Witness

To be a witness does not involve engaging propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist. ~ Cardinal Emmanuel Suhard

I walked four miles every day in high school. Every day, I walked past this "dinosaur". From the road, it looked exactly like a brontosaurus. For some reason, this abandoned machine became part of the visual history of my childhood. I was thrilled when I drove by my old house on my 31st birthday and saw that it was still in the field, still surrounded by the melting shapes of old round bales.

Something not particularly beautiful nor particularly ugly, yet somehow symbolic of a forgotten joy. It didn't speak to me, except to stand a timeless witness of a bygone era. The rusting steel and grayed plating, the stays frayed and tired holding their burden for decades. The combines of my own time were bigger, grander, greener. This piece of ancient machinery was somewhat of a mystery: why leave it like that, in the middle of a field? It wasn't part of the usual farm graveyard. It stood alone, always surrounded by those mouldering round bales. Silent. A witness.

My life of late is the dinosaur in the middle of the field. Aaron and I have no more explanation for the way our life has gone than those questioning us have answers. There are days when I seriously wish there were some kind of refund policy on what I've been issued! I don't like my life that much lately, much less love it. Whereas Christ shouldered His cross out of love, I shoulder mine begrudgingly, simply because it is the cross that is set before me. One foot in front of the other. I barely have time to grieve the losses that are entailed. I am just stepping forward. And, most of the time, I seem to be dragging this cross of illness along with me.

It is hard to know whether you're being an effective witness. I get the feeling that our life experience sometimes has the opposite effect...I know it does for me! Where is God, when life collapses like this? Is He listening? Does He have a plan? What I long for is that my life would be lived in such a way that it is impossible to deny God's hand in it. I feel like I am still figuring this out: does the testimony of my life make it impossible to deny God's existence? Or does it make God's mercy and love seem improbable? I pray that, by the story's end, I can firmly say my life reflected His mercy and love. When I am tempted to have a pity party, and tell God I hate my life right now, it is this desire that stops my tongue. Make me a star, God. Please, make me a star.

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life... (Philippians 2:14-16)

Raising insiders or outsiders?

"...those who hide in a separate Christian subculture lose the ability to communicate effectively with those who are outside. We grow more and more fearful and suspicious of those outside the camp, until we slowly begin to think of them as a hostile 'other' whom we must destroy, rather than broken and exiled parts of our own selves, whom we are commanded by God to heal and restore." ~ Eric Metaxas, quoted in Mission to Metropolis

I would argue that the message of Christ is summarily lost if we abandon the culture in which we are planted. Ahh, the familiar tightrope: how to be sufficiently different as to pique interest and stand out from a crowd, yet sufficiently conformist to understand the rules and customs of the crowd and relate effectively within it? What amazes me is that the grace of God, as in all else, blurs the borders of acceptable human choice in this matter.

Case in point: I was raised without a TV or popular music exposure, reading the King James Bible, singing hymns centuries old, in a house devoid of immodest clothing, contemporary gender roles, tattoos, or alcohol. Yet the joy of the Spirit shone through brilliantly: my mother's impromptu operettas while housecleaning, head banging without music in the woods with my brothers as we celebrated the wind through the trees, my father's jazz instrumentals floating on the summer wind as he typed a paper, or the crack and fizz of a ball game on the radio to the rhythm of his maul while he chopped wood. I was on the edge of that fine line, the different edge. Homeschooled, long haired, meek and mild, shy, passionately opinionated, aggressively evangelical. Somehow that upbringing translated easily and seamlessly to who I am today: blues-loving, beer-tasting, pants-wearing, dancing at weddings and blaring French hip hop for our morning dance-off in the living room - and loving Christ, passionately, wholly, through all those joys and pleasures.

Indeed, His grace is sufficient (II Corin. 12:9). Although I don't think we should isolate ourselves in the hallowed enclaves of our temples (or our homes or communities of faith), we must remember that we serve a great, tenaciously soul-seeking God who will not let us stand in the way of His glory. He will use the loose-living Christian and the strict fundamentalist to reach totally different groups of people, most likely. Mark Driscoll, the "cussing preacher", boasts a following of tattooed machismo that would never be caught dead in the quiet halls of the Lutheran church down my country road. Yet the seventy year old farmer's wife who attends there would never sit quiety by while her pastor swore from the pulpit. I am reminded, as I contemplate how to raise my children, that Christ has a purpose and plan already laid out for these young ones I tend. He knows whether their mission field is blues festivals or the Navigators, family members or the far-flung poor in some distant nation. As I live out my faith in the confines of these four walls, illuminate an example of grace for their innocent eyes, I hope that they learn both the power of Christ in my weakness as well as the freedom of Christ that redeems us from silly human ideals.

For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery. Galatians 5:1

Confusion

I am in a confusing place this morning. Doctors say my cancer may have metastasized. With bad news, I hear other Christians exhorting me to pray and I will be healed. God says that in the end, it won't matter anyway. What do I do, as a praying woman, a studying woman, a woman with faith, a woman with doubt? On one hand, I hear the words of Jesus...
"Have faith in God. I tell you the truth, if anyone says to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and does not doubt in his heart but believes that what he says will happen, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours." (Mark 11)

Yet Paul's experience echoes larger than life from the other hand...
There was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. (II Corinthians 12)

Have faith, it can happen.
Have faith, it may not happen.
Have faith, it will be wiped away in eternity.

I, this praying woman, this studying woman, this faith-filled woman, this doubting woman...I focus tenaciously on my tasks at hand. Teach Amelia about grace, about omnipresence, about sacrificial love. Teach Rosalie about unconditional love, duty, blessing. Teach Katrina about kindness, compassion, teach her to read. Teach Caleb about self-motivation, temper control, show him the face of the Divine through motherly love. Make a home, keep a home. Persevere in school. For if I abandon the tasks at hand for prayer for my future, what use to Christ am I?

Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. (II Corinthians 1)

When I think about the Lord,
How he saved me, how he raised me,
How he filled me with the Holy Ghost,
How he healed me to the uttermost;

When I think about the Lord,
How he picked me up and turned me around,
How he placed my feet on solid ground,

It makes me wanna shout,
“Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus!”
Lord, you’re worthy of all the glory,
And all the honor, and all the praise.
When I Think About the Lord

New parallels

Mother with children, blush of new cheeks, young skin, florid, ripe. Savoring joy in moments like shards of glass left in a broken mirror, reflecting beauty in their brokenness. Handing over mortality and receiving back laughter and a million sensory pleasures. Mother, maybe dying? yet loving, yet joyful.
::
Mary, so many Christmas mornings past, Jesus lying before her, young, ripe, beautiful...mortal. The fragrance of burial spices hovering over the toddler, born to die. Handing over mortality and receiving back Divine Son for thirty years of a million sensory pleasures. Mothering Him. Holy child, suffering woman. Pushing back destiny for present joy.


Grandmother savors Christmas moments, revels in joy on the Eve of the Savior's birth. Gives over daughter with heartbreak and lament, tears herself away to praise God in new ways. Lingers in the explosion of exuberance over tiny momentary blessings. Turns willfully away from a soul of suffering to a spirit of thanksgiving.
::
Another Mary archetype. Given a child to enjoy, then given an expiration date. Nay, not even a date...just a warning. Born to die. Mary packs the myrrh away, and teaches her child to walk. Enjoys the deepening of His voice as He transforms from boy to man. Tends His wounds from thorns and the bite of the whip. Walks in agony up the rocks of Calvary, anguish and praise coexistent.

Wind-swept field, viewed from my kitchen window, snow blown like waves in the sunshine, frozen in time. My heart feels crystalline, bare, polished, exposed, like the field.
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Christ-ones the world over, century upon century, realizing the breadth of their sacrifice. Swept bare by evil, death, suffering. Glittering in the icy sunlight. Beauty in bareness.

Fruit standing on the dry vine in a winter field, waiting for spring. Soldiers guarding precious stores, waving stiff in the December wind. Stiff like my mind as it unwraps from longed for vision of the future, and reshapes to a new reality.
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my Bible, dead and alive at once, Word of God standing like a dry, seed-covered stalk, waiting for a breath of warmth in my soul.


Father's hand extended, toddler gripping index finger. Her tiny fingernails are white as she holds on tight, walking a new balance beam with which her chubby feet are unfamiliar. Father slows his step to match hers and never lets go. She looks down at the oak of the beam, concentrating on every step. He looks ahead, keeping track of her progress.
::
A new beam is underfoot: I think there might be splinters, pain; that it might end before I get a chance to perfect my skill; that I might fall off the side, unsure of my footing. Eyes squeezed shut, I raise a hand tentatively for my Father. Know He sees the end of the beam. I keep looking down, putting one foot after another.

Why write?

Intending to be purposeful about more of the little details of my tasks in each day, I've been thinking about this particular work a lot. Why write a blog? What's the purpose in that? "Blogging" does, in fact, make life a bit more awkward at times. Inviting people - friends and complete strangers alike - to read your journal can lead to some interesting social moments. The underlying truth that propels me forward in this endeavor is the fact that intimacy is of Christ. The woman at the well, the adultress about to be stoned, even infamous Judas Ischariot...all were allowed to be deeply intimate, in a short time, with Christ...His thoughts, feelings, and resolute choice to follow the Father, whatever suffering that choice brought.

And so I, taking up my unique cross at this tentative juncture of my life, make my thoughts, feeling, and resolute choice to follow the Father transparent. I invite the world to inspect my victories, and my shortcomings, and to see my answer to everyone who asks me to give the reason for the hope that I have (I Peter 3:15). I write partly because I do not want to disappear into the void if I die from this cancer. I want something of this struggle to remain, especially for my children. I don't want to be another tragic story, I want to be a story of victory and glory for God. I want to be sure that my children know that about me. I also write to heal, to process, to examine my heart. If I write it out, it is laid bare in a new way, before both God and man. And I pray, with David, Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. (Psalm 139:23-24).