A Comfortable Life

Her humming was becoming louder and louder. Mom was sitting in the kitchen, directly below my office, as I attempted to read the Genesis account of God's call to Abram. Like the beat of Poe's "Telltale Heart", I couldn't take it anymore. "Forget it. I'll just go get her breakfast." But it was hours before she normally eats, and she was simply having coffee. Mom was safe and content. "I just want my home to be normal again."

Our pastor spoke on Abram a few weeks back. He called attention to God's command for Abram to go out of his country, away from his family, and from his father's house. God took Abram away from a place he was established, comfortable, prospering, that He (God) might do something for an entire people. God did not hide the fact, there would be something in it for Abram -- "I will make you a great nation, I will bless you and make your name great..." -- but those were "will"s and "would be"s. When Abram packed up the clan and all their possessions, he had nothing but a promise; it was because of his belief in that promise, he left all he knew. That is faith: walking out our belief.

I believe God gave Jesus to die for my sin. I believe Jesus rose from the dead and reigns as King of kings and Lord of lords. I believe the presence of the Holy Spirit in me is His guarantee of all He has promised. Presumably, it is because of those beliefs, I seek to bring glory to my Heavenly Father, to proclaim the name of Jesus, and to follow the Holy Spirit's direction.

For a long time, I chose to remain trapped in my past. Although Jesus had delivered me, stepping into the light of redemption and newness of life was far too scary for me. One day God showed me the toll that darkness was taking, and I moved toward His Light. Scott joined me on my journey, and we built this fabulous life together. Our home was safe and comfortable, a haven of rest and healing. I needed the familiarity and tranquility of our home.

And then came Mom. Mom is no trouble at all -- she really isn't. But with Mom came banana peels on the coffee pot, a full-sized adult with the hygiene of a toddler, mounds of tissues in the laundry, unexplained sound effects, anxious pacing, nights of unrest, and baggage. Baggage I carried for years, baggage I shed, baggage that sickens me has been brought, quite literally, to my doorstep. Suddenly, my home is not the comfortable, healing place it was before; and God is calling me to love.

God is telling me I no longer need my place of comfort, but The Comforter. It is time to leave my place of refuge, for The Rock. God is removing my place of peace that He might be my Peace. God is transforming my place of healing that I might better know The Healer. There was a time of learning and renewal that took place within our cozy little home; but it is time for something more, to stretch and mature. And if I will walk out my beliefs, if I will go forward in faith, if I will leave comfort to Him, God will do something for His glory and my good.

Empty Vessels

Today I am praying for nothing. Well, technically, it is something, but that something is nothing. Emptiness. I am praying for emptiness for myself, for my husband, for my children and grandchildren, my brother and his family, my extended family, my church family and all my friends. I am praying for emptiness in the hearts of everyone I know.

I was studying 2 Kings 4:1-7, this morning. A destitute widow sought help from the prophet Elisha. Elisha asked what she did have. A tiny bottle of oil. Pour it out.

Now, those were not his exact words, but I'm trying to paint a picture. Elisha actually instructed her to borrow large vessels from all her neighbors -- empty vessels. "Do not gather just a few." So, she's got this tiny bit of oil swishing around in, let's say, a two-cup measure. Now, I know, if I'm baking and I'm short on something like oil, and I have just enough for my recipe, I'm gonna grab my rubber spatula and I'm going to scrape every last drop out of that two-cup measure. I might even be sure to use a glass measure over something like plastic, so none of that oil gets absorbed into the material and wasted. The last thing I would ever think of doing would be pouring that tiny bit of oil into a clay pot the size of an oil drum. It would run down the insides, be sucked into the porous clay, lay in the cracks and crevices at the bottom; if I'm lucky, I might get half of my oil back. Essentially, I would be pouring my precious oil out to waste. Pour it out.

So much emptiness in this narrative! A widow: no doubt she suffered the emptiness of the loss of her husband. Her sons: their father gone, they lacked their model, their provider, their teacher. Their home: those empty spaces a husband and father used to fill; the empty pantry a provider used to fill. And now, a jar poured out and empty vessels awaiting.

The widow's only response to Elisha's command was obedience:

"So she went from him and shut the door behind her and her sons, who brought the vessels to her; and she poured it out." (v. 5)

What faith! All she had poured out. Empty vessel after empty vessel brought before the flow of rich, salubrious oil. Void after void generously, graciously filled. Emptiness eradicated and vessels brimming with something so much more.

I am praying for emptiness. Old ideas, desires, grudges, presuppositions, expectations, traditions -- all gone, poured out. That God might richly, graciously fill us with something better. I am praying for marriages full of baggage and relationships with our children filled with past mistakes; I am praying for cancer that keeps fighting back and weariness that plagues the body and mind; I am praying for shame and damaged identities, for misunderstanding about who God is, for worldly desires and old habits, for hardness and self-sufficiency, for unforgiveness -- all poured out. Emptiness that God might fill us with something anew. But we must first bring our emptiness to Him. Seek. Obey. Pour it out.

Need New Glasses?

"Are we gonna do this again?" Scott was holding up the coupon from the local optician. We'd used their service last year, and were pleased with the results. "Yeah, I could use new glasses," I replied. And, somehow, that turned into this whole "thing."

Last week, I confessed to a friend the frustration I feel when someone parks over my driveway. "I have this vision of taking a can of spray paint and drawing it from the edge of my drive, right across their trunk lid to show them how to pull up." She responded by saying, "I'm glad to know you are human." I was astonished! Not offended -- I know what she meant: the one I'd perceived as "having it all together spiritually" thought the same of me. We were both wrong.

On Monday, a friend texted me about one of my posts. It had stirred a memory of a time when she had not felt so confident or adequate. I was, once again, astonished. This woman was so mature, so classy, so vibrant, so "together" -- even in high school! She was a pretty girl then, but through the years has grown into a sophisticated beauty with a spiritual refinement that pours forth from her like precious oil. She does not always see what others see.

And then there was the moment in the grocery store. Scott began telling me about a book he is reading. "I like this guy," he said, speaking of author, James MacDonald. "He explains things clearly, so I can understand them. It's like I'm looking at things differently. I can see things I didn't see before." That did it! "Okay, I got it," I said aloud, speaking not as much to my husband as I was to my Father.

Today a coworker began talking to me about perceptions. (Perhaps I hadn't quite gotten it.) Our discussion turned to the way we perceive others as being "less than" or we label situations as being "unfavorable." We agreed, perception is nothing more than opinion -- like "One man's trash is another man's treasure." Truth is able to rejoice in suffering and know God is working for the good of those who love Him, who are called. That is truth!

So, how is your vision? When you're looking at the world through warped or dirty lenses it doesn't matter what you are looking at, the picture will not be accurate. Whether you are looking in a mirror or staring at your best friend; whether you're scanning the want ads or gazing out at your neighbor as he straggles home from work; whether you are looking at a stack of bills or the numbers on a bathroom scale; whether you're rereading the last letter he wrote to you or rereading the last letter you'll write to him, if you are looking at it through any lens but the lens of Truth, you will not see clearly. How we perceive the world around us or within us is only truth if we view those things through the blood of Jesus Christ, the One who makes all things new!

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today would have been my father's 91st birthday.

Dad was quiet. He was always smiling and pleasant to neighbors and customers. He taught adult Sunday school and for many years was a big part of our church's lay ministry. He belonged to the Masons, the Gideons, and the Westinghouse Square Club. He fixed our cars and he loved to travel. He worked three jobs at one point, selling insurance, driving a delivery truck and working as a security guard at a retirement home.

Dad was a battering ram. If that seems to contradict the man above, it may or may not. He could draw blood with his silence. He punished us time and time again by his withdrawal. There was a rage that simmered beneath the surface of the smile he gave to others, a rage that was reserved strictly for us. His words spoke of rules and behavior and discipline; his existence spoke of war.

My father was a man conflicted. He existed with one foot in religion -- a true legalist if there ever was one -- and the other in flesh and excess. He studied the racing forms with as much zeal as he studied the Scriptures. He worked to exhaustion and gambled the fruits away. He gave us piggyback rides and took us ice skating, and then he didn't. He made sure we went to church and got a great education, and then he didn't. Inconsistency and duplicity were his most reliable qualities. He wanted riches, worldly or otherwise; they eluded him. He wanted a perfect life, but had never properly identified the one he'd been given.

I wrestled a great many years with this contradiction I called "Dad." That battle left me feeling as schizophrenic as he must have felt. It also helped me understand. I know my father is with Jesus; he believed in Jesus and His work at the cross, and taught it to anyone who would listen. That may have been part of his pursuit, that by seeing it take root in others it might also take root and grow new life in him. Every encounter my father had was a way of getting something for himself. An imperfect being, as are we all. His battle left him never truly happy and never truly free. At least in this world.

And that is the lesson of my father's existence: life is about relationship. The moment you choose to exist alone, you die. It's hard to imagine what he would have been like at the age of ninety-one; but I suppose the best indicator is his condition the last time I saw him. He was frail and appeared tired. He once again pushed me away. Even in his last moments he would not fight to live.

Happy birthday in Heaven, Dad.