When you're just plain irritated …
There’s nothing wrong with the words, it’s just the way she says them. Write those words out in pen and ink and they’d look just fine. But why spoken into the air do they feel like little jabs? I can’t put my finger on it, but somewhere in my heart there’s a bee sting. I can feel it.
I come in out of the cold, kick off my boots and check the fire. It’s still lit but it’s cooled. I can see glowing embers down below, but the logs lay heavy on top and not much heat is coming out.
I grab the poker and remove the screen. This is my favorite part of wood-stove heat. Stoking the fire. I wield my poker and shove it deep under the logs, flip them over and poke around at the glowing embers beneath. Instantly heat rushes out, envelopes me in warmth. It’s so hot I have to put the poker down, replace the screen and sit back a bit. I lean against my old quilted pillows, close my eyes, remember these words:
And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. (Hebrews 10:24)
Of course.
We know this verse, know we’re called to spur one another on, but do we understand what it means to spur?
That word, translated “spur” is paroxusmos which literally means “to irritate.” Consider: How do you spur on a horse? By nudging it with your spurs! That is, applying just enough pressure, or irritation, to get its attention and make it move.
Isn’t this how I’d just stoked the fire? By poking it. By digging, jabbing that poker down into the embers, flipping over the logs, stirring it up a bit with some strategic irritation.
Every day I partake in my beloved stoking ritual. I poke and prod and stir up warmth to keep our house heated.
To keep the fire burning.
Aren’t we supposed to do the same for each other? And truly, isn’t that what this person had done for me? I’d felt a little unnerved, a little irritated. And didn’t this stir me up a bit? Didn’t it flip over my log and expose the underside that desperately needed attention? Didn’t it turn a cold side over and let it find flame? White-hot purifying flame that burns the impurities away?
It did just that.
The problem is that I thought I loved that verse. But I don’t like the poking part. At least not in real life. Poking on the page is just fine — but poking in person? No thank you.
But if that’s the case then I don’t really love that verse. Then I don’t really understand that verse or obey that verse.
True Christian fellowship always involves irritation.
Our lives are purified by people-pokes. Dozens of them. Isn’t it the loving hand of the Father who wields the poker? And hasn’t He ordained that we would live, grow, be sanctified in community?
But all this poking is not what we had in mind when we signed up for “community” is it? In the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
“He who loves his dream of community more than the Christian community itself becomes a destroyer of the latter, even though his personal intentions may be ever so honest and earnest and sacrificial.”
Let’s be honest: Our dream Christian community don’t involve stokes, pokes, and irritations.
But real Christian community does. In fact, biblical Christian community does. Sure, some pokes are the result of other’s sin. But some are the sanctified spurs — one saint to another.
Do we want to be spurred? I do.
I don’t like the feel but I love the fruit.
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{Revisiting this … Who has irritated you lately? How might this have been the gentle prodding of a loving Father? How can you be spurred on toward love because of it? Perhaps I’ve irritated you? Thanks for reading, for grace, and for sanctified spurs — one saint to another.}
Always something better. {Giveaway}
I can’t believe I’m here right now.
The ocean is lapping soft against the sand just below my bedroom window. We drove up last night to Whidbey Island, to join the World Vision and Thomas Nelson crew in the filming of a DVD curriculum for Richard Stearns’ new book. Yes, Richard Stearns, the man who wrote The Hole in Our Gospel and who–by the power of God’s Spirit–completely ruined my ordinary life.
I’ll be forever grateful.
Grateful that God inspired Stearns to write the words, “What’s in your hand?” To cause me to look down and take inventory of exactly what God had entrusted to me, that I could lay down at His feet in worship. I’m so grateful God equipped him to share the stories of children–millions of them–all beloved by God, and dying by the thousands every single day. It was this book that served as the Tipping Point for us, and tipped us over into a life of living head-over-heels for the Kingdom (or at least trying to!). It was more than two years ago, and so much has changed.
Most of all, my heart.
It’s a simple truth, but it bears repeating: Whatever we “give up” for God He always replaces with something so much better.
And by “better” I don’t mean what the world means. Not merely health, wealth, and popularity. Not a bigger house or a higher-paying job, although He might toss that in just for fun.
We give up addiction and we get freedom in return.
We give up an empty pursuit of the American Dream and He gives us the life-changing adventure of the Kingdom-of-God-Dream.
We give up control and He takes us on a wild ride.
We give up our money and He provides for us in intimate, personal, unimaginable ways that woo us, make us dizzy with His love, bring us to our knees.
Really, God? I get to meet the man who you used to influence my life so greatly? I get to stay in a beautiful house on Whidbey Island, with my husband, and discuss the truth of how glorious you are and how you’ve changed our lives? Really?
And more than this. Really, God–we get to live this life, this adventure and watch you do greater and greater things, as you build your Kingdom and proclaim Your glorious gospel here on this earth?
Note to self: Remember this when all you can see if what you’ve left behind.
We all have those times. When all we can see is what we no longer have. Or what we never had but wish we did. Or what we’re asked to give up. When all we can see is the hill ahead and all we can feel are the burning legs and fatigue and Oh God, Why is this adventure so hard?
It is hard. But so worth it.
Because there’s always something better. God can always one-up you. He can always out-give you. He can always out-bless you. And although I am not there yet, I truly believe if we throw ourselves with reckless abandon, at His feet and enlist ourselves in His service, obeying His commands at all cost …
There will be something so much better. Suffering, probably. Loss. But also hope. Strength. Joy. Peace. Abundance.
Life.
(Lose it to find it.)
What is God asking you to give away? Status? Control? A habit? Money? What is there, in your hand, clenched tight with white-knuckled grip?
What would it look like to lose it, give it, let it go? What glorious thing might He have for you? Lose it to find it. There’s always something better.
{Have you read The Hole in Our Gospel yet? Want a free copy? Leave a comment and we’ll pick one reader to receive a copy, but only if you promise to pass it on to another friend when you are finished reading. Deal? Deal! Thanks so much for reading.}
Why brokenness is a blessing…
“Nap time, babygirl! Come here, please.” From across the room I could see her stiffen, prepare to protest. I gave her fair-warning. “Make a good choice. Will you say ‘yes’ or ‘no” to Mama?” There was no need to remind her of what a ‘no’ response would earn. She knows.
She stiffly, and slowly, walked over to me. Her mouth said yes and she made her feet move, but her face and demeanor were “no-ing” all the way. I picked her up, took her to the potty, and told her to go before her nap. She sat down, didn’t go, said she was done.
Outwardly obedient but deep-down defiant.
I took her into her room for the rest-time routine. Rock, snuggle, sleep. I pulled her up on my lap in the rocking chair, but she pushed away. Again, silent, but stiff as a board and at arm’s length. I carried her over, crawled under the quilt at her side. She lay still for a moment, then a mischievous look came across her face.
“I need go potty.” I knew it. Kids will use anything to control. To defy. I was choosing this battle and wouldn’t lose. She’s beautiful, but manipulation is not a beautiful quality when it’s all grown up. I kissed her cheek and looked her in the eye.
“No. Mommy already told you to go and you didn’t. You’re not getting back up.” She fussed again, insisted she has to go, begins to pitch a fit. I think to myself how I don’t want to change wet sheets.
But I’ll change her sheets in order to change her heart.
“No.”
Her eyes widen as she realizes it’s a lost cause. She can’t win because I won’t budge. And almost visibly, right before my eyes, I can see the cracks, then the crumble. I can see her break.
She’s broken. She sobs.
And almost in the same breath-sob she reaches both arms out, wraps them around my neck.
She clings hard, pulls me close, and cries,
“Mama, I wan’ keep you.”
She wants to keep me. These are the words she uses at night when she longs for me to linger. She squeezes me tight round the neck and holds on, says she wants to keep me. Won’t let me go.
I, of course, don’t pull away.
I draw her even closer into my arms.
She’s soft. Pliable. She rests, relaxed in my arms. I hold her, my arms all the way around her little body as she rests in her bed. Even though I’m crouched over, quads burning, I stay there, my head on the pillow next to hers, kissing her cheeks.
Within two minutes she’s sound asleep.
That’s me, I think. That’s me.
Why often do I stiffen, proud? Willing my feet and mouth to say yes to God but protesting no within my heart? Every time I choose myself, my own way, I push Him away, hold Him at arm’s length. He seeks to rock me gently, I stiffen and push Him away. He draws near to hold me. I talk to Him perhaps but my prayer is still just grasping for control. But then something jolts, cracks, crumbles.
This is how we break. This is why brokenness is a blessing.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Ps. 51:17)
Of course He won’t! Of course He never will. The same way that I hold my broken-spirit daughter, envelope her completely, engulfed in my love until she falls sweetly asleep. Until she rests in my love.
Why do we push Him away? Our pride, the God-repellent, it stiffens within us, incites us to rebellion, but we must make it bow. Must make our feet and mouths and hearts say “yes” to God.
Then, no matter how far away He feels, He will envelope us in His love and let us rest secure. And resting secure we discover the truth:
Brokenness is the only path to wholeness.
–
{Remembering this from last year. Praying blessed brokenness–and wholeness–for you and me this week. Can you let go and rest in His arms? He loves you so!! Thank you for reading.}
F is for Fringe Hours
It is late as I write this. Way late. I’m a 9pm bedtime girl and let’s just say it’s not 9pm. I’m undertaking a little writing project, which is exciting to me because I love to write more than just about anything else in the world. Apparently more than sleep. But last night in a tired-moment I said to Jeff, “I don’t have time to write. It’s what I love to do but I literally do not have any free time during my days.” Of course he offered to help in a dozen different ways, but that’s not really it. It’s just that life, glorious life, is full. Full of joys and blessed busyness that I wouldn’t trade for anything. But still, full.
Then I remembered that Ann Voskamp said she wrote in the darkness, during the fringe hours of her days.
Fringe hours.
Isn’t that where the course of our life is truly determined? Most of our mid-day hours are decided for us. They are at work, changing diapers, running errands. A dozen employees in a company may look much the same from 9-5 but it is what they do during the fringe hours of the day that makes them who they are. Really, the fringe hours are the only ones that are ours, so of course they are pregnant with possibility. And especially as moms, the really fringe hours (think dark outside) are often the only ones we really have to ourselves.
So I’m thinking it’s important to invest more in the fringe.
People on the fringe. Ministry on the fringe. Moments on the fringe.
Words on the fringe.
So it’s dark and my screen is lit. My house is silent except for quiet clicking of keys. I’ll keep writing on the fringe and maybe, just maybe, all those fringes will add up into something beautiful.
Something whole.
—-
What do you do with your fringe hours? When you add them all up, what will they become?
Happy Friday. Week’s end with thanks tomorrow…
PS If you got this in your feedreader you can tell how I tired I was when I wrote this, the title was “For is Fringe Hours”… I couldn’t even type the title right! 🙂