When You Know

There is one sentence when you are discussing relationships with friends or family that can either raise the greenest flag of peace or the reddest flag of delusion. It consists of five small words: “When you know, you know.” I’ve heard these words uttered by lovestruck teenagers about their relationships that lasted a week or so but I’ve also heard them spoken by friends as they recall the sweetness of their first few dates with the people they eventually said “I do” to. I used to cringe at the sound, but I have learned the peace it may bring when spoken in alignment with a story being authored by the Lord; a story like the one my grandparents lived out; a story like the one I want to share with you today.

My grandfather, most affectionately referred to as “Papaw,” passed away when I was just six years old. I have faint memories of him; mostly consisting of Juanita’s brand peanut brittle, Werther’s Original caramel candies, golf balls and tees found in the most random places, the coziest naps in his recliner by the fireplace, and now, thankfully, notes he left behind; jotted neatly in the margins of his Bible and books. (I mean, so neat that he had to have used a ruler to draw those lines.) My grandmother, however, has a lifetime supply of memories featuring the candy-eating, golf-ball-hitting, recliner-napping, Bible-studying Joe T. There was far more to him than what my childlike eyes could perceive or what my adult mind may even now infer. The day he walked into her life changed the direction of it forever, and she promises me that she knew it would from the first moment she saw him.

Walk the streets of life in summer of the mid-to-late 1950s with me for a moment. Imagine, you’re a young girl that has just perfectly placed your sponge-rolled curls before whisking out the door for the day. Soda shoppes and movie theaters are the height of socialization, next only to small town sports during their respective seasons. It seemed that the hopes of every high school girl’s heart was consumed with whose letterman jacket she may manage to wear to the next basketball game. Even beyond the high school scene, love was in the air. The thick and continuously stirred dust of war in the country seemed to finally be settling. Celebration felt permissible again, but was yet presented in the sweetest simplicity. Life was getting lighter and the earth seemed to have decided to take a breath and slow down a bit; as if to savor the moments before they spun by. This was my grandmother’s world. Her dad owned a service station in her small hometown near northeast Arkansas. Though it didn’t much concern her regularly who may walk in and out of those old shop doors or what they were doing there, she walked in one afternoon before a basketball game and found the most welcome (and handsome) obstacle between her and a cold Coca-Cola that she had ever yet seen. On a hot day in July of 1956, a silent exchange of glances and a kind step out of her way became the genesis of the sweetest part of her life’s story. The Author’s ink began to fill the pages.

Now, Mamaw already had a boyfriend. Let’s start the story with the facts. She had already committed her affections (or at least her time and amusement) to another, according to her, much less worthy candidate. “When I saw Joe, that was completely over. I didn’t think of anyone else from then on.” The facts were, as you can see then, no match for the charm of Joe T. When she saw him, she knew. That was it, she knew. Wherever he was, that’s where she wanted to be.

The feeling was clearly mutual, because he started showing up everywhere she was. She didn’t have to chase him down. (That’s another way she knew.) “I was just drawn to him, and it seemed pretty clear that he was drawn to me too.” All of a sudden, they were enjoying the same baseball games, eating dinner or grabbing ice cream with friends at Dairy Queen, and he even managed stealing her away from her last scheduled date with (what was his name again?) the poor other guy that was so unfortunate as to just not be Joe. One man’s “can’t make it to the movies” was another man’s golden opportunity to ensure that he eliminated all competition. (Not that he really had any.) The rest is history. Interest and affection grew and were communicated quickly between the two love birds and things got serious fast. What one may call chance; just a simple encounter at a Coke machine at just the right time, was soon to become the foundation of a family.

In a radical whirlwind of timing that honestly kind of breaks my gen-z mind, Betty and Joe dated for a whopping three weeks before they got engaged. Sitting in a balcony of a movie theater, Joe leaned over, took her by the hand, and asked kindly and with the sweetest sincerity “Would you like to go pick out a ring in the morning?” to which my Mamaw, emphatically responded with the only answer she would even consider giving him: “yes!” A trip to the local jewelry store, a visit with her parents, and an additional three weeks later, the deal was sealed. Mamaw had become Mrs. Joe T. and the story had just begun. Through the years, they had 2 children and 4 grandchildren. (Split even down the middle: two boys, two girls.) They built a home together, filled with the love they found. Their house was my favorite house. Still is, really. They raised a garden, they raised a family. They had just celebrated 47 years together the year of his passing, only a small bit shy of their golden anniversary. Yesterday, August 10, would have marked 68 years of a lasting union between Joe and Betty. She misses him every day. I hear a story about Papaw every time we get on the phone together, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Their love was the real deal. Whatever Mamaw says she knew in that moment in the service station almost 70 years ago, she really, really knew it.

So, then, contrary to what you may perceive, this is not a promotional blog for love-at-first-sight. It’s really not even entirely about finding love. But, rather, it’s a testimony of the gentle nudging and intentional working of the pen of an all-knowing Author. Because what led Joe T. to an altar of matrimony would also, some 18 years later, lead him to an altar of repentance and completely revolutionize the foundation upon which my family was built. It was Papaw’s deep love for his wife and intimate knowledge of her character that reassured him when she encountered the Truth of God’s word and received the gift of the Holy Ghost that there must be something to it. He told those around “I know Betty, and there’s not any put-on in her. So, what she has must be real and I want it.” Shortly after, he was baptized in Jesus’ name and came out of the water speaking in tongues. Because of a decision to casually lean on a Coke machine in 1956, I now have the privilege to rifle through the pages of a Bible that belonged to a man that found something worth building his family on. When you know, you know, friends. Joe knew when he found Betty, but more importantly, Joe knew when he found Jesus. As one who profits greatly from both decisions, there isn’t a day that passes where I’m not grateful for a man that continually pursued what he simply knew to be for him.

You may not find true love in an instant. You may be engaged for more than three weeks. You may already be married to the love of your life. Love may not even be on your radar. But, my prayer today is that whatever you find to pursue in this season, you pursue it only if it is accompanied with peace. I pray you allow the ink of the Author’s pen to be the only ink on the pages of your life. I pray you find yourself in a place of complete surrender to a story you simply cannot write on your own. Who knows what He will pen next? But if you leave that pen in His hands, then when you know, you’ll really know. Just ask Betty about Joe.

Twenty-Six Revolutions

The English, the American, the French, the Russian, the Chinese: these are five revolutions historians and the world have deemed worthy of our attention and memory, and rightfully so. But, today, my mind pauses, not to consider any life-altering political revolution, but rather to ponder the significance of the simple twenty-six revolutions I have had the privilege to personally take around the sun. (That’s a clever way of saying that I’ve officially been around for twenty-six years.) October 29th, 1997 marks the day of my first breath as well as the beginning of my first revolution. The journey has been anything but linear since.

I could take the time today to unpack the events that have taken place throughout my life and the way they formed me. I could illustrate in color the trauma and joys and the whys and hows of who I have become. But perhaps we’ll save those hearty details for the biographer to pen a few more revolutions from now. Instead, I’ll discuss the rise and fall (and rise again) of Birkenstocks, scrunchies, and corduroy, the permanent ousting of the once assumed eternal reign of Starbucks as my primary source of caffeine, and how the little girl in me that once fervently hated the look and feel of tennis shoes is now an adult wearing Nike Legacies for leisure on a Saturday morning. Through these revolutions, my taste has changed, my hobbies have come and shifted in waves, and my closet has taken what feels like a thousand different faces. I have read books that have allowed me to walk the halls of some of the greatest minds of history. I have watched movies that have taught me to romanticize the vibrancy of life, but also those whose obnoxious drama have made me crave the staleness of the mundane. I have then, in turn, grown discontent walking in the staleness of the mundane that I once craved. (Imagine being so fickle.) I have wiped tears from my eyes minutes before having to walk into work and find a brave face to teach literacy to over twenty children that all need more from me than an education. I have breathed the sweet smell of Earl Grey and vanilla on a chilly autumn morning. I have heard the voice of God. I have experienced the warm familiarity of community in a cafe on the other side of the world. I’ve seen a rainbow rest its rays over a mountain range and whisper promises to the missionary of an island nation. I’ve seen the fruit of those whispers. I have been unexplainably ill. I have been miraculously healed. I have proclaimed my joy in song. I have felt sorrow that has stolen my speech. I have hurt and been hurt. I have laughed and cried. I have lived. In these twenty-six revolutions, I have lived.

In all this living and changing and learning and growing, one thing has been constant: Jesus has been faithful. He has never ceased to be the answer in crisis. He has never ceased to be the one upon whom I can lean. He has never ceased to be the most fortified refuge for my heart. I have never been alone. As my mind roamed the worlds walled up by the materials of my imagination, He was there. As my heart longed for and chased after things He didn’t create for me, He was there. As my thoughts filled my heart with fear in seasons of sickness and loneliness, He was there. As I dreamed about the promises He had softly uttered to my heart, He was there. I feel like my testimony mimics that of David’s today. Not particularly in the slaying of giants, or the ruling of a nation, or even in the ushering in of the presence of God, but in the fidelity of that presence to linger through every revolution of his life. My heart echoes the song he penned in Psalm 139:8. If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. After twenty-six revolutions, what I can proclaim to you with the strongest confidence is this: life is multiplied in value and purpose and joy when you allow yourself to be held in the hands of the Creator. But, not held merely for holding’s sake. Rather, held that you might be shaped; held that you might be kept; held in a way that rends you dependent, that teaches you how small you are and how safe He is. Looking back through the seasons each revolution has brought forth in my life, I find myself humbled and grateful at the constant evidence of the moving of His hand, but infinitely more grateful for every time that the moving of His hand revealed to me a little more of His face. He has shown Himself to me in ways I could never be righteous enough to earn. See, within these twenty-six revolutions around the sun, there have been thousands of tiny revolutions within my heart, almost political in nature; places where the government of my flesh was overthrown by the radical love of God, and that is what shaped me. Twenty-six revolutions in, and that is still what shapes me. It is the best I have to offer. So, herein lies the pinnacle of my wisdom after twenty-six trips around the sun: let your heart be captured by the Lord.

Wishes

Allow me to paint a picture in your mind’s eye: You’re five years old, standing barefoot in your backyard. The tire swing hanging from the oldest and strongest oak tree is still in full motion from the momentum you built in launching yourself forward (and sticking the landing) just moments ago. Birds are gently singing, the sun is slowly setting, and you can feel winter’s grip loosening at last in the warmth found in both the evening breeze and the earth beneath your feet. Spring has arrived. There are subtle signs everywhere. One of which stands as tall as it can, brushing against your ankles in the wind: a dandelion. You reach down and snag the weed up from its tiny roots, and immediately raising it to your mouth, you close your eyes and sort frantically through the files of your mind to find the wish that this flower was made to carry. Not daring to utter it aloud, you settle your heart upon your best and biggest hope. On the count of three, you release an intense burst of air from your lungs tasked solely with the assignment of sending those fuzzy white seeds on a journey that takes them as far away from the stem upon which they grew as possible. As they dance and ride on the waves of the wind, so do your little hopes. “Maybe, just maybe, my wish will come true.”

I don’t know where the tradition and tale originated and I don’t even remember who told me about it. I just know that I’ve never known a day where I didn’t understand that the fuzzy white flowers grew up just to carry my wishes away to be granted. Now, take note, I understand that this isn’t real or true. I know those seeds aren’t magic. All the same, however, to this day there is something about the sight of a dandelion that makes me pause and search my heart. What do I really want? Where are my hopes?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve watched my answer to those questions change drastically, and in some ways, admittedly, I find that they probably should not have changed quite as much…

I am an elementary school teacher and my students’ ages range anywhere from five to seven years old. Seeing the world through their eyes is one of the greatest privileges I have ever had. They teach me so much. And truthfully, watching them interact with a playground full of dandelions has been one of the most impactful events that has taken place in my life recently. These kids hope recklessly; without hesitation or fear, and, when one wish is done, they are on to the next. One dandelion is never enough.

Somewhere along the line, I managed to learn to place my wishes into Hands far more steady and strong than the seeds I sent soaring into the wind as a child. But, I fear that, though I’ve set my hopes in a much safer place, I had begun to keep the deepest desires of my heart reserved for the unachievable, day-dreamy, fairytale world of dandelions.

Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. (Psalm 37:4)

I know that the Lord is not my wish granter in the prosperity doctrine, rub a genie lamp, send-your-money-to-the-mega-church-and-get-the-sports-car-you’ve-been-wanting sense of the term. But, there is precedence in this verse to trust Him with my desires. We cannot ignore, however, the stipulation that leads to this gifting of the fulfillment of the desires of our hearts. Most promises in scripture are if-then statements. That’s the nature of covenant after all. It is an agreement between two parties. Each carries a responsibility. (The Lord, in His mercy, always seems to sign Himself up for the heaviest portion there is to carry.) If, Psalms tells us, we delight ourselves in the Lord, then He will give us the desires of our hearts. It is natural and accurate to assume, then, that our desires change when the Lord is our delight. It is also natural, but perhaps less accurate to assume, though, that none of those desires given will be within the realm of the physical world or exist within the bookends of time. Did He not prove Himself to be concerned and involved with what we qualify as mundane and trivial rhythms of humanity when He robed Himself in flesh and walked among us? Be assured, my friend, there is substantial biblical evidence that shows us that what we experience in this life matters to the Creator.

The shift of heart that I’m attempting to model to you today is simple, but let me assure you that my hope is not that you begin to view Jesus as a massive dandelion filled with an unlimited supply of granted wishes. Rather, though, that you view Jesus as someone that you can trust with the real, raw, scary, unutterable hopes that you may only have previously been comfortable expressing in the voiceless wishes made over a powerless weed. Give Him what feels impossible; what seems silly. Grant Him access to hopes so precious that you dare not whisper them, fearful that they may not come true. Don’t stop at just one. It isn’t selfish, but rather selfless, to give Him all of you, one intimate and scary wish at a time. For what is a wish if it isn’t a desire, and what is a desire if it isn’t a revealed motive, and what is a motive if it isn’t the building block of how we live and, ultimately, construct who we are? Wishes then, are, in perhaps over-simplified essence, the little things our lives are made of. Why would we keep them from our truest and most trustworthy Friend?

I challenge you today to cast your hopes and cares on Him as recklessly as my students mow down a field of dandelions. When you delight in Him, you posture you desires toward Him, and there is no safer place for them to rest than in His hands.

In Earth

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, in earth as it is in Heaven…

The Lord’s Prayer; the seamless string of words we memorize as a child when we’re learning the habit of prayer, the topic of many a midweek Bible study, and the lyrics to an innumerable amount of worship songs throughout the centuries. This prayer is full with the sweet familiar words of Jesus as He shows His disciples what a conversation with Him should sound like. And like other sweet, familiar phrases we hear, often we don’t pause to really listen to the words we’re hearing, speaking or singing. In this Christmas season, however, the excerpt above stirs and settles deep within my heart, particularly this phrase: in earth.

I hope that it isn’t hidden to you that the reason Jesus came was to reconcile the world to Himself; to afford you the opportunity of communion with His presence for eternity, and to afford Himself your affection. The birth of Jesus was not the end of the story. He came, burdened with the task to keep a certain and heavy appointment with death; the wages of sins that He, of course, did not commit. Even still, the birth of Jesus is inexplicably significant. The kingdom of God came and dwelled in earth.

It is notable enough that God Himself walked the earth upon which we now dwell, but that thought alone is not what causes my heart to swell with adoration. Heaven on earth is beautiful. Heaven in earth, however, is a treasure of worth beyond articulation. If you’ll visit the book of Genesis with me quickly, you’ll find in the latter portion of the first chapter, that God Himself stooped down to the dust of the earth to form man. Crafted then, both in the image of God and with the substance of the earth, God breathed life into Adam and he became a living soul. Man, you see then, has always been life clothed in earth. And the night that Mary held her newborn baby in her arms, the same God that crafted man of the earth, had robed Himself in that very same humble garment he wrapped around Adam. This was unlike any other miracle the Lord had performed before. This was the answer to His very own prayer. This was Heaven in earth.

The beauty and significance of this gesture doesn’t end in Bethlehem. Jesus walked in truth and love like only Heaven in earth could do. He healed and He forgave and He preached and He divided the pure of heart from the proud. He walked blameless, yet found Himself accused and convicted, and He willingly took the consequence of your sins. He purchased your freedom with His own blood. But, He still wasn’t finished. The heart of God still desired to see Heaven in earth. So, with anticipation of His ascension, He uttered the sweetest promise:

I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you.

But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name shall teach you all things… (John 14:18, 26a)

Jesus promised to return to us in the form of the Holy Ghost; to be our comfort and our guidance. And He has kept His promise. On the Day of Pentecost, the Holy Ghost was poured out for the very first time on a collection of one hundred twenty people gathered in an upper room, and just like that, the Church was born and Heaven was in earth again. This promise, was not just for those in attendance that day, but Acts 2:39 lets us know that it is for everyone; as many as the Lord may call to Him. The greatest gift we can receive this season is the gift of the Holy Ghost. The greatest gift we can give this season is receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost. We bless Jesus’ heart by allowing Heaven to dwell in the earthen vessel He has granted us stewardship over. (2 Cor. 4:7) We bless those around us when it is He, and not ourselves, alive in our hearts.

Friends, I challenge you today to invite His kingdom to come and His will to be done in earth as it is in Heaven.

Imagine the beautiful things that can bloom in your life when Heaven is planted in earth.

Surrender

“Worship, in its purest form, is a complete surrender of self.”

In the summer of 2017 I was entering my sophomore year of college and my naivety was embarrassingly high for the stage of life I was walking in. It was at this time (to my humbling amazement now) that the youth pastor of my home church asked me to teach a lesson on a Wednesday night. It would be the first installment of a series that would introduce a rambunctious and hilariously animated group of young people to the idea of apostolic worship. My brother reminded me of the lesson recently, so I went back and listened to it. I laughed and cringed and cried a little as I revisited the colorfully decorated corridors of my 19 year old mind. But, in all of her fiery confidence and quite equal dose of ignorance, she got a few things right. She reminded me of some things I had forgotten. I thought I’d share them with you today, in case you’ve forgotten them too.

In this age, where worship experiences are weekly occurrences and diverse expressions of worship are more widely practiced in Christianity at large, it is becoming increasingly difficult to find the pure concentrate of worship among all of the dilution that surrounds it. 19-year- old Amy knew what it was made of, though. She knew that the heart of worship took on a posture of surrender. She found it clearly displayed in scripture as David chose sacrifice even when his position didn’t demand it. Without regard for his own throne, the king of Israel insisted on his worship costing him something.

Read through 2 Samuel 24. David comes to a place where he measures the strength of the nation he leads by the sum of their humanity rather than by the faithfulness of their God. His heart is instantly pricked once the measurement is complete. Alongside the conviction, consequences follow the sin. An altar must be built. Sacrifices must be made. Worship is in order.

There are so many beautiful and insightful applications to be pulled from the story found in 2 Samuel 24. But, the simplest take away is this: Our friend David refused to offer a sacrifice that didn’t cost him anything. We learned from Abraham and Isaac that sacrifice and worship are synonymous. Thus, one may conclude that worship comes at a price and it takes more than a lifted hand to accomplish it. Performing the action of sacrifice means very little if no other part of your being is invested in the expression. It requires the engagement of the heart; the bowing of the will. A lifted hand absent of a lifted heart holds an empty offering. Motive matters.

Somewhere in the laundry lists of to-dos and lets-shoot-fors of ministry, I lost sight of the simple, one-bullet-point list of why we do any of it. To run the risk of pulling out an old Christian cliche, I found myself cumbered about with much serving without taking time at His feet. Call me Martha.

I’m reminded of the wise words spoken over my friends’ lives and mine one night from the heart of a missionary: “the only thing you have to lose is yourself.” As long as we are constantly bowing our hearts in surrender to Him, our lives will be worship, no matter how much or how little of the to-do list gets checked off. Ministry and worship are not a collection of projects. Serving Jesus is simply getting so close to Him that you start to act like Him.

So what has your worship cost you today? What is the currency of it? Finances, time, talent, career, education, relationships, life; it can all take the form of worship when we place it on an altar of surrender. Living our lives in a vertical motion is the sweetest oil we can offer the King; doing all as unto Him.

Glory

“Show me Your glory.”

Humanity has been petitioning this request for nearly as long as breath has been fueling our lungs. The phrase is laced through the lyrics of our songs of worship and whispered in the utterance of our sincerest prayers but I fear greatly that we speak, ignorant of the substance of the plea that leaves our lips. C.S. Lewis got it right. Glory carries weight. Partaking of it is costly.

Chapters 24-34 of Exodus are brimming with revelation and eternal insights. But, if you’ll sift through them with me, we’ll focus in on a moment in time where God communed and spoke with a man as one may speak with his friend. Moses had been previously called up to the peak of Mount Sinai to receive the law and the instructions for the creation and keeping of the Tabernacle. When the length of his absence exceeded the patience of the people, Israel rebelled and commissioned Moses’ brother, Aaron, to facilitate the construction and worship of a false god; a calf made of gold. As Moses descends from the mount, though forewarned by the Lord of the people’s corruption, he still arrives at a place of anguish in his heart at his findings. His experience could be compared, not in intensity, but in nature, to the feeling one may have after spending hours researching recipes and making sacrifices in order to properly prepare a five-star meal for a loved one. The meal courses are prepped, the table-scape is set, and the menus are beautifully designed. You then exit the kitchen only to find that loved one sitting on the couch, a mountain of fast-food wrappers at their side.

Far better things are prepared for you, friend. You need only wait.

It isn’t documented verbally, but Moses’ heart was exclaiming these words to the children of Israel as he, out of anger, threw the tablets of stone containing the law to the ground, leaving them in shattered pieces at the feet of the rebellious. You may already know this story, but if not, I’m about to drop a spoiler: God eventually picks up the pieces. Once He engages in a covenant, He is in the business of preserving it.

The tables of stone were not the only thing that Moses destroyed that day. He took his hand to the golden idol of Israel, ground it into powder, put it in water, and made the people drink it. You think Alka-Seltzer is nasty. The fruit of rebellion is far more unpalatable. Divided by their allegiances either to the Lord or the remnants of their golden god, the men of the camp engaged in war. Scripture records that by the end of the day, about three thousand Israelites were slain at the sword of a brother. Buckle up. It gets heavier.

God speaks to Moses and instructs him to guide the Israelites into the Promised Land. At first glance, that doesn’t feel so heavy, but the conditions with which God breathed those words communicated the seriousness of the issue.

“…for I will not go up in the midst of thee; for thou art a stiffnecked people; lest I consume thee in the way.” (Exodus 33:3)

Before any shittim wood was cut to craft an altar, before anything was overlaid with gold, and before any curtains of fine linen were woven, Moses responds to this instruction of God by leaving the camp and setting up a place that he called the Tabernacle of the Congregation. He removed it far from the midst of the camp, and he entered into it to commune with the Lord. When he would enter the tabernacle, the pillar of cloud would descend and stand at the entrance of the tent. The people would worship from afar, as they stayed within the camp, but Moses communed with the Cloud.

Moses made petition of the Lord that He would send His presence with them. He appealed to His faithfulness rather than His wrath, and He reminded the Lord that Israel was His covenant people; His nation. The Lord agreed to go with them and Moses responded with a statement that I pray is always the sincere cry of my heart.

And he said unto Him, if Thy presence go not with me, carry us not up hence. (Exodus 33:15)

If anyone had seen the glory of God, surely it is the man that spoke with Him face to face; the man for whom the pillar of cloud descended to commune; the man that persuaded the Lord out of His wrath toward a stiffnecked nation. But it is on Moses’ lips that we find this request being uttered next:

And he said, I beseech thee, shew me thy glory. (Exodus 33:18)

Moses knew there was more. There had to be more; more than a cloud, more than a conversation, more than intricately detailed blueprints of a tabernacle, more than an exodus hinged on the miraculous, more than burning bushes and fingertips that write laws on tables of stone. There had to be something in the mind and heart of God that would cause Him to write a narrative like the one Moses was in the middle of fleshing out. He knew he had not experienced the climax of the story.

And the LORD said, Behold, there is a place by me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock: and it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in the clift of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by: and I will take away mine hand, and thou shalt see my back parts: but my face shall not be seen. (Exodus 33:19-23)

Moses didn’t get to see it; God’s best feature. He was in the presence of it, it passed before him, but his eyes were covered by the hand of God. The glory that was to be revealed was the fruition of a plan formulated from the foundation of the world: a lamb would be slain unlike any that Moses would ever witness being laid upon a brazen altar. The words that Moses was charged to pen (the five books that make up the Pentateuch) are riddled with prophecies alluding to this glory that remained unseen by his eyes. He knew there was more. There had to be more.

God’s glory was revealed in its purest form when He stepped as low as He could. He descended, robing Himself in the dust He created. He was born in a manger to a humble estate. He walked the earth, being rejected by his own brethren. He proclaimed the name of the Lord. He taught boldly in the streets and in the synagogues and beside wells and in the concealment of the night. He spoke of something to come. He pointed to something glorious. But, glory didn’t look anything like what Israel had expected. Isn’t that typical of humanity? What we see and what Jesus sees are so often divided.
We see Him washing feet. He sees glory. We see a raging storm. He sees glory. Judas’ kiss. Glory. A crown of thorns for the King of the Jews. Glory. A cross on a hill. Glory. Blood stained nails. Glory. “Forgive them for they know not what they do.” Glory.

Often what we search for when we appeal to experience the glory of God is some grand display of power. Consider, however, how much more valuable it is to have power and choose to extend mercy instead. The glory of God writes the story of redemption with the ink of His own blood. You and I both know that the story doesn’t stop there, though. Resurrection is certain and glorious.

I am privileged to have experienced the resurrection. I walk in the power of His Spirit. But, I would walk amiss if I, for even one day, forsook the glory that comes with dying out to my flesh. That redeeming privilege was purchased for me by a God that saw glory as something far more robust than power alone. He is a God to be known in the power of resurrection, and He is a God to be known in the fellowship of sufferings. To truly know His glory is to know Him in both capacities.

So, C.S. Lewis had it right. Glory carries weight, friends. Partaking of it is costly. If you are granted your petition, you will receive far more than the goosebumps that appear when the cloud descends, but there will be a cross to bear. May we find the courage to carry it.

Home

Consider with me, the feeling you get when you snuggle up to reread your most dog-eared book. Take a moment and trace the worn stitching of your most faithful movie-night blanket. Think about these two things: Saturday mornings and cinnamon rolls. Breath in deep with me, and then exhale the same sigh that comes with dropping your suitcase by the door after a long road trip. Close your eyes and listen close for the sound of your dog snoring by the fireplace or your dad whistling in the garage. Home really is made up of a million tiny things, isn’t it?

Having recently moved out on my own for the first time, I have been contemplating the concept of home with a new intensity. I now have the opportunity to create a home and in turn, determine what it creates. I’ve been reading books and scouring scripture and watching videos of how to make bread. I’ve probably (most definitely) made poor financial decisions after walking through the home decor aisles of Target and Hobby Lobby, attempting to make my space as cozy and welcoming as possible. I’ve hosted events with friends and have tried my hand at deciding what my signature dish will be at potlucks. I’ve both killed and revived a handful of houseplants, and there is a tab on my Safari right now that leads to the adoption application for a Dachshund puppy. (Someone please stop me on that one…) I have created a whirlwind of attempts to make my small town apartment feel like a charming home, and in all the chaos of that whirlwind, I have encountered a purpose that thrills and challenges me to my core.

I believe in divinely appointed purpose. I believe in personal callings. I carry one. I keep it tucked deeply in my heart and do my best to stay postured to hold fast to it. I pray my life and choices reflect it. With greater depth, however, I believe in biblical callings; the callings that are extended to us all by the avenue of scripture. Matthew 28:19 is a classic example of this type of calling. We are all called to share the Gospel with the world; inviting them to experience each portion of it for themselves; death by repentance, burial by water baptism in Jesus’ name, and resurrection by the infilling of the Holy Ghost as is detailed for us in Acts 2:38. We are all given the ministry of reconciliation as we find noted in 2 Corinthians 5:18. But, arguably, the most important calling one can answer is as follows:

Deuteronomy 6: 4-7 says:

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: and thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul. and with all thy might. And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart: and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.

We are called to love God with everything in us, and to teach that to those whose lives are touched by the environment of our homes. But, friends, one is not taught love by words alone; not merely by stories or parables from a book, in spite of the truth that precious Book contains. One is taught love by experiencing it. So, with our homes, we are gifted a vessel through which His love may be poured; a fabric through which it may be felt. The challenge is set when we realize that we are tasked with the responsibility of shaping that vessel and weaving that fabric ourselves. The way in which we choose to steward the resource and influence of our homes has a dynamic impact on the disposition and direction of the next generation. No home is exempt from this truth. No generation has ever been the product of anything less.

Merriam-Webster defines the term home in multiple ways. The most encompassing of which, I believe, to simply be one’s place of origin. In order, then, to properly view our homes from a biblical lens, one cannot ignore what scripture has to say about what our true place of origin is. In the New Testament epistle of 1 Peter, the apostle is writing to the persecuted church and he addresses them with the following phrase: Dearly beloved, I beseech you as pilgrims and strangers… Peter was appealing to a concept that the church was certain to find both familiar and reassuring. I believe the hymn writer alluded to it well when he penned the words this world is not my home. And so, our true home is not found in the series of numbers displayed on our mailboxes or the collection of cozy throw blankets nestled in the basket beside the sofa, but rather in how much Heaven we can encounter and reflect here on earth.

I find rest in this, friends, and I pray you do too. That chaotic whirlwind of attempts to make my apartment a welcoming home is good and fun and right. I should keep doing my laundry. It’s important that I wash the dishes and sweep the floors. But, my greatest responsibility and joy is to get to represent the love that is poured out on me daily. This is a task that we all may endeavor to pursue, whether we are single young ladies in southern small-town apartments, teenagers still living under the same roof as our entire immediate family, or the parents of four in a house that took five years and eighteen floor plans to finally get built. We all have a role to play. We all have a sphere of influence. I pray we all find the heart to speak with sincerity the prayer in earth as it is in Heaven. May our homes reflect our Home, in this season and always.

Gratitude

November is here. The air is crisp, my kitchen smells like cinnamon and chai spice, and ‘Tis Autumn begins to play softly in the background of my mind with every glimpse of color in the trees. Driving through town, I see a contrast of seasonal decor displayed proudly under porch lights: pumpkins and scarecrows wave neighborly to the twinkling pine trees and the gingerbread families across the street. Little ones play in the yard while bundled tightly in their coats. Inside, the kettle is prepared for hot cocoa and apple cider. Though the air outside is cold, the world actually feels a little warmer.

Little things seem to matter more to us when November settles in. Family is sweeter. Food tastes better. Jokes are funnier. We find in our hearts this lovely disposition called gratitude. We try our hardest to stop taking things for granted. Things like the kindness of a stranger in line at the grocery store that had mercy on our “I-don’t-think-I’ll-need-a-basket” juggling act. Things like a kind smile or a text from a friend. Things like a hug from Mom or a song to sing. Things like a breath; a chance, a life. These are gifts that cannot be earned. They are not wages for which we can labor or bargain. They are the kindness of the heart of Heaven on display. May they serve as daily reminders that every good and perfect gift is from above.

These good and perfect gifts are so easy to identify when they carry the same sweetness as the moments previously described. But, not every good gift leaves a good taste in our mouths. Unfortunately, friends, some cakes are sugar-free and so are some circumstances. Life is not always sweet. We are bound to taste the bitterness of misfortune from time to time.

The cliches of our culture speak to this phenomenon. For generations, we’ve seen the parallel drawn between life and the highs and lows of mountaintops and valleys. Your favorite worship song probably has those two words tucked somewhere within the lines of its lyrics. This comparison is present and occasionally redundant because it is among the most relatable concepts ever penned or spoken of to date. We all love the mountain’s crested peak. We all dread the valley deep and low. We’re all human in that way.

Whether you like to figuratively view your hardship as a valley or a sugarless dessert is entirely up to you. The bottom line is, none of us crave difficulty. We may enjoy a challenge, but misery isn’t on the vision board of our lives. Our lofty goals rarely include the struggles that it takes to accomplish them. So what happens when we bite into the cake and discover that it’s sugar-free? What do we do in the valley where the crest of the next mountaintop is nowhere to be seen?

I have personally been facing a season unlike any other that I have experienced in my life. My heart, my faith, and my worldview have been challenged in ways that I never anticipated. I have felt alone. I have spent moments rattled by fear. I have had more questions than answers. I have searched every crumb of this cake in pursuit of an ounce of sweetness and have been met by a thousand unpalatable flavors. But, my search has not been in vain. Deep within the stirring of my circumstances and my heart, I have found the most radical of feelings: gratitude.

This gratitude is sourced, not by the sweetness of situation, but by the sweetness of the notion that the God of Heaven is present in it, and that He loves us enough to submit Himself to the obedience of suffering. Jesus chose to be a Creator that walked among His creation. He dawned a robe of flesh, experiencing grief firsthand. He willingly partook of the cup that laid the heavy burden of our sin on His shoulder. He wrestled selflessly with the weight of our shame. He faced consequences He did not merit. And He wrote His own narrative in such a manner that prevents us from ever truly being alone. He has felt what we feel, and He has made a way through it. For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

I am grateful to serve a God that would afford me the privilege of not only knowing Him in the power of His resurrection, but also in the precious fellowship of His sufferings. Peter’s words echo loudly through the corridors of my heart: Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings; that, when His glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy. Suffering shapes us into vessels equipped to carry glory.

To be crafted in the image of God and to bear His glory to the world is a far greater privilege than it is an inconvenience. If discomfort is the cost of an intimate covenant with Christ, it is a price I am grateful to have the opportunity to pay. When I shift my perspective from the temporary nature of this life and look through the lens of eternity, the desires of my heart become simplified. I just want to know Jesus, to be known of Him, and to make Him known. No matter the avenue we take to arrive there, it is sweet to know Him, friends. And remember that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.

November is here. The table is set. The turkey is roasted. Our loved ones have gathered close. And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, may we find the courage to show gratitude for both the sweetest of joys and bitterest of hardships alike. May we learn to recognize and treasure every experience that draws us closer to Christ. May gratitude ever be the song of our hearts.