He said my name.

What a morning...!  We got up early to go to our church's SonRise service.  Tough to do but after a cup of coffee I was ready...

It's bizarre when your (my) husband is the Pastor and he's speaking right to you (me).  It just doesn't seem right to have a personal message (he didn't plan it that way).  I sat there thinking, "you're supposed to be speaking to them... I'm ok.  Feed them."  I always absorb what the Spirit says through my man... but today. . . today it was for ME.

Tim spoke of early that resurrection morning, before light Mary walking to Jesus' tomb.  One more time she wanted to be near Him, to minister to Him, to anoint Him.  And He was gone.  Tim's words, "How can you add despair to despair?"  Totally brokenhearted, she did not know where her Jesus was.  Desperate to rub His brow, clean the blood off His cold, dead body.  One last chance to be with Him.

The One she presumes to be the Gardener asks her why she's crying.  Weeping and in anguish she tells Him they have taken away her Lord's body and she doesn't know where to find Him.  And then the Gardener says one word.  One name.  And in that one word He says EVERYTHING.  "Mary" He says...

He says her name.

He said MY name.  And in saying my name He tells me everything I NEED to know.  I am defined by His saying my name.  All I am, All I do . . . absolutely EVERYTHING is because He says my name.  O, I wish I could explain it in words.  But words are completely and utterly incapable of expressing the richness, fullness, completeness of Jesus saying my name.  There, in that moment is peace.... and more than peace, safety.... and more than safety, rest.

And although I knew all this, I've let Jesus define me for years.  This was a moment that transcended my God-given temperament, moved beyond Him shaping my character to be more like His sweet self.

This moment, as I slowly raised my eyes to look into His face...... Jesus tenderly said MY Name.

The Time In Between

Three days.... three blissful day of reprieve and relief...  I was hoping, but it didn't last long.  It felt so good to smile and mean it.  It felt so good to enjoy the sunshine, to laugh with my husband, to feel hope again.... but,  well...............

A woman once described it as a cat sitting on her chest.  I get what she means.... but for me it more like a black hole heavy on my chest.  The weight of it... pushing down, I feel like I'm suffocating and breathing at the same time.

The thing of it is I'm in a good place.  Life is going well.  My kids are thriving, my husband is in his sweet spot.  I belong to a wonderful church full of loving people.  My home is turning into what I've always dreamed of, open and spacious, calm and comforting.

But this depression - there! I've said it, mercy I hate it.  Oh, I can say I feel sad, or I'm grieving .... but depression.... o boy does that chafe.... goes against my fiber... I want to rip it out.... I want to reach into my chest and tear it off and throw it, violently throw it... down, away, anywhere.... get it off of me, out of me....

Our move was months ago.  I should be fine.  I should feel settled, rested and peace. I've already gotten mad at what I've lost, already cried about it.... and I'm ok with where we are, I'm ok with what we are doing, I'm ok with all of it.....as a matter of fact it's better than where we were.  Such a community of love and acceptance.  Amazing people, ready and eager.  Thirsty for God to live and move and work in them and through them.  Hungry for God's word.  Their arms open in embrace.... to us.

I don't want to feel the loss...... ok, I don't want to feel depressed anymore.  I don't want to whine about what I've lost, what I've left behind.... I'm faithful!  God, I'm faithful.  I walk in obedience.  I don't walk begrudgingly ... no bitterness, no resentment... no "Why Lord?"

For a while, way back... a year ago... yes, I wondered.  I was confused.  But I KNEW what God wanted... I knew ... and I made peace with it.... of course I want to obey the voice that says, "this is the way, walk ye in it."  Seriously!  am I going to do anything else....  He's my God... the desire of my heart... it's an honour, my greatest pleasure... total surrender.  I'm ALL His.  I'm joyfully His.

The best part of my day.... early in the morning, cup of coffee in hand, Bible on my lap, books about Him and how He works.  My time with Jesus.... such sweetness... such rest

Which is why I don't want to feel, be depressed.  It seems wrong, dishonouring.

My heart begs to list all I've lost.... yet .... asks "is that ok?"  My head says, "nope", don't do it... God would not be pleased.... or at the very least it would not honour Him.... or would it?

O Yes Jesus it would!

I"ve lost everything that was mine, everything that was Me.  My business, which is more than a business... it's the very calling of my life, bringing healing to lives to marriages... extending compassion and mercy and calling people to live ... to live more fully.  I've lost teaching at the academies.... o my favourite.... using the platform of psychology to teach young people about the unending love of Jesus.... telling them the truth of God's everlasting Word... pouring myself out, loving these fantastic kids, each one reaching into my heart and settling there, they changed me... beautiful children... each class different...each class wonderful, more than I could have dreamed of.... o how I miss them.    I've lost my Sabbath School class.... wonderful women, willing to be transparent, desperate to have the WORD of the Living God transform them.  Praying together, crying together, connecting together, supporting each other ... every Sabbath morning a refreshing reminder of what the body of Christ is supposed to be... and I've lost being in the same town as my best friend, which doesn't seem like a big deal... I actually see her more now than I did the last year living there, and of course there's the phone... but it's not the same... there's just something about being near ...  even if we didn't see each other.... she was there, close by.  And I've lost my son, two years before I thought I was going to... and though I know it's better and working out just fine, he's thriving and growing and it was "right"... it's still a loss and I feel the emptiness and love it when he's home.

But...... yet........ and nevertheless...... I WILL walk the road before me.  The one laid out before me by the hand of God.... I want nothing else....


"So I stand here lifting empty hands
For You to fill me up again"

Free.....

                Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there lived a little slave-girl.  She was an average little slave-girl, ragged and dirty.  There was nothing really spectacular about her.  She didn’t have any special talent, nor was she exceptionally beautiful.  She was just a regular slave-girl.  She wasn’t a slave-girl by choice, neither did she fall into slavery, nor was she taken captive.  No, she was a slave-girl in a family of generations of slaves, as far back as she could trace her family had been a family of slaves.  Slavery was so ingrained it was in her very nature.  But she didn’t want to be a slave.

          Though life as a slave was tolerable, it was hard, sometimes very hard.  It was not so much the physical assaults, the occasional sickness, or even the poverty that made it so hard.… no it was more the mental torture of what it meant to be a slave and the echoes of the Slave-master’s voice, “you are nothing but a slave, you are nothing.”

          At night, however, when she lay in bed at night, she could hear the whispers of the wind saying, “you can be free.”  And something would stir in her heart… a longing, a craving, an insatiable hunger to be free.

          One morning after a night of listening to the wind the little slave-girl decided to find out how she could be free.  And this is what she found.  There were three ways she could pay for her freedom; death, strictly following the “Code Book to Freedom” and someone rescuing her by paying her price.  Well, death didn’t seem like a viable option.. and well… being rescued didn’t hold much luck either; who would want to rescue a dirty little slave girl, with nothing to offer but the debt of her slavery.

          So the little slave-girl decided her best option was to follow the Code Book.  And she did, she cleaned herself up, did her jobs without complaining and began to practice all the character traits the Code Book said she had to have… kindness, patience, self-control.  The Slave-master passing by, would stop and watch her as she followed the Code Book, would cross his arms, stand back and wear sinister smile on his face.

          One day the Slave-master approached the little slave-girl.  “So, you want to be free.”  The little slave-girl nodded her head.  “And you have been following the Code Book.”  More eagerly she nodded again.  “Well,” said the Slave-master, “let’s go to the Magistrate.”  So she took his hand and together they walked to the Magistrate’s office, hope building in her heart that she could be free.

          She presented her case to the Magistrate, he nodded and listened.  “I see, you have been following the Code Book, you look nice and clean, you work hard without grumbling and what patience and kindness you’ve shown.… very good indeed.”  The little slave-girl’s face broke out into a smile, but before she could jump for joy at her new found freedom the Slave-master spoke.  “Yes Magistrate, she has done all those things, she even has excellent self-control, but… she harbours hatred in her heart and as much as I’d like her to be free, you know that disqualifies her.”  The Magistrate looked at the little slave-girl and she hung her head and left.

          Returning home the little slave-girl purposed in her heart that she would try even harder and one day, one day she knew she would be free.

          Year after year this pattern continued.  She and the Slave-Master would go to the Magistrate with all the good things she had done.  And Yes she was good, but the Slave-master would remind them all that she just wasn’t quite good enough…. Never quite good enough… her debt of slavery was too high a price…  she was never quite good enough to pay it.

          And then came Jesus…

One day He came to the little girl’s house.  He knocked on her door.  As she opened the door a rush of wind blew in, she smoothed the hair out of her eye and looked into the face of Jesus, He said, “I understand you want to be free.”  Confused and a little shy, she nodded her head.  Then Jesus said, “I can do that for you. Can I come in? I’d like to tell you about it.”  Though puzzled and a little unsure, something deep in her heart remembered the wind; she stepped back from the door and let him in…

They sat together at the kitchen table.  Although the little girl was quiet her thoughts raced with questions, ‘What is He talking about?   Free me?   How can He free me?  My debt is so high, the cost exorbitant.  ….and besides, I’m just a dirty slave-girl, I have nothing to give back, I can’t repay.  And I’m never good enough.’

          As if reading her mind Jesus told her how very long ago, before anyone could remember, her ancient parents were not slaves and lived in paradise.  As a matter of fact her ancient parents were of THE Royal Bloodline and that meant she wasn’t really a slave but truly royalty.  And that He, Jesus, was of that same royal bloodline and that not only was He ENOUGH to pay the price of her slavery, He wanted to.  Really, really wanted to and all she had to do was say so.

          She listened, her mind reeling.. ‘this makes no sense, I’m nothing, nothing but a slave girl’.…    Jesus placed His hand over hers… she quieted….shyly she looked up into His face…. Hope stirred in her heart… she slowly nodded and barely spoke. “please rescue me”

          Jesus, stood up, “well good then” and He took off His coat and put it on the little girl.  The little girl sat there, stunned as Jesus began to rearrange the furniture in her house so He could move in,  he dusted off a few shelves, found a few blankets and made himself a bed on the couch, then He went to the kitchen to make supper.

          The little girl regained her composure.  “But what do I have to do?”  Jesus stopped what He was doing walked over and crouched down in front of the little girl.  He held her face in His hands and looked piercingly into her eyes.  “You don’t have to do anything.  You just wear my coat and I will take care of the rest.”  Jesus then walked over to where the little girl had put the Code Book.  He picked it up and as He put it away on the shelf He said, mostly to Himself, “I’ve got this one covered.”

          Jesus and the little Girl lived together and worked together; Side by side, day after day.  Whenever the little girl hurt herself, Jesus would make sure she got all bandaged up.  When she was hungry, He fed her.  When she was tired He let her rest.

          Jesus would also tell the little girl stories… stories of paradise, stories of His Father, stories how He and His Father made this rescue plan long ago, just in case the little girl’s ancient parents got tricked by the Slave-master.  How they did get tricked by the Slave-master.  He told her how the land she lived on really wasn’t the Slave-master’s it was actually hers and how He would buy it back for her.  He told how precious she was to Him and how much He loved her.  And how He could easily pay the price of her slavery, because He was of the Royal Bloodline and was ENOUGH, and she didn’t need to worry.

One day Jesus told the little girl that soon they would be going to the Magistrate’s office.  Fear gripped the little girl, “the Magistrate, she had forgotten all about him.”  Jesus, gently put His arm around the little girl and pulled her into a close embrace.  “Don’t worry,” He said, “I’m going with you.  You just keeping wearing my coat.  I’ve got this.”

          It was hard not to worry, but she trusted Jesus so she went to sleep that night dreaming of the Magistrate, the Slave-master and Jesus.

          A few days later, the little girl (wearing Jesus’ coat), and Jesus walked hand-in-hand to the Magistrate’s office.  What the little girl found strange is that even though the Slave-master walked with them, he walked on the other side of the street.  And he looked a little scared.

          Once in the Magistrate’s office Jesus led the little girl to the side bench to sit down.  The little girl, confused said, “but I have to go before the Magistrate.”  Jesus bent down, pulled His coat a little tighter around the little girl’s shoulders, looked her directly in the eye and said, “No, not today.  I’ve got this.”

          The little girl sat perfectly still, the court room was quiet, she held her breath as Jesus and the Slave-master stood before the Magistrate.  They just stood there, silent.  The clock ticked in the background.  The Magistrate looked at Jesus, Looked at the little girl wearing Jesus’ coat then looked to the Slave-master.  The Slave-master never said a word, NOT ONE WORD.  The Magistrate grabbed his gavel and crashed it on the table.  “She’s free.” 

The little girl was stunned.  Then she watched as Jesus and the Slave-master turned away from the Magistrate’s desk.   She saw as Jesus looked right at Slave-master and said, “You took my little girl.  And I AM GOING TO CRUSH YOU.”  Then He turned and walked over to the little girl, took her hand and they walked out of the Magistrate’s office never to return.

          That afternoon Jesus explained all had happened in the Magistrate’s office.  He told her that the price of her slavery was paid.  That she wasn’t a slave anymore, that she was free and even if she still wore the chain of slavery for a little while longer she could live as if she was free.  He told her that one day, not today, not tomorrow but one day that chain would come off.  He told her that He would keep the promise He made to the Slave-master.  The Slave-master would be destroyed, and then she would live in total peace and paradise would be restored.

          But in the meantime, while she waited for that one day, she needed to keep His coat on.  And if it seemed like a long time and things got hard she needed to remember that He would ever leave her and He would always, always, always take care of her. 

          And as the sun set over the little girl’s house, still wearing Jesus’ coat she curled up on Jesus’ lap.  As He gently rocked her He told her how much He loved her and how precious she was to Him and almost pleading He said “don’t ever forget, don’t ever forget what I promised you.”  Half between awake and asleep the little girl mumbled, “I won’t forget, I promise, I won’t forget…….. and just before sleep took her the little girl whispered, “I love you too.”  And there in the arms of Jesus she fell asleep to lullabies sung to the music of the wind…

“The Word of God has spoken we are changed forever, the Word of God has spoken WE ARE FREE.  We are running to salvation, we have been delivered the Word of God has spoken WE ARE FREE.” (Travis Cottrell)

Tears

I do this thing, I've done it for as long as I can remember.... I do it . . . and I hate it, and I don't understand it, I even went to therapy to learn how to "manage" it . . . I cry

I don't cry because I'm sad . . . I just cry

It's like I have this invisible instrument, cello-like, with deep resonating sounds,   buried,   hidden in my chest.  Right there in the center.   And when a string is plucked the sound waves reverberate,    the cavity within my chest cannot hold it. . . cannot hold it in.   It rises,  it climbs,  higher and higher,  faster and faster. . . and . . . it spills, drips down my cheeks.

And sometimes . . . sometimes it's like this invisible hand reaches in and begins to play,   the music expands, grows louder,    overwhelms.  It rises,  creates pools in my eyes that fill to overflowing and roll down my face.

When I was younger, when the pieces that were me were fragmented and broken,    scattered.       The music came from the outside ,   the waves of sound would hit me , jar me , and the tears would tumble.

But now,  now that the fragmented pieces have been welded together, the vessel whole;  the music vibrates from the inside,   deep in that hollow where only music can survive.

And what I don't understand is, what is it about me?  Why can't I hold it in?  Why, o why does it have to spill out, can I not just feel it and keep it . . . safe...  That's it!   When it spills I feel vulnerable,  exposed and very unsafe.

I've had people tell me they wished they could cry like I can.  That it would be freeing for them.  But they've so trained themselves to hold it in.
I feel like their tears would be more precious.  That my tears are so common in occurrence and perhaps others see them a common in meaning.  But they are not common, the tears ,  they come at a cost.  And they mean . . . EVERYTHING.

And because they are everything, another piece of me.  .  .  she holds them, open-handed, she let's them be. . . be what they are.

I guess, if I wanted, I could work harder at suppressing them, holding them back, covering them up before they rise.  But I resist.  I resist because a tender voice tells me that if I did I would lose an essence.   It says my tears are needed. . . and that voice, so soft and gentle, the hum of a lullaby . .

    . . . makes me cry

Discrepancies

I've been thinking a lot lately about the discrepancy between how people see themselves and how we see ourselves...  it all started with a Facebook post back on January 1st.  I posted how boring I was because rather than stay up till midnight I went to be early and slept through "ringing in the New Year".  A comment came back saying I was the least boring this person knew, that I was vivacious and alive, engaged and energetic.      
(???SERIOUSLY???? I don't think so, I'm really rather boring.)
Recently I've been told that I'm "nice" - it's a genuine affirmation after I guess what could been seen as a kindness.  My response is pretty much always, "no, not really".  I don't mean it to be flippant or that I'm a total meanie-butt. . . . but really, I don't think so.

Another example is my daughter.  I see her as compassionate, delightful, determined, and funny... (I could go on.  If you want to read all about it, check out Nov 18th post.).  Her response, "I wish I knew her, she sounds awesome."  I wanted to scream, "BUT IT IS YOU, ALL YOU"

I don't understand the discrepancy.  Its not that I want to feel all puffed-up and self important at how fabulous I am. . . It just seems. . . . hmmmmm. . . . . . . inconsistent.  I don't like inconsistent.

I'm not sure there is an answer here... cuz I'm really not nice (you should hear the commentary that goes on in my head) and I really am boring (I'd rather sit at home, in the quiet and knit than go out and be with people).  Yet somehow, in the realm of the miraculous when I'm with people... really WITH them... something different happens.  I'm engaged, I'm 'nice'. . . . . it's really what I to be. . . . no, it's WHO I want to be. . . .

Cameo asked me the other day, "Is who we want to be really who we are?"  Good question.  I didn't really have an answer, so I texted back "probably".  My head was saying, 'I sure hope so'.    Talking to Tim about it, he said, 'yes', "it's who God wants you to be too.  And He created you to be that."
  And then there's that verse - I think it's in Phillipians - God works in you to WILL and to DO His good pleasure.   So there it is, maybe that's the answer. . . . God created us, a hard-wired temperament in our brains, He places us in homes and provides us with experiences that affect us, but we are all tainted and disfigured.  A chaotic mess, a black hole of pain and sin, weakness and yuck (there's no better word)  

. . . . but. . . . . if we are still. . . . . and if we listen and surrender..... He will heal us and mold us, shape us. Holding our temperament, our experiences our pain and weakness gently, ever so gently.  He kneads us adding the water of His extravagant  lavish love, His tenderest mercy, His enduring strength.  He creates something that transcends to the realm of the miraculous. . . . and then, in us, the tiny seed of desire begins to sprout and as He continues to heal the desire grows. . . . and in the shadow of mystery and miracle. . . . . the fruit of that healing becomes nourishment for others...
and we become what we desire to be. . . . not through our striving. . . . but through miracle. . . . and the true beauty of it all lies in the fact that we don't see it in ourselves, or feel it. . . . but ARE it anyway, despite ourselves.

I'm going to end with a little story.  
Last Wednesday at Prayer Meeting, I sat on the floor with sweet Piper (she's 3 years old).  We coloured and made pictures with stickers.  Dressed Minnie Mouse and drew more pictures of caterpillars and ladybugs. . . I didn't do it to be nice, it wasn't hard, it took no effort. . . . I just did it (it helped her Mom concentrate on Prayer Meeting and I was still able to listen and interact too).  Towards the end of the meeting Piper leaned over - I thought she was going to whisper something in my ear as she had done a few times already - but instead... her  little lips touched my cheek.....in the realm of the miraculous.... the moment transcended to a different plain, an unseen reality......... a sweet kiss from Heaven

I'll be seeing ya

I've been thinking a lot about mercy.  On a day-to-day basis, what does mercy look like?  How do I extend mercy to the people around me moment by moment.  Sure there are the grand gestures, like feeding the hungry, sponsoring a child in  3rd world country, or like I heard recently on the radio, allowing a homeless family to live in your home for a year at no cost while you live in your parent's basement.  But we can't always do those things, I can't always do those things.  So what CAN I do?  How does mercy become the way I live, the WHO I am?

I read a blog recently where the woman said she was no longer going to live hiding in shame... she was going to allow herself to be imperfect and not berate herself for making mistakes, not fear if things don't turn out as expected and even if everything falls apart, she will practice life with courage... I was moved to tears... I too want to live my life that way... courageous, I want to show up, not hide in the shadows, cowering in fear, ruminating over all the 'what-ifs'.  I want to be present, I want to be seen....

..... and then it hit me!

If everyone is busy being seen, who is doing the seeing?  Please don't misunderstand me.  When I talk about being seen I'm not condemning anyone.  I'm not talking about arrogant, puffed-up, prideful people who force everyone to look at them.  I'm talking about what Brene Brown refers to a "wholehearted living".  Being vulnerable, willing to be flawed, living transparently, with an open heart.... showing up, being present...   but it can't stop there.  If I'm going to show-up and been seen, am I willing to "see" as well?

One of my favourite stories in the Bible is when Hagar and Ishmael get sent away by Sarah and Abraham.  Ishmael is left by a tree and Hagar goes a way off because she cannot watch her son die.  Then God speaks, He tells her to get up, to keep going, He will not let Ishmael or her die... Hagar's response is "I have seen the God who SEES me".  Don't we all want someone to really SEE us.  I love it when I am in a crowded room and I hear a familiar faint whistle and look across the room to Tim looking right at me, then he'll wink.  In the midst of ALL those people, he SEES me.... he sees ME.

So here's the kicker.... to "show-up and be seen" and to "see" are not mutually exclusive, and I might go so far as to say they walk in tandem.

I will show-up in my life.  I will live with courage and a wholeheart.  But I will also live "seeing".  And maybe that is how I can live mercy.  I want to "see"  really "SEE" the people around me.  I want to "SEE" you.

I cannot solve world hunger, I cannot stop crazy men from going into schools and killing young children.  I cannot alleviate suffering.  But I CAN see your suffering.  And I can sit with you in your suffering and provide the small comfort that you are "not alone", that you are "seen".  That someone is by your side.

I can also rejoice with you, laugh with you.  Be grateful and praise God when your life is beautiful and all is well with you.  Triumph in your triumphs.

So I've decided that to live a life of mercy.... is to "see", truly "see" those around me....

I'll be seeing ya,
k

Mercy

Several days ago a friend posted on Facebook about choosing a word to live by in 2013 rather than making a new year's resolution.  I've never made a new year's resolution, I've felt they are rather foolish.  This idea... living by a word, intrigued me.

I thought about it for a while, played with some words in my head, but nothing grabbed me.  So I put the idea aside....

On New Year's Eve my husband and I went to see the movie Les Miserable.  I was disturbed throughout the entire movie.  So much suffering, so much pain... I couldn't contain it.  I felt it every where, in my shoulders, in my guts.  I shivered and tensed, my heart literally hurt.

For those of you who do not know the story.  The opening scene is of Jean Verjean being put on parole and let out of prison (for stealing a loaf of bread).  He travels in the cold, looking for work, looking for food, looking for warmth, everywhere he goes he is rejected and turned away because his "papers" say he is a convict.  He ends up at a monastery... the priest invites him in, feeds him, gives him a warm fire to sleep by and a bed.  In the night Jean Verjean steals the silver from monastery and runs away.  He is caught and brought back to the monastery.  The police say that Jean says he was given the silver.  The priest, validates Jean's story, "yes we gave him the silver, but Jean you were in such a hurry your forgot the best pieces"  the priest picks up the two silver candlesticks on the table and hands them to Jean Verjean.

As you can imagine Jean Verjean has NO idea what to do with that "mercy".  He wrestles with God and decides to change his life.  To "change" his name and legacy.

Years later, under a new name, he is the mayor of a town.  He sets up a factory for women so they don't have to prostitute themselves.  We even see him, in his fine clothes free a man from being crushed by a beam that falls on him....

As I watched this man do whatever he could to ease people's suffering constantly extending mercy.  Reaching out, lifting up, soothing, protecting.... I was moved... I too want to ease suffering.  There is so much suffering, so much pain.  Can I be "living, breathing mercy"?  Oh, I want to be.  I want to be the hand that soothes, the voice that encourages, the arms that hold another's pain gently so as not to bruise.

A bruised reed He will not crush, a smoldering wick He will not snuff out (Isaiah 42:3).  Let me be mercy, Dear God, let me be mercy!

So my One Word... the word I want to live by ... is MERCY.