.Far More.

"Far more hinged on Abraham's obedience than he first realized. Abraham came to understand that his actions did not affect him alone, but his obedience to God would impact generations to follow."                        -- Blackaby 

What you do is not about you, nor limited to you. My actions are the stone that skips across the ponds, rivers and streams in life and makes ripples in the lives of others. The choices I made on a daily basis will influence others. It's inescapable. I've heard so many people deny this simple fact. "It's my decision," they protest. "It only affects me." Nothing could possibly be so simple, so isolated. We're creatures of community, made to be social, designed to be fully human with others who share our humanity. No single act is limited to just me. I can see my whole world through a very small lens, and yet, that doesn't limit the real consequences of my small-minded decisions.


I can walk through my day intently focused on myself, my wants, my desires. There's no shortage of people, places and things to help me along the short, broad road to selfishness. In my focus on self, I become oblivious to the needs and wants, hurts and desires of the people that I claim to "love" most. They are the ones that suffer when I make myself queen of my world. Looking down from a self-made throne gives me a false sense of superiority - when I ought to be on the ground level, looking eye to eye before kneeling down and washing the feet of those whom God has given me to love. 


All too often it is something unexpected that brings me back to seeing who I really am. The chisel slips and cuts my finger. The pain wakes me up with a sense of urgency. A cutting remark from a friend or family member suddenly shows me how careless I've been. "But I didn't mean it!" is my first defense. Is that enough to excuse me from an apology? Is the Gospel of Jesus Christ suddenly not necessary because my offense was "accidental"? Hardly. Have we cheapened the power of forgiveness because we don't believe we really need to ask for it? Guilty as charged.  (Daniel 9:8-10)


God has been chiseling away the concrete parts of my conscience, and He continues to ask for more. This is sanctification - to be in the process of becoming conformed to the image of Christ. It is a process, from one day to the next. The closer I become to Him, the more ugly and rebellious my sin becomes... and it is only my perception that is changing. The truth is, the vileness of that sin has been true all along.  Far more hinges on my obedience than I realize. The least I can do is submit myself to the work that the Holy Spirit can do - it will be far more than I can ask, think, imagine, or ever accomplish alone. 


Far more. 

.On Aging Gracefully.

Something happens when, as a young adult, you spend time in a nursing home. Especially when the person you have come to see is beloved…

Everything material melts away. All those ambitions you had for losing weight and looking better than your friends become stupid. The question of what to wear tomorrow vanishes. The self-pity that was about to swallow you shrinks back to a manageable size when you stop, and think about someone else.

Last night I had the pleasure of spending an hour at a nursing home. I had the privilege of hearing Grandma tell stories of Dad’s first piano lesson, how she used to do her hair, and all the things you can do with flowers. She is in a wheelchair now. She suffered bleeding on her brain, and has a broken pelvis. Her mental faculties have lost some of their sharpness. Her hands tremble. But she still sings the praises of our Lord.

Twice in that hour she broke into prayer, and twice she started singing hymns of praise to Jesus. Her words of faith in the midst of her pain and confusion touched and convicted my heart in a way that I needed so very much. To see my troubles as small and stupid is the best thing that could have happened to me last night. To realize that when the rest of life and all its trappings fade away, the true person is all that will be left.

Questions  linger in my mind… when it’s my turn, who will they see? Whose praises will I sing? Or will I sing at all? Is there any place where God is not, or does not see?

Grandma Badeer told me another story. It’s the one where a Christian lady goes to a Good Samaritan nursing home to recover from bleeding on her brain, and God uses her in a mighty way. “That Mrs. Badeer, she is not like the other girls,” the Skill Care Staff said, “not at all.”  

[re-posted this week, originally composed July 29, 2008]

My November Guest

"My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

She talks and I am fain to list:

She’s glad the birds are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted gray

Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,

The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But it were vain to tell her so,

And they are better for her praise."      -- Robert Frost, "My November Guest,"

We walked our little parade, dressed solemnly in black suits and ties. The ladies wore skirts and heels, wondering why they had bothered to apply the mascara that tears would soon erase. Friends and neighbors flew and drove to sit in a little chapel in Firth, NE and remember a remarkable woman of God: Miriam [Kassarjian] Badeer. We exchanged many words about her. All of them are true, yet none of them truly do her justice.

The ladies from Bible study came all the way from Omaha to remember the lady who added so much vitality and energy to their weekly group. They barely recognized me - the scrawny little girl with blunt-cut bangs that used to follow Grandma to Bible Study on Tuesdays during "cooking camp," times at her house. One woman spoke of how she had been a traveling companion to Grandma en route to a Christian Women's Conference. "Some of the things that happened at that conference were outside of my theological comfort zone," she said honestly, "but Marie always told me, "I want all that God has for me. I don't want to miss anything." She pursued God her whole life..." and then the tears broke in and stopped her briefly. 

It brought back so many memories for me, to hear the stories of others about things back in Aleppo, Syria, all the way up to her gracious attitude when she and Grandpa sold their home of 40 years and settled in GoldCrest only 10 minutes from our home. On one occasion I tagged along with Mom to go see Grandma for the first time in months. Travels had kept me out of State and away from family. I was shocked to see that her physical frailty was like I had never seen it before - she rested in a wheelchair, still smiling, praying, singing hymns when nothing else could hold her attention. She looked at me, took my hand, and said, "I want you to have the best that God can give you. Not for the glory of Noelle, but for the glory of God. We serve an awesome God."  I almost burst into tears, right there in the hallway. All the way home, I wondered what kind of faith speaks those words at the end days of life in a nursing home? And how can I cultivate that faith in my soul right now? 

I remember, too, those mornings spent in Grandma's kitchen, around the table with Grandpa and my sister Leah, reading the Bible. The day did not begin until we had opened the Bible, read aloud, done some singing and prayed for those that needed prayer. Grandma gently opened my first Bible, a little blue Precious Moments copy, and taught me how to cross-reference. Her handwriting still marks the margins of that little Bible, all over in the book of Psalms. The books that I inherited from her library are underlined with red pen where she found things pertinent to her spiritual life. I may have traded the red pen for a pencil, but those habits have become an integral part of who I am, just as they were a part of her. 

.an empty doorway and a maple leaf.

"For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf."
-- Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"


“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.”
-- William Shakespeare


Give sorrow words. But which words shall I chose? The happy words of the past or the sorrowful ones that present me every morning? Shall I tell you about her favorite Christmas dress with the little red canaries? Or should I simply weep knowing that she'll never wear it again? 

The Autumn leaves just started falling. They dance to the ground in celestial harmony, unaware of the gravestones between them. The casket, baby blue with paisley and flowers, lay silent above the ground as of yet, still and serene. The very print spoke her name to me. It is just like her. It holds her now, still and sleeping while her soul has gone on to be with her Lord. Truly, she has the better end of this deal. Now in glory with her Lord, we are left behind on this earth with remembrance, and nothing more. A pretty casket, lowered into a quiet stone vault and a headstone with her name: Miriam Kassarjian Badeer. Such is life.

There are no words to put to grief. Perhaps it's just that they haven't found me yet. Perhaps another look at the fresh dirt will bring the healing tears about. Perhaps.

Life marches on at an alarming speed. There's work to be done, people with needs, demands to be met, and promises to keep. The sun shines as though it doesn't care if it's raining in my heart. The leaves continue their divine dance through the Fall breeze, reminding me that all is not lost. The same God that orchestrates their colors and shapes has a design and plan for my brief time here on earth.Though that plan will end with my body in the grave, that is not it's goal. Life is worth the toil, grief and struggle because it is not the only thing we have to look forward to. It's only the beginning. One day, each of us will step through the doorway of death into eternity. Grandma Badeer has walked through it into glory. Hospice care and nursing homes are history. She is whole again. I cannot grieve for her, but I can grieve for the loss of her in my life. She has stepped into eternity, and those who love her are left to wait their turn.

"Life is real! Life is earnest!
        And the grave is not its goal;
    Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
        Was not spoken of the soul." 

        -- H.W. Longfellow, "The Psalm of Life,"

**Sharply Dressed Gentlemen**

"Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer, contributing to the needs of the saints, practicing hospitality." -- Romans 12:10-13

What does it mean to give preference to one another in honor? To "outdo one another in showing honor" as the literal translation reads? I picture two gentlemen, sharply dressed, standing at the doorway. Each offers the right of way to the other with equal fervency, until one of them realizes that the gracious thing to do is to walk through the door, and accept the preferential treatment. They both walk into the next room, smiling. One has given preference to the other, honoring them as valuable. What does this look like for me at the office? Does it change when I come home in the evenings to my brothers and sisters? Does preferential treatment mean that we play the games that they choose? Could it be that talking about Nancy Drew books for hours on end is part of what "giving preference" means?

Devotion has also been a source of contemplation for me recently. To think of it as a posture of my being, rather than 20 hurried minutes before work is an entirely different mode. Devotion is so much more than the last bit of time that I ungraciously offer to the Lord after a busy day. It's the attitude of my heart that will, with the help of the Holy Spirit, offer myself to Him for His purposes throughout the day and into the night. It ought to be like fragrance that sticks to me all through the day, and occasionally floats through the air so that it gets the attention of others. My heart's posture being bent before God will naturally change the out-flowing words and deeds.

What does community mean in my life right now? Who are the people in my community locally? What about nationally? What does it look like for me to cultivate a sense of meaningful community life? I have been challenged to more fully love the people in my life: family and co-workers especially. We overlook them as being standard parts of our lives, and so often ignore them as needing the same amount of love and support. Simply put, we take them for granted. 

Do you and I think about how important family is? Not often enough. They shape who we are, and yet when we come to the college stage, we want to throw them off like a garment that's out of style. This is not God's desire for my family relationships. They are the ones who will most clearly see the work that God is doing in my life. The fruit that the Spirit can bear through me will be obvious to them. They are the ones that pray for me faithfully, who love me when I'm at my ugliest, and listen to ungrateful words come out of my mouth. Father God, work in me to make my love for them equally unconditional.

Thanks be to God. He is ever so willing to change and sanctify me into His own glorious likeness. It is I who must, like the smartly dressed gentlemen, open the door.

Feminism Hurts...

  ...Our love lives, among other things. It’s snake-like deceptions have crept into every area of life. The workplace is where we’d like it to be - sitting on a thousand desks looking like Doctoral degrees, shiny medals and trophies for intellectual achievements. We think that it’s separate. Surely it’ll sit content on the desk with my “good as a man” trophies and leave home life alone. Like a Starbucks latte, it carries me through the day and gets me to the end of the tunnel - 5:00p.m. and my evening of freedom. Or better yet, the weekend off with the love of my life. I’ll “switch gears,” and be the girl of his dreams as soon as I slip into a little black dress and a sultry smile.  Isn’t that how this is supposed to work?

Recently I’ve been giving thought to the many subtle ways in which feminism speaks to us. It whispers in our ears more often than the Gossip in the cubicle next to you at work. The sad thing is, because it’s not as annoying as s/he might be, most of us don’t notice. We soak it up like the sunshine - thinking it’s good for us.  Has Feminism really delivered the goods it promised us as women? Are we liberated? Are we truly free to be truly feminine and truly equal?  I don’t think so.

In a sense, Feminism has defeated its chief goal. By assuming that women are not equal as long as they are different in purpose (and design) than men, it’s made “equality” and “femininity” mutually exclusive. What’s a girl to do? Most of us become as much like men as possible, and wait for the applause of other “powerful” women across the globe. In the meantime, we shuffle home from the daily grind at the office to switch roles and be good wives and moms during those few evening hours. In an effort to have it all, Feminism has given women nothing more than all the confusion, hurt, depression and isolation that comes with chasing the shadows of something we can never be.

In the process, women have suffered in their relationships, too. Life is not a stage, and all the people actors on it. We’re simply not satisfied with having to change our colors and character for every situation - be it work, home, date night, or mothering. In an effort to be all things to all people, we’re left feeling like who we truly are will never be enough.  Feminism has made women promises that it can’t keep, and it’s casualties are the women and children it professes to care the most about.  Consider this clip from “How Feminism Hurt Our Love Lives,” by Dr. Wendy Walsh:

“In some ways, we are too independent. For, we have lost the art of being interdependent.
I think the whole feminist movement is a bit of a misnomer anyway -- feminism didn’t liberate femininity. Feminism liberated masculine energy in women. It was a masculinist movement. This is a good thing. Because of masculism, er, I mean feminism, we can now procure income in the male dominated marketplace and buy ourselves any kind of life we want. Those of us who aren’t completely fulfilled baking cookies can now choose to fly jets, put out fires, or handcuff bad guys. We can also look for a cure for cancer, design computer programs, and sink basketballs, if those things suit our fancy.

“But make no bones about it, feminism did not liberate femininity. In fact, I think it did the opposite. It pushed femininity in the closet, turning feminine traits into embarrassingly weak elements of our personality -- a side that we began to show to fewer and fewer people.”  


Ladies, this is the tragedy of feminism. In an age where a woman can become Speaker of the House, and run for President of the United States, we still can’t understand why we’re unhappy. Our career choices are more easily made than the more important one of who we’ll spend the rest of our life with. We hide our feelings, keep the frilly, pretty things at home in the closet (they’re not professional enough), wear the pants and play tough in a “man’s world.” When the lights go out at the end of the day, we cry ourselves to sleep. Why? Because this isn’t what we were made to do. And we’re too ashamed to let anyone else see who we really are... afraid that they’ll see some shade of womanhood that isn’t fit for the title of CEO.

Feminism hurts. Let’s turn the tide so that women are free to be feminine again; free to be what God created us to be: different, but equal.

raindrops are falling on my head...

It clouds up, then the humidity comes and builds up to a lovely little sprinkle. Then comes the rain in sheets on the velvet green carpet of grass on the Capitol lawn. The day lilies drink up the water they've been waiting for with eagerness in their leaves. The ground is refreshed, the sun comes out again and everything is roses. The air smells sweet like rainwater and flowers. To wait through the rain with an umbrella, dressed in a trench coat seems only normal. We even complain about the wet dreariness and the sloppy shoes that accompany the drizzle. But to get lost in the dark and damp is to miss it's purpose; the grander scheme of things that stay beautiful, healthy and iridescent because the rain falls.

Sometimes the sky becomes a mirror for our emotions. We know well how to hide them from the rest of the world, but it feels free. Standing over the earth in majesty, it weeps some days. The night comes, and the moon guards the dark sky alongside thousands of brilliant stars. He calls them all by name. Then He brings the sun up the next morning, and all His mercies are new.

"The LORD is righteous in [Israel's] midst, He will do no unrighteousness. Every morning He brings His justice to light, He never fails..."  

"The LORD your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing."                                                                                         - Zephaniah 3:5, 17

<(( Lessons from the Lines of Charlotte Bronte ))>

“The loneliness of [Miss Mann's] condition struck her visitor in a new light; as did also the character of her ugliness, - a bloodless pallor of complexion, and deeply worn lines of feature. The girl pitied the solitary and afflicted woman; her looks told what she felt: a sweet countenance is never so sweet as when the moved heart animates it with compassionate tenderness...Reader! When you behold an aspect for whose constant gloom and frown you cannot account, whole unvarying cloud exasperates you by its apparent cause-lessness, be sure that there is a canker somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply corroding because it is concealed.”                                                            -- From "Shirley," by Charlotte Bronte, page 174

We wear the mask. Some days, we'll wear any mask at all that will hide the real things below. The insecurities of this physical life catch us and threaten to choke hold unless we find a solution - and quickly. We paint our faces, cinch waistlines, and smile when our hearts are breaking. The cankers still corroding, we laugh and make merry, certain that what is out of sight can do no harm. If only that were really true. 

The wit and wisdom of Charlotte Bronte is worth reading. Hiding, as it were, behind the pages of her books, she feels at liberty to divulge the secrets of her characters. They're only human, after all. They struggle, hurt, search and find just like we do. They hold onto the wrongs suffered and let them corrode into physical ailments, just like we do. They're fallen human beings, just as we are. The beauty of literary observation is that it's impersonal. To point out the flaws of a fictional character is easy. Far easier than seeing the cankers in our own hearts. Perhaps one thing can lead to another. To put myself in her shoes allows me to see myself with her flaws; to feel what she feels; to be subject to searching out those same things in the depths of my own heart.   {Luke 6:45; Matthew 12:34}

To be honest, I was disappointed to read a happy ending on the last page of "Shirley." Maybe it's because the rest of the book tasted so real in comparison. The struggles and heartaches and frustrations of life can feel so much more intense than joy - and why? Because I focus on the wrongs suffered. 1 Corinthians 13 love has yet to take full root in my heart and actions - I'm still keeping score. There's a canker there... and it's not any less destructive because no one can see. 

My friends, there is a happy ending, and it's beautiful. The story of redemption is wrought with suffering, death, sin, heartbreak and pain. But there's more... there's a happily ever after: being in the Redeemer's presence for all eternity. Like the hero who stoops down and saves Caroline from a life of loneliness and poverty, Christ has paid a high price for our righteousness, peace, joy, and redemption. It's not any less real because it's wonderful. In fact, the beauty of the deep, dark times of life is that they provide a dramatic contrast to the truly joyful ones. 

"O, cease to heed the glamour
That blinds your foolish eyes,
Look upward to the glitter
Of stars in God's clear skies.
Their ways are pure and harmless
And will not lead astray,
Bid aid your erring footsteps
To keep the narrow way.
And when the sun shines brightly
Tend flowers that God has given
And keep the pathway open
         That leads you on to heaven."      

 

- R. Frost, "God's Garden,"

__ The Great Unknowns __

THE GREAT UNKNOWNS - at nytimes.com 

 

On this Memorial Day, let's not forget the fallen. They are the brave men who answered when the draft board called, volunteered for valor, fought to the best of their ability, and finally answered the call of destiny when the number of their days was up. Before they were laid to rest, they laid their friends in shallow graves. The glamor that we imagine to be part of their service still hasn't become reality for many of them. Men who served in Korea and Vietnam still hang their heads in {false} shame for having fought in unpopular wars. They are the true heroes- who hide their uniforms in musty closets and hang Old Glory where every eye can see it. 

What soldier is on your heart this Memorial Day? How will you pay tribute? 

Vacation: during which, I have time to read good books and catch up on the art of reflection

I am sequestered in the mountains of New Mexico. The cabin is tucked up in them, all cozy and protected from the rush of the daily grind. Ten minutes walk will find you at a trail head that shoots strait up the mountain. The ski slopes are green, but empty, taking their time to rejuvenate in the off-season. Walking through the little grocery in town, I wonder if people who live in the mountains are on vacation all the time. Their cavalier attitude about weather, appearance, schedule, and achievement is unique to them. The mountains certainly have an effect on us.

 The quiet and slowness of life here is absolutely refreshing. I've come to the end of a book in less than a week, and found it a wonderful stretch of the mind. All the clutter and noise, gossip and silliness that comes with office life is thirteen hours North. I couldn't be happier to have escaped it for a week. It's stunning to be able to hear myself think again. The cobwebs in my mental attic are in desperate need of clearing, and it's time for spring cleaning.

The theme of my musings this week has been directed by, "The Holiness of God," by R.C. Sproul. He takes a difficult and unpopular subject and drives it straight into your heart with the skill of a storyteller. It's been like a draught from a cool, clear spring to study the truth of his words after hearing the silly complaints and kerfuffles of a society that doesn't think deep thoughts about God. Unfortunately, when I step back and reflect on it, I can see how the sinister deceptions of the evil one have snuck into "Christian" society. We have a total mis-understanding of who God is, and who we are in comparison. Thus, we accuse Him of things that He is not to blame for. I am guilty as charged. How about you?

Here's an excerpt for you to chew on:

"One thing is certain: No matter how much injustice I have suffered from the hands of other people, I have never suffered the slightest injustice from the hand of God." 
"We may wrestle with the Holy One. Indeed, for the transforming power of God to change our lives, we must wrestle with Him. We must know what it means to fight with God all night... to know what it means to experience the sweetness of the soul's surrender."        

"I will receive only justice or mercy from God. I never receive injustice from His hand. We may request that God help us get justice at the hands of other people, but we would be utterly foolish ever to ask Him for justice from Himself." 


How have I confused justice and mercy? Am I guilty of projecting human faults on a Holy God? How can I correct my understanding of grace and justice? What should my attitude be in receiving the grace of God when I deserve justice?

All these questions will follow me as I reflect on the things of eternity this week. Won't you join me?

*>>> Toccoa Falls College *>>>

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not;

Remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”

                                                            Epicurus quotes (Greek philosopher, BC 341-270)

    Dear Friends, I am going. The college ambition, dream, and goal, is coming into view. It's just over the next hill. I have registered for classes, and now all that remains is for me to come to the end of May and crack open the textbooks. 

    I stepped off the plane, and the humidity enveloped me in an entirely new atmosphere. My first trip to Georgia began with a drive through the rolling hills that lead to the Appalachians, down to Toccoa Falls College. Yes, Reader, the college is named for the exquisite waterfall on campus. It stands as high and majestic as Niagara, but not quite so wide. The rushing, bubbling sounds can be heard on the next hill, from the porch swing at the Forrest Guest House. The quiet that comes from the gurgling stream all throughout campus is tangible. Walking through the brightly colored azalea bushes seems so normal; they smile and sing as you make the trek to chapel. Wordless though they be, they declare their Maker's praise. 

    Aside from the natural beauty of Georgia, there were many other interesting things along the way. We traveled to Athens on Sunday and attended The University Church, saw the famous tree that owns itself, and made a few wrong turns. From there, we marveled at the splendor of Anna Ruby Falls and that silly little "Swiss" town, Helen, GA. Even Wendy's looks like something straight from the Alps when you're in Helen. I half expected to see mountain goats prancing up and down the streets... but they never actually appeared.

    Sunday evening the TFC Drama Club put on an excellent production of, "The Importance of Being Earnest," by Oscar Wilde. The set paled in comparison to the caliber of acting on the stage. It was so well done, in fact, that Dr. Williams and I stopped by to see Act II [again] during the final performance. The cast party was rowdy, fun, and most of the characters still had their British accents intact. In a school of eight-hundred students, the drama club allows anyone with interest to be part of the action. As a natural consequence, the whole group was enthusiastic, dramatic, and excited to meet a fellow drama-person. They adopted me into their circle right away. I instantly felt that I was at home. 

A Grave Matter {part two}

 The sun shone with the yellow glow of Spring today - all the grass is suddenly green, and the tulips will be blooming any day now. Grandpa bought each grandchild a plant as a parting gift when Grandma passed away almost a year ago. The cheerful yellows and pinks last May seemed irreverent on that rainy day of the funeral. We donned trench coats and wore eyes red with tears standing next to the grave-site. Now the curly green leaves are popping up through the soil that's been bathed in sunlight. Soon the flowers will bloom again. Though nascent, that life will soon be testifying to the new birth of the season, and the hope of resurrection. 

 Today, on Easter Sunday, we celebrate the physical, historical resurrection of our LORD. More than something that brings a smile and a tear on the holiday itself, the resurrection gives us a real hope. The Scripture is replete with the promise of the life to come; it goes so far as to tell us that the real point of living IS eternity. It is the world [and it's prince] that have taught us to repeat the lies of materialism, body-worship, idol-worship, defeatism, hopelessness, depression, and everything that comes with those Evildoers. The Greeks taught us to think that the next life is something completely mystical - a sort of haze that the spirit will enter and fly around in - and resemble the sunday school images of golden roads and glory so bright you'll grasp for sunglasses. Since they believed the body to be a sort of painful bondage that they spirit is packaged in, the emphasis has slipped completely onto the spiritual man, leaving the body to return to the dust.

But aren't we missing something? 

Didn't Mary see Jesus after his death and burial in His body? Didn't Thomas put his hands where the nails had pierced? It was no accident that the prophecy of Psalm 2 was fulfilled in His bodily resurrection: He did not undergo decay. He ascended into the heavens instead, where He now sits at the right hand of the Father Almighty. 

"For if we have become united with Him in the likeness of His death, certainly we shall be like Him in His resurrection.."                Romans 6:5

 We're so good at religious visualization. We see Christ on the cross, dying an agonizing death for us, as the only One who could satisfy the wrath of a Holy God.  Can we see Him outside the empty tomb? Do we picture Him victorious, seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty? Friends, we ought to. For that is where He is right now, at this moment.

He has conquered the grave! That is the blessed news of Easter, beloved of God. What does that mean for you and I when we wake up to a new day? The sun will shine down, smiling on the green grass, and those curly little greens will send up shoots that will bloom in beauty. The tulips tell the Easter story, too. Are you listening?

^"Therefore, my brethren, you also were made to die to the Law through the body of Christ, so that you might be joined to another, to Him who was raised from the dead, in order that we might bear fruit for God."                    Romans 7:4 

A Grave Matter {part one}

One day {soon}, the mist of our lives will vanish. The puff of smoke that is my daily grind will float away and disappear. Life here on this earth will be over... in the blink of an eye. The shell that is the physical body will be buried on "Blue Hill," and I'll join the millions that have gone on before, their bodies buried beneath rugged headstones. The oldest ones are covered in moss, and you can hardly read the names anymore. Such is our fate, friend. A single glance in the mirror will confirm that we're getting older; we're slowly marching toward that great day, when we'll stare eternity in the face.

 For now, most of us are content to pretend that such a day will never come. "I've got plenty of time," you say to yourself, "I'm just getting started! They say I've got my whole life to live yet..." and we run off to entertain ourselves. The latest fashion, the newest gadgets, the coolest cell phones, or that favorite TV show are so much more tantalizing than your little sister who needs quality time, the package that you've been meaning to send to a friend, that 30 minutes you said you'd spend reading the Word.

What are the things {words, thoughts, deeds} that will last for eternity?

And what things {popular, material, worldly} are the hay and stubble of this life?

Driving through town in a whirl, I couldn't help but notice the cemetery. The headstones all lined up, looking solemn in the fog and rain. They have something to say to me: the struggles and frustrations of today won't last forever. The stuff of life isn't all there is. The wild-goose chase of the nine to five job is not something you do for it's own sake. To earn money to spend on pretty things is missing the point. You can't take it with you.

To hear those words echo in my head has been healthy. Indeed, if life is nothing more than the daily stuff we grind through down here, we have no reason to do anything but sorrow, and look for pleasure while it may be found. The good news is, there's more. Much more.


"Our personal relationship with the Father through our union with Christ is not only what makes us live forever; it is also what  makes it worthwhile to live that long."          -- Dr. Donald Williams, "Credo," pg. 120

I have an announcement to make...

*ahem*

Contrary to everything you’ve heard, Valentine’s Day is not about diamonds. “I knew that,” you retort. “It’s about roses and chocolate.” Try again. “Kissing your sweetheart? A romantic evening? Giant teddy bears clutching hearts? Getting a dinner date?” Nope.

Let me help you out here. After all, it’s hard to hear a still, small voice while the world screams at you. It’s no wonder we’re so confused. Our heads are buried in media, while the truth lies hidden in the Word of God, sitting comfortably on a nearby shelf.

Today is not an annual contest to see who has the most flowers on their desk at work. Nor is it a day for attached women all over the globe to smirk at those lonely girls walking past them in the hallway. No, it’s not even an appointed night where God magically allows self-pity, tears, and misery for those who are still single “according to His will,” as they will tell you. They are simply ‘bearing their cross,’ they say, sniffling. Or are they victims of the commercialization of ‘love’?

The world, and it’s prince, would LOVE for you to feel that God is cruel in keeping you single. If you have *finally* found that someone that God was *hiding* from you in years past, beware the discontentment that will surely find you. The nagging comments and wagging heads that say, “What will he do for you? When will you see him? Has he sent you flowers yet? Do you have a ring???” And in between those questions is the undeniable, underlying message, strait from the prince of the power of the air himself: nobody loves you. Not even Him. Take this gray dot** and sulk your way home for another evening of nothing, boring, lonely and gray. Watch the freezing rain freeze on your windshield, and let your dreams go with it. In my eyes, you’ll never be anything without the accolades and flirtations of men. One is not enough. Words are not enough. Flowers are not enough. Believe you me ~ his message is loud and clear. I know you’ve heard it.

But I come to plead with you… there is a better LOVE. There is a love which is true, pure, simple and demonstrated to us centuries ago, as much as it is today, right now, at this moment. It does not buy diamonds, or flowers, or sparkling hallmark cards with witty, mushy poems inside. Nor does it drive you to the movies, buy you a venti chai latte, and spend the evening locking you in a dreamy gaze. His love paints the orange and purple sunsets in the summer evenings, grows whole fields of unique wildflowers in their time, lights up the night sky with brilliant stars, and sprinkles each unique snowflake to the ground. It grants me breath for another sunrise, gives me strength for another conflict, and numbers the hairs on my head. It was His love for me that sent His most beloved Son to redeem my wicked soul. And if I close my eyes, shut out the screams of the world, and listen, I can still hear…

“I have loved you with an everlasting love.

Therefore, I have drawn you with lovingkindness.”

                                                                      Jeremiah 31:3

You and I have a choice to make. We can believe the truth of the Word of God, and allow His peace to rule in our hearts, bringing contentment. OR, we can pout, flirt, wonder, hope, dramatize, and wish for some, any material demonstration of that which will earn us a gold star** in the eyes of the ‘competition’ around us.

At this point, I know what you’re thinking. “It’s not that simple! What about the lonely feelings? What about the desires I have that are still ungratified? Doesn’t He want me to look cool to my friends? Doesn’t He know that I won’t understand His love until I’m IN LOVE?? How cruel is God anyway?”

That is not the question before us today. What is Valentine’s Day truly about? Material goods, social acceptance, and lingerie? Or is it about our heart attitude before a holy God?

I’ve made my decision. Now, it’s your turn.

** The grey dot and the gold star references are made in reference to Max Lucado’s story, “You are Special,” in which the little wooden people give grey dots for bad things that happen, and gold stars for talent, accomplishment, etc. Republished from an original 2008 essay.

.<.Re-purpose.>.

An old Scottish tweed blazer becomes a stylish shoulder bag. Scraps of wool become a topiary of cute little roses. A pillowcase becomes a 10-minute apron or a sundress for a little girl. You can even take ugly sheets and make yourself a tank-top! Aren't we clever? In the name of green, we've figured out ways to turn everything old into something new.  It's called "Re-purpose."

While sifting aimlessly through clever and crafty blogs, it struck me: What if we thought about ideas and consequences the same way? What if we spent the idle hours pondering how to re-purpose old hurts and scars (not simply cutting them up, making a few stitches, and then disguising them)?

What do you intend to do with those old things you're keeping? What goal do they help you to achieve? Where do they take you? Could they be re-made, re-purposed, redeemed? What prevents you from submitting them to a radical make-over?

When the past comes knock-knock-knocking at my door, I'm always surprised. But what part of it is really unexpected? Or is it just that I desperately want an escape? I'm on the run... confident that I've turned enough corners that the little black bandit called history can't find me. Ha. Outsmarted him again, I think to myself. And then he pops up underneath the bed; sitting next to me on a window seat in a sunny hallway; peering at me from the corners of the Capitol. It is I who play the fool when I can't see him behind me, following. "Wait your turn!" I want to say in a scolding tone. But it's only the running that keeps me busy. It's the present that I've chosen to pause, under the clever disguise (a black cloak) of "moving on."

It's time to re-purpose. I scan the black cloak that he's wearing and note that it would make a lovely shoulder bag. Even better, a shroud for all the dreams of the past year that have died. They must have a proper burial so that new ones can be born. It's my turn to chase HIM.

Tearing the cape off of his back, suddenly, he melts away. Looking all about me, suspecting that he's still watching, I look here and there. Nothing. He's gone again. Clutching the cape, I start cutting, trimming, stitching, shaping... his disguise has become a lovely little black pocket for keeping things where they ought to be kept - in a little grave at the foot of an old wooden cross.

Like John Bunyan's Pilgrim, I must approach the cross, kneel, and let the weight fall off my back. The sin and pains must be let go of - so they can become something new: forgiveness, peace and redemption. It's time to re-purpose.

What are you waiting for?

"And the joke, or tragedy, of it all is that these golden moments in the past, which are so tormenting if we erect them into a norm, are entirely nourishing, wholesome, and enchanting if we are content to accept them for what they are, for memories. Properly bedded down in a past which we do not miserably try to conjure back, they will send up exquisite growths. Leave the bulbs alone, and the new flowers will come up. Grub them up and hope, by fondling and sniffing, to get last year's blooms, and you will get nothing.

"Unless a seed die..."   {"Letters to Malcom, Chiefly on Prayer," by C.S. Lewis, Pg. 27}

    Walking through fields of memories, I can't help but hope for yesterday's blooms. The sticks are dead, brown, lying on the ground in a trampled mess. How I miss the fragrant blooms of yesterday... blowing in the breeze, waving at me as though the flowers and leaves were saying hello after a long absence. "I'm back!" I want to shout. "Where are you?" The cold winds of winter are my only answer. After the chill, the snow comes gently falling, falling, dancing to the ground in an unsung melody. The tears gather up in my eyes and start to spill over and run down my cheeks. The snow is covering my once beautiful flowers. There's no hope of revival, is there? I'm watching the white flurries cover them like a slow, gradual burial. They are dead and gone.

    Is the death the real tragedy? Or is the real affliction my hopes of conjuring up the past again? I wish for better times... the winds of Summer, the warmth and green of Spring, the newness of everything that blooms when all the frost is gone. Don't the best things happen when you're walking through fields of flowers? When all the world is coming up roses? I'd even settle for cut roses in an ugly vase. Any reminder will do. Any little bridge to the past will suffice. Any sort of escape to "the good old days," will please me.

    The thorns never stay amidst the memories of a rosy past. The prick and poke sharply enough in the present, but memory has a way of cutting them clear off the stems. All that's left for a grieving heart is the beauty and fragrance of the rose. Nothing more, nothing less. "What's the danger in that?" I question. Don't you wonder, too?

    Wishing for nothing more than the glory days of the past is the cunning, deft little thief that has stolen many good hours from me. Good hours, full of potential in the present. Here, NOW. The door to the flowers, sunshine and glories of 2010 stands open to me, and I can do nothing but lie at the door of 2008 and weep. The tears have blinded my eyes. The memories have dominated everything that lies before me. It's time to move.

  
     "Return to your rest, O my soul, For the LORD has dealt bountifully with you. For You have rescued my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.
            I shall walk before the LORD in the land of the living."      {Psalm 116:7-9}

.Grandmother's Pearls.

They came all the way from Spain. The clasp is a larger pearl, on top of a golden piece of metal that clicks happily when you fasten it. There's a necklace and a small bracelet that leaves just the right amount of wiggle room when you click it onto your wrist. These are my grandmother's pearls.

Yesterday morning I stretched my elastic string of faux pearls out and slipped them over my head. I stepped back to survey the fashion of the morning - a red antique sweater topped off a high-wasted black pencil skirt and heels. The cashmere, appliqued red sweater has seen so much... it was a little-worn purchase of my great-grandmother. I've worn it into the world of politics now, and it has more stories to tell. A sigh escaped my lips. One more day of budget debate ahead.

Mom popped her head in, surveyed my outfit, and mentioned something about it being time to "pass on the pearls." She returned, smiling, with a red jewelry box, stamped with an elegant seal. It sprung open to reveal a string of pearls... and a bracelet to match. Their elegance and shine betrayed that elastic string around my neck as a ridiculous, $5.00 fake. I was delighted to surrender them for the real thing.

Grandma and Grandpa are in a nursing home now. Some days are wonderful, and some are filled with confusion, dimentia, and frustration. Her brothers came to visit last week, for one last time. I wear the pearls around my neck because she can't enjoy them anymore. That string of shine makes me feel like such a princess; a real daughter of a real God who delivered my family from the Armenian Genocide.

Those pearls from Spain are so much more than an accessory to me... they're a remembrance of the work of the LORD in the life of Miriam Kassarjian Badeer so far... and all His kind intentions for the future.