He Still Weeps

The sun was casting a sideways glance across the sky this morning.  Long rays of hope spread out like fiery fingers through the dense clouds that hovered low.  I wrapped my arms around my boys before sending them off to school, looked at them with intention and purpose, spoke my love over them and covered them in prayer.  Those parents, how their arms must ache for their precious children today.

This past Friday, while the cries of innocent children echoed through an elementary school miles away, I sat in the sanctuary of my baby girl’s preschool and listened to the sweet voices of four year olds, raised in perfect adoration for a baby who was to be born in a manger and become the Savior of the world.  The music was eclipsed by their childlike faith as they sang “Oh come let us adore Him…Oh come let us adore Him…Oh come let us adore Him! Christ the Lord!” There was such hope in the singing.

How do we who are believers, chosen to know the Divine Truth, reconcile the goodness of God with His providence?  The answer to that question is woven throughout scripture, from the beginning of the story to the end that is yet to come. Surely our human minds were never meant to fully grasp such a divine concept, but God gives us His Word so that we can take comfort in what we do know.  We know that “Jesus wept” John 11:35.  When the stench of sin and decay enshrouded his friend Lazarus, and the death of a fallen world filled up the tomb, Jesus wept.  He loved Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus. He wept with compassion for the grief of the two sisters, he wept for His friend Lazarus, and He wept for us all, each of us born into this life bound for the grave. Spurgeon, the great pastor, once said when preaching on this passage, that “A Jesus who never wept could never wipe away my tears”. We cannot forget the great mercy of our Savior, that in our suffering He does not forsake us, but that He wipes our every tear, he knows our humanity because He lived and died as one of us.

“Tears did not drown the Savior’s hope in God.  He lived. He triumphed, notwithstanding all His sorrow. And because He lives, we shall live also.  He says, ‘Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.’  Though our Hero had to weep in the fight, yet He was not beaten.  He came, He wept, He conquered.” C.H. Spurgeon sermon #2091

I think of St. Stephen, the first martyr.  He saw “heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” Acts7:56.  As he was beaten, his body crushed beneath the weight of the heavy stones, he knelt in the glorious presence of the Son of Man, and finally, scripture says, he fell asleep, at peace with his Lord and also with those who had killed him. What a perfect picture of the mercy of God, that he would give Stephen this vision into the heavens, that he would see Jesus at the right hand of the Father, and that He would then be Stephen’s strength in the time of greatest human weakness.  What if those children in that classroom in Connecticut heard not the sound of the gunshots, but instead heard the choirs of angels singing the eternal song of hope?  Perhaps like Stephen, it was the face of Jesus they saw at their time of greatest suffering, standing in the gap between earthly death and life eternal, welcoming their precious souls into the heavenly kingdom.

My husband dropped our boys off at their elementary school this morning, and from the clouds of grief came a ray of hope, as a rainbow arched perfectly across the sky and covered the school. The promise of God’s divine mercy, of everlasting hope, of Emmanuel.

The Perfect Mess

Her blond hair clung in sweaty strands against her forehead as the tears spilled from her eyes, leaving red stained cheeks and the sign of a bruised heart.  My patience had worn thin and I’d sent her to time out.  One minute for each year of age, isn’t that the rule of thumb?  Four minutes must have seemed like an eternity to the child who rarely misbehaves, to the sensitive child who wears her feelings on her sleeve, leaving them exposed and vulnerable to the sharp tongue I wield too often.    

We were running late, she was tired and crabby, and I was feeling anxious and overwhelmed.  Boxes of Christmas ornaments were strewn about my house, waiting to adorn a tree that was still only half lit.  Dishes were piled high in the sink, remnants of the morning’s breakfast still scattered on the kitchen counter.  Legos covered the floor, just waiting to pierce a bare foot.  I stood in the midst of it all, thinking that I still hadn’t bought the first Christmas present or addressed the first card.  Her defiance had weighed heavy at the top of it all, and I had collapsed easily, my shattered nerves adding to the mess.  She trudged slowly up the stairs to her room.  I needed the time out more than she did.

I gave up hope of making it anywhere on time, choosing instead to sit in the stillness of His presence and let Him speak His truth into my wild heart.  He reminded me that my frustrations weren’t born of an unadorned Christmas tree, a messy kitchen, or even a child misbehaving.  I had collapsed because I was heavy with sin, bearing the weight of outward appearances and the fear of not measuring up.  I had been reading too many status updates and not enough scripture.  I had been running too many miles but had gotten out of the spiritual race.  I was looking to the world’s standards to define me, instead of looking to Him for my sense of self worth.

The frustrations drained right out of me as I sank deeper into the comfort of His presence, and I confessed my sin and received His grace.  I called my daughter to come downstairs and she fell into my arms, choking out sobs of “I’m sorry”.  I held her close, and and there He was – right in the midst of my mess, making it beautiful and perfect in His sight, refining it for His glory and my greater good, redeeming it all by His very blood.

Finding Freedom in Slavery

My soul bore open wounds from the shackles that confined me. The chains that kept me bound were rusted and old; the past I could not forget was a bleeding reminder of my sin.

The woman in Luke knew how it felt to be shackled, tied to self hatred, and nursing old wounds that would never heal on their own. 

“When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town heard that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind him weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears.  Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them, and poured perfume on them.”

She came to the home of the Pharisee that day, dragging her chains behind her, and laid them aside as she knelt crying at Jesus’ feet, knowing that He was the one who could set her free. Her shame covered her as she bowed low before Him, face to the ground as she kissed His feet. The pouring out of perfume, the overflow of her love for the only One who had ever loved her. The condemning eyes of the Pharisee rested upon her as she wept, but her eyes, they never lifted from her Savior. She loved much, and so her faith, Jesus said, had saved her.  She, who had been bound for so long, left there knowing what it meant to truly be free.

Christ tells us that we are to take up our cross and follow Him, and for me that wasn’t easy.  It was so hard to move forward with Him when the rusted chains kept pulling me back.  But, like the woman in Luke, I stood behind Jesus, weeping for my sins in the presence of the Pharisees, and washing his feet with my tears.  He lifted me up and loosened the shackles from my wrists, His touch alone healing the open wounds, and He forgave my sins and called me beloved. The Pharisees, they sneered and condemned, the planks in their eyes blinding them to their own chains.  But I walked out in freedom that day, never to be bound by a yoke of slavery again.

I still bear the marks of the chains, but they no longer hurt; the scars, they remind me that I am a slave to Christ, to the one who set me free.

To My Sixteen Year Old Self

Dear Me,

I didn’t know it then, that this passing of time is such a curious thing. All of us who live long enough are bound to the same truth: that time sneaks in unnoticed, camouflaged as chaos and clutter, wearing the mask of schedules and agendas. It steals moments and memories, and leaves you standing helpless as you watch it slip past bearing the weight of your days upon its back. The clock ticks and birthdays pass, and the wedding band rubs raw right into your skin, leaving the beautiful, broken marks of a shared life, and your womb is filled and emptied, and the emptiness leaves you wanting for more. And still, at the end of each of these days, it is the passing of time that eludes and surprises me the most.

Twenty two years have passed since we last spoke; I have thought of you often, wondered what I would say to you if we ever met again. There is so much you want to know, and so much I want to tell, but still I hesitate. Your future is my past, and I’ve spent so much of the time between us trying to undo all the things you did, the things that were done to you. It would be such an easy unburdening for me – to keep you from ever walking into the chains that kept me bound for so long. It tempts me to wish it had all been different. But really, this life is so much more than the mistakes and the chains and the failures and the forging, and to protect you from all of that would change who you become. And I can’t do that.

Just the other day the editor of the yearbook staff told you that they couldn’t think of anything to say about you in the senior superlatives. Because they didn’t know you.  Forty seven students in your class, over the course of four years, and no one knew you. There were no funny stories, no inside jokes, no nicknames or innuendos.  Just a quiet young girl who became invisible…unseen…a girl with a story to tell but no voice with which to speak.  It hurt to hear her say it, that the sum of your high school years amounted to this.  And it will hurt again in a few months when the yearbook comes out and the caption under your picture reads “Most Difficult Senior to Write Something About”.  You’re a good listener, so I hope you hear me now, I mean really hear me, in that deep part of you that believes what others say about you: being quiet isn’t a curse, and sometimes it’s the people with the unrestrained tongue who regret the most.  Don’t worry…the passing of time will give you a voice, and that deep down part of you will one day know that it doesn’t matter what other people say about you.  You’ve become good at letting things roll off your back; you need to let this one roll too. Embrace who you are…you will know it one day, that there is so much good in you, and that nothing about you is a mistake.

I was watching my little girl walking into school yesterday - her crop of blond locks will surprise and delight you, and you will marvel at the mystery of what’s hidden inside you that’s only revealed through your children. She was skipping, always skipping, and singing happiness, and in her bearing you caught a glimpse of who you must have been at that age.  Innocent, secure, happy, and trusting.  We were meant to hold on to the innocence of youth much longer than you were given it.  I’m sorry you had to come to know the pain and problems of the adult world at such a young age, and I’m sorry I didn’t let you grieve for your lost innocence.  It was okay to cry, and you didn’t have to be strong.  Sometimes, we have to let ourselves feel things even if it leaves us raw and vulnerable.  The alternative can be so much worse. But this will be a lesson you have to learn yourself, through experience, the hard way.  All I can tell you is that the same joy you had as a child will be yours again, and you can take heart in knowing that happiness will not always evade you.

In the end, the only thing you really need to know is this: you meet someone, and he changes your life. He knocks at your door, and you somehow recognize his voice, and you let him in and he promises to never leave you.  He pours out his love and it covers over you and you feel secure for the first time since you were a little girl. You tell him everything about your life, show him your wounds, tell him how they hurt you. And he touches them and they’re finally healed.  He holds the key that unlocks your chains, and the two of you walk together in freedom.  And he holds your face in his hands and he wipes away your tears and he takes all your ugly and trades it in for beauty. You fall in love with him, this man who chose you, and you want nothing more than to sit at his feet and listen to the sound of his voice.  And when the sum of all your days is up, He will pen His perfect word beneath you and the caption will read “Beloved”.

How to Make It Through the Muck

The mud was up to my chin, my feet barely touched bottom and my head bobbed just above the surface. How did I get myself into this? The marine standing at the edge of the creek yelled at me to keep moving.  I actually paid money to do this?  Have I lost my mind? My feet felt like lead weights as I tried to take a step; the muck was too dense for me to maneuver through.  I lifted my feet up and tried to swim but it was like swimming against a strong current – I wasn’t getting anywhere and I was growing tired, beaten down by the resistance.  I saw my teammates struggling just ahead of me; we had been able to help each other through all the other obstacles, lifting each other up, carrying each other’s weight on our backs.  But this one was different.  We exchanged knowing glances – this one we had to muddle through on our own.  I must have looked afraid because the marine, he softened, “Ma’am, you can’t swim through this stuff, it’s just too thick.  The only way to make it through is to float, and hold on to the side when you need support.”

I knew what he meant.  I had been in my own pit recently, trying so hard to get through the thick, sticky muck of my own making.  If we reap what we sow, my harvest had come up empty.  A barren field, dry, parched, waiting on the living waters to rain down.

“For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground”  Isaiah 44:3.

Sin had caught hold of me years earlier, and the enemy had wrestled me to the ground.  I didn’t struggle as he bound the chains around me; I accepted them, certain that I was getting what I deserved. But years of bondage had left my soul thirsty and restless, an empty well longing to be filled.  If only I could have a drink, just a taste of something, perhaps that would be enough to satisfy.  I searched for something to fill me up, drinking from the emptiness of all the other wells.  When I couldn’t take it anymore, I cried out in my bondage, begging to drink of this water that comes without a price. 

“You have given him his heart’s desire and have not withheld the request of his lips” Psalm 21:2

He is faithful even when I am not, and so the rains came.  Living water poured down on the parched earth of my soul, until I was standing chin deep in mud.  I couldn’t move forward, but still I didn’t want to look back. What had I gotten myself into?  Did I ask for this? The mud was coarse, murky with regrets and affliction, but still…there was something about it…something in it…I knew it was good, and if only I would stop kicking and just believe, He would get me to the other side. He breathed His grace right into me, and I inhaled deep and long, letting Him fill me up so I could float through the muck.  I clung to His Word for support as He carried me through the creek.  We drifted slowly, only looking back so that we could see how far we had come; He didn’t let my eyes linger behind us for too long.  And when I began to sink, he’d remind me to breathe deep and His grace would fill me again.  Sometimes it would hurt, wading through the thickness with Him, but I kept my eyes on the other side and trusted He would deliver me.

I came out of the mud that day bruised and battered, bearing the marks of the chains and the wounds of the battle.  But His mercy rained down and washed me clean, and He healed my wounds with a touch of His hand.  I got back in the race, knowing there was no obstacle He wouldn’t help me through, and I left the chains behind as I sprinted towards the finish line.