I remember when I thought 30 was forever away. Now it seems as though it was last week in this life that keeps propelling forward at a rate somewhere between feverishly fast and awkwardly slow. My friend Sarah McCarten (who I met through Elora Nicole’s Story101 eCourse) is celebrating her 30th birthday today. Well actually, she started celebrating six hours before it pinged my calendar, because she lives in England. She is from Bradford, lives in Richmond in South West London, but often “potters about” in Watford. I want to potter about. It sounds divine.

To celebrate her birthday, Sarah has invited folks to share their “30 Things…” lists. I opted to share 30 random things this gal has learned (or is still learning) in her 5+ decades on this earth. Enjoy the list, and wish her a jolly good birthday! And while you’re at it, what advice would you add to the list?

Thirty Things You Could Learn from a Woman Over 50.  

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 Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these. ~Susan B Anthony

I’ve been peeking over my shoulder a bit, pondering milestones  - those defining moments that embossed eternity into my heart and set my course more clearly toward true North. If life is a moving picture book, it would seem the pages would flip to images of the celebrations – the weddings and births and baptisms and such. Life has (and continues to be) certainly changed with each. But the pictures on the dog-eared pages look so different than expected. There are no parties or candles or cheers. Instead, those twelve stones are stacked quietly by hands calloused from hard days – days when celebrating didn’t seem an option at all. Perhaps divine markers are more easily set into place in a heart that isn’t expecting them.

It’s been more than four years since the stones were stacked in a most profound way. Those looking in at my life would have pointed to a job layoff as the milestone. After two decades of trappings and titles, the sudden change certainly revealed an identity far too enmeshed in career, and then shifted the earth below me to prepare me for a new identity. And there was a marker on the datebook. But it was something far different – something far more unexpected – that became the true definer and refiner in my life.

As of late, I have been blessed to experience the heart-breaking joy of serving a friend who is dying.  It is a most humbling honor.  Taking out trash, filling the dishwasher, running the vacuum cleaner – all have a special meaning now.  I have a newfound appreciation of Smoothie King and Sonic ice.  I understand the scripture “the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak” in a whole new way.  And I think a Coke float may be the most beautiful meal in the world.

 

I am in awe of people who simply love Jesus.  I can do passion, I can do enthusiasm.  But simple is tough.

~Late Night in my Head, 19 Feb 2009

You see, David simply loved Jesus. He didn’t put on any false airs, didn’t attempt to wow others with his religious prowess. He was kind and grace-filled – and dying of pancreatic cancer. I hadn’t known him long. In fact, prior to the fall of 2008, he was more of a business acquaintance. But something happened – some supernatural something that to this day has no explanation greater than “God spoke” – and my husband and I packed our bags and drove 14 hours to Nashville to serve David and his family as his beautiful life quietly faded to silence.

I had tended to family members before – even walked the hard road of cancer’s death sentence with my mom, holding her hand as the sleep took over and her cheeks flushed and the breathing grew more shallow. But it was in the quiet caring for David that my perspective irrevocably changed. It was in the days of washing dishes and drying towels, in the drives to pick up Grape Expectations smoothies or a cupcake from Gigi’s for a wife dealing with the questions and the pain, in the details of a memorial service complete with bottles of Coke and boxes of animal crackers, that I felt the stones stack high. The milestone would read “what counts.”

Tending to others became the the focus over tending to things. Building realities took priority over building resumes. Stooping low rather than climbing ladders became the desire. And diving into the story of someone else’s life without reservation became beautiful.

Caring for a dying friend breathed life into me. God, in His infinite wisdom, knew that I would be most pliable if my hands were too busy to help Him stack the stones, if my heart wasn’t bracing for the work He wanted to do. He knew His story would have more space to be written if I wasn’t trying to grab the pen to help.

I believe God wants to do that in our lives over and over again. He wants to define and refine us in the moments that may be overlooked as milestones. It’s not in the birth of a child but in the changing of the diapers, or not the buying a new home but stumbling upon the person who feels they have no place to call their own that changes us. It’s not in the time but in the tending that He works His wonder. It’s not in the datebook but in the diary where He stacks the stones.

So, would you share? What are the overlooked milestones in your life?  

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the word “abide.” It’s used in scripture but not so much in everyday conversation – “If you abide in Me and My words abide in you…” For years, I thought that verse was more a warning than an encouragement, more about “better make sure you are living right because it will show if you’re not” than anything else. But a conversation with friends about God’s strength rearranged that thought. It was that word – abide. To live. To dwell. To literally make yourself at home.

“If you make yourself at home in Me, and My words make themselves at home in you…”

That’s a hard one to wrap my head around –  Jesus making Himself comfortable in my every day. I look around at my house – the real brick and mortar one – and wonder what it would be like for Jesus to plop down in the living room chair and rest His feet on the ottoman. If He came to stay, He’d most certainly feel at home there, with the sunlight streaming in, beautiful orchids blooming on the table, and a kitchen with freshly baked cookies a few feet away. I’d let Him sleep in the master bedroom, rather than tucking Him away upstairs in a guest room. I’d want Him to have the nicest accommodations, the most comfortable place, the quietest room, the best view.

But His idea of comfort and mine are so different.

He wants me to invite Him into the spaces of my life that are messy – the junk drawer in the kitchen that attracts random objects like magnets, and the closet where I keep clothes like old photos, wishing my life back into that dress or those shoes when the racks are full of “this life” garments.

He wants me to invite Him into spaces that are hard – to the pantry shelf stocked with outdated organic soup that whispers “another great plan – failed,” and to the boxes stacked on boxes of the same item purchased because I simply keep forgetting I already possess it.

He wants me to invite Him into the spaces that are all mine – to crawl in the attic dust around the boxes of awards and honors and cherished memories, and bump into the things I promised to give away but keep clinging to all the same.

Those are exactly the places he wants to abide. Those are exactly the places He wants to make Himself at home. He wants to rummage through the junk drawer to find treasures I’d ignore, and He wants to point out the wardrobe He likes in that closet. He wants to sit with me and clean out the pantry, reminiscing about the good intentions and reminding me of every good gift I have in Him. He wants to make Himself comfortable in the hot, crowded, musty attic – and talk about what makes memories worth keeping, while giving me strength to let go and give, knowing I’ll gain so much more in the loss.

He makes Himself most comfortable in the room without the window, and in the space nearest the noise. He settles in best in the places where we feel defeated or foolish, the places we cling to and the places we ignore. Because He finds His joy in being strong in our weak places – in the areas of our lives that we don’t feel are worthy of the invitation.

Today, I’ll not be afraid to invite. Today, I’ll let Him abide.

Want to join me?

…then He told me, My grace is enough; it’s all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness. Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. ~2 Corinthians 12:9

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“Rise up my love, my fair one, and come away.” ~Song of Solomon 2:10

Lo, I hear the voice of my Beloved! He speaks to me! Fair weather is smiling upon the face of the earth, and he would not have me spiritually asleep while nature is all around me awaking from her winter’s rest.

He bids me “Rise up,” and well he may; for I have long enough been lying among the pots of worldliness. He is risen, I am risen in him, why then should I cleave unto the dust? From lower loves, desires, pursuits, and aspirations, I would rise towards him. He calls me by the sweet title of “My love,” and counts me fair; this is a good argument for my rising. If he has thus exalted me, and thinks me thus comely, how can I linger in the tents of Kedar and find congenial associates among the sons of men?

He bids me “Come away.” Further and further from everything selfish, grovelling, worldly, sinful, he calls me; yea, from the outwardly religious world which knows him not, and has no sympathy with the mystery of the higher life, he calls me. “Come away” has no harsh sound in it to my ear, for what is there to hold me in this wilderness of vanity and sin?

O my Lord, would that I could come away, but I am taken among the thorns, and cannot escape from them as I would. I would, if it were possible, have neither eyes, nor ears, nor heart for sin. Thou callest me to thyself by saying “Come away,” and this is a melodious call indeed. To come to thee is to come home from exile, to come to land out of the raging storm, to come to rest after long labour, to come to the goal of my desires and the summit of my wishes. But Lord, how can a stone rise, how can a lump of clay come away from the horrible pit?

O raise me, draw me. Thy grace can do it. Send forth thy Holy Spirit to kindle sacred flames of love in my heart, and I will continue to rise until I leave life and time behind me, and indeed come away.

~Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening

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And then sirens in the distance take me to Wednesday. And Monday. And 18 months ago. And 8 years ago. And 12 years ago. And 18 years ago. And sitting in front of a room of televisions, all tuned to a single event.

“Your family is there. Your friends are there. Do you need to go?”

I sat, staring – trying to make sense of the senseless. My hometown was twisted and torn, her belly ripped open and bleeding. A cousin worked in the wreckage. Another cousin worked across the street. Childhood companions lived life there.

The hush returns. I hear the birds.

Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn and carefully starts to sing while it is still dark. – Anonymous

On that day, in the rubble and the ruin, birds sang.

As Oklahoma City mourned, hope became hands, and a girl far away from her hometown found healing in collecting money for those walking the hard road with the grieving.

Hope has taken on different faces, and it shifts its shape to become what can be done in the moment. Hope quietly awaits for the hush in the bombing or the tempest or the attack or the flames or the tears. It remains the thing that will not die.

Hope is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops—at all—

~Emily Dickinson

On Wednesday, I rushed from meeting to meeting to meeting in a world that is far too often caught up in itself and far too seldom allowing the hush to enter. The day became night in this tyranny of the urgent place. Exhausted, I longed for nothing more than to try to find peace in sleep. Until a news story of an explosion in a small Texas town snaked its way into every social media feed and news outlet.

And then things hushed. And I could hear the birds.

Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth: my flesh also shall rest in hope. – Psalm 16:9

And hope became prayer. And blood. And hands. And now a girl once again finds healing in collecting money for those walking the hard road with the grieving.

I was asked this week, “What is it that drives you? What is the one thing you could talk about for hours without growing weary?”

The answer is hope. In my personal journey, it’s hope. In the journey for the discarded, it’s hope. In caring for those in crisis, it’s hope. Even in posting a recipe – it’s hope. In the best and darkest of moments, I can’t NOT celebrate hope.

There’s the hush again. The birds still sing.

“Hope is not about proving anything. It’s about choosing to believe this one thing, that love is bigger than any grim, bleak shit anyone can throw at us.” ~Anne Lamott

What is it that drives you?

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This week, a man went on trial for murder. Eight of them. Seven infants. One woman.

This week, there was an uproar that more was not made of the moment. And there was an uproar that much has already been made to a world gone deaf.

But this isn’t about the uproar.

This is about the prayer.

“God be just. God have mercy.”

For the pregnant girls and women who made the choice to walk in the clinic. For the staff who carried out the procedures.

“God be just. God have mercy.”

For the jury administering justice. For those haunted by the choices – and for those untouched by it all.

“God be just. God have mercy.”

A prayer that seems to war with itself – justice and mercy in a divine clash that somehow doesn’t cancel itself out but rather yields forgiveness that reaches to the end of ourselves and pulls us back to center.

God’s mercy to us is the motivation for showing mercy to others. Remember, you will never be asked to forgive someone else more than God has forgiven you. ~Rick Warren

And this is about the whisper.

“Fearfully and wonderfully made…”

Every single one.The precious infants. Their moms. Those working in the clinic. Those cradling their abdomens and those cradling syringes and scissors, as they all secretly question and wonder and wish someone else would just speak up.

“Fearfully and wonderfully made…”

And Dr. Gosnell. Yes, even the man now facing the death penalty – fearfully and wonderfully crafted together by an almighty God.

“Fearfully and wonderfully made…”

A claim easily made for the innocent. But for the guilty? Again, the war of words. Surely the whisper is reserved for the kind and compassionate. Surely it has no place with the murderer, or the abuser, or the liar, or the cheat – or the gossip, or the glutton, or the judgmental, or the proud. Surely it has no place with those who aren’t good. Perhaps it has a place with you. But I know my heart, my head, my hands. And I would have to take my place next to Gosnell. Yet – there is the whisper. It holds the promise of redemption. For every single one.

God just doesn’t throw a life preserver to a drowning person. He goes to the bottom of the sea, and pulls a corpse from the bottom of the sea, takes him up on the bank, breathes into him the breath of life and makes him alive. ~R.C. Sproul

Justice and mercy for those who are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Yes. Amen. Please.

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“Something in you has changed. It’s in your countenance. You seem – vulnerable.”

What an unlikely word for a girl like me – a girl who wears strength like a necklace. While I say I’m an open book, I determine how the pages may be read, editing each chapter with precision so I am protected.

From others.

From myself.

Vulnerable is weak. It is needy. It is exposed, open to attack and pain. Why would anyone look me in the eye and call me vulnerable?

Because it’s true.

Something has changed. I can’t place the moment when the links of the necklace chain stretched.  Maybe it was in Jamaica as I stood dry-mouthed and trembling in front of a room of women who came to hear “the sister come to preach the word of the Lord.” Or maybe it was in Russia as I walked away from the pleading eyes of Dacia as she followed me, her stocking feet standing in snow, a teenage orphan twice rejected and returned to live in the large box of a building in an unfamiliar place.  Or maybe the breaking came in the destitute poverty of Guatemala as Emilia reached out with her gnarled and withered hands and prayed peace over a woman she couldn’t see but could sense was more needy than she was.

Or it may have simply been waiting for me in the pre-dawn stillness as sleep drifted away and the mourning doves called out for hope. The chain broke on the well-edited life. I realized there were still far more questions than answers and far more weakness than strength. The desire to write the script was replaced by a greater desire to see the poetry emerge in the brightest and darkest of moments. My heart became naked. And vulnerability was written into the vocabulary.

Things are translucent now– the pages of my story becoming vellum. Light shines through the words, and edits fade to reveal questions in the margins, smudges in the lines, new colors emerging in the painting of the words.

Once-hidden text finds its way into the chapters. Stories spoken long to become stories written. Stories about shattered things, broken things, painful things. Stories about love as the only true answer and grace as the only real gift. Stories about a vulnerability that isn’t weak, but simply open. Every story a reminder that I am indeed weak, indeed exposed, indeed needy. And indeed redeemed, rescued, restored, repaired through the kindness of the Lord God Alminghty and those He has entrusted to walk along the path of my life. That vulnerability is divine and messy and hard and beautiful.

Selah. 

Perhaps it’s the beginning of the answer to the prayer. The prayer to become willing. Willing to go. Willing to abandon.  Could vulnerability be found with the sword, the resolve?

It begins its journey with purposeful determination. It is bold, holding its sword high as it presses on with resolve. It ends its journey in cheerful submission. It is gentle, humbly bowing in grateful repose. ~Willing. A Word for 2013

Here’s to the poetry. Here’s to the stories. Here’s to the resolve that moves to grateful repose. Here’s to being vulnerable – to being open.

And yes, I’m now feeling more vulnerable than ever.

Are you like me at all? Is yours a well-edited story that needs to be yielded, to become poetry rather than a script?

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Rooster crows.

Doves cry.

Hammers ring.

People jeer.

Voice cries out.

Thunder echoes.

Stone scrapes.

{deafening silence}

Stone scrapes.

Doves cry.

One weeps.

One speaks.

People cheer.

It’s Saturday. The day bracketed between death and resurrection, between gravity and eternity. The Sabbath – a day linking the stories of old and new covenant. A hushed day in scripture. I wonder what a day of deafening silence must have sounded like. Yesterday, there were nails and jeering crowds and a sky turned stormy and a temple veil ripping from sky to earth. Yesterday, there were oils and herbs and a shroud and a tomb. Tomorrow there will be an angel and a stone rolled away and a shroud folded neatly as if to say, “thank you for your hospitality.” But tomorrow hasn’t come yet. The promises have been made – that the grave is merely borrowed, that the yesterday followed by the tomorrow mean mercy and grace breathe for all who need breath, that there will be life greater than life.

But promises are hard to hear when standing in the brackets.

What did that Sabbath sound like? Did it sound like any other day? Or was there a silence that was not just heard but felt in the bones of all who breathed. When doves sang their haunting song on that Saturday to awaken the dawn, did it quicken hearts? When His name was whispered, were prayers whispered in response? In the deafening silence, could hope be heard?

Today, in this day that still lives between the brackets of gravity and eternity, I pray for hearts to always be quickened, to hear whispered reminders of life greater than life and hope beyond hope. I pray for Sabbath to be felt in every breath. I pray for promise.

Come Lord Jesus. Selah.

What do you pray for in the days that live between the brackets?

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If I had one last meal, I wouldn’t spend it with the person I knew would betray me – Love does. ~ Bob Goff

They’ve been with Him through thick and thin, have travelled with Him for years. They’ve seen miracle after miracle, have witnessed His awesome transfiguration, have seen Him calm seas and feed thousands and speak not merely to God but with God. They’ve given everything up for Him – jobs, families, inheritances, pedigrees, position. And they know scripture – and are witnessing first-hand the fulfillment of prophecy after prophecy.

And yet, when He says one of them will betray Him, they ALL ask “Could it be me?”

I follow Jesus, share Jesus, have defended Him, have witnessed miracles – I am amazed, I am humbled, I am honored. Christ is life in my veins. Yet, I know I’m perfectly capable of denying Him. I’ve proven my ability to ignore Him, to allow my passion to ebb and flow. I’ve shredded my faith, and have diluted His power in my life. I’ve worked diligently to create a non-offensive Gospel. I’ve questioned, doubted, and railed against His love. And I’ve thought about walking away.

Thirty pieces of silver. Enough to buy a nice home with a barn and some livestock on a good piece of land. Enough to make this life pretty comfortable – no more traveling, no more wondering where the next meal might come from, no more wild stormy nights sleeping on boats, pushing through crowds, dealing with the harsh remarks of people in authority. Enough to settle down, maybe get married, have kids. For Judas, that was enough.

What would my 30 pieces be?

And what about you?

When Jesus drank from the same cup as Judas at the Last Supper, he proved two things: His determination never to be separated from God, and his determination never to be separated from us, no matter how wicked we are or wayward we go. ~Leonard Sweet

This was originally posted on April 1, 2010. Three years later and I still ask myself the question…

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There is not one who slips by unnoticed. There is not one who is anonymous to Him. Every name, every face, every small detail. He knows.  All divinely hand-made, with definitions that go beyond what our feeble minds can comprehend when we try to imagine “fearfully and wonderfully.” All created – image and likeness – for eternity.

Every name hand-written on the palm of a most powerful Lord God All-Mighty. Not one of us is missing. Not one of us is forgotten. He says it in His own words. “This one, and that one, and that one – all mine.”

Father God goes before us. He walks beside us. He follows behind us. He is all around us. He stands over us. He is not just the Father. He is our Father.

Father of the hand-written.

Today, let us know what it means to be handwritten by You. Let us know the power of Your purpose and Your plans when ours come undone. Let us know the power of Your providence and Your provision when we cannot see the way. Let us know the power of Your protection in our vulnerability. Let us know the power of Your promise when we celebrate this life.

Let us see the power of Your grace and Your forgiveness in each day.

Let us see the power of Your love. Today. Tomorrow. Every day.

Let us see this fearfully and wonderfully made life in the light of Your parenthood.

Help us remember – we are hand-written.

Every single one.

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“You are the luckiest boy in the world, because God is going to handpick the perfect one for you…”

We sat in the backyard and splashed in your wading pool and talked about a name change. Your biological father was relinquishing parental rights, but that was too difficult to comprehend, much less explain. Instead, we talked about how much fun it would be to get a brand new name. We laughed at my silly middle name – LaVerne. “Most kids are stuck with the name they’re born with, but you get to pick your very own.” Your last name would become my maiden name, and you would get a new middle name too – one that you would select all by your four year-old self. You chose Michael because he was a big tough angel guy. And we talked about how one day your name would change again – when God handpicked a dad just for you.

Not once did you complain about it being just the two of us. You even reminded me that God was our dad so we didn’t have to be afraid. Others questioned what was taking so long. But you remained faithful in the waiting. You pressed in. You pressed on. You gave thanks in the journey. And 10 years later, your name changed.  You were adopted by a dad. The perfect one for you.

We sat in your apartment as you talked about your love for a woman unlike any other. You wanted to marry her, and she wanted the same. You wanted to love her well and care for her fully. Engagements were happening all around you, and others questioned what was taking so long. But you remained faithful in the waiting. You pressed in. You pressed on. You gave thanks in the journey. And 3 years later, you married that woman. The perfect one for you.

We sat at a restaurant as you and your bride talked about moving to Austin, Texas. You knew you were supposed to minister to students, and you knew the church you felt was home. Your desire was to be a pastor. You were willing to take a support role in order to care for the teenagers who had captured your heart.  Different leaders were selected to the role you felt called to – yet you remained diligent and graceful. Others wondered what was taking so long. Others wondered what it would take for you to accept a position somewhere else. “Another season,” was your quiet response. You remained faithful. You pressed in. You pressed on. You gave thanks in the journey.

And 5 years later, you are pastoring students at that Austin church. The perfect one for you.

A trusted mentor has likened you to David. A man handpicked by God to be king. A man who pressed in and pressed on as he waited 13 years to wear the crown. A man who remained faithful as others questioned what was taking so long. Perhaps he’s right. For it was David who wrote,

The Lord is my shepherd; I have all that I need. He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength. He guides me along right paths, bringing honor to his name. Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me. You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. You honor me by anointing my head with oil. My cup overflows with blessings. Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever. ~Psalm 23

Thank you for being faithful – for pressing in and pressing on. Yes, it is good to give thanks in the journey – to the Perfect One. Thanks for teaching me.

I love you.

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