At the sound...

"Lost are saved, find their way, at the sound of your great name
All condemned feel no shame, at the sound of your great name

Every fear has no place, at the sound of your great name
The enemy—he has to leave, at the sound of your great name

Jesus, 

Worthy is the Lamb

That was slain for us, Son of God and Man
You are high and lifted up 

and all the world will praise your great name

All the weak, find their strength, at the sound of your great name
Hungry souls receive grace, at the sound of your great name

The fatherless—they find their rest, at the sound of your great name
The sick are healed, and the dead are raised, at the sound of your great name"

Eyes closed, I see them. 

The fatherless. The motherless.

Big brown eyes that stare at me, 

brimming with tears and apprehension, 

Espresso skin that lightens in the palms,

upturned to ask the question...

"Are we seen?"

A statistic flashes through my mind, "11, 000 children orphaned by Ebola." 

I say another prayer for them with my eyes closed, hands raised, and heart soft on a Sunday morning in the auditorium. The song in the background proclaiming the truth I need to hear.

A few days prior I hosted a global prayer night, the third of its kind. And I keep waiting for the shine of these nights to wear off, for them to become a burden or a bore, but they just never do.

My heart begins to rattle in my chest a few days before we gather. A surge of excitement sends chills down my spine thinking about how we are engaging in work that will shake the gates of hell in another part of the world. 

I lose sleep preparing for it, thinking about it, praying it to fruition. And then comes the best part... we gather. And from different rooms in my house, all at once I hear the sounds of women's voices rising in unison, praying for people we have never even met.

And I can feel God's presence, and I can feel God's pleasure, because I know God loves a good women's get-together as much as we do.

Here are the facts, here's what we do:

We choose one global issue a month, ie. a country in need, a medical emergency, a terrorism spree... and we spend one night together, digging deep into the lives affected by the crisis. We learn their stories, their names, their struggles... and then? We pray for them.

So simple. So good.

Of course we make it fun, with indigenous food to snack on, documentaries and visual aids, interactive prayer activities, and fun swag to take home, because, as my sister likes to tell me, "You can hit them with the truth when they get there, but first you have to get them there."

I cannot begin to tell you what a blessing these nights are to my wander-lusting, Jesus-loving soul. 

The opportunity to come together and pray for other people in other places where life looks different then ours? The experience of connecting with non-profits both here and abroad that are making a tangible difference in the world? The privilege of bringing an offering to our Almighty God on behalf of those who are suffering?

Yes. Count me in.

(I will be posting details on the different topics and prayer night formats that we have used, in the coming days. If you have questions or want to host a similar night and are looking for resources, I would love to chat! email me at adrianedimmitt@gmail.com)

You're Invited...

Over the past year, we have held our breath and watched as the Ebola epidemic ravaged the fragile communities of West Africa. We have seen pictures, read stories, and heard repots of this deadly virus as it made its way to the headlines of newspapers across the globe.

And now statistics on the news and reports show that new cases of Ebola are declining, and fewer lives are lost each day. It appears that things are beginning to get better in countries like Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea. 

But the fight is far from over. There are still many lives hanging in the balance, and these communities have so much healing to do in the coming months.

Let’s take some time out of our busy days and let’s intercede for those affected by the Ebola epidemic.

Let’s learn their stories, their names, their losses and their victories.

Let’s lift them up to God’s throne, and pray God’s spirit will move and redeem these precious ones.

Let’s ask for God to bring hope, healing, and life to these communities.

Let’s pray for the doctors, the nurses, the missionaries, and the governments who are working hard to restore homes and villages.

Let's gather and let’s Pray.

February 26th, 2015 at 7pm

In the home of Adriane Dimmitt

Email Adriane at adrianedimmitt@gmail.com for more information.

*Stay tuned for details on next month's prayer night, where we will be lifting up the lives of those  affected by acts of terrorism. We will be taking an inside look at Boko Haran, ISIS, and other groups of extremists, as we pray for the Lord to intercede in these challenging times. 

Redeemed.

I was thirteen. Sandaled feet slapping on cracked concrete floors. My knees felt the cool as I knelt and closed my eyes. Rain tapped on the tin roof of the three roomed church, as a movie played on a projector in the main “sanctuary”. It was in a foreign tongue, one that I wanted so badly to understand. It really didn’t matter though; the message of the film transcended the language barrier… it was about Jesus.

My heart raced as I thought of what the small structure once was. With a dilapidated car two feet from the door, and a cinderblock outhouse with a broken toilet parallel, this place held it’s secrets.

It was once a sanctuary for broken sinners to find rest and relief from a weary world… a brothel and a bar.

It is now a sanctuary for broken sinners to find rest and relief from a weary world… a place of worship to the Living God.

Purposes similar, and yet there is an incomparable difference between the life this building once led, and the legacy it was now living. Walls that once held the weight of atrocity, despair, and depravity, were whitewashed in the sweet blood of Christ, given a new name, new purpose, new identity… REDEEMED.

I met the man who owned the property, once the town drunk. Story was that he met Jesus and overturned the merchant’s tables just like Jesus in the temple. His transformation from “Chief of Sinners” to “Child of God” was so radical, that many came to faith from his testimony.

And there we were a few years later, a small group of privileged youth from America, hoping to “bless” this small congregation. Patching cracks and cleaning cobwebs, then inviting children to come hear about the Jesus that transforms.

The Jesus that takes broken people and broken buildings, and broken purposes and makes them new… REDEEMED.

And there I was, cold knees on the concrete, praying the rain away so that the sounds of the film could be heard over the deafening roar of the storm. Overwhelmed with my own inadequacy and His perfect, complete competency.

My heart still races at the memory of that night, that week, that year. The week I fell in love with people who looked and lived so differently than I did. The year I fell in love with the God who redeems and invites us to participate in His plans.

Here I sit, fourteen years later, marveling at the ways God waters soul seeds planted years before. The way He can resurface memories and moments and miracles that haven’t been thought of in ages.

He is busy gardening, pruning and prodding, nourishing with sunshine and water.

This year He has given plans, blueprints of sorts, for what to do with these things I love…

People living half a world away,

Places cracked and bulging with the weight of sin they carry,

And a God who love, love, loves to REDEEM.

_________________________________________________________________________________

I’ll be sharing more about what myself and others are doing with all of this soon… so excited at the vision God has given!

Tuning In

Two feet from where I sit, she does the familiar dance with her infant that I have seen (and done) dozens of times before. Picking her up, setting her down, bouncing her on her hip, placing her in her lap… scooping purees into her open mouth, catching the drips that fall.

I see no man at her side so I presume she is alone. She looks tired, bone-weary, capable none the less. Can she tell? Does she know she’s doing great?

She seems distracted, like she has her hands full, and my normal response would be to give her space. But what if she doesn’t know? What if she thinks she is doing it all wrong?

Someone should tell her.

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Nine months,” Her tired eyes meet mine.

“How do you feel?” I venture.

“Suicidal?” She nervously laughs.

“Not really.” She adds, eyes darting, uncertain if I was safe enough for that confession.

“It’s so hard, isn’t it?” I offer.

“Very,” she sighs, shoulders dropping in relief.

I continue to ask, she continues to answer, each response less guarded, filling more space than the last. She tells me of the high points, the moments of sheer joy since welcoming her daughter into the world. She tells me her plans and dreams and I feel the weight of responsibility that comes with each word shared.

I lean in to a conversation I could have easily avoided. I could have looked “busy” checking emails on my phone, or turned my head in my husband’s direction to catch earfuls of his conversation with a friend.

But God’s spirit is at work, tuning me in, slowing me down, giving me a desire to see, to hear, to engage the people around me.

It is not always easy. It requires concentration that I often lack. It requires words that I sometimes run out of. It requires love that is not my own.

It is not always easy, but when I listen, it is always worth it.

She lingers close by as we say our goodbyes to the familiar faces at the party we are attending. I turn around and give her a hug, say how nice it is to meet her. She holds up her finger as her baby curls her fist around it and she moves it back and forth, a goodbye wave.

I draw close and say, “Hang in there, you are doing great.” And I hope the words lodge deep. We part ways and I wonder if our paths will cross again.

Days later she comes to my mind and I pray for her… once a stranger, now a friend.  


*Linking this post to a blog by Lori Harris, a woman whose words always inspire me to live with intention and love... Click here to see read other stories of women who are learning to do the same.

On Grief & Gratitude

Coming out of the grocery store a few days before Thanksgiving, I saw an old Buick sedan pull in a few spaces down. The driver, barely visible over the steering wheel, was a little old man with a patchwork flat cap and worn button down. His companion emerged from the car a few seconds before him, quickly working his way around to the drivers side to assist if needed. He was a young man, well dressed but casual, probably in his early twenties.

I watched the two interact for a minute, caught up in the subtle dance between characters. The older, acting strong and willful, the younger, quiet, attentive, respectful. He stole glances at his grandfather every few steps. 

A lump formed in my throat.

Before the two had made it very far, a middle-age couple came through the sliding glass doors, bags in hands. A few feet from the pair I had been watching, the woman stops and exclaims, “Hello Shorty!” to the old man.

He looks confused, eyes straining, weakness wearing through. His grandson looked at him lovingly, willing him to remember her name. After a second had passed, the young man gently prompted, “Grandpa, you remember Jane, right?”…

“Oh yes, of course,” the man responds, immediately followed with the question, “How are your folks, Janie?”

I broke my gaze as the lump in my throat gave way to tears and I drove away.

The familiarity of the scene tugged at my heart, and two thoughts surfaced:

That used to be me.

He is going to be wrecked when his grandfather goes.

How do I know? Because I was wrecked a few short months ago.

My days of chauffeuring to the grocery store, the doctor’s office, and the pharmacy had declined in recent years, but the affection I had for my grandma was every bit as fierce as the love I saw in the young man’s face that day.

Although nearly 5 months has passed since her departure from this world, thoughts of her still linger daily.  This grief thing sits in soul and forms lumps in my throat when I wish it wouldn’t.  My life and the way I view the world around me is through a cracked and broken lens right now whether I want it or not.

Because I miss her, and memories of her show up everywhere.

A wispy head of white hair on a bicycle in my neighborhood.

A frail old man at the grocery store with his grandson.

Her purple knit hat at the Christmas tree farm, now perched on my mom’s head.

The small wire twist -ties she saved from every produce bag, carefully wrapped around old strands of Christmas lights at the bottom of the box.

The old familiar rasp in her voice, the gentle sarcasm, the playful humor in an old family video.

These things slay me in the best possible way. They bring tears to my eyes, and comfort to my heart all at once.  They catch me off guard on good days and bad, and I have to be careful to make room for them… to lean in to the pain, to not will or wish it away, to not talk myself out of grieving.

Because it is only in feeling these unwanted emotions, that I can treasure the gratitude that emerges on the other side.                       

Thanksgiving day reminded me that there is so much sweetness in this bitterness, so much grace in this suffering. I held hands when we prayed with another white-haired woman, a grandmother whose family I had the privilege of marrying into. One of the precious few older ones left in my life. And as she prayed a sweet prayer of thanksgiving over the 26 of us present, I knew this truth: that the Lord gives and the Lord takes away, that He is faithful.

“The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me,
         Because the LORD has anointed me
         To bring good news to the afflicted;
         He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
         To proclaim liberty to captives
         And freedom to prisoners;

To proclaim the favorable year of the LORD
         And the day of vengeance of our God;
         To comfort all who mourn,

To grant those who mourn in Zion,
         Giving them a garland instead of ashes,
         The oil of gladness instead of mourning,
         The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting.
         So they will be called oaks of righteousness,
         The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.”

Isaiah 61:1-3

When God Broke Our Camp...part 2

(Read part one, here)

"In all their human frailty leaned against the gargantuan task, that new generation simply believed, broke camp, and advanced. Even without the leader who’d raised his staff to the Red Sea, rousing an east wind that made walls out of waters.

Fast forward thousands of years. Same God, looking for the same thing: people with bona fide faith who will swallow their fear and step out there into the unknown to make His praise glorious.
Every generation of Christ-followers is commissioned to advance the work of His kingdom across this globe, not to dispossess but to disciple, until a great multitude from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages can cry out with a loud voice,
Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb! (Revelation 7:9-10)
Many of the generations behind us stepped up to the challenge and did the work of the gospel, even if it killed them. We read about them. We marvel over them. We quote them. But we’re the ones dotting the landscape now. This is our tenure. They had nothing that we do not have. We have the same Savior, the same commissioning, the same Scriptures, and the same indwelling Spirit. We’re on.
But if we really want to advance, it’s probably time to break some camps."

-Beth Moore, "Break Camp"

When we felt God lead us to break our camp and advance to a new place, we put one foot in front of the other until the job was done. We spent a few months questioning, uncertain if we had discerned His voice correctly, but then we just knew. We knew, that we knew, that we knew that we were where He wanted us.

How?

Because it became all about Jesus again.

I needed Him so desperately during those weeks and months where everything was unfamiliar. It was as though God stripped away all of the people who had rallied for me for so long and asked me to just to be with Him. No one watching, no one expecting, no one needing anything from me, but the Lord God Himself, standing hopeful beside me, desirous of my company.

He became my purpose again. He became our purpose together for the first time.

We saw Him show up in conversations too numerous to count, in prayers to desperate to contain, and in moments to supernatural to deny. We saw His Spirit alive and at work in so many others, and it thrilled us.

Those were not easy days, just being with our God in a new land... no job to do, no tasks to complete. My hands grew restless and my heart swelled with anticipation of new marching orders, something to replace my idleness. But God was not deterred by my restless spirit, He whispered slow and constant the same sweet words, over and over, "Rest in me, Be still and know that I am your God".

In time life's familiar pace has resumed and God is carving out new work for our hands, but the undeniable sense that we are in the promised land has not worn off. We see evidence of His hand of blessing every day and know that His purposes are being fulfilled in the unknown places we have been asked to enter.

O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you;
my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.

So I have looked upon you in the sanctuary,
beholding your power and glory.

Because your steadfast love is better than life,
my lips will praise you.

So I will bless you as long as I live;
in your name I will lift up my hands.
 
My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food,
and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips,

When I remember you upon my bed,
and meditate on you in the watches of the night;

For you have been my help,
and in the shadow of your wings I will sing for joy.

My soul clings to you;
your right hand upholds me.

Psalm 63:1-8

When God Broke Our Camp...

(I have written about this journey we are on a few times before, to read the beginning of the story click here, and here).

One of the things that I love about the word of God is it's literary diversity.

Penned by dozens of men, inspired by the living God, it is full of of the kinds of things that make writers and readers heart's race... allegory, poetry and prose, metaphors, imagery and similes.

There is enough romance to claim the lover's heart, and enough war to satisfy the bloodthirsty, enough tragedy to engage the compassionate soul, and enough redemption to renew the brokenhearted.

It is as timeless as the living God.

It is truth. It is challenge. It is alive.

The Master Poet in His Word, wove together history and truth in a way that will never grow stale and is always applicable now, whenever now may be.

If I had to choose the historic circumstances that have most deeply resonated with me in these last few months, I would take you to Deuteronomy 31. Here the scene is set: The Israelites are nearing the end of their 40 years wandering in the desert. The size of God's people had grown dramatically, just as God had promised.

"The Lord your God has multiplied you, and behold, you are today as numerous as the stars of heaven." -Moses, Deuteronomy 1:10

They are one river-crossing away from the Promised Land. They are as ready as they will ever be.

Then Moses, their leader from the time they fled from Egypt, makes his final address to the people.

And he said to them, "I am 120 years old today. I am no longer able to go out and come in. The Lord has said to me, ‘You shall not go over this Jordan.’ ³ The Lord your God himself will go over before you. He will destroy these nations before you, so that you shall dispossess them, and Joshua will go over at your head, as the Lord has spoken. ⁴ And the Lord will do to them as he did to Sihon and Og, the kings of the Amorites, and to their land, when he destroyed them. ⁵ And the Lord will give them over to you, and you shall do to them according to the whole commandment that I have commanded you. ⁶ Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.” Deuteronomy 31:1-6

I cannot get over the feeling of anxiety and fear that must have settled in some of the hearts in the crowd that day. They were going ahead. Their leader was staying behind. 

This is the exact image God put on my heart earlier this year when He asked us to move to a new church community. Fear, apprehension, and anxiety met with total clarity, comfort, and certainty that our God was going to lead us to the place He had promised to us.

The fear, the anxiety, the apprehension was rooted in the fact that for most of my life, I was led by the people who meet in the white stucco building with an angled roof and steeple on top. A place full of mentors, teachers, counselor and friends...people who prayed for us, hoped for us, and delighted in our children. 

Our God was asking us to leave these precious ones behind. To break camp and advance into the Promised Land, sans the leaders we had come to love. 

Immediately following His request came this revelation: A place becomes your wilderness the second God calls you to go somewhere new.

It is not the place that is bad or wrong in and of itself, it is knowing that to stay would be to disobey... That is what turns even a good place into a wilderness. 

Conversely, What makes the promised land great is not the place in and of itself, but rather the fact that it is exactly where God is asking you to go.

Obedience: Promised Land. Disobedience: Wilderness.

And so we had our orders, and so God broke our camp and we advanced. Loved ones behind us, the Lord God before us.

(To be continued.)

(An influential article I recently read can be found HERE. Beth Moore's description of "breaking camp" echos my heart, her post is definitely worth reading).

We Have To Start.

A few weeks ago I read a couple of articles on the devastating bloodshed happening in Iraq and neighboring countries.

I saw horrific pictures and read tragic stories from those who had escaped, played dead, hid or ran...from those whose lives had been spared that day.

I remember feeling sadness for these mothers and fathers, sons and daughters on the other side of the world. I also remember thinking to myself, "I am so glad that we live in a place where war is not at our doorstep. Where we can let our children run in our neighborhood without fear. Where we can worship in the auditorium down the street in confidence that we will make it home for lunch. Where we can ride our bikes to the coffee shop downtown and not encounter a single threat."

A few days later a small town in Missouri made history.

And I sat with my head in my computer for evenings on end, watching with the rest of the country as riots and violent protesting carried on for days and days. My eyes became red and bloodshot from staring at my five-inch i-phone screen late into the night.

I read the latest news posting Saturday night before bed, and by the time I woke up the next morning another head had hit the pillow of the ICU in Ferguson, having been shot in the night.

The web became a buzz with reactions to these tragic days.

I wrestled with so many thoughts as I read... trying to reconcile what I grew up believing about black people and white people and this thing called racism, with the deep sadness that I felt for the black community.

And I was always told that racism was a thing of the past and that as soon as everyone stopped talking about the atrocities of former generations, everything would be fine.

Well, I do agree with one thing, we can certainly stop talking about the atrocities of the past, because we have been given enough conversation fodder in recent weeks to carry us for the rest of our lives.

Here is the thing, we have to start talking about it, reading about it,  feeling about it. 

Because to be honest, it is far too easy for me (and others too, I think) to not think about the hundreds of people suffering from Ebola in Liberia, or the thousands of people that have been slaughtered by ISIS in Iraq and Syria, or the homemade bombs flying through the air in Ferguson, MO.

All of the voices of these hurting people can be so easily drowned out by the hum of lawnmowers and children laughing in the streets of my hometown.

It's almost like they aren't really real. But they are.

Hearts and bodies are breaking in a thousand different places all over the world while I make sandwiches, and do dishes, and pray with my kids before nap-time.

So I pray this for them, for me, for us:

“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come, Your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
(The words of Jesus, Matt 6:9-13)


Come Lord Jesus, Come.

The Problem With Reasons.

(read the beginning of this journey, here)

Here is the thing.

Since God pulled up our roots, dug new soil and set us down in the place with our name on it, we have encountered many perspectives.

Some have cried with us, and given their blessing,

Some have expressed their opinion on why they disagree,

Some have listed the reasons they think its a good idea,

And some have given us reasons why they don't...

Overwhelmingly though, most have asked, "why".

It is hard for us to answer with human reasons, why we are following a God-size dream... all of our rational, all of our logic, all of our purposes fall short when compared to the enormity of the tapestry He is weaving. We are convinced we are only a few threads, hopefully bright ones, being gingerly woven into something bigger.

And in our weaker moments, we assign motives to our decision, explaining away something that at its core has no explanation (at least not from us). And when we do that, at least when I do that, I feel like I am finger painting on something sacred... covering a masterpiece with thumbprints and smudges.

Because our "reasons", they lack the makings of a sound decision... engaging our toughest critics and hurting our biggest advocates and friends. And God's kingdom has no room for that.

He paid the ultimate price for our FREEDOM. and that deflates our "reasons" and gives fuel to our dreams and callings. Because it always was and still is all about one thing, His Glory... His majesty, His dominion, His Kingdom here on earth.

And just when I thought this journey would get easier, it proves to remain a challenge. I am faced with the depth of my own insecurity as I venture to establish new relationships. I am rattled by the death of a loved one, and I long to run full steam back to all that is familiar. I fear letting my true self show... because, hey, what if they don't like me?

And yet the still small voice of the One we follow is there, when I want to turn around, a gentle hand on the small of my back, urging, pushing, guiding, "Don't turn back, I will equip you for every good work I have called you to accomplish. Don't be ashamed of who you are in me. Don't let fear of the unknown keep you from making eye contact with strangers. Rest in me and lean into the discomfort of these days."

And so we do.

And then we are met with His unfailing presence.

And we invite those someday friends to dine with us, confessing our nerves before they arrive. Hoping they will like who we are and what we are about. We usher them in and nerves diminish, replaced with easy conversation.

And all the while I cannot help but think that "someday" is closer than we thought.