Midweek: A Cinderella Story (2014)

This month it was seventeen years since my prince and I said our I dos. Not much longer before that I accepted the I do of the Prince and offered my own. Seventeen years is certainly not a record --in either case; but I love hearing of those special, almost lifelong celebrations, especially when the news is accompanied by images of two frail clasped hands in an epic love story, or a litany of souls won for the Kingdom of God. I know it was my reluctance to be made one with the Prince of Peace that caused me to remain in ashes, but praise Him for His mercy and grace, His forbearance and power that has allowed me to celebrate my life with the earthborn prince he gave me!

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Everybody loves a good story. I am no different. I love a good story...and shoes. I love shoes and good stories. Now you combine those two elements, and you've got yourself quite a good thing. In fact, it's been done before -- maybe once or twice -- and quite successfully in the form of my favorite story, Cinderella.

I don't think I'm alone when I say, as a little girl I dreamed of my prince, riding up to take me -- unworthy, common, hidden by ashes -- for his bride. But there is irony here, an irony that the story of Cinderella doesn't capture. Most little girls -- unworthy, common, and hidden away beneath the ashes -- reject at least one prince, and choose at least one troll. I was no different. It wasn't until I felt completely worthless, believed myself to be beneath common, and had made myself quite comfortable among the ashes, that a prince came along who accepted me as I was, but loved me far too much to leave me there.

When I met him, he told me right from the door, "If you're sick of the way you've been living, and you want to make some real changes, then stick with me, but if you want me to treat you the same way you've allowed yourself to be treated your entire life, find someone else." What?! He may have been a prince, but this was a guy who had chased me for months; this was a guy who'd been told "No" more times than a six year-old at Toys 'R Us! And he thinks he's just gonna walk away like that? Yep. And he would have, too, if I hadn't straightened my tail out and made a commitment to be better to myself -- for him.

As parents, one of the greatest disappointments is watching your child do something that is going to hurt them. So many times, as I have corrected my children, their first instinct is to apologize, and mine is to say, "I'm not telling you this because you've hurt me, but because I know how badly this will hurt you." My prince loves me like that. He would have never been able to stand by and watch me self-destruct, and there is absolutely no way he could have helped me in it.

But, you see, my prince is merely a picture of another Prince; the Prince who had been there my whole life, slowly, gently, and despite my greatest resistance, coaxing me out of the ashes and into His arms. But I'd always run. I was sure I wasn't good enough -- and I wasn't, but The Prince accepted me exactly the way I was.

I just never saw it that way.

Being worthy, or being uncommon, or even being clean was where He was dying -- literally -- to take me, not where I needed to be. He wanted to walk me through it, to commit to being better to myself -- for Him.

I just didn't see it that way.

Besides, there were a lot of trolls to go around. And at least a troll was just as filthy and contemptible as I was -- if you stay at the bottom, you never have far to fall. And a troll would never expect me to be anything but unworthy, common, and hidden in ashes -- no grief and disappointment in that. And a troll would always be a troll -- no nasty surprises.

No good ones, either.

Not every day with my prince, or my Prince, is easy, and not everything works out the way I have planned. But whatever befalls, befalls us. And whatever burdens we have, we share. And the good stuff, we enjoy together, happily, and ever after.

Brick by Brick

One of my favorite nursery stories was The Three Little Pigs. I have read kinder, gentler versions, but the one I recall from childhood begins with a mother pig too poor to take care of all her piglets. She sent the oldest three out to build lives for themselves. As the story goes, the first pig was too impulsive and lazy --the Party Pig --to take the time and effort to build something that would last: he built out of straw. The second was a little less reckless but also unwilling to build with eternity in mind. The third, of course, was the oldest child --He must have been! --he was detail oriented, probably controlling, and a little neurotic: he built out of brick to keep the wolf at bay. To his credit, however, when the abodes of his siblings failed miserably against the gale force winds of the Big Bad Wolf's heave, he took them in and sheltered them against their mutual enemy, despite what might have been a very valuable life (or death) lesson.

For a long time, I saw myself in the third pig. Wise, responsible, dutiful, industrious. (I didn't side with him in his decision to show mercy to his lazy siblings, but all-in-all, I thought he was the better of the three. Not like I was full of myself or anything, in those days.) The other day, I realized I was more like him than I thought, but this time, in a different way. You see, he and his siblings built their homes uniquely because, whether you believe it had anything to do with character or not, they were individuals. Maybe Pig #1 was happy with just enough. I'll build my house of straw --enough to keep me warm and dry without investing too much money or taking time from my relationships. Maybe Pig #2 was simply that middle-of-the-road guy, the guy that buys a reasonably comfortable, reliable car but has no need to spend extra on luxury.  And maybe the third pig, the pig like me, was such an over-achiever, was so impersonal with regard to his relationships, was so terrified of danger or threat of danger, he built to ensure nothing would get in or out.

I was a stronghold builder. I built according to the lessons taught me in childhood. What was not my fault --injury sustained --became clearly my fault when I began building monuments to it. Another brick here, another brick there. So high you can't get over it; so low you can't get under it; so wide you can't get around it! The problem with strongholds is they keep everything out --the evil and the love of God, the lie and the Truth. I relied on my own understanding to determine who could and could not gain access to my refuge. I allowed squealing, desperate pigs into my stronghold. The problem was there was nothing desperate in those squeals, only deceit, the deceit of the Adversary. The Big Bad Wolf played cruel tricks on me, and because my strongholds were built well enough to keep out the wisdom and discernment granted by the Holy Spirit, I was ignorant. The walls I built for protection were my greatest undoing.

But as with our fairytale, my story doesn't end there. My story begins and ends with the iron-willed, mountain-moving grace of God. Praise God, for He is merciful! He is my loving Creator and sovereign over all things! He knew the way in. In His kindness and His savage grace, He protected me until such a time, made His way in, brick by brick, moving with expert precision, only as quickly as my condition would allow, and He dismantled those strongholds (He is dismantling still), so that I might bring Him glory, serve Him more effectively, and know the joy of fellowship with others. 

I'd like to just leave you with a few verses today. If you are living behind, on top of, or under a stronghold today, I pray God in His grace will escort these truths in as He begins to dismantle anger, jealousy, grief, despair, pride, fear, or any other thing raised against the knowledge of Him, brick by brick. 

Unless the Lord builds the house,

They labor in vain who build it;

Unless the Lord guards the city,

The watchman stays awake in vain. 

(Psalm 127:1)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

And lean not on your own understanding;

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

And He shall direct your paths.

(Proverbs 3:5,6)

For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ,

(2 Corinthians 10:4, 5)

How Do You Live?

As a society, we are pathetically soft. Even the "most durable" of us are pretty pampered. We have our can't-do-without shampoo and our climate-controlled office buildings. We lose our minds when a detour forces us to add minutes to a commute. We want to know every detail and ensure they are written in stone before we embark on vacation. We have calendars and alarms to keep our days comfortably aligned, and we hide the dirty little secret of our overflow in storage units conveniently located in every town. 

In Mark 6:7-11a, Jesus sends His disciples out with very limited instructions and few customary resources. 

And He called the twelve to Himself, and began to send them out two by two, and gave them power over unclean spirits. He commanded them to take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bag, no bread, no copper in their money belts— but to wear sandals, and not to put on two tunics. Also He said to them, “In whatever place you enter a house, stay there till you depart from that place. And whoever will not receive you nor hear you, when you depart from there, shake off the dust under your feet as a testimony against them."

We're not told if Jesus told them how far to go or how long to stay. It appears He did not. And we are not told how far or how long they actually did go. The fact they were told to take a walking stick, seems to indicate it wasn't a quick trip to the next town over and there could very likely be a predator or two they'd have to knock over the head. No GPS, no debit card, no transit pass, not even a hotel reservation. Mark simply tells us, one day Jesus whistled or waved for His disciples to come to Him and then sent them out. Maybe they came to Him thinking it was time for group prayer and some lunch. Nevertheless, they complied with Jesus' commission and based on Mark's description of their return (verse 30), they had great success. 

I started to wonder if I would be willing to take that trip. How many of us wouldn't ask if there would be WIFI or if we could postpone the trip until our children are back in school? Would friends gather for some sort of intervention to keep us from doing something so impulsive, so reckless? Then I imagined coming face to face with John the Baptist, who set up his ministry in the wilderness with nothing more than one simple camel skin suit and a diet of honey and grasshoppers. Who, in his final days, sat alone in a prison wondering if he'd gotten it wrong, and was eventually beheaded for speaking truth. Or Jeremiah, the "weeping prophet," an empath who was refused the comfort and companionship of a wife, suffered rejection, humiliation, physical pain, and imprisonment, and saw his beloved Jerusalem decimated by heartless Babylonians. 

How did you die? someone might ask them.

Martyred. How did you die? they might ask in return, looking at me.

Crossing against the light while scrolling Instagram.

We are pathetically soft. If we want to go to our death with the full confidence we have carried our cross daily, been poured out, used up, done all we could for the Kingdom of God, the question we need to ask ourselves now is, How do I live? Do I live sacrificially, against the status quo, for God alone. Am I living in imitation of Jesus and those others who laid down their lives for the brethren in His name? Or do I merely exist from paycheck to paycheck, on a quiet cul-de-sac, with neighbors who insist on overhanging my driveway, weary with purposelessness and seeking all I can for myself? Can you imagine explaining the asperity of that sort of suffering to The Apostle Paul?

Photo courtesy LuAnn Martin

Midweek: At the Hands of a Craftsman (2014)

The right tool for the job! Wasn't that the slogan for a tool distributor? Something like that. Bottom line, you don't want to use a chainsaw when a pocketknife will do. Our Heavenly Father is pretty adept at both. Ask me how I know! We don't always enjoy His methods, but we can rejoice in the truth that He knows us better than we know ourselves; Scripture assures us His work is for our good and His glory; and because of His character, we can trust the job will be done perfectly and to completion. Even when the work causes us to wonder, it never causes us to doubt (we do that all on our own accord), because His designs are greater than anything we see from the cheap seats.  

And I don't say that lightly. The person I am today is not the same person who wrote this original article eleven years ago. More often than not, I couldn't see the end from the beginning. More often than not, I wasn't in love with the changes or the means to change God expertly wielded. But I am living proof that trusting oneself to the Master's hands is to experience His best and walk in peace with Him. And I have so much further to go. So, be encouraged today: it will all be worth it. Know that to surrender your life to God is to see it remade at the hand of a True Craftsman!

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What do you like to do? When considering the perfect occupation or weekend retreat, what would you do?

My uncle was a carpenter. His basement was full of enormous power tools -- lathes, saws and all manner of woodworking amenities. The smell of scorched wood, and crackling curls of maple littering the floor --it was captivating. His tools; my foray into craftsmanship.

My nana taught me needlework as soon as I was able to balance a hoop and needle. I loved sitting at her feet, her bag open in front of me. I'd root through embroidery hanks and thimbles --so much potential. Her tools; my toys.

Then there's the unfaithful husband. The drug-addicted daughter. The death of a parent. The bankruptcy. The cancer. No, you haven't turned a page. These are tools also. Not all of them my experience, but close enough. These are the tools God has used to change my life, or the lives of my friends.

Christians catch a lot of flak for worshipping a God who would hurt to heal or tear down to rebuild. And right now, trust me, we are knee-deep in teardown. But I have learned that something good will come of it. Oh, I can't say that I'm gushing about the process, but truth tells me this is for a season.

The Bible contains account after account of folks who, throughout history have experienced the same phenomena as this --God's (sometimes) sharp tools applied to their lives --but this poem says it pretty well and encourages us all:

The Master Weaver's Plan

 

My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.

 

For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the under side.

 

Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.

 

‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.

 

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

 

The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

-Author Unknown