To Another

I belong to another.

To Christ.

The one my heart loves with limited sight.

Even in depravity and through my idols.

Even when I have no awareness of Him.

He saves me.

He saves me.

He saves me.

And his love is deep.

Inescapable.

His right hand holds me fast and I am thankful.

Thankful for his valiant protection.

For teaching me that in his presence alone resides the fullness of joy.

And fighting for me to grasp more of his glory with all of my life.

Through intense joy and severe pain, He is worth it.

He explains why I forget myself in grandeur,

And my carnal flesh longs for greatness.

His presence continually beckons and is alone worthy of all energy.

Of all fame.

Not me.

Not me.

Not me.

As I walk through life enclosed by skin,

Remind me of your steadfast hold. Your right hand.

And why it is there.

Because, while maddening, my heart will forget.

Let me be consumed by you.

More of you.

Grow yourself, dear Christ.

Grow your glory through me.

And your hope.

Establishing your work of my hands.

For yours is the kingdom

The power.

And the glory --

Forever.

I mean, what if?

"So, my brothers and sisters, you also died to the law through the body of Christ, that you might belong to another, to him who was raised from the dead, in order that we might bear fruit to God."

Romans 7:4

Known

"Before I formed you...I knew you..."

Jeremiah 1:5

He knows me well.  

He maps out the lines in the palm of my hand and traces them with eternity.

He instructs my freckles when to appear and hides them again with his seasons.

He paints my eyes from his infinite pallet and captivates them with creation.

He dictates the details of each vital breath and blankets me with his rest.

When my spirit is light and my step has kick -- He sees.

When my heart is moved by the sound of melodies -- He knows.

When my mind is numbed by my own selfishness -- He is not finished.

When my soul grieves deeply and despair encroaches -- He is not without purpose.

For He knows me well.

And set me apart.

And raised me up.

With much intention.

Be known.

Be really known.

Purpose resides there.

So does power.

And a glimpse of a love that never fails.

I mean, what if?

"But I have raised you up for this very purpose, that I might show you my power and that my name might be proclaimed in all the earth."

Exodus 9:16

Quotes

I love words. I love the challenge of putting them together in a way that inspires reaction. Consequently, those that do this well, often inspire me -- or at least their words do.

Yesterday, Jourdan, my organized roommate, was performing her quarterly note purging ceremony. I'm not exactly sure what elements this ceremony entails but it has something to do with her sifting through old notes and mail, keeping the items that are still meaningful, and tossing those that are no longer relevant. Then I think she performs a ritual trash dance and closes with the Sevenfold Amen while blowing a kiss to Jesus and lighting a candle for each note she sends packing...or something along those lines.

Anyway, at some point during the day, Jourdan emerged with a note I had written her probably about a year and a half ago. It had survived past note purgings and looked like it was going to stay in the "meaningful" stack. She handed it to me and said "Here is a note you left me a while back, it was a good one and I continue to keep it." To which the insecure, affirmation addicted self inside of me replied with something like, "Aren't they all good ones??!" Gaaaaahhhh. I am exhausting and am putting myself in timeout as I type.

When I took the note from her, I looked at the card, written on some old, personalized stationary, and as I opened it up, I remembered. Inside were words that were not my own, but a quote from Rob Bell that had caught my attention once upon a time.

It was late one weeknight, about 18-20 months ago. The roomies were already snoozing and I was reading a book and honestly just wanted to go to sleep. But the words I just read were resonating with me and making me think of Jourdan's situation at the time. So I found a card, grabbed one of my millions of beloved, colored, fine-point sharpies and scribbled out the quote in my asianesque print. Here is the card in it's entirety:

Read the quote below and thought of you:

"...life is messy. Gut wrenching. Risky. Things don't always turn out well. Sometimes they don't turn out at all. Sometimes everything falls apart and we wonder if there's any point to any of it. We're tempted to shut ourselves off, fortify the walls around our hearts, and forge ahead, promising ourselves that we will never open ourselves up like that again. But I have to believe that we can recover from anything. I have to believe that God can put anything - anyone - back together. I have to believe that the God Jesus invites us to trust is as good as he says he is. Loving. Forgiving. Merciful. Full of Grace."

Rob Bell

Praying you can believe Him a little more each day. Love you.

And that was the card. What is significant about this quote is not that I was so thoughtful to think of Jourdan during her pain because I am keenly aware that no goodness in me exists apart from Christ. At best, I am a self absorbed train wreck. What is cool though, is that God would remind me, through words His spirit prompted me to write down for someone else close to two years ago, who He really is.

When I scratched out that card late in the night, things were going well for me. I was working purposefully, involved in a healthy relationship, and walking confidently. Since then, much has changed. God challenged me with my own pain and doubt by taking away most of the "knowns" in my life. And during this period, I often found myself doubting his goodness. Or at least, his goodness to me.

Thankfully, I learned that His restoration is real. And while I don't know much else, I do know this. He absolutely brings recovery and He does put us back together -- from anything. From the darkest evil occuring to children in brothels worldwide to the numbing apathy induced by self absorption I encounter daily. He can rescue me. He can remind me of his goodness. He can make me ready to risk again. And while it may turn out messy and painful, I know this time around, it will not undo me.

Perhaps what struck me in Rob Bell's quote was the realness of it. The reality that life really is not for us. But God is. That little card reminded me how God planned for Jourdan and I, through our own experiences, to know him for ourselves a little more each day. Wow.

And He really is as good as He says He is. Even though my life in no way resembles our culture's formula for success. I know He is good. To you, but to me as well. Which is much of the battle.

Praying you, wherever this finds you, can believe Him for you a little more each day.

I mean, what if?

Found

He does not need me.  

Yet he chooses to pursue me.  

All of me.  

My heart.  

My mind.  

My being. 

He captivates.  

He takes hold.  

He never lets go.  

And a beautiful thing happens.  

In him, I begin to live.

To move.

To have my being.

All that I thought was lost, is not.

I am completely found.

And known.

And he allows me to be like him.

In his purity.

His compassion.

His love.

His justice.

His grace.

His laughter.

His pain.

His movement.

His mission.

And like the woman caught in adultery, 

He dusts me off,

Looks in my eyes,

and says "Now go, and sin no more."

And I finally begin to get it.

His grace crashes into me.  

Undeserved but finally accepted.

And all things are new.

And I begin to run well,

For I am learning the source of my breath.

Breathe deeply of grace. 

Run purposefully.

Found in him.

I mean, what if?

"For in Him we live and move and have our being..."

Acts 17:28

The Notorious Highland Park Clowns

Well hi there.  It certainly has been a while, and that is all my fault. This is a blog.  This is not an essay writing contest, a novel, a magazine, or even a final paper for a class.  Yet, perhaps I have been treating it as such.  While several ideas have gone through my mind to share over the last several months, the pressure I subtly place on myself to make my thoughts perfectly cohesive and/or inspiring made procrastination the most enticing choice.  Dumb.  I know. So to alleviate my self-induced pressure and use this forum as an appropriate form of simple expression, I will tell you a tale of some potentially notorious, Highland Park Clowns.

Earlier this evening, Jourdan, Kristen and I were driving through Highland Park back to our apartment in Dallas.  For those of you not familiar with the Dallas area, Highland Park is what I like to call Fancyland.  The homes are elaborate, the cars are shiny, and high-maintenance personal grooming is expected. Highland Park is about as diverse as Barbie, Ken, and their friends, minus the ethnic dolls. Honestly, it's an area of town I do not fully understand, but is fascinating nonetheless.  

As we drove down Lovers Lane, chatting randomly, we somehow got on the topic of clowns and their cars and I can't exactly recall how, but the conversation took a delightfully silly turn and somehow morphed into a scheme. At one point in our clown convo, Kristen asked what we imagined when we thought of a clown car.  The general consensus was an old model, VW bug type car, perhaps painted pink with all sorts of bright, flower decals.  Jourdan made the point that the horn would probably honk a tune like the Entertainer or some other circusy sounding song.  Kristen, said she imagined a red clown nose on the hood.  I asked if we could upgrade our clown car to a clown van, and have an old, pink, flowery VW bus complete with silly honk noises and a squeaky red nose.  They both agreed.  

As we were laughing about clowns and wondering how the stereotypical clown in our minds became, in fact, the stereotypical clown (I mean, who decided huge red, clown shoes were funny, and why is it only socially acceptable for clowns to wear them?), somewhere between those thoughts, Jourdan piped in with a great idea.  She said, "I keep laughing to myself, imagining the three of us dressed in full-on traditional clown gear while driving our VW clown van around Highland Park, making it our mission to bring some momentary joy through the squeak of our noses, a clever clown skit, or our multi-colored afro wigs."  She went on to say, "I'm trying to think of ways that we could pull this off in Highland Park where the majority of folks there would most likely perceive "clowning" as disruptive to their orderly neighborhood, but because we were not breaking any laws, could do nothing about it."  

So we began to laugh and plan ways to become the Notorious Highland Park Clowns.  Much of this scheme included driving our clown van slowly down the manicured neighborhood streets, looking for someone who needed some "happy", and cheering folks up with the squeak of our noses, the clown songs we would sing from our pink, VW, clown bus with the windows down and our colorful, synthetic, afros blowing in the breeze, and the way we would get out and run around our bus, chasing each other at stoplights while wearing our bright, polka dotted baggy clown suits. 

Although many in "Fancyland" may initially complain that we are disruptive and an eyesore and strive to send the clowns packing, we never break any laws, and consequently cannot be touched.  Our days of clowning continue happily in the pink VW bus as we bring some color to the HP, and eventually the pretty folks there begin to warm to us and perhaps even like us! 

If this whole plot were a movie however, of course there would have to be one character who is always trying to thwart our clown antics.  A fancy older lady perhaps, who is mortified to hear that her three handsome sons are falling in love with the three refreshingly unusual, clown girls.  But in the end, after the fancy mom tries to throw water on us, but to her frustration, realizes that only makes witches, not clowns, melt, the clown love prevails.  The three handsome sons marry the three delightful clowns in a lovely joint wedding planned by Jourdan. And in true clown fashion, the bridal bouquets were actually decoys for our super-soakers because everybody knows flowers that squirt water are hilarious :)

Oh, and the fancy mom finally comes to her senses after a heartfelt moment with the clowns, when we take off our makeup, wigs, and costumes and reveal our true identities.  She realizes that, in the end, she and the clown girls are not so different after all.  And she also, has a plastic nose - just not the red, clowny kind - but plastic nonetheless.  

So if you are ever driving through Highland Park, be on the lookout for a pink, VW clown bus with three afroed gals stopping every so often to clown on folks. It just might be those Notorious Highland Park Clowns...

I mean, what if?

"A cheerful look brings joy to the heart..."

Proverbs 15:30

Mawmuh's Day

I thought I would give a little shout out to my mom on this day we pause to honor mothers.  

Her name is Joy and I always tell folks that she wears her name well.

When I consider my mom, I think of her laugh, which tends to sound more on the cackle side of laughter.  It's a laugh that sets her apart for sure and a laugh that God gave her that has helped her both endure and persevere.  

When I was younger and living at home, I could hear my mom's laugh, no matter where I was in the house, from her laundry folding station in my parents room at something silly on TV (most likely Mama's Family re-runs, on TBS).  I also remember very clearly, making my mom laugh when I was in 3rd grade after reading her a ridiculous tale I created when I had to write a story using all of my spelling words.  It felt really good to make her laugh her loud, distinct laugh -- and it still does :).  

Mom has the type of laugh that is contagious, which sometimes drove me crazy when I wanted to pout and be mad.  As much as I tried to be fussy in those situations, her laugh usually got the best of me and I would eventually crack a smile and my drama would quickly subside. One day, I plan on using this clever trick with my own, most-likely ridiculously, dramatic kids.

While I unfortunately, do not bear the distinction of the sound of her laugh, I do love to laugh and am thankful my mom instilled her laughter in me and my sisters.  After losing her husband (my father) to cancer when she was still in her twenties with two babies to raise, my strong mama, came away from the depths of that loss with an infectious laugh rooted in an eternal joy -- and she wears it beautifully.

Besides her laughter, when I think of my mom, I can never escape her southern accent.  And if I am telling other people something that she said to me, I typically fall into impersonation mode.

My mom was born and raised in the panhandle of Florida, and except for a few years in Georgia and Texas, has lived there her entire life. For those of you not familiar with the culture of Northwest Florida, think southern Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia instead of blingin' Miami or West Palm.  It's a place where airbrush is common, mullets are still a viable style at many local barber shops, grits are always a good side choice, and southern accents are just the norm. And my mom has a great one.  It's slow, drawn out, and perfect to imitate.  In fact, I have had several friends over the years who have taken a stab at "Miz Joy's" voice because they have heard voicemail messages that go something like this: "Haaay Saaaaruh.  This is yooor Maaaawmuuuh..." or have witnessed the accent firsthand.  

A couple of years ago, my sisters, dad, and brother-in-law were in Destin around lunch time and we were looking for somewhere to eat. My mom said "how about the burritah place?" Needless to say, we all had a field day with "burrituh" and I think she secretly hopes we forget that one.  I have a pretty good feeling we won't  and I might even use it for a future kid (lil' baby Burritah) -- or at least a dog or fish name :)

For those of you who do not know my mawmuh, she is lovely, smart, creative, perceptive and funny. Rest assured, a southern accent does not equal dumbness.  In my mom's case, it just makes her even more charming, memorable, and awesome.  It would be absolutely strange and exceedingly boring if my mawmuh talked like a news anchor.  

Hopefully, this post has given you a tiny glimpse of my mom.  While her laughter and accent make her uniquely "Joy",  it has been her deep faith, abiding love, and steadfast joy that have made it an honor and a gift to be her daughter.  In both loss and abundance, she has always known whose she is, and is creating a legacy worth celebrating and repeating.  

I love you mawmuh.  Thanks for loving me well and for your continual support even though I make decisions that possibly make you antsy and even when I say "burrituh" perhaps one too many times :).

And another quick shout out to all of the other "mawmuh" figures in my life with whom God has seen fit to cross our paths either a while ago or more recently. Disclaimer: this does not mean you are old enough to actually be my mom, it just means you have loved me with your wisdom, your generosity, your humor, your home, your food, and the way you continue to believe in the Christ in me, especially during the seasons when I could not.  

Now imagine I am talking in a pageant, hostess voice: "In no particular order, these are the incredible mawmuh figures that I love, that make me better, and are all deserving of the "Mawmuh Figure of the Year 2009" award:  Beth Tomlinson, Cindy Harris, Julie Ware, Barbara Burks, Melissa Nichols, Lisa Sawyers, Kelly Evans, Jenny Pruett, Kimberly Coatney, Shelley Lucas, Mindy Beams, Amy Latham, Sheila Everett, Jessica Howard, Beyonce, Chris Martin, Jeff the Purple Wiggle, the Manatee at the Dallas Aquarium, Izzy Stevens, Blanche my fish, the cat calling lady in the apartment below us, the Somalian Pirates, and Tyra Banks."  

Perhaps you can figure out who actually made the top 14 :)

To my mawmuh and my mawmuh figures on this mother's day: 

 "Mercy, peace, and love be yours in abundance."  

Jude 1:2

Love you!

Drawing Near -- Broken Shards

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Psalm 34:18

Last fall, I worked in a corporate office as a project manager for a brief, three-month stint.  One of the projects I was always eager to manage was making the coffee in the morning.  I enjoyed having a task to focus on which I knew would result in happiness for the staff and also keep me busy with minimal human interaction until I was more fully awake.  One morning as I picked up the glass jar that held the coffee beans, to my surprise and extreme frustration, it slipped right through my hands and shattered into hundreds of tiny shards all over the laminate floor.  Nothing of the old form could be salvaged. Every part of the container was now trash.  And a few days later, the old glass container that had served its bean holding purpose well, was replaced with a sturdier, plastic canister.  The glass jar had been adequate but the plastic canister turned out to be a better option for an office environment.  It was tougher, lighter, handier, and more accessible.  And yet, I never would have realized the greatness of the replacement if it were not for the shock of brokenness.

Frequently, I find myself trying to avoid brokenness, or at the least, the appearance of it.  It leaves me exposed, humiliated, and needy - none of which sound very attractive.  And yet Christ, in his counter-cultural way, has been most apparent during my times of complete brokenness.  While enduring periods of great loss and disappointment, his gospel becomes experienced truth to me and no longer a learned religion.  Jesus draws near, and he so mercifully becomes my own.

Most often, I realize my intense need for Christ in my shattered piles of mess rather than when life is lived in the confines of my control.  A death occurs, a relationship ends, a job is lost, a disease detected - in those times where I can no longer strategically manage my life, I need to know that the God of the universe will see my shards, pick me up, and create something stronger.  His nearness and mercy hover in my brokenness, as he is faithful to fix my eyes on him and rescue me once again from the binds of my limited perspective.  

If you currently find yourself in a place of brokenness, or when you do in the future, embrace his nearness and wait for him to lift your head (Psalm 3:3). Wait for him to make you stronger (Isaiah 40:31).  Wait for him to give you the best from what appears to be shattered and only good for refuse (Isaiah 60:17). As you consider drawing near to the Lord as Easter approaches, remember that Christ came to bind up the brokenhearted (Isaiah 61:1).  And the cross was, and still is, the perfect, healing bandage for our broken shards.  Take comfort in knowing that restoration rises from brokenness and that resurrection is imminent.  Sunday is coming, my friends.  It just is.

"See, I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland."

Isaiah 43:19