepted the tissues that Martha discreetly handed her with a knowing smile.

The teaching went on all afternoon. Questions and answers mixed in with historic prophecies and a host of real life applications. Martha started looking at the clock, noticing that dinnertime was fast approaching. Feeling antsy, she got up to make another pot of coffee. How much longer would this go? What will I feed all these people? Mary caught her eye and motioned for her to sit down, but Martha was now beyond the point of being still.

Trying her best to be quiet, Martha stayed in the kitchen planning the menu, checking her supplies and guessing how long Jesus would talk. Her gift to the Lord was to serve him, and so she must. She turned on the oven and put the water on to boil. The dinner to-do list piled up mentally and Martha looked for someone to help her prepare the meal. Mary, being the obvious choice, was still sitting smack in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on Jesus. There was no subtle way to get her attention. Martha looked around the room. No one seemed to notice her frustration growing into panic.

Martha took a deep breath. “Okay, you can do this,” she thought to herself. “If no one else will help, I will serve the Lord by myself.” She tried to listen to the teaching as she worked, but it became hard as her hands got busier and her mind got more distracted. Meat. Bread. Vegetables. Condiments. Drinks. Paper products. Martha could no longer hear the conversation about love, peace and kingdom living. She was in the zone, focused and capable, serving the Lord his dinner. Her service had an agenda and that agenda had expectations. She must not fail.

Somewhere amidst the preparations, the teaching stopped. Martha didn’t even notice until a guy named Peter stuck his head into the kitchen to say that dinner smelled great. Martha barely said, “thank you” before he was gone outside with the other guys. She could hear their laughter through the open kitchen window, a sweet sound of camaraderie and joy. The fresh air was good for them, Martha knew, but couldn’t at least one of them asked to help with dinner preparations? And where was Mary? Didn’t she agree to help with this whole event? Why does it always turn out this way? Why am I always the one sacrificing? Martha began to mutter to herself as she perfected her seasonings and sauces.

There were still two voices talking in the living room. Martha stopped moving long enough to hear her sister pouring out her heart to Jesus, looking to him for answers and understanding. She loved Mary but was this really the time? Hadn’t she been sitting at his feet all afternoon? Didn’t she know that there was important work that had to be done right now?

The more Martha built her case in her mind, the less it became about the dinner. This was about timing, duty, responsibility, service and excellence after all. There is an agenda! There are expectations! Martha stood on her moral high ground and looked down at her sister, the attitude of joyful service long abandoned to the crusade of righteous indignation. And in a flash of convinced rightness, Martha dried her hands on her apron and walked decidedly towards Jesus and Mary.

“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone?” said Martha confidently. “Tell her to help me.”

Jesus looked up and locked eyes with Martha. It was that same look from before, the look that understood her soul. She stopped a few feet from his chair. All she could hear was the clock ticking and her heart beating. She looked at her feet, awkwardly waiting for an answer.

Mary’s face fell, realizing the trouble she caused her sister and also the uncomfortable situation they now found themselves. Surely Jesus would chastise her for being unhelpful. She never meant to hurt or abandon Martha. She simply got lost in the wonder of her newfound freedom. Jesus was everything to her now, and she lost track of all the other distractions and demands of the world.

Martha’s words still rang in the air with a harsh tone of accusation, both towards the Lord and towards Mary. But instead of answering Martha’s question, Jesus answered Martha’s soul.

“Martha,” he said gently. She looked up. “Martha,” he said again. “You are worried and distracted by much serving.”

She nodded.

“But only one thing is necessary,” he continued. “Mary has chosen the best thing, which will not be taken away from her.”

A tear slipped down Martha’s cheek, one that she did not try to wipe away. She felt the pang of conviction that both pained and freed her. In her fervor for service, she had let it control her. In all honesty, sometimes it was her escape from reality, her excuse from being vulnerable. She had gifts of great worth for good purposes, but she had let the gifts outdo the Giver. Her moment of crisis revealed her identity was in the service, not in the One she served.

“Mary… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Martha twisted her hands as Mary’s tear-filled eyes spoke forgiveness and love. Martha then looked into the eyes of Jesus. There was no condemnation, no punishment. Just an unspoken invitation to rest and to stop trying to earn his favor through her hard work. A soul-weary Martha smiled and let another tear escape.

There was no need for further words between them. Mary’s eyes gleamed as she quickly stood up and waltzed into the kitchen to finish the dinner. Martha simply sat down at the feet of Jesus and was in no hurry to get up.