Pictures of Joseph

Hey, friends. Thought you might like to see a couple of photos of Joseph, mentioned in my "Dreaming" post below. If you haven't read it yet, check it out and let me know what thoughts it prompts in you. The photos have been inserted into the post, so just scroll down.

:) Caron

Dreaming

One of the most impacting experiences of my trip to Zimbabwe last September was meeting a boy named Joseph at the Tsvingwe orphan feeding center. I stood slightly apart from the children crowding the area, talking to a gracious young woman named Chipo who helps run the feeding station, when 11-year-old Joseph approached. I expected him to speak to Chipo, so I was surpised when he looked me straight in the eyes and spoke in Shona with boldness and passion, never blinking, showing no fear or timidity as most of the children did--just deep yearning.

"I am an artist," he told me through Chipo's translation. "I need paper and pencils. Can you help me?"

I looked at the boy, his eyes dark and determined. I've hardly seen such a look. It gave me chills. And made me want to hand him all my pens and spirals and whatever money I had on me.

But I couldn't. There were 150 children there that day. I couldn't provide what each one wanted. I couldn't create the strife that singling one child out in front of all others would do in this desperate and impoverished region.

I met his gaze as Chipo translated for me. "I have friends who are artists," I said. "I will tell them about you, Joseph. Perhaps one of them can help."

He nodded solemnly.

I felt like I'd given him little hope. "Would you help me?" I asked. "Would you draw something for my friends using my paper and pen? That way, I can show them you are truly an artist."

His eyes lit up, and he spoke rapidly. Chipo hurried to translate. "What do you want me to draw?" He motioned with his arm. "I can draw anything you see."

"You decide," I told him.

He took the paper and pen, sat on the ground, and sketched one of the men eating sadza on a nearby bench. A very good rendition, I might add. His oversized, hand-me-down coat and frayed tennis shoes seemed irrelevant in that moment as I watched the artist work. The other children swarmed him, pushing and shoving each other and him, curious to know what he and I were doing together. In fact, he started drawing a second man--I suspect he hardly paid attention to the chaos around him--but I stopped him, concerned the other children would soon be out of control.




Joseph’s drawing is still in my notebook. A friend of mine--an art teacher at a local school--has recently gathered some extra supplies for Joseph. It will take months before the package will reach him. It’s been months already, so I will send money ahead for a few supplies to be purchased locally.

I tell you this because I can’t think of Joseph without tears gathering in my eyes. Because when I saw that box of art supplies, I wanted to cry. I certainly praised God.

I think Joseph touches my heart because he dares to dream in a place where dreaming is impractical. Because he yearns to create in a time when priority is placed on simply surviving. Because he probably suspects his request has been forgotten by me and by God, though it hasn’t.

So often, we dream and wait and get discouraged and give up before God has orchestrated all that is necessary to give birth to our hopes. Or we become intimidated and unsure of our ability to reach our goals, so we back off. We quit dreaming. Quit trying. Quit growing toward them.

I spoke to a young woman just the other day who shared her adventuresome and purposeful dreams with me. Dreams that made my own heart soar with the possibilities. “Sometimes though,” she finished, “I think my dreams will never happen.”

But I believe that the right and holy things we long for are planted in us by God. That we must never give up striving to be ready for what he wants to express to the world through us. Beauty. Mission. Adventure. Sacrifice. Wisdom. Love. Laughter. Life.

The words below came to me third-hand. But they’re first-rate, and so I want to pass them along. My heart skips a beat when I read them.

RISK more than others think is safe.

CARE more than others think is wise.

DREAM more than others think is practical.

EXPECT more than others think is possible.

Let's journey on together, entrusting our hopes and longings to the Father of heaven and earth. Let us not be afraid or discouraged. Let's dream. And let's see what he will do in unexpected ways at unexpected times.

He's like that, you know.

Fearlessness

By nature, I am a fearful person. For instance, years ago I sat up crying most of one night when my husband was off somewhere for military training because I thought I heard someone in the back of the house. I wouldn’t leave the bedroom to go check, call the police, or evacuate the house. I just sat there terrified and paralyzed, imagining all sorts of horrible endings to that night. In those days I often operated—or failed to operate—out of fear.

Do you remember the Star Wars spoof, Space Balls? (My daughter tells me this is wrong--it's not Space Balls, but Austin Powers. However, I've not seen Austin Powers, so I must have seen a clip of this somewhere.) There’s a scene where a steam roller is heading toward one of the minor characters. The man stands screaming in terror for ages while the machine creeps forward and eventually flattens him. When I think back to some of my less-than-shining moments, I realize I was a lot like that silly character who could have controlled the panic and simply taken five steps to safety.

The Spirit has really done some work on me, praise God, though from time to time my initial impulse is to react in fear.

I often encounter people who are reacting in fear to some aspect of life. I recognize this sort of thing when I see it, mind you. And two things stand out.

First of all, it seems to me that the greatest fear most people have is that of being truly known (paradoxically, it is also our greatest desire). We plaster on a smile or a sweet tone or stay incredibly busy or talk the religious talk in an effort to hide how we’re really feeling or what we’re really struggling with. We’re simply terrified that people will judge us and reject us. (See my October posts “Facing the Truth,” “Funny, isn’t it . . . ,” and “God is Enough” for related thoughts on this topic.)

Secondly, I’ve intentionally used the phrase “react in fear” rather than “act in fear” because that’s what we fearful types do. When we let fear overwhelm us, we don’t take positive, strong action. We react in anger, weakness, or temporary insanity. We let whatever we’re afraid of control us.

In recent years it has become very important to me to live fearlessly. Not because I want to be strong, but because I want to live like I believe God is strong. And if I believe he is—if I believe he is all-powerful, and all-good, and all-loving—then I cannot be fearful. Fear and belief do not go hand-in-hand.

It’s true that sometimes people do judge and reject us when they know our deepest heart or darkest secrets. And sometimes what we fear does, in fact, come to pass. But shrugging off the bonds of fear is one of the most liberating, life-giving experiences available to us.

I will be praying today that you release your grip on fear, whatever you fear.

By the Spirit, I am not a fearful person.

Chaos

Through the years I have consistently been described by others as calm or peaceful.

Ha.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote to a relatively new friend saying, “I wonder sometimes if you think I'm only content when experiencing personal chaos, but the truth is that our friendship germinated during a period of my life that is best characterized as extreme spiritual upheaval.”

This made my friend laugh, which tells me I wasn’t far off the mark.

Of course, I do enjoy a deep and abiding peace in Christ, but His Spirit has been stirring my soul in ways that are neither calm nor peaceful. And I’m profoundly grateful. I don’t want to make it sound like everything previous was a waste—God has always been molding and shaping me, I’ve long recognized His call on my life, and have focused on knowing Him for years—but this thing He’s been doing in me these past four or five years has been . . . well, like a rebirth.

Messy, to be sure.

Oswald Chambers wrote: “Before we choose to follow God’s will, a crisis must develop in our lives. This happens because we tend to be unresponsive to God’s gentler nudges. He brings us to the place where He asks us to be our utmost for Him . . . He then providentially produces a crisis where we have to decide—for or against. That moment becomes a great crossroads in our lives.”

Admittedly, my crisis has been longer than a “moment”—a lengthy wrestling with my own concept of God, self, ministry, community, faith, sacrifice. But it’s been intense. Refreshingly intense. I can only say that now, though, when I’m finally gaining a little perspective on it.

What about you? What kind of crisis or chaos has God brought into your life? And how are you managing in the midst of it? If you’re like me, most days you probably feel like you’re barely hanging on. But as long as you’re hanging on to Him, you’re exactly where you need to be.

I imagine the chaos in my life is pretty much just getting started. That there's more He wants to do in and through me. You should see the smile on my face at that thought. Remind me of that later, okay?

Idols

I drove through the WalMart parking lot on my way to the tire and lube bays. I’d just hit the seek button on the radio when I heard some (I’m sure famous) Christian speaker on the radio quote another (I’m sure famous) Christian speaker. I lowered the volume and repeated the quote over and over in my head until I could park and write it down on a scrap of paper. I think I still got it wrong—WalMart parking lots are immensely distracting to me—but this is close:

“When I’m discouraged, God is shattering the idols of my heart so He can make room to move in there.” (I hope the probably-famous-Christian speaker will forgive me for not assigning proper credit.)

My first thought in reaction to this quote was, “Lord, just how many idols have I set up in place of you?” My second thought was, “Please finish the job and take possession of me!”

Consider this: we’re discouraged when life doesn’t turn out the way we want. When things don’t happen as we hope. When people disappoint us. Or hurt us. Or frustrate us. When agents and editors turn us down. Or friends turn their backs on us. When people misunderstand us. When we can’t be the superwoman (or man) we want everyone to think we are. When we don’t get the promotion or recognition or appreciation we feel we deserve. When God doesn’t answer our prayers or heal us or bail us out.

Or maybe that’s just me.

But think about this: if those things discourage me so easily—and they do—then I’ve set my hope on the object of my discouragement. Circumstances. Other people. Success. Praise. Myself. A “make-a-wish-god” instead of the Creator and Sustainer of heaven and earth.

I used to teach history and cultures and world religions. One of the most notable things to me about idol worship is how worshippers often make great sacrifices to the idol, yet receive nothing in return.

And I don’t want to live like that anymore, sacrificing my joy, time, relationships, and heart to idols that offer nothing in return. It’s powerless. Fruitless. Careless.

So, Lord, break the idols. Move in. Make me wholly Yours. And holy Yours.

Though I’m certain even then WalMart parking lots will be a challenge.

Of Ships and Lions

“The ship is safest when it’s in port. But that’s not what ships were made for.”—Paulo Coelho

I had a much-needed tranquil Christmas day. Never got dressed to the point of being presentable. Didn’t even make a Christmas dinner—just heated up leftovers. Napped twice, watched a couple of movies, finished a book. And now look at me: I’m finally in a proper frame of mind for blogging. It’s been weeks.

The problem has not been a matter of nothing to say; it’s that my brain’s been running in too many directions, like my oldest son’s puppy who can’t seem to settle with one bit of mischief over another.

I have to admit the past few months have been tumultuous. Well, maybe the past year or two. Okay, the last four years, at least. And the chaos has had little to do with physical circumstances or relationships, though the Lord has drawn those into the picture from time to time. But the core of what I’m talking about is an inward and spiritual revolution going on in the midst of my normally serene heart.

I used to be afraid of it. Then I hated it. Then I embraced it. Now I’m on a wild expedition through personally uncharted territory. And having the time of my life. Not that it isn’t still scary at times or that I don’t long for peaceful waters occasionally, but this . . . . This is living.

And I only bring it up because many of you know exactly what I’m talking about. Not that you know specifically what Jesus is doing in my heart and mind, but you sense what he’s trying to do in yours.

It’s not safe, you know. It never is. But I don’t believe any thinking person could argue that Jesus is safe. When one of the children in C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia asks if Aslan the Lion—the Christ-figure in the story—is safe, she gets this answer: “Who said anything about safe? ’Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

So I’m praying for you now. Praying that you’ll let the Lord of heaven and earth lead a rebellion in you. That he’ll turn upside down whatever is comfortable and complacent in your life. That he’ll start at the fringe of what you know—really know—to be good and true and noble and perfect and use it to upset the rest of your life. Don’t be shocked. Or frightened. Or resistant.

It’s what you were made for.

So . . . share with me. What is he doing in you just now, or calling you to, or making you question?

Bigger and Better

My cheeks are still cold from playing “Bigger and Better” with a group of middle school students. I got the easy part—with my windows down so I could monitor things, I drove four 6th grade boys house-to-house as they asked strangers to trade them for something bigger and better. They started with a paper clip and ended up with a pair of snow skis. They actually made one trade too many and lost the skis for an old shadeless lamp. They traded the lamp for a big purple Barney. When they got back in the car, I told them they had ten minutes left in the game and a big decision to make. They got my meaning and headed back to trade for the skis again.

Almost every homeowner joined in on the fun, except for the lady that yelled at them to go away. When our time was up, I dropped the guys back off at their youth group party. I haven’t heard whether or not their skis were voted best trade, but I thought they did terrific. Now I’m sitting by the fire in my living room enjoying a quiet evening after the hour of competitive excitement.

And I just read these words in The Shaping of Things to Come by Michael Frost & Alan Hirsch: “. . . faith . . . [means] we stake our lives upon a conviction: It is far closer to raw courage than it is to mere belief. A missional church is as imaginative as it is bold. And missional leadership is courageous and willing to try new things and risk all if necessary to see the kingdom come.”

Bob and I have been thinking a lot about being missional lately. About what it means to minister in America today where the culture is rapidly changing, growing more diverse and global and spiritual while at the same time giving less and less credence to faith in Jesus Christ. We see so many people who are discouraged, depressed, de-spirited, and demoralized. They’re frustrated with churches, with politicians, with the status quo. They’re too busy, they’re worried about the environment, they’re skeptical of institutional anything.

In a big way, my husband and I want to do the hard work of figuring out how to enter our culture as missionaries. It’s simply not the environment we grew up in. And let’s be honest—too often, churches and ministries and Christians are so far removed from the world as it really is today that we’ve become ineffective in it. Bob and I are striving to become incarnational Christians—to actually enter into the lives of not-yet-Christians in a way that connects to them where they are so that they might know God and participate in his kingdom. Though the task is daunting and even confounding at times, the ideas we’ve tossed around are exciting. And scary. And risky.

But somehow I sense we’re trading up for something bigger and better.

Closets

We had a leaking pipe under the slab of our house. You know, the kind where you end up with strangers in your closet when you only thought they were going to be in your bathroom.

It started about a week ago with a warm wet spot on the carpet in front of my sink. I rubbed our schnauzer’s nose in it, sprayed it with disinfectant, and blotted it up. It came back. The dog was outside.

It took five days for a plumber to get here, break the slab, and fix the leak. Now there’s a hole in the cabinet floor, no carpet on my side of the bathroom, and huge turbo fans pointed at the bare concrete.

I didn’t know the carpet in the closet got wet, too. Actually, just sort of in the doorway of the closet. But I didn’t clean the closet out like I did the bathroom cabinet. Which means the two very nice young men who worked for us today got a glimpse of what my life is really like.

Shelves sagging with old tax returns and boxes of keepsakes. A huge, impractical bag from Mexico. Tons and tons of old photos in shoeboxes. A basket of dirty laundry. A half dozen turtlenecks that I can’t tolerate wearing anymore, but am afraid to throw out. In case, you know, I change my mind about strangling. A pile of pajamas and workout clothes and swimsuits and stuff that I really don’t have a place for. At least they were on a shelf and not on the floor.

Don’t misunderstand. The floor is a cluttered mess, too. The whole thing looks like a tornado struck. Frankly, it’s a place where I can throw everything I’m indecisive about. A place where I can tell myself I’ll deal with it later. A private place to keep my dirty and not so dirty secrets.

It embarrassed me that these kindly carpet strangers saw my closet today. But they were professional about it, and we all acted like it didn’t matter.

I’m often just as embarrassed when kindly friends see what’s really inside my own heart. There’s a lot of clutter there. And maybe that’s normal and maybe it’s not, but I can tell you, it’s often not pretty. Thankfully, I have help in cleaning it out—God help, that is.

I’m kind of starting to like the whole transparency thing—blogging, for example—for a couple of reasons. First of all, it means I have to do something about the mess inside (accountability). Secondly, I’m discovering that there are a lot of others who’re hanging on to some of the same things in their heart-closets, and somehow we find mutual encouragement in the sharing.

And we’re all being wonderfully unprofessional about it and acting like it matters.

Paradox

I met a young friend at a coffee shop last week and our conversation turned to some of the many paradoxes of our faith. Specifically, we spoke of how married couples often turn on each other, becoming bitter and mean-spirited, always trying to “win” in any particular conflict. But Jesus says that we must humble ourselves, and I’ve discovered in my marriage that when I do so, we both “win.” And when my husband humbles himself, I love him more, not less. I don’t want to take advantage of his humility, but match it with my own.

Sometimes I wonder how these kinds of “backward” thinking work. When Jesus says to love my enemies and bless those who curse me, it really is the best way to live. When he says to trust that he will provide for me—despite what my bank account looks like—I can trust him. When he says I’m strongest when I’m weak, I can believe it’s true.

God’s paradoxes don’t make sense to us, and they don’t have to. They just have to be true. And the thing is, we won’t know if they’re true unless we believe they are and live them out.

Rob Bell writes in his thought-provoking book Velvet Elvis, that “It’s not so much that the Christian faith has a lot of paradoxes. It’s that it is a lot of paradoxes. And we cannot resolve a paradox. We have to let it be what it is.”

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against one of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself.

If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.

. . . do not use your freedom to indulge the sinful nature; rather, serve one another in love.

If [someone] sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says, “I repent,” forgive him.

In the same way, any of you who does not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple.

A paradox is a seeming contradiction, an illogical thought, an absurdity. And, frankly, so much of what God asks of us is absurd. By human standards, that is. We’re all about self-preservation, getting ahead, winning. He’s all about transforming us into his likeness. And we can’t keep on functioning by human standards and expect to become like our Father.

That would be absurd.

The Hard Work

I had a good conversation with some folks the other night, including my friend and brother Brian Mashburn. I began to connect the dots between our discussion, my previous posts, and some prior teaching from Brian, and came up with a simple answer for those who’ve recently asked questions that begin with “but HOW do you . . . ?” Questions like:

“How do you let God be enough?”

“How do you feel the presence of God in your life?”

“How do you think in terms of being on a spiritual journey?”

“How do you surrender to God?”

Granted, my answer is only a first step and will probably be frustrating to a number of people. But it really does begin to explain my experience on this faith journey.

In a sense, this simple answer requires hard work. Very hard, sometimes. But, praise God, it’s the only work truly required of a disciple. So, what is it?

To believe.

In John 6:28-29, John records an interesting and often-overlooked exchange between Jesus and his disciples: “Then they asked him, ‘What must we do to do the works God requires?’ Jesus answered, ‘The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent.’”

When I read that, I almost want to say, "Are you kidding me?" I mean, seriously, I've put an awful lot of effort into works during this life of mine. What about the whole "faith without deeds is dead" argument proposed in James 2?

But, honestly, my first step toward growth in any spiritual concern has been to believe it is true or possible or the best way to live. To believe God really is enough, no matter how I feel. Or to believe that He is present at all times in my life. To believe that I am on a spiritual journey that He’s constantly speaking into if only I will listen. To believe that surrendering anything and everything to God will produce peace, joy, completeness, and satisfaction in the deepest places of my soul.

When I choose to believe these things are true, then I consciously decide to try them out through practical experience. I know everyone’s used the example of Indiana Jones in the “Last Crusade,” but I can’t help it. You most likely know the scene where, in order to save his father’s life, Indiana has to cross an invisible bridge spanning a deep and deadly chasm. He agonizes between the desire to save his father’s life and his fear of stepping off a cliff onto nothingness. In fact, he can’t even imagine an invisible bridge is there; he seems to have no idea what will happen when he takes his first step. But he knows this: his father’s life will be saved only if he’s willing to step out in faith. So, he swallows, closes his eyes, and moves forward.

And even though I’d like to tell you it’s different for me, oftentimes it’s not. I’m just as nervous about what my life will look like—what ground I’ll lose or what pain I’ll suffer—when I choose to act upon my belief. Because really believing can be hard work.

But I can testify to this: believing and moving forward in faith really is the best way to live.

Relationship

I learned this week that I let down some of the people I respect and love most in this world. That I didn’t mean to and didn’t realize I had done so is irrelevant. That I truly made mistakes that led to their disappointment only worsens my pain and regret. I spent three days crying--my eyes turning purple and plump as grapes--before we could meet, and I could ask their forgiveness.

I hate being wrong. I hate being wrong to be complicated by being misunderstood. But, mostly, I hate being out of a right relationship with someone.

I have to admit that during those three days I got progressively more irritable with my family. I even snapped at Bob one night—something ridiculously absurd like "I'll think less of you as a person if you don't turn out the light," even though I was the last one in bed and had just walked past the lamp.

I had to apologize to him, too.

So, I couldn’t help wondering if I really meant what I’ve said about God being enough. If I believed it, why was this circumstance so painful? And then I realized it was because I craved forgiveness. Or, at least, I craved the opportunity to apologize, to do my part in restoring the relationship, human forgiveness never being something we can secure for ourselves.

Staying connected is what I crave with God, too. When my relationship with him is damaged or distant—and that’s ALWAYS my fault, never his—I’m all out of sorts. I can try to ignore the issue by pretending something else is bothering me, but there are few things that truly get me worked up when I’m in a right relationship with my Heavenly Father.

And the glorious thing is that his forgiveness is guaranteed. He draws me close, soothes my troubled heart, and lets me know that we’re going to be just fine. That’s good news for the journey.

Surrender

I’ve been trying to figure out what I did to finally let God be enough for me. But the truth is that I simply gave up on all those other things I unwittingly wanted to take His place.

When I say I simply gave up, I don’t mean it was easy. It was like giving birth—painful, difficult, exhausting. Agonizing, even. And then it was over, and I held this precious new thing in my arms: peace.

I see people who are so fretful and unhappy and agitated and angry. They’re disappointed, depressed, and discouraged because, frankly, no one around them is cooperating with their idea of what life was supposed to be. Not even God.

It doesn’t seem to matter how hard they try, how desperately they pray, how unwavering their commitments to their goals and dreams are, things just aren’t going as planned. Their jobs are unfulfilling, their kids are screwing up, their spouses are disappointments, their friends are lukewarm, and they never seem to get ahead. And then they realize they’re blessed in every regard, so the problem must be rooted inside themselves. Perhaps if they were just more talented, lovable, organized, spiritual, diligent, worthy of respect, wise, attractive, things would be better.

I know, because I felt all those things. At any rate, I grew tired of being unhappy for no good reason, so I finally told the Lord, “Forget it. I don’t even want to want those things anymore. I give up. I’m weak, I’m incredibly imperfect, and I’m going nowhere, anyway. I surrender.”

“Now, you’re getting it.”

“I am?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.” I had my doubts. “Okay, so will You be enough for me?”

“Just watch Me.”

As I said in my previous post, at first I begged God to be enough for me every time I felt discouraged or disappointed or hurt or insignificant or incompetent. Which was often. Sometimes, when I take my eyes off Him, I have to ask again.

But mostly, I’m just learning to trust that He is enough. That no day has to look like what I expected. As a result, I’ve had some amazing days.

I’m learning that no person has to act or react the way I want them to. And you know what? That’s removed a lot of unfair expectations, frustration, and disappointment because I know the people in my life are ultimately in God’s hands anyway. Not mine. They never have been.

I’m seeing that God’s use of the gifts He’s given me is more creative, more rewarding, more true—or “truer” as my brother Brian Mashburn would say—and more effective than anything I had in mind. Besides, it’s simpler to let God use my gifts as He sees fit . . . I was working awfully hard trying to be impressive with them.

Surrender. People ask me all the time how to do it. It’s hard for us to really get our minds—our wills—around this concept. We’re just so dadgum sure we know what we or our loved ones or our church needs, and we’re so dadgum afraid God won’t agree. And He probably won’t. Because what He has in mind is so much better.

Letting God be enough is like living on the wild side: wonderfully unpredictable, delightfully challenging, deliciously satisfying, and unexplainably peaceful.

That’s enough for me.

God Is Enough

Everything’s changed since I came to this conclusion. The transforming work God’s been doing in me has been tough in some respects, but not nearly as tough as it was on the other side.

Once I quit pursuing happiness and fulfillment and started pursuing the heart of God, my outlook and perspective shifted dramatically. And, oddly enough, I began feeling content and fulfilled, even though my circumstances hadn’t changed at all.

It wasn’t easy. In those first weeks it seemed I prayed a kazillion times a day, “Lord, be enough for me.” Every time I felt frustrated, hurt, ignored, attacked, disappointed, I prayed. And almost immediately my heart would still, my mind would center on the truth that He is enough, and His peace would replace my turmoil.

And He began doing things. Using my writing for His purpose, as I’d always said I wanted. Leading me into deeper relationships with people who, if they don’t always get me, at least respect and love and support me. He challenged me with my recent trip to Africa, and then removed the fears I would normally have had about our travel, the political conditions, and my own shortcomings.

Let me reiterate, nothing outward has really changed. It’s all been inner transformation. It doesn’t matter that one of the judges of the writing contest I entered last spring hated my novel. God is enough. It doesn’t matter that I don’t quite fit into women’s ministry the way I used to. God is enough. It doesn’t matter that I can’t see the specific direction God’s taking me in ministry. He is enough. It doesn’t matter that I find refreshment in solitude, and I had little of it in Zimbabwe. God is enough. It doesn’t matter that my job requires me to defer rather than take charge as I’m inclined to do. God is enough. It doesn’t matter that my kids are growing up and making their own choices without my input. God is enough. It doesn’t matter when an expected invitation—or praise—doesn’t come. God is enough. It doesn’t matter when I can tell I’ve under-impressed someone. God is enough.

I’m still learning what it means to really believe God is enough. But I know that He is.

Funny, isn't it . . .

. . . how faith is so multi-layered? How understanding, comprehending (at least a little), and experiencing God comes in bits and pieces. How understanding our own hearts can sometimes be almost as daunting a prospect.

The above paragraph and those that follow are thoughts I shared with a few friends last April after my introspective question: “Is God Enough?” Looking back, I can see what God was doing in my heart. It just gets better. But for now, I’ll let you pick up where I left off on my last post . . .

I don't know how much further along I am in understanding how to let God be enough for me, but I've had an interesting week. A more satisfying week. A more settled week. Of course, I know God IS enough, but to really feel it when your emotions tell you differently is another matter.

I suppose the greatest and most difficult insight I've had over the past several days has been how juvenile my expectations of Him have become. I want, want, want. Guess that'd be great if it was all about wanting, wanting, wanting God. But usually it's more along the line of wanting things to work out my way. Because, of course, "I only want what best serves His Kingdom." Oh, brother.

I've been pondering how low I must have sunk that he has had to teach me so patiently (read that as "so long"). I now see that during the past year God has removed most of my usual props--the things I normally rely on to feel significant, useful, approved of, or applauded. Not exactly Job revisited, but I'm pretty much standing alone right now, just learning to let the Lord be enough for me. As if I could handle anything more.

I know I'm not alone, though. Besides God, I'm discovering a few brave souls willing to truly love and support me just the way I am. Even if I do test their ability to sort out my ramblings.

And about significance. Well, maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be. At least not when your significance lies in the value others ascribe to you rather than the value God gives you.

Dadgum, I'm embarrassed that these things are so basic. I used to KNOW them. Not sure what happened other than that it's the same old deceptions just prancing around in makeup and high heels.

Facing the Truth

I attended a ladies retreat at a YMCA camp in Winter Park, Colorado last weekend, enjoying fun and fellowship and challenge with both new and old friends. There was a YMCA poster on the wall of our meeting room that spoke these profound words: “You never find yourself until you face the truth.”

Wow.

Most of you have no idea how accurate this statement has proved to be in my life this year. While I’m not proud of where I’ve been, the conclusions I’ve come to since—by God’s grace—have changed everything. The remainder of this post is taken from my journal entry last March. It’s not important that you understand exactly where I was. And I ask that you be patient to read my next few posts describing some of what God’s been doing in my heart since—it’s been awesome. But for now, just read. And maybe consider what truth you need to face on this journey of yours.

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Is God enough?

I know in my mind that he is, and I sense in my heart that he is, but somewhere—at my core—I'm wrestling with that question. Maybe it's disappointment speaking. Maybe it's disillusionment clouding my thoughts.

Funny. Disillusionment means the illusion has been removed. Was the illusion that God is enough? Or was the illusion that things will work out, that he will remove my hurt, that when he's on my side he'll bring me success, acceptance, and honor?

I've been troubled lately--afraid the former is true. Afraid that no matter what everyone says, no matter what the songwriters pen, no matter what I've written, taught, and assured people of in the past, God isn't enough. How trite the DJ's have sounded on the Christian radio stations, purring that "The Lord is the answer for every heartache." Well, I have the Lord, and my heart still aches.

But despite my doubts, in my gut, I'm sure the latter is true. I'm ashamed that I've been deluded into thinking like the immature think on these matters—like Christianity is some sort of happy pill—but it's the first thing that's really made sense to me in months. No wonder I've felt so isolated, inadequate, ugly, rejected. No wonder I haven't understood the pain, the loneliness, the tears, the sense of loss. I know better.

It forces me to ask—what now? Am I willing to let God be enough? I'd better be, for he is abundant in his giving, whether it's love, mercy, grace, or comfort.

But can I pursue God alone? Can that be enough for me? Can I really let him do what he will with my talents, desires, and passions? Can I be all right with being ignored, forgotten, undervalued by man? Can I accept furrowed brows, puzzled faces, changed topics of conversation, and outright disagreement when I share my ideas and heart?

Is God enough?

I know I want my answer to be a resounding, Yes! I sense that if I can get my mind around this concept, grasp hold of it with all the passion inside me, then I will be one of the most blessed and content women on the face of the earth.

So, here's what I think: I believe God's inviting me into deep intimacy with him like I've never even imagined. That he wants to be my food, my drink, my very breath. St. Ignacious said, "The glory of God is man fully alive," but I haven't really been living. I've been yearning, not for bad things, but for lesser things. I've been searching for purpose, meaning, significance. I've wanted my life to matter--but it can never matter like I want it to unless I get this one thing: God, alone, is enough.

Until he is enough for me, he will never be fully formed in me. I'll never be fully alive. Fully glorifying him. Writing, ministering, encouraging, praying, leading, teaching--none of it will matter unless it glorifies him.

God help me . . . I want to believe it. To get it. To live it.

Can I let God be enough for me?

Zimbabwe Looks Like . . .

In September Zimbabwe looks like a land waking up from winter. Like the purple flowers of the jacaranda tree and bright red bougainvillea. Like green popo fruit trying to turn ripe and yellow. Like small gardens filled with kale and tomatoes. Like baobab trees stripped of their bark, a sacrifice to woven mats.

It looks like the dusty, cracked feet of a twenty-year-old village woman. Like mothers nursing babies. Like the tattered clothing of an orphan. It looks like women carrying every manner of thing on their heads—baskets, suitcases, bags of mealy-meal, bundles of thatch, firewood, tall buckets. It looks like women and children carrying their little ones or siblings strapped to their backs with beach towels.

It looks like coffee colored skin, dark and glistening. Like young eyes that have seen too much. Like curious glances and warm smiles. Like twisted feet and untreated tumors. Like the sallow complexion of HIV.

It looks like bricks made from the soil of termite hills. Like round huts with thatched roofs. Like ox carts driven by small boys or young men. Like old preachers in faded suits. Like people walking or sitting or bicycling along the road. Like a pitch black countryside at night. Like hopeful vendors rushing to your car windows with hands full of bright orange carrots or baskets of oranges, lemons, apples.

It looks like prayerful dependence in the midst of pain and suffering.

Zimbabwe Tastes Like . . .

In September Zimbabwe tastes like grit in your teeth. Like orange Fanta gliding cold and sweet over your tongue.

Like salty kapenta which moments beforehand were staring from your plate with sightless eyes.

It tastes like sadza, bland and thick.

Like sugary telephone pudding at the game park lodge. It tastes like the apples you eat in the backseat of a small extended cab pickup while bumping down a cratered single lane road.

It tastes like trail mix and granola bars you brought from home, a makeshift and welcomed lunch. It tastes like water you made sure came from a safe source.

It tastes like chicken fried so hard you cannot break or bend it. It tastes like pork and beans every morning for breakfast and strange sausages you pass along to someone hungry enough to appreciate them.

It tastes like pure spiritual milk in the midst of oppression.

Zimbabwe sounds like . . .

In September Zimbabwe sounds like singing. Loud, warbling tones that somehow blend into the sweetest music. It sounds like young people clapping, keeping time with the rhythm of their voices.



It sounds like the delighted laughter or shy giggles of orphans.





Like widows ululating in thanksgiving. Like a hotel maid humming as she bends low, raking leaves with a small homemade whisk.







It sounds like the bleating of goats in the school yard and bells clanging around the necks of oxen pulling a cart or cattle meandering past the church gathered on a wide rock.









Like the crack of the masasa tree as its seed pods burst open. Like the squawk of guinea fowl.

It sounds like children along the roadside yelling, “Hello!” as your vehicle passes. Like fussy babies cradled in the arms of their grandmothers, for their mothers have died of AIDS.

It sounds like songs of praise drifting down a footpath through brittle grass in the midst of a barren land.

Zimbabwe Feels . . .

In September Zimbabwe feels dry. Dry and dusty. Dust that covers your clothing, plasters your neck and arms, coats your hair until you feel like you’ve become as hard and worn as the dirt roads that carry you into the bush.

It feels like calloused hands grasping yours. Like the strong arms of a wizened old woman hugging you roughly. Like a young woman who embraces you, burying her face in your shoulder, reluctant to let you go. Like children crowding around, jostling you, trying to glimpse their faces on your digital camera.

It feels like the unrelenting firmness of timber spanning two boulders, an improvised church pew protected from the sun’s heat by the shade of a scraggly tree. Like cool water poured over your hands before you eat.

It feels like the surprising satisfaction of the Bread of Life in the midst of hunger.

What It's Like

Since my return from Zimbabwe, one question has been asked predominantly: "What was it like?" I'll spend the next few days trying to respond.

Others who traveled before me kept saying, "I'll never forget the way Africa smells," so naturally, I wondered.

Well, maybe I went at the right time of year--early spring. Or maybe I was congested from too much dust in the air. At any rate, I struggled to put it into words.

But I was struck by this:

In September Zimbabwe smells like smoke. Smoke from a million cooking fires. From fields being burned in preparation for the planting season. From grass fires raging through the parched countryside. From vendors roasting maize on the street corners.

It smells of sweet blooming trees, climbing vines, and bushes. Of unwashed bodies and henhouses and boiled chicken.

It smells of fresh laundry washed in a tub outside and draped over fences or bushes to dry. Of dank shops and crowded classrooms-turned-churches, earthy breeze blowing in through open windows.

It smells of hard-to-explain hope in the midst of hopelessness.