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).

Dear Little Shoes,

You were almost too cute to get out of the box, a perfectly vibrant combo of stripes and florals. You looked so big I thought you would never fit her. But then she grew, and then you did.

For one month, one month(!!) she traipsed around with you on her feet, to the park, the mountains, the playground, and home. You have gotten so dirty that I have had to scrub you with detergent till your colors have worn thin.

She didn't just wear you, she wore you out.

And I can't bear to part with you, so I will carefully pack you away in a keepsake box, a perfect reminder of the little miss you served. A girl who lives fierce, all-in, no-holds-barred. A girl who makes messes out of ordinary food and days in ways I have never seen before. She has no qualms about having muddy shoes, matted hair, and a messy face. Sorry for your sake, but you were just a means to an end, a necessary protection so she could climb that mountain, dig in that gravel, and splash in that puddle. 

As I pack you up, I smile at how far I've come as a momma of a mess-maker. I am learning to embrace the beauty of messes (let's be honest, better to laugh then to cry!) and the incredibly complex, lovely little girl who makes most of them.

Sure, I wish she could keep a pair of shoes presentable for more than a month or so, but then, what fun would that be?

Shoe shopping is the best!

Dear Hunter,

My dear little boy,

As I write this, I am sitting in the shade of our backyard, watching you play.

While many families are sharpening pencils and packing school lunches, September 2nd has given us a glorious summer extension... 84° and muggy, a discount slip-n-slide out back and the familiar "ch-ch" of locusts calling to one another from the trees. I daresay this may be my favorite summer day yet.

I am amazed at the difference a few short months have made for you. You have so much to say lately, and your little mind rarely rests. You ask about the way things work, and are not satisfied until we give you a full explanation. You play so purposefully now, creating games and projects in your head and with your hands.

A few weeks ago you were given a little mechanic set... a train and a race-car held together with brightly colored screws and a phillips-head screwdriver to assemble and disassemble parts. You have since spent countless hours diligently "working" away, paying close attention to the proper building of each vehicle.

You are cautious, meticulous, slow and steady... You are focused and precise, detailed and quiet.

You are a thinker, a dreamer, and a builder by trade.

I love to watch you grow, think, and learn. I love the way your brow furrows when you focus and the way your lips purse when you are pleased with yourself. I love the tender, high-pitch voice you use when talking to your sister. I love the way your chubby finger grasp hers when walking in new places.  I love your tiny frame and your eyes when they are wide with excitement. I love that you love books, trucks, deer, and playing outside. I love how much you admire your daddy. I love that you are sweet and sensitive, yet so very "bwave".

Thanks for filling up our days with laughter, little boy.

I love you.

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.

Dear Brooke,

Sweetheart,

I watched you play with your brother today, tumbling around in the mass of pillows that he constructed into his "castle". You giggled and shrieked, and occasionally looked back at me to make sure I was still there, eyes fixed on you.

I couldn't help but smile. You are beautiful. You are full of life. And you are growing up. Not just the average growth... dots on a line chart, weight on the rise, height ever increasing... but heart and soul growth. Maturity in your eyes. A deeper level of understanding and reasoning in your actions. You are rounding the bend to your sixteenth month, and these last few weeks have been our best yet.

You and I both know that this past year has been a challenge. Both of us stubborn, both of us independent, both of us needing grace. You are so much like me in so many ways, and yet so much your own lady too. I knew the moment our eyes met in the quaint birth center room the morning after your birth, that our relationship would stretch me. My world tilted, in the direction of a crying little one who needed me more than I knew how to be needed.

I knew a few emotions that day. Deep love. Fierce protection. Intense fear. I embarked on a series of sleepless nights, long days, and lots of prayers. I wrestled with the fact that I couldn't make you happy... you screamed and cried when you wanted too, and cooed and giggled when you felt like it. You were deeply affectionate some days, and didn't want to be touched the next. A strange paradox of independence and need. I didn't understand you in the least, and I knew you didn't understand yourself either. It was like we both spoke a different language and couldn't find a translator.

So we pushed through it together... through good days and not so good... we were content to let our love for one another bloom despite the challenges. We chose one another and started to form a third language together, one founded on respect and admission of our own shortcomings.

And something recently shifted, our world started to right itself again, and my days have begun to not be governed by when you are napping and awake, happy or sad. I can get laundry folded and get dishes washed, in the same morning! You entertain yourself for longer bits of time, and you delight in your big brother now, something that a few months ago seemed unattainable! You plod around the house, proud of yourself and your sturdy set of legs, your sense of humor and your increasing vocabulary. You make me laugh and your eyes dance at the thought of it. I smother you in hugs and kisses and you lean in for more.

And if you wonder why I am writing all this down... confessions of challenging days and difficult love...

it is because babe, I want you to know that you are so worth fighting for. You are worth every hard day, every sleepless night, every tear-filled encounter. You are worth getting to know, observing, loving.

You are lovely.

You are precious.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Don't forget this, little one.

You are worth it because you are a creation of the Most High God, crafted in His likeness. Just think of it, you are royalty!

Walking through these last fifteen months with you has been so so much more than a challenge, it has been a privilege, an honor, a joy.

It is said that the best things in life are worth fighting for, and I couldn't agree more. When it comes to you and I, our relationship has been tested and refined, and made stronger for it.

I love you.

Love,
Your Momma

Grief and Hope

In the past few weeks I have attended three funerals.

Two lives long lived, one life cut short.

And I have been wrestling with grief and the way it has invaded my days. Words I heard preached a few weeks before rattle around in my head, "There is nothing natural about death. It is not the way God intended."

God is a life-giver, not a life-taker.

And I have read, and heard it said that grief takes on many forms. For me it is a gnawing in my soul, a gut wrenching pain that still churns with the passage of time. It comes in the form of panic at night, and despair in the day. It comes with deep sadness one moment, and indifference the next. It plays tricks with my heart and makes me bite-y and short tempered, then mellow and reflective.

It throws balance out the window, a giant see-saw of emotions, none to be reconciled.

One emotion I did not anticipate, or recognize when it first came, was guilt.

The funeral that most held my heart was the first of the three, a remembrance of a life long lived, the death of my grandmother. Followed soon after by the death of an old friend who was only twenty four. Tragic. Devastating. Abrupt.

And so many people have comforted me with these words, "At least your she lived a long full life." "I know it is hard, but be thankful that she had so much time with you all."

They are right of course. She did live a long full life. She did have so much time with all of us. She did go quickly and painlessly compared to many.

And so wrapping tightly around my grief is this other emotion, this burden of guilt. The thought, "what right do I have to grieve the loss of a life long lived, when in a house across town, they are grieving the loss of a life cut short?"

And then I remember the preachers words, "There is nothing natural about death."

No matter how old, no matter how young, death steals, plunders, destroys. It leaves sadness in its wake, despair to deep to shake.

And if that were the end of the story I'd be doomed.

But it's not. Thank God it's not.

Because of another word that holds so much weight, and that is hope. Eloquently defined by the priest at the final funeral, "the expectation of what has already been promised."

Death wasn't God's plan, His design, His doing. It was a consequence of our actions, our rebellion against our Maker. And yet because of His great love for us, He stepped in and rewrote the story again. Changing the ending to one of promise, one of hope, one of Life.

He dies the ultimate death, so the death we experience on this earth is only a shadow of the real thing. He takes the sting out and gives us beauty for our ashes. He holds us while we grieve, while reminding us of His promises to us.

That although death is tragic in it's many forms, in the young and old, in the sick and well, in the best of circumstances and in the worst, it is not the end, for those who are in Christ, it is just the beginning.

So I will let me heart grieve, all the while praying away the guilt, exchanging it for hope... the expectation of what has already been promised.

"I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

“Death is swallowed up in victory.”
“O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?”

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." 

1 Corinthians 15:50-56

"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly."

John 10:10