Sacred Mundane: The Blog

There is nothing I want to do. That’s the problem. I’ve unknowingly become a slave to hankering, and without sunshine, a burst of energy, or a strike of inspiration, I’m left lethargic and unmotivated. I have a hankering to do nothing.

I don’t want to write and I don’t want to do laundry. And I most certainly don’t want to listen to my children bicker which is exactly what they are doing while I lie on the couch with my eyes closed.

Get up. Do something. 

I’m getting should on. The shoulds come hard but they beat down, don’t lift up, and so I’m just dead weight, still on the couch, heavier than ever.

“Please stop arguing and just clean up the loft.”

I escape, like an addict, to the office. Flip open the laptop. I know full well I am escaping but I do it anyway. The wheel spins, I wait, the screen brightens and I feel the false hope rising.  Will something happen here that lifts me from this dullness? That can somehow wake me up? I know what I’m looking for and know I shouldn’t but do it anyway. Some praise or affirmation. Something stimulating. Something besides this long day of wiping crumbs and correcting tones and calming ridiculous overreactions …

And repeating, repeating, repeating.

We head down for a snack, and there I look again.  The computer offered no solace, just a feed full of faces laughing longer and harder and loving life more than I, apparently.

I open the cupboard and try again.

Anything here?

But I’m still full from breakfast and there’s no pleasure in food when the senses aren’t heightened by hunger.

I’m just not hungry for anything.

We head outside. I can almost always count on air and earth to jostle me to life. It’s cold and wet, but I kneel in the dirt and see the dozens of green shoots poking brave heads above the dark soil. Peas. Spinach. Radishes. It’s so cold. Yesterday it hailed. But they’re undaunted, and I’m sure it must be boring for them, to grow so slowly?

But they keep growing. And I suddenly have a strange compassion for them. Out there, cold and bored to death and still growing. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that they haven’t altogether quit, haven’t packed up and gone home. I’m overcome with a desire to weed, for them. It’s personal. It’s not duty. I want them to live. They’re so darned faithful out there, braving the hail, holding up their tiny 1/2″ necks. I pull weeds carefully and smooth the soil around each tiny shoot. Gently. Like dabbing the milk from a baby’s chin. It’s ridiculous but I’m so grateful for those plants.

And as I’m dabbing their dirty earthen chins, she pulls up. My forever friend. And how’d she know I’d love a Dutch Brothers’, right now, at this exact moment? And how’d she know to say, “Of course!” when the barista asked if I’d like whip?

She hands me the drink, “Just thought you might like this.” My hands are covered in dirt and I hold the cup close and feel its warmth. Her four kids are lively in the back of the minivan and she ignores them and smiles at me and I just look up at her face and all the weight is gone. I’m beaming ridiculously because one person did something ridiculous for me. And I’m suddenly just so glad that she does what she does, day in and day out, raising those kids and cleaning that house and driving that minivan and being my friend and saying yes to whipped cream every now and then.

It hails on her too; I know that.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth today,” I tell her, and I don’t know why I say it but it says everything. And she smiles and I’m known and loved and accepted all at once.

She says goodbye and the kids wave and we head inside, now hungry. Apples crunch sweet and grilled cheese oozes salty and the hummus is cold and creamy. And though it’s already afternoon I’m grateful to have finally woken up.  There’s still a lot of glorious day ahead. 

{In case you have these days … Thanks for reading. 

“What if God planted RENEW Church just for Julie?”

Several of my close friends have posed this question to me. Of course I smile because it is the same question the Holy Spirit has posed to me more times than I can count, in different ways.

It’s a fair question. Would God take a family and send them on a wild goosechase of selling their home and seeking after an Isaiah 58 lifestyle, plop them in another city, on a street corner in front of Bus Stop 32, and have them plant a little ragtag church full of odd characters (I say this with endearment, guys–we’re included in this description!) patched loosely together by a passion for the gospel and serving the least?

Would He go through all this effort just to find The One drug-addicted woman and lure her to His love through this church’s fumbling efforts of generosity and grace? 

Is that it?

If it is, is it worth it? Just for The One?

A few weeks ago I had the hair-brained idea to bake up a huge batch of The Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon rolls and hand them out to homeless folks Easter morning. Sure, there’s no better news than “He is risen!” but “Here’s–an-ooey-gooey-buttery-handful-of-sweet-sticky-goodness-because-Jesus-loves-you!” is a really close second. So I had this grand idea to find out where they’d be sleeping and go find a whole slew of them.

But when I sought how to find them I was informed  that a large church was already hosting a huge pancake feed at their church building, so “all of them will be going there.” When I asked if we could just go out looking for some on the street, as I wanted to go to them, she said, “You can, but you probably won’t find any.”  Though I felt deflated at first, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, “If only for The One … go.”

So we piled into the car Easter morning. My kids sat in back and my mother-in-law in the passenger seat holding the pan of ooey-goodness.

After weaving in and out of the downtown streets under the railroad, we caught sight of him.

The One. 

He sat alone, on the ground, in the shadows, hidden back in the corner of a vacant lot lined with dumpsters from the nearby produce stand. His head was down. I wheeled the car around, loaded up a napkin with rolls, pulled out a babywipe for cleaning his hands after, and stepped out of the car.

I stood and looked across the long, empty lot where he sat. Between us lay shattered glass and strewn trash. I was wearing bright yellow and white and high-heeled sandals. My Easter best. My eyes blurred as I stepped over the broken bottles.

He looked up. His eyes widened. I smiled. The sun poured through the trees.

He watched me walk across the lot.

“Good morning, Sir. Would you like a warm cinnamon roll?”

He smiled, mostly toothless, probably in his 60s, handsome.

“Wow. Well, yes. Yes, Ma’am I’d love one!” I held out the rolls and a baby-wipe. He reached out his hands, open, palms up, black with grime. They brushed mine, every so slightly, as I handed him the napkin-bundle.. “They’re kind of messy,” I explained.

I looked into his eyes and smiled again. Yes. Kind of messy. All of it.

“Sir, do you know that it’s Easter?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Do you know Jesus loves you, Sir?”

He smiled again. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

I said goodbye, walked back to the car. Coming out of the shadows, the light of the sun was so bright my teary eyes couldn’t see.

But I could see clearer than ever.

He was The One.

At The Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference William Paul Young, author of The Shack, spoke on the importance of The One. Considering his book has been read by nearly 100 million people, it’s surprising to interact with him and see his genuine concern for each person he meets. He knows no handshakes, only hugs. He treats the college-freshman sound guy the same as the other award-winning authors. And one of Young’s main points was that if God wants you to write a book for one person, is it worth it?

Am I willing to write a book for one person?

Am I willing to chase after one ridiculous baby goat?

Am I willing to hand out just one cinnamon roll?

And could it be that sometimes the crowd must be small so that that one person can be found?

In the words of John Piper, “There are saving works that God will only do through small churches and ordinary people, not through large churches and more sophisticated people.”

Both large and small churches are needed. Both large and small events, retreats, conferences. We need large-scale reform and we need to walk across the street and talk to our neighbor. We need huge pancake feeds and a single cinnamon roll. I’ve been impacted by the 90,000+ attended simulcasts by Beth Moore, and I’ve been impacted by my husband, housemate and I quietly keeling together, faces to the floor, to pray. I value the energy of a large group, and I value the sacred intimacy of small circles.

But above all, hopefully, I’m learning to value The One.

Because I am The One. 

I have been and continue to be The One. This past weekend I was the broken woman, the prostitute washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. I was so convicted of my own filthiness at one point all I could do was escape to the prayer chapel and lie on my face before Jesus. I was that woman. I am her. And Jesus continues to seek  me. 

Those who understand they are The One are more likely to seek after other Ones.

I am The One.

You are The One.

Our simple task is to move through the world with eyes to see The Ones God brings across our path.

Is it worth it?

Absolutely.

{Praying for spiritual eyes peeled for The Ones you may encounter this week. May He chase you down with His extravagant love. Thanks for reading, and please check out the opportunity below.}

*I’d like to invite any of you local readers, if you wish, to a small, private opportunity for renewal — a short, one-night retreat April 19-20. There’s just a few of us–some women from our church plant, some friends, The Sonflowerz (the precious sister-duo worship leaders from Colorado Springs), and me. I’ll be teaching from God’s Word, we’ll worship, pray, listen. You can interact with others or you can retreat into the woods. You can hike or nap.  Seek fellowship or solitude. It’s free, it’s relaxed, and there’s just room for a few, so if you are interested, please contact me here and I’ll share more information with you.

• Sweet times playing with the neighbor boy. Love how kids find common ground instantly. In this case common ground is literal.
• Them in the morning–kitten breath and puppy breath.
• Her bird-chirp voice.
• Our first pets! Two goldfish–Penny & Glowy. I thought my children couldn’t become any more enthusiastic about life. They just out-enthused themselves.
• Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference. So much good material I can’t see straight.
• Kindness, grace, humility.
• When those who stand so high are willing to bend so low.
• That William Paul Young doesn’t know how to handshake. He hugs everyone. 
• Empathy.
• Embracing imagination.
• Learning to see through others’ eyes.
• CS Lewis woven through the conference.
• Justice and love. One holy pursuit.
• Wilson Smith rockin’ the worship circle. Singing at the top of my lungs to my Beautiful Savior!
• Kindness.
• Coming home.
• Foot massage from my favorite man.
• Having him there at the conference by my side.
• That at least a dozen women came up to me and said, “Your husband is so great!” Yup. What can I say. 🙂
• Inspired by forward-thinking, visionary, life-giving, faith-filled men and women.
• Hope.
• Trust.
• Repentance.
• Conviction.
• Quiet prayer chapel.
• Time alone to just be honest with Him. 
• Water.
• Great neighbors.
• Plans to wear yoga pants, slippers, and no makeup for the next week. Friends, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
• Hummus.
• Rest.
• Oh how He loves us. 

{Thank you so much for your prayers for my weekend. What a gift! May He show you His abundant LOVE for you this weekend. God is for us! Thanks for reading.}