Do you remember being a kid with a box of crayons and a blank sheet of paper? I remember often struggling to know what to draw. The possibilities were limitless. Choice was a challenge, but I loved the power to create, to make something where nothing was before.
Today I was thinking about words, the way we use them, and the way that words also create. I know that's a stretch, so let me try and explain. In Genesis, God spoke, and creation was born. Our words don't create in quite the same way, which is probably a good thing! When we choose to speak, we make a choice regarding the kinds of words we will use. Kind words will help nurture a relationship. Cruel words will tear down. Silence is another option. The words, or lack of, we choose influence our relationships and situation and contribute to creating what exists. Just as we choose what crayon we will pull from the box, we choose how and when to enter a situation with our words. Just as we imagine the possibilities for a sheet of paper, there are possibilities for the words we use.
Today I created with my words. I created placess where I believe my words were loving and encouraging. Today I created with my silence. I held back at times when I did not believe my words would be helpful. Today I hope I held back words that would be cruel.
Looking back into history, there are times I wish I would have spoken and times I wish I would have remained silent. There are truths left unspoken and hard words that should have been held. But the beautiful element of this art is that is it always evolving. Each day we have the opportunity to create with our words, to take the picture we worked on previously and make it more beautiful, deeper, and richer. And we have the opportunity to pick up drawings that have been set aside for time to heal and enter in once again.
Lord, may my words be words of love that encourage, heal, and bring glory to your name.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Lessons from Lizzy McGuire
It is spring break, and so I have made the trek to my hometown five hours away. Driving in is such a strange thing. I have been away for months, and yet, it feels completely natural to be here. I don’t even think about where to turn, I just know. Most days in Michigan, I still have to think. I note that several stores have new signs, and a new place has opened. Still, I am overwhelmed by the comfort and familiarity I feel here. I have been away a long time, but home is still home.
If you look carefully, you will discover that the back of my car holds a Michigan license plate. The front of my car has an Illinois plate. Illinois required that we have two plates. Michigan saves money by requiring only one. Their website states that you may have any decorative type of plate that you choose in your front license plate holder. The decoration I choose is Illinois. I claim dual citizenship. I call the place where I was born and have spent most of my life, home. I call the place where I own a house, live, and work, home.
Lizzy McGuire taught me that you could have more than one best friend. Is it also true that you can have more than one home? What does a place need to have in order to be home? Is it more about what is in the space or about the people that are in the space? I am beginning to think that you can always add places that are “home”, but can you ever take them away? Yes, circumstances can remove the comforting pieces, but the history of rootedness can never be stolen.
I have always wondered about heaven and what it will feel like to be there. Will it be like traveling to a strange town where I feel out of place? Will it be like walking into a bad hotel room where you count the days until you can leave? Maybe I ought to take my cues from my hometown. I don’t live here, but when I arrive, I am comfortable and at peace because there are roots. My roots in heaven won’t be from history of the past, but rather, they will be roots laid in place before I arrived by the One who is preparing me a place.
Friday, March 11, 2011
600 Year Old Puzzles
My friend Samuel is three, and he loves puzzles. One of his favorites contains four puzzles that fit into one wooden box. He assembles the puzzles in lighting speed. He has memorized each of the pieces and where they go.
When Samuel invites me to join him, we dump out the pieces. I begin sorting them according to the shape stamped on the back: circles are for the fire truck, squares are for the school bus. He doesn't need the stamps as cue. He knows, but he invites me to participate anyway.
I don't like puzzles. Maybe I don't like puzzles because life feels like a box of puzzle pieces that have been dumped out. Sitting in a heap, we aren't always sure where to begin. Sure the edges are easy, but after that, all bets are off. Efforts fail. We let one another down. We ask for more than people can give. We have to turn each piece over to look for the stamp, and even then, we often don't get it right. Sometimes the nightfall at the end of the day can bring peace, and other times we find ourselves holding pieces that don't seem to fit.
Julian of Norwich was an English mystic who lived 600 years ago. After a major illness, she devoted her life to prayer. In one of her writings, she penned, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well." She explains that these words came from God to her. Maybe they came on a day when the pieces didn't fit.
When God looks at the pile of pieces, God doesn't see chaos. God knows the purpose, the plan, and the path. God knows, and God sees. God sees each child fumbling with the pieces. God sees each heart's honest attempt, and God says, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
Nightfall may not bring peace because the pieces fit, but peace can come in the words of our Comforter, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
When Samuel invites me to join him, we dump out the pieces. I begin sorting them according to the shape stamped on the back: circles are for the fire truck, squares are for the school bus. He doesn't need the stamps as cue. He knows, but he invites me to participate anyway.
I don't like puzzles. Maybe I don't like puzzles because life feels like a box of puzzle pieces that have been dumped out. Sitting in a heap, we aren't always sure where to begin. Sure the edges are easy, but after that, all bets are off. Efforts fail. We let one another down. We ask for more than people can give. We have to turn each piece over to look for the stamp, and even then, we often don't get it right. Sometimes the nightfall at the end of the day can bring peace, and other times we find ourselves holding pieces that don't seem to fit.
Julian of Norwich was an English mystic who lived 600 years ago. After a major illness, she devoted her life to prayer. In one of her writings, she penned, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well." She explains that these words came from God to her. Maybe they came on a day when the pieces didn't fit.
When God looks at the pile of pieces, God doesn't see chaos. God knows the purpose, the plan, and the path. God knows, and God sees. God sees each child fumbling with the pieces. God sees each heart's honest attempt, and God says, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
Nightfall may not bring peace because the pieces fit, but peace can come in the words of our Comforter, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
An Ice Bath for Frankenstein
At times, my lack of patience calls for desperate measures. About ten days ago, I was out for a run when I wiped out on the ice. I saw the patch, slowed my pace, but nevertheless, I had an intimate moment with the pavement. I hobbled home on my sprained ankle and spent days with a Frankenstein foot (you know, that swollen stiff joint that doesn't bend). I have two running dates scheduled in the week ahead that I didn't want to cancel. I began some light exercise but still had the Frankenstein foot. In my desperate mindset to prompt healing, I remembered reading about the benefits of ice baths over tossing a bag of frozen corn on your injury. After a quick primer on the subject, I was willing to give it a shot.
Now the catch here is that I dislike cold very much. The calendar reads mid-March, and I am still wearing three shirts under my ski jacket. With at least three decades left to work, I am already planning my retirement in Florida. I don't even drink ice water, so the thought of submerging anything in ice water simply sounded dreadful, but desperation called for desperate measures. I spent twelve minutes with my ankle in an ice bath after exercising yesterday and today, and the improvement is remarkable.
To me, an ice bath is something of a dichotomy. Why would someone subject themselves to something so dreadful? Because the outcome is worth the pain.
In education, we call this concept "backmapping"(no, not causing pain... stay with me!). We begin with the end in mind. What skills or competencies do we want our students to have at the end of our time? Ok, let's work backwards to design the steps to get there. If we could figure out how to backmap our lives, we might navigate with less struggle, but we live a life without the privilege of seeing the end first or even really having the mind to understand it. Our map rests on faith while we live the ice bath. If we sat down and made a list of the dichotomies of life, we would circle the globe.
So why does God allow so much apparent contradiction? What if God allows the contrast as the ultimate general revelation? What if a broken world that displays moments of hope is the message of God's ultimate plan of redemption? What if all of the moments of hope are there to call us towards that moment of glory, encouraging us not to loose heart and never to give up hope? Scripture tells us that the rocks can testify of God's glory, so why not every dichotomy we encounter and ice baths too?
Now the catch here is that I dislike cold very much. The calendar reads mid-March, and I am still wearing three shirts under my ski jacket. With at least three decades left to work, I am already planning my retirement in Florida. I don't even drink ice water, so the thought of submerging anything in ice water simply sounded dreadful, but desperation called for desperate measures. I spent twelve minutes with my ankle in an ice bath after exercising yesterday and today, and the improvement is remarkable.
To me, an ice bath is something of a dichotomy. Why would someone subject themselves to something so dreadful? Because the outcome is worth the pain.
In education, we call this concept "backmapping"(no, not causing pain... stay with me!). We begin with the end in mind. What skills or competencies do we want our students to have at the end of our time? Ok, let's work backwards to design the steps to get there. If we could figure out how to backmap our lives, we might navigate with less struggle, but we live a life without the privilege of seeing the end first or even really having the mind to understand it. Our map rests on faith while we live the ice bath. If we sat down and made a list of the dichotomies of life, we would circle the globe.
So why does God allow so much apparent contradiction? What if God allows the contrast as the ultimate general revelation? What if a broken world that displays moments of hope is the message of God's ultimate plan of redemption? What if all of the moments of hope are there to call us towards that moment of glory, encouraging us not to loose heart and never to give up hope? Scripture tells us that the rocks can testify of God's glory, so why not every dichotomy we encounter and ice baths too?
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Old Man on Ash Wednesday
Tonight I attended the Ash Wednesday service at the local Episcopal church. It was sparsely attended, and I brought the average age in the room down considerably. Midway through the service, we were invited up to the rail to receive the ashes. Not familiar with the process of the Episcopal church, I read the information provided in my bulletin. One thing I noted was that servers were glad to come to your seat if you were physically unable to manage the five stairs leading up to the altar. Two members of the congregation visibly struggled to make the assent, and I wondered why they hadn't chosen the easier option of remaining in their seats and accepting the delivery method that was offered.
After walking carefully behind an unsteady old woman, ready to catch her on the stairs, I took my place kneeling at the altar, and in the silence as the ashes were imposed down the line, I heard a noise that was quite out of place. Having to work at deciphering what I heard, I realized it was the older gentleman who had relied on his cane crying out, "I need help!" He had worked so hard to get down on his knees to receive the ashes, but he was unable to get up. As someone nearby assisted, I began to think about the significance of his words.
Ash Wednesday is a time when we are all called to reflect on our humanity in the shadow of God's divinity, to tangibly remember that we were created from the dust and to the dust we will return, and to rest with confidence in knowing that there is more than what is before us. Lent is a humbling time when we put our perspectives back in order. And there I realized the irony of the old man's words. "I need help!" As the ashes were placed on my forehead, I found myself wanting to respond to him, "Me too!" My need for help wasn't to rise from the kneeler, but rather my need is for God to help me to fully be the person God has called me to be. As the profoundness of the old man's words settled in, I heard him speak again with a tremendous sigh of relief. "I made it!" He had stood.
Tears came to my eyes as I thought about how fitting his words were once again. I recently heard on the radio that the song, "I Can Only Imagine" was celebrating its tenth anniversary. I have always loved that song and the imagery it prompts. When my earthly life is over, and I enter into the presence of Jesus, maybe the most fitting response will be, "I made it!" Not because I had scored eternity in heaven but because the wrestling on earth between my sinful self and the person God intended will be over. The struggle to live faithfully in a broken world will end, and God will make me whole.
In your Lenten journey, may the words of the old man linger in your soul. "I need help!" because our days can be hard and heavy, but someday may we all have the privilege of saying, "I made it!"
After walking carefully behind an unsteady old woman, ready to catch her on the stairs, I took my place kneeling at the altar, and in the silence as the ashes were imposed down the line, I heard a noise that was quite out of place. Having to work at deciphering what I heard, I realized it was the older gentleman who had relied on his cane crying out, "I need help!" He had worked so hard to get down on his knees to receive the ashes, but he was unable to get up. As someone nearby assisted, I began to think about the significance of his words.
Ash Wednesday is a time when we are all called to reflect on our humanity in the shadow of God's divinity, to tangibly remember that we were created from the dust and to the dust we will return, and to rest with confidence in knowing that there is more than what is before us. Lent is a humbling time when we put our perspectives back in order. And there I realized the irony of the old man's words. "I need help!" As the ashes were placed on my forehead, I found myself wanting to respond to him, "Me too!" My need for help wasn't to rise from the kneeler, but rather my need is for God to help me to fully be the person God has called me to be. As the profoundness of the old man's words settled in, I heard him speak again with a tremendous sigh of relief. "I made it!" He had stood.
Tears came to my eyes as I thought about how fitting his words were once again. I recently heard on the radio that the song, "I Can Only Imagine" was celebrating its tenth anniversary. I have always loved that song and the imagery it prompts. When my earthly life is over, and I enter into the presence of Jesus, maybe the most fitting response will be, "I made it!" Not because I had scored eternity in heaven but because the wrestling on earth between my sinful self and the person God intended will be over. The struggle to live faithfully in a broken world will end, and God will make me whole.
In your Lenten journey, may the words of the old man linger in your soul. "I need help!" because our days can be hard and heavy, but someday may we all have the privilege of saying, "I made it!"
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