I realized this weekend that if I were born into a more difficult situation i would have less luxury to be good.

For example, I heard from someone who taught kids in inner-city schools that the pressure to be in a gang was so high that only something like 1 in 6 teenage boys weren’t in a gang. With all those pressures those kids just don’t have the luxury of being good all the time.

Islam. Hindu. Buddhism. As far as i understand, these religions rank your eternal standing on how good you are throughout your life. Islam: Like an 80 year score card. Buddhism: Score card Karma. Hinduism: you will pay in this life what you did in the previous life.

But Christ understands that we know not always what we do, and he forgives even if we’ve been terrible for our whole life until the moment we believe.  He doesn’t hold us accountable to our sins when we didn’t know. He holds us accountable to what we believe, that Jesus is our savior- and that we trust our future with him.

I wonder if there will be people in hell who blame their Christian teachers for not really challenging them with the hard truth. That would be a heavy burden.

I was thinking how some people are born that seem destined to drain society instead of add to it. And i ask myself “what point does that have?” Why would god bring people into the world that will bring more work, more burden, more pain.

I know that maybe it isn’t god that makes people bursensome, it is his gift of free will that we have abused that makes some that way, but maybe god DOES think them useful to his purpose.

What if God meant for better people, but he knows that with burdensome people comes a better story. And in the end when all is settled and we look back, maybe a story of redemption from deep pain that shows how forgiving, loving, and just is our king, and showed the compassion in people who chose to sacrifice for them, is ultimately a better story than one where perfect people always do the right thing. I dont know about god, and i know there’s an awful lot at stake, but i like those stories a lot better.

I’ve often wondered why the God of the Old Testament seems different than the God of the New Testament.

I’ve also often wondered why we don’t see miracles like they used to.

Then i realized something. Most of what God said in the Old Testament was to the people that were already committed to him in a covenant relationship. Most of the people Jesus talked to in the New Testament were wayward people who had long since forsaken their covenant with him and needed saving again.

In the Old Testament God seemed to hold the people to a ridiculously rigorous standard, crushing any impurity that threatened to infect the rest. In the New Testament he seems eager to accept even prostitutes and the like if he only saw in them a slight change in heart. But if he was strict to someone in the New Testament it WAS to those who seemed to be pretty far along.

This makes me think two possibilities about God. . . that he’s lonely and mean and he wants to get everybody to commit before he starts to tell them how bad they are. . . or, he loves us all enough to call us his own and turn us into the purest, most liberated creatures that he built us to be, even if he has to seem like a harsh father while doing it.

And maybe this is why we don’t see miracles any more, at least in this American Culture. If we were as sinless and committed as the Jews in the best Old testament days maybe then we would be fit to be the houses of God’s miracles too.

The last time i traveled home i found myself getting impatient with my 7- and 9-year old brothers because they wanted to spend all their time with me. This should be a flattering problem, right? Well, I got impatient because i felt like they were taking away my vacation time. I had other stuff I wanted to get done and i was constantly trying to not be upset about it.

When i went home this time I decided that from 10am to 10pm my time would be my family’s.

I have been so much happier and it is so much more fun to love them all when I don’t hold onto my time like I own it. Plus, somehow i seem to get more accomplished.

I find that i get frustrated with life when I believe that my time is my own. Life becomes a lot more enjoyable when I trust God to bring each thing to me in the right time, and pay all my attention to whatever and whoever God has given me to share each moment with.

In my youth i decided who i wanted to be and tried to be it.

Now i find i trust god and simply watch who he is turning me into.

Both are good to do: one as a child, one as a follower of christ.

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My mentor pointed out that i am in a much better place than i was a year ago, so i thought that i would scribe for my benefit, and any of you guys who are curious, what I think the factors were that have gotten me here.

1) I forced a lifestyle change. Alone in a single apartment i was too susceptible to my lonely vices. Now I live with roommates who not only see just about everything i do, but also bring more joy to those things.

2) I had a traumatic experience. I broke up with a wonderful girl, saw my own depravity, and depended fully and often on God’s hand as he lifted me out of the ensuing depression. . . to become a more humbled, yet confident Ross, who now knows the joy of holding that quiet, strong hand. Thank you, dear Captain.

3) Working a consistent prayer/reading/memorization schedule into almost every day. I try to get away for 15 minutes twice during my work day to memorize scripture for 5, read the Bible for 5, and pray for 5.  Lately i’ve strangely found enough reward and stability in this habit that i’ve started attempting to also rendevouz with Him in the morning, or my favorite, in front of a big open window during a rainstorm after the sun has gone down immediately after work.

4) Professional counseling. Though our minds are tightly tied to our spirits, i think some emotional healing is best done with a doctor of the psychological type. The medicine of “my identity in God” is at the root of these treatments, but the exercise of talking them through with someone is like the physical therapy that is just as necessary to heal me.

5) Controlling my eyes. I think i’ve learned that the battle subtly begins at the very first moment of contact… including what my eyes encounter. Getting disciplined in the art of controlling my eyes conditioned my brain to be in control of all my thoughts better.

6) Mentors can give consistency and orientation to a life like a compass on a ship that has the whole see to wander, filled with caves and see monsters, both ready to swallow me whole.

Ok, i hope this assessment doesn’t sound prideful. I know that i could slip up at any time… in fact i momentarily have at the most surprising times, but it is the gradual consistent ascension will get us there.

I ask myself if Christ living in me has made me look more like him than others do. I don’t think this is mainly the case. What i wear, what i like to do, my sense of humor, the types of movies I like are probably very different than what Christ would have been like if he had been born these days.

On the surface i think we would look very little alike.

But i think Jesus is perfectly happy with this.

He let each of our our genetics and our experiences build us to be exactly the unique persons he wanted us to be. A heaven full of Jesuses might get boring. He doesn’t want us to be exactly like him, but he does, however, want us to be the best version of us he knows we can be.

So then i ask myself, am i really that different with Christ than without him. I don’t really seem that much different this week than last. Or even month to month.

But my mentor told me recently that i have grown so much since last year. I said, “REALLY?” It’s hard to see little changes, but maybe it’s also hard seeing changes in ourselves, just because our rubric of judgment moves as we do.

Have you noticed that when people talk about their grandparents, they usually describe them as either really great people, or really difficult ones?  but among our young-adult-aged friends this judgment is usually less extreme. I think each day is a little step along a trajectory. And a day might not hold much change but think how much you grow in a year. Than multiply that amount of change by 80.

Picture how you’ve changed in one year, whether good or bad, and multiply it by 80. But then multiply it by 1,000,000. And ask your future self if you will be more at home in a place with stubborn, proud, defensive people or helpful, willing, kind ones.

So when i look at myself and evaluate if I really look more like Christ than people in my office or people walking on the street, i can say, well no, Jesus probably would have dread locks and i just can’t get the hang of wearing sandals. But I need to look at the subtle change in how i help people, or how often i talk behind backs, or embrace my little vices and extrapolate those habits into eternity. Then i need to ask myself if i am becoming the shining vision of a human being that Christ thought i was worth creating or a slightly selfish one… times a million.

There once was a boy who longed to see God clearly.

He knew if the veil and noise of this life could be lifted for just a moment he could just get a glimpse of his maker, and would love him, and change the world for him.

But God didn’t afford him that candy; it would spoil the meal of meat and potatoes god had for him. He was one of the few who would be fed a tougher pill, because God knew he was one of the few that could endure it. And by this burning desire of his he would administer the deepest medicine to others.

God would never, in this life, show himself clearly to this boy, because this boy’s power was in the desire he had to see his invisible God. He marched through every day with the faith and hope that if only he sought out his God every day, then he would eventually see him clearly, like fog swept away from the sun.

And as he walked through town, and spoke to his friends and lifted the fallen and played cards with old, childless women and befriended the socially awkward. . . one thing was strong in the minds of almost everyone after he left them.

The words that always trailed him were something to the effect of, “If ever I have seen God clearly in this life of wishy-washy, multiplistic men, It is in the life and voice of that young man. Like God spread apart the clouds, came down, and showed a bit of himself to us.”

I hold the little cracker dipped in grape juice in my hand. It seems pretty amazing to imagine little pieces of bloody flesh like this were torn from his body for me.

By people like me.

It is even more amazing to me that Jesus says, now consume me, like he were just another one of the people he knows I will use up, fighting my way to the top of this little human competition called life. As if he knows my nature to use up and consume others, and still he gives himself to me.

I begin to chew and i think that each mashing of my teeth is symbolically punishing him, yet again, to satiate my own hunger. But he asks me to do it anyway. Every bite, another punishment, but he bears it, even commands me to do it.

It’s as if he wants me to understand my own nature to crush and consume. Chewing him up over and over. Every Sunday, every bite. He was whipped. Snubbed. laughed at. Teased. dismissed. By people like me.

For people like me.

But the joke is on me.

Willingly crushing him when he asks, even though it seems absurd, is what will transform me. He commands me, “now see your own selfish nature.”

And I obey.

And then he says, “Now, see my own limitless grace to forgive all the wrongs you’ll ever do against me and all my beloved.”

And then he says, “But now it is too late- I’ve snuck into you. By your obedience I have made my way into you, and will slowly transform you from the inside out. You have crushed me, but by crushing me my grace will soak life into your blood. I will nourish your body, and your heart. You cannot reverse this process as i get into your blood. I am slowly becoming one with you and i will, eventually, make you selfless, and make you more alive in death, like me. You’re in for more than you agreed on. And you’ll become more than you ever imagined.

Crush me. Consume me. Chew me up and digest me. And then you will see that when i am in you, i will never leave you or forsake you. Surrender your self to me and see that one day your little self will become self-less and infinitely loving and part of the body of everyone who loves me, like me.

After seeming to have experienced God’s help in a deep way a week ago, i am already doubting he even exists. It’s funny that in church we just read about those frustrating doubting Israelites in the desert.

I listen to my friends and myself pray for things like healing from cancer and getting a good job, or even just relief from our emotional struggles. And when the prayers seem to go unanswered , or when my struggles pop right up again, I find myself returning to my skepticism.  This is a load of crap. Was there ever really a God to hear us in the first place?

I had a mentor, who was a philosophy teacher at Denver Seminary tell me once, if you start to doubt the God that you understand, step back and see if he’s actually a lot bigger than you thought.

I think about my trials lately, my deep brokenness, and my pain. I think, why haven’t you answered my prayers, fixed me, and made me whole, God? Why did you build me like this?

But then i remember what my other friend told me about my strength being my brokenness because it helps me understand the hurting and to love them better.  And I think, God, maybe you are actually a lot bigger. Perhaps the reason that my prayers are not being answered is because you know there is much more at stake in this world than being battle-free, and happy. In fact maybe our battles are the main thing worth living for. Is this life just a mere playground, or the final scenes in an epic drama of the universe?

And even if at the end of time this turns out to have been just a playground, and the closest thing to God is really more like a golden calf, I think I will rest in greater peace knowing I had fought for the bigger purpose and the bigger God that we all, in the deep of our lonely hearts, hoped was really there.

Peace knows, my friends.
Battle strong.

-ross

It seems this battle never ends.

Yesterday I noticed that i naturally had started praying for other people more than myself.  This let me know that i am getting healthier again. But again today, physical, sexual, and emotional foes have started pounding on my gates and i must pray for help and battle them again.

I noticed that these battles seem to take away my confidence, my brainpower, my hobbies, my easy interactions with people. And I thought, why God have you done this to me?!

But then i remembered what my friend said a few days ago when i, in my broken depression, asked him why he values me as a friend. He had said because “you understand brokenness, and that helps you love people better.” And as his words chimed in my head I realized that I am not battling in vain.

I may not be able to talk football, or cars, or even discuss the improvements i’m making on a deck, but in the byways of business and small group meetings, and birthday parties, if there be a lonely soul, i will find them, partner with them, where we can fight for the survival of each other’s souls. God uses my brokenness, and yours to fight for his beloved.

And my life and yours, have suddenly gained far higher purpose than simply being fluent in football and sitcoms.  In fact we who do battle are living head-to-head match-ups and serial episodes of our own, in God’s kingdom.  The ways that we fail in this world, may be the very ways God has built us to succeed in his kingdom. And our quiet inner struggles just might be the stages that the angels watch, and when we go to sleep, talk about around the water coolers in heaven :)

peace knows.

I wish i weren’t a lot of things.

I wish i were more fun. I botch jokes all the time.

I wish i had a better memory. My friends laugh at how they remember my schedule better than i do.

I put a granola bar on my dash board to let me know when i take turns to sharp, trying to drive better, but my friends laugh at this and are still scared to ride with me.

I wish I didn’t have people anxiety, but a lot of the time i lock up around beautiful people and you know… even not so beautiful ones.

I wish i weren’t so fragile. Just an off-hand, pretty benign comment from a friend or family can pop my mojo for a whole day.

I wish i were different in a lot of ways. I usually try to fix these things but i’m beginning to realize that they are who i am and are mostly unchangeable. And that started to make me really, really sad.

It was in that depression that I asked a very close friend why he valued me as a friend, because i needed to grab onto something that would give me value. His response was very hard to hear.

He said, “Ross, the thing that I value in you is that you understand brokenness.”

This was another nail in my closing coffin. I could not escape my brokenness. What value do i have?

But he continued, “And it’s because of this that you understand people in their brokenness and pain. And it helps you love people better.”

It took me the next day and a half to gather the scattered shrapnel of my mojo but i started thinking about what he said. And realizing that he was right. I do have value. And though it isn’t the value that will draw charismatic people to me or make me the obvious candidate for moving up at work, it is a perfectly fashioned skill to be used in God’s kingdom. And this not by any doing of my own- in fact exactly contrary to what i wished i could be. And for each of my faults, i can see how it is the symptom of a corresponding strength that can be used for the kingdom.

And so lately, when one of my flaws is held up in front of my face, i am beginning to laugh at it too, because i know that though i am broken, God has built me to be exactly the way i am supposed to be. And he will use exactly who i am, each of my faults and insecurities, to be instrumental to the ultimate goal of making his kingdom better than it would be without me. Through my weakness he is strong. And when he is strong, I am greater too, because the strong one loves ME.

So please, remember that exactly the way you are, is exactly the way he wants you to be, and your apparent faults can create in you exactly the strengths that he will use to build a beautiful story and perfectly orchestrated kingdom.

Peace knows.
-ross

Lately I have felt like i was stumbling through a deep, washed out ravine of darkness.

When i finally realized that the heavy air and the crumbling dirt and my own nature made it too much for me to climb out on my own, i started finally, after years of mediocre efforts, to depend on God’s quiet voice. . . for pretty much everything.

Christianity is not a religion of following rules, but it is a religion of following instructions- personalized, daily messages from our creator, to us.

When i heard God’s instruction to let go of a thought, or get away and pray, or just trust that my future is planned by him, it felt like little footholds, that no longer gave way, and i started to make headway up the edge of the ravine. I started to glimpse daylight.

I summited sometime yesterday, to more stable ground.

And as I put more hours between myself and that crevice of great gravity I sadly found that i didn’t hear from God as often.

But now i was free.

I started to understand that strict calls to obedience that our free will usually despises, are actually his instructions which tell us how to climb out of our cages, and into freedom.

And as my gait eased, and my lungs filled with fresh air, and God’s voice receded a little bit from my ears, I asked myself, now what?

It is more difficult for me to hear God’s constant instructions, but maybe that’s not bad. Maybe now God has set me free, and lets me choose my own future, and I can choose if and how to glorify him.

I know the danger now is to subtly slip into my old, selfish ways, but if I can remember on the forefront of my mind and foundation of my heart what God has done for me, maybe i can use my moments to pray for others, thank God for things, and let this joy overflow me and begin to soak others.

When i was in the ravine I still felt some love, but i didn’t feel joy… the second in the list of spiritual fruit. When I realized that, i thought this isn’t how i am supposed to live. But now i feel joy again, and I want to praise God daily by living in the freedom that his very strict and exacting instructions guided me into.

Thank you, Lord. You are faithful.

And Lord, if i begin to forget your goodness, or start to feel constrained by your rules, i am okay if you take me back to a low place . . . i mean i trust you, if you think it is good.  Because though the ravine was really, really hard, I’m afraid it was in the ravine that i felt you closest to me. And I don’t want to wait until I die to feel you that close again.  I miss my father and captain. My stern guide. My faithful hiking comrade.

I woke up this morning in darkness. Restless sleep. Disturbing dreams. So cold. So dark. The winter is coming.

I’ve been trying to let go of the guilt and pressures I put on myself and instead to simply trust in God for everything.  I must simply trust and obey. Trust and Obey. I stopped four or five times this weekend just to get away and pray for this. I’ve had some victories.

But apparently this morning the battle is not over.

My friends and I just moved into a new house and we have the chance to start anew. And I have just ended a relationship in which i was very judgmental and extremely hurtful toward a really great girl. I have a chance to leave the old sins and my old self in the past and try again. But this morning, with the reminant longings of strange sexual dreams, the lonely darkness, and residual guilt, I did not trust nor obey. I feel like i have let myself and my friends down and defiled the house.

the heaviness clings tightly to me. I am in heavy battle, and am losing. My soul is fading. the light and warmth seems impermanent and far away.

But as i drove to work, the sky began to lighten.

The sun rises every morning. He has orchestrated the world so that nothing we can do can keep the sun from rising every day. Give us our daily bread. Every day. Rest in His forgiveness. Every day. His mercies are new. Every morning. His compassions never fail. The battle is not yours, Ross. Put your cares on me and simply trust and obey. Every day. Trust me and obey.

I sat down outside, in the middle of my work day to pray.

I thought, “God, where we at?”

I pictured all the soul troubles i have been through lately and suddenly realized that i put it all on myself.  All the pressure to be someone who I, and the others around me, expect me to be.

then I opened up my iPhone app that helps me with my bible verse memorization schedule. here are the verses for today:

“Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you?” (1 Corinth 3:16) Dang, i’ve been treating this body as my own temple, and navigating by how i think it should be run. Look where it’s brought me.

then,

“We have not received the spirit of the world but the Spirit who is from God, that we may understand what God has freely given us.” (1 Corinth 2:12) Ross, you’ve adopted the pressures of the world. If only you would simply listen to my simple instructions and obey each day, you would know the peace i have freely given to you.

then,

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for i am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10) Ross, you don’t have to worry how it will turn out; the pressure is not on you. I am strong and will take care of you.

then,

“I can do everything through him who gives me strength” (Phil 4:13) Ross, i will be your strength. Let me lead.

then,

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” (lamentations 3:22-23) Ross, i love you and you are forgiven for all the crap you’ve done and put yourself through. But you can relax. I am faithful. I love you. Simply rest in me and obey my simple instructions.

then,

“You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, becasue he trusts in you.” (Isaiah 26:3) Ross, you have sought peace for so long by trying to be what you want yourself to be, and what others have expected of you. You will find peace only in me. Trust in me. I will take care of you. Listen and obey.

then,

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” (1peter 5:7) Ross, see? I will take all of your anxiety. I love you.

Then my timer went off. It was time to do my quick 5 minutes of Bible-in-a-year-that-im-so-far-behind-on reading.  It was Acts 7:51 that told me, “You stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears, you always resist the Holy Spirit!  . . . you recieved the law as it was ordained by angels, and didn’t keep it!” Ross, all you have to do is surrender all those pressures, and listen to the spirit inside of you. Simply listen and obey my spirit inside of you.

Ok, God I’m getting the message.

Then i walked back into work and a beatles song came on the radio in our office and my coworker (who happens to be in a band) belted out an ad-lib modified song. He sang, “Ross Boone, take a sad song  . . . and make it b. . .e. . .e . . . e . . etter.”

I think i get the message, God. All this pressure that i carry.  All this pain.  I put it on myself. I torture myself because i am not good enough. Make this sad song better.

I think of that scene in the old UFO movie, Contact, with Jodie Foster.  Remember when they received a communication that contained plans of how to build a machine that could travel through space and time?

Well the engineers followed the plans, costing billions and billions of dollars, followed them exactly, except for one part. They welded a chair to the cockpit so the person could sit. As the machine roared up and things started happening, the chair started to shake violently, throwing the person off, and continued shaking until the chair broke apart and scattered through the cockpit. Then there was perfect, silent peace and the Vehicle quietly, peacefully spanned the distance across time and space.

It’s like if only we trusted and followed his instructions, my world wouldn’t be so violently tearing itself apart.

My mentor has an excellent illustration he’s had to remind me of several times. It’s like we are hanging off of a cliff, and we don’t know how far the ground is below us. We are trying with all our might to hold on, as our handholds fearfully give way and our fingers bend and cramp.  And we hear this little voice that says, trust me, just let go.

And we keep holding on anyways. I can do this. I can hold on. I can suffer through this and make it work.

Trust me, Ross. Let go. I will catch you. I will give you peace.

And the poor guy, suffers for 31 years, torturing himself, panicking, pleading to God to let him hang on to everything that he thinks is important to be and do.

If he only knew that the ground was 6 inches below his feet.  and to find peace, and a friend and a daily banquet with his maker all he needs to do, is simply let go.

god, please help me let go. I can feel myself still holding so tight. forgive me, and change me. I want to let go. I’m just scared. I’ve done it my way for so long.

If my motivation to serve God is that I will be allowed into Paradise,

how am i different than the druggy that manipulates people to get his fix,

or the business man who works his way to the top so he can live in a mansion.

Just saying. . . something to think about.

Over the past month i have begun to see, on a pedestal above me in barren white light, the essence of goodness and wholeness. . .

and I see that i have no part in it.

I have seen . . . that my innate irresponsibility, selfishness and immaturity have been swollen by the people that know me the best, my father and brothers, as they have grown up, and left these things behind.

I see . . . that my face is boiling with infection, rife with cold sores and canker sores, and when i look in the mirror, my body seems to have shriveled to paper, beneath my own clothes.  Even my basic structure, my back-bone seems to be slowly, progressively buckling beneath my own weight.  I have failed at being healthy. Not enough time, money, knowledge or motivation.

I still see . . . that after years of lonely battle, I cannot seem to escape my broken sexuality, and these deep-seated issues stand at my side like dark, silent captors, in cobwebs, ancient top hats, tapping metal-capped canes.

I look back and see . . . that very rarely have i felt entirely comfortable with people, even the people i call my friends.  I have failed at sharing in the world-wide community i was built to live in, the human race.

And heaviest of all, I now see . . . that for the last 4 months i worked so, so hard to build love and lift a girl to happiness, but after the quaking of my own tectonic faults, the scaffolding ripped itself apart and bounced her off of my hard, judgmental floor.  And I hear the painful cries from a severely fractured heart fading as she crawls away over my wreckage.  I am so, so sorry.

My soul has crashed down a sharp, stony mountain and i sit crushed and bleeding at the bottom.  The things that i hoped that i was have been ripped away from me and i sit naked. And humbled.

I think i’m finally learning that i can really do no good apart from God.

And that basing my worth on my few talents is unstable.

Now i must sit and wait and hope i will hear at least a whisper from the voice that made me . . .

To tell me who i really am.

When we were singing at church today, we called God holy.  And I wondered what that really means. The first thought that came to mind was an innocent, pink baby, eyes still closed and completely helpless. It is innocent, never having a chance to be guilty or sinful, and that seemed holy.

But then i thought, God is not a baby.

And so i pictured someone like a salt and peppered 65 year old man, but still fully living the deepest essence of life, the fun and tough stuff.  He was very strong but weathered over millenia of fighting for his multitude of kids.

So now i sort of picture Jesus as the oldest, most experienced man in all of time, who has made it through the gauntlet of temptations and bore the weight of being king for us and yet has stayed innocent and untainted all his life through like that pink baby.  And the image of this man in my mind helps me understand why we call Jesus Holy.

He holds His head satchelled in one hand  Covering his eyes from the bright morning light on the table 
His drooping wristwatch leaving its white shadow on his soiled wrist
Spoon hangs limply in the other hand beside a
Soggy bowl of granola
Ripening Between his elbows "I am bad for you."
He mumbled into his soggy milk
"I dont know why i hurt you
like i did last night.
I'm not enough for you."
She sits next to him
In her purple cotton robe
Frazzled hair around her pale, tired face
Crossed legs
Morning light dappling her folded hands on the table.
The Coffee pot percolating on the counter behind her
Beeps three times, calling her away.
She gets up 
He pushes the cereal bowl safely away from his moral stench.
He gives up on eating and covers his face with his hands
like a hammock and a mask
"I never wanted to be a horrible husband.
You can leave me if you want to.
Really."
A pouring sound,
Her back to him. 

A moment later
She sets down a ceramic cup of coffee
on the table between his elbows
and softly brushes his shoulder with her other hand.
He sees the coffee,
feels her touch like the brushing of a falling bird
but can not look up at her
for shame grows heavy chains not wings 

After watching the swirl of creamer brighten his black coffee like dawn 
He slowly puts his hands around the hot mug.
It gets hotter but he squeezes tighter.
He lets it burn his palms and he squints away hard thoughts
A tear gets tangled at the roots of his dark eyelashes.
He thinks, "And she still makes me coffee."
He looks up with blurry eyes.
She is looking down at her hands
Lonely,
picking at her cuticles,
biting her lip
Holding back tears in the puffy reservoirs under her eyes. 
He feels the moment out 
and doubts and doesn't know what to do.
So he sips his coffee, swallows, but pauses, 
looks into the mug, surprised,and says,
"You make it better than when I make it for me."
"A spoon and a half of creamer . . ."
her voice quivers, "my love."
They look up and see each other in a blurry water world 

She forms her next words like giving birth to an anvil:
"And you are still enough for me."
The words bore real truth like the swords forged on anvil steel. But then an embarrassing sob slipped around her tender fist like an undoing puff of the dust she was made of and she covers her face with her slender hands desperately trying to lift her fragility to a tower out of reach of a brutal world.
His steaming ceramic mug clunked onto the Formica table.
She wiped her tears and glanced quickly at him
His gaze was suddenly different.
firm and resolute
On her
He had heard her
and believed her
And suddenly 
to him
She is the object of desire of all men
of all time
In his kitchen
And it is solely in his hands,
one more chance, 
To protect her
And unlock her long-closed doors
And open her to shine upon all the world again
Like she was created to do
when the world was made.
His eyes blaze like lighthouses home
She pauses and is scared for just a moment
Not scared in fear but in awe
Like he is a king finding forgotten beauty
in her deserted, dirty alley
And She sees distantly in him a man as old as time.
His stormy green eyes burning like stars
over the rocky caves of his nostrils
and his jutting, set jaw,
As he moves towards her

His chair skids slowly backwards over the hardwood floor.
He rises
and her eyes never leave him. 
Like sunflowers following the sun
or a prey at the mercy of a her preyor that
has faith in a world
where all things mysteriously work together for good.

Her heart beats bigger than her chest.
Her lips part.
He kneels before her and leans his lips
just close enough to brush the goosebumps
on her trembling, lonely arm.
They moved like a kiss.
But he is saying a silent prayer of reverent thanks
Because he has seen that
Real Grace has just sanctified the ground around them
and the air and everything within hearing.

He looks up with a question in his eyes
She knows it certainly
with no words.
Her nod is as small as a cloud above a quaking land.

And he lifts her under her knees and her back
But Holds her entirely in his eyes 
the whole way
To their bed

And he loves her.

He parted her purple curtain and
Carefully sweeps her dusty stage

Then his hands brush over a fallow landscape
a patient and resolute gale
traveling from sea to mountains
and the barren ground begins to sprout again.

Her arms don't feel the headboard
or the book that falls from the nightstand 
And they wrap around him 
And she showers kisses on him rapidly with fervor
Like a buzz of bees in a garden

And she shines like a bright day onto him, 
And he rests under her like she is also the noonday shade
Until the height of the sun
The draw of the waves by the moon
and then until the end of the day

And the dusk
it brings a sigh
The beauty fades like a sunset and the sky is filled with cool.
And as the night falls
they lay side by side
In the yellow light of the white curtains

And they talk again
Like quiet children
Like twins in the womb speak by their heartbeats
Like chickens who quietly coo in their roosts at night
And they find holiness there
And find God there,
though his name is each other's names

Transformed by the real incarnation of Grace.

When it’s that time at church to repent, I usually think of two or three things I’ve done wrong that week and confess them.  This week was different.

I indulged my lusts. . . thrice . . . I was terribly critical of my girlfriend and I hurt her . . . and I judged these people from church. . . actually judged them pretty horribly . . . and . . .

as I surveyed myself, I understood that I’ve been all wrong.  It is not these several things that must be erased with some magic solvent made of blood and then I’ll be fine.  The very root of me is severely sick.

I realized that I am selfish at my core and my heart is fighting tooth and nail to keep what I desperately want, but know that I don’t deserve.  My two or three or four . . . hundred things I do wrong each week are just symptoms of a decaying heart.  Some weeks the stench just seeps out between my ribs more than others.

I was suddenly sorry for, and floored by a lot more than just the gross stuff that seeped out.

A few years ago I found a lonely duckling, deserted by his parents.  I rescued him and tried to leave him with a couple of adult geese that I found nearby. but as soon as I set him down and started sneaking away, he turned and with all his little waddling might he ran after me as if I were his only hope.  He knew only me to be his comfort.  I was his only father and I was deserting him.  My heart broke.  I reached down as he ran to me, and I picked him up. I held him close and felt maybe a bit of what it’s like to love a child.  I took him home and tried to keep him warm and nurse him back to health but he kept fading.  A couple days later I cried as I buried him in a sock beneath a tree in my back yard.

so, this week when I confessed my sin, and saw my broken soul, I ran to Him like a dying duckling.

I was not a friend who had accidentally stepped on his toes or drank his Red Bull in the fridge. And he was not just a polite roommate who said, “dude, that’s ok, I forgive you.”

This week I ran to him as my only hope.  I was not able to do better or try harder or heal myself. I was chronically sick and the world would not give me the cure.  And now all I could do to save myself was to run to him and let him hold me and nurse me. I clung to what I’ve been taught about Him, that He would not let me take all the punishment that the world would heap on me if they only knew.  He was my big father, my comfort. He IS my only hope.

. . .

I don’t want to say that my sins aren’t something I should try to avoid, but now I’m beginning to see that it is not by my own efforts that I become less sinful. I can pull my crap together and look less sinful, but it’s my core that needs healing.

And I don’t want to say that I wasn’t created perfect and whole. But something between birth and now caught on and infested my soul.

What I CAN do is to simply eat the food and drink the water he daily brings to me. And to sleep when he says now is the time to sleep. And lean into him when I start to shiver.  For it is not in myself to fight off the disease and frigid cold that is in the world.  In fact the disease and the bitter selfishness has already found it’s way into my heart and I need him to touch me at my very core.

Lord, please hold me. Please heal me. I keep hurting people. I keep failing. Please do not let me fade away.

I watched the movie “Kick Ass” this weekend and wondered why they spent 30 whole seconds showing the older superhero laboriously putting on his superhero makeup when they could be showing something exciting instead.

I like comic book movies because usually every detail has a purpose.

What if every laborious, boring moment in life has a purpose. Sitting by myself and struggling through a prayer. Or the nominal, impatient interactions with coworkers who i’ll never see outside of work.  Or when my little brother nags on me to play with him and i think, oh he’s too young to remember if i blow him off just this once.

Well, it turns out that later in the movie the superhero has been killed and the littler, less capable boy must step up and carry out the superhero’s noble goal.  The boy steps in front of the mirror to prepare himself for the battle in front of him and my brilliant girlfriend pointed out this significance.  Suddenly the moment was pregnant with huge purpose. It showed that the boy was stepping into the shoes of the real hero to continue his mission.

The movie was made deeper and more beautiful and i knew the writers to be even more ingenious than i had thought.  i suddenly wanted to know who the writer was.

What if those moments when we quietly kneel in prayer, or put aside our project to listen to a coworker, or love on our little siblings when we’re tired, what if those have real significance.  What if in doing so we are standing before the throne, putting on the character of Christ, and taking on his deep purpose of dying for others.

And maybe if we realize that every situation God has put us in, fun or hard, has a beautiful purpose, maybe we would fall more in love with the one who has crafted this story. And if people glimpse Christ in us in those little moments, and see that what we are doing contributes to an eternal plan, maybe they will even say, “I want to know who the writer is.”

While Praising at church last night something hit me.

What if some of these words coming from my mouth are more eternal than even i am.

There’s a lot of different verbiage and philosophies for lots of different sects of different religions and I’m not sure which are most accurate. But i bet some of the phrases from the Bible echo through the ages and hang in the void, even after time and earth and space have fallen away, because they describe the Truth.

It was just interesting thinking these words from my mouth may outlast time like diamonds sifted from the dross and adorning the character of God, as he sits in the slow patience of un-time and does nothing more than be.  My words and the great I AM.

I think i try to MAKE my heart be a certain way. I try to make myself kinder or more patient.

but if I am in control, i’ll probably just find ways to make myself FEEL kinder or more patient because i’m still just wanting what’s best for me.  Maybe unselfish things must come from outside of me.

So how do I MAKE that happen?

Maybe we can’t.  but instead maybe we must simply put our humbled selves in the presence of God.  And as we sit in prayer and worship, surrendered, like doing the back float in a big hot tub of God’s presence, we will be able to simply observe our heart being slowly melted and reformed into something better.

Sometimes during worship, i try to take my hands off the reigns and peer down into my chest. and sometimes that is when i feel the firey velvet love of God melting me slowly, squeezing me gently.  I’m not sure what it’s turning me into, and that’s part of giving up the control, but i feel the warmth and i realize that what is happening is better than if I had MADE it happen on my own.

I’m not sure i have a relationship with Jesus- at least not in the same way i can talk with a friend over coffee.

i used to define a relationship as what happened between me and my friends, or my dad, or my girlfriend.

And that didn’t look at all like what i had with God. He wouldn’t show up when we planned to meet. He wouldn’t politely speak when i asked him a question.  He wouldn’t do me favors that i asked him for, even when i did stuff for him.

So after about three decades of this it’s pretty easy to think that maybe this is no relationship at all.

For some reason, however, i haven’t left, and i still pray every day. I think really, every day.

and. . .

Every once in a while I realize that i have never gone a day without having food. I have food every day.  EVERY DAY.  And I realize that in this month i am wiser, more mature, and more at peace with everything roaring around me as much or more than any month before.  Someone seems to be guiding me true at every turn.

So i’ve started picturing my relationship with God as different than my other ones. Maybe a good analogy is that my life is a big wooden ship floating through 80 years of expansive sea.  I have surrendered the helm to this old stoic guy, that rarely says anything, but i can tell he’s listening as i sit by his side and tell him what i want, and what i’m scared of and stuff.  I’ll try to tell him where i’m pretty sure we should go, but rarely does he swing the steering wheel around to go where i think we should go.  But sometimes i guess he does, and he seems happy to show me what’s over there too.

But what i’m trying to say is that i thought he would chat with me over coffee, or instruct me with obvious words like my father.  But instead i think he quietly guides my life, hearing everything i say to him.  He leads me into new waters, sometimes hard, but always good.  And every now and then he’ll turn to me and whisper something to me over the storm. And if I’m sitting close enough, i can hear it!

But most of the time I feel like a little kid at his side talking my head off about the clouds, or nagging him about the stormy waves or saying “lookit! lookit!” every time he drives us into a painted sunset.  And i think that slight smile he’s holding back says things too deep for me to understand except that he thinks i’m adorable and that he has found something worth protecting from all the squalls and serpents and hard metal subs that he allowed to exist and then defeated for us.

Though he doesn’t talk a lot, I think he is closer than the person across the coffee shop table. I surmise that he is closer to me than my own thoughts, my own breath. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t need to use words to get to my heart.

And his voice is deeper than a tinny phone voice with a specific language or specific accent. Maybe His words are the people, circumstances, struggles, victories in my path every day, that deeply form my heart and that lead me to become who he knows i can be. If i trust all these things are from him, i can learn from them all.  Maybe this is how he gives advice.

And his gifts to me are rarely as simple as a toy or an obligatory backrub. They are not even always as simple as releasing me from a struggle, or giving me a sweet spiritual gift. But instead, his gifts are usually the walking me through the richness of life. Through pains and joys like those that make lives into epic movies, and the failures and victories like which built such a heart into great King David.

And my only role is to let the dark waves crest over the bow of my ship, and still trust his hands at my helm. And then to cling to and cry on him when I’m scared and exhausted. When i am at my wit’s end, I am to simply fall asleep as close to him as i can, and trust him to sail my ship through the night.  Then I am to get up the next morning, see that he has steered us true, into still waters yet again, and then I’ll continue chatting his ears off like a little kid by my father who thinks i’m adorable.  Every day. Every day.

I started counseling again yesterday.

Throughout my life I’ve had an idealized vision of what my life should be like, and i’ve striven with all my efforts to bring it to reality.

I have been on the border of breakdown recently.  This pressure shouldn’t be held by man. There are bigger hands to hold them.

My friend Woody, called me yesterday and lovingly said, “Ross i’m concerned about you. You are searching for relief through counseling, nutrition, creating new routines- it’s all about what you can do. You’ve forgotten to surrender- to surrender to who you are to BE.”

An hour later my counselor said something similar. He said, “You can’t make yourself and your life into who you need them to be. You just BE and life your grows into what it’s meant to be.”

I sat in my car outside of a forlorn subway store today, eating my sandwich and thinking about all this. A fence was in front of me, and was completely overgrown with Kudzoo vines.

The vines don’t strive or labor over decisions and actions. They just grow- because those are the instructions built into them.  But these Kudzoo vines are infamous in the South for infesting and destroying ecosystems.  What if my life becomes this- a consuming, self-serving force that suffocates everything i can find.

And then i thought of grape vines. I remember them in two disparate stages: as pathetic looking plants, sickly trimmed and strung up to a support wire. The other image is of these same anemic, dry skeletons but they are bearing huge coats of heavy, pregnant loads of rich, nutritious fruit.  Same plant, two different seasons, two completely different images.

Perhaps we are to grow like vines. We merely need to be who we were made to be, and let time take us into our futures. But I think there is a big difference between the all-consuming kudzoo vines and the simple, trimmed grape vines. The difference is surrender to a gardener.

So when i sit in quiet, and see the flaws in my roots, a simple decision must be made. I can continue to reach and strive and consume everything around me like part of me is inclined to doing, or I can surrender to the gardener and let him prune it from me.  And though i may look dry and skeletal hung up on a rugged support for a while, like a man on a cross, in due season my fruit will be full and true and pregnant with heavy, abundant life.

So when I approach the verge of breakdown the next time i will be drawn to a silent place.  And there I will look at the flaws in my soul, and my voracious appetite to solve them.  But if i surrender to the quiet voice in my little rotten roots i will hear him say, “be patient, Ross, I am doing a good work, and in due season you will bear my fruit, my blood, and my life to the world. And you will find peace.”

I have lots of doubts in God, partly because i don’t think i’ve ever actually undeniably felt Him.

But i’ve noticed people talking about how they’ve seen Jesus in certain people lately. 

For example, a friend told me, “you should have seen Hans even a few years ago. He definitely had some anger. But God has been working in him.” I talked to Hans yesterday and he is the most joy-filled person i think i’ve met for a month. 

A friend told us her story last week and it was amazing how, upon looking back, she could see God directly worked in her to pull her out of a paralyzing depression.

And lastly, I admitted to my pastor that i wasn’t sure i had ever experienced Christ, last Sunday, and he said, “Ross, i see him in you in the way you love others.” 

I wonder if sometimes i am a little bit too close to my situation. Though others around us say they experience Christ through us, we cannot step back enough to see what is really happening; I cannot differentiate what part of the changing of my heart is from my twisted head, and which part is the creator of my soul forming my heart from the very innermost parts of my being.

A thin, pale boy walked alone through the desert with two empty buckets. The walls of the city shrunk in the distance as he re-enacted the conversation he had with his dad that morning.

“You’re such a sickly boy.” He said in an uncaring voice, just like His father had. “Stop complaining. This work will make you stronger.”

The pale boy spoke into the air, much bolder and more assuredly than when he had really said it to his dad, “But it isn’t fair that we have to carry two buckets for several hours, when one of them goes directly to the King. Why doesn’t he get his own water?! He uses people to get what he wants. He doesn’t care about us!”

He recited mockingly how his father had replied, “Son, you know how important it is that I look like a good and trustworthy servant to this king? If he makes me a royal guard we could live on the royal grounds and eat of his leftovers, and drink of the water that peasants like you are getting now.”

The boy rolled his eyes and swung one bucket into the air like an uppercut, “Then why don’t you get the water?! You know you aren’t going to make important connections like you say you will tonight, and you’re not going to work, it’s called the tavern.” The boy hadn’t really said that to his father, but he wanted to use his dad’s own words to lay bear his father’s false motives. The boy knew the system was corrupt, but his dad was working for the system, trying to win the stupid system’s game. He was just continuing the cycle.

If only the real king would come back. But it had been two generations, 60 years, since the true king had been run out by the tyrants who had turned the city into this.

The weak, pale boy waited at a distance from the well until some women in rags were done drawing their water in front of him. Ever since the new king had taken power, the natural way was to never make contact with people lower than yourself. It didn’t make much sense to the little boy, though. They looked pretty nice, and were even laughing a little bit with each other. The laughter seemed as fresh as water. Both were seldom come by.

When they were done and at a safe distance, the little boy carried his buckets up to the well and attached them to the rope. He let the rope down for each one, and then pulled it up, hand over hand, laboriously lifting the heavy water. It took several minutes and almost all of his strength to pull up each bucket of water.

As he sat, catching his breath, on the edge of the well, he looked at the heavy buckets of tepid, dirty water setting on the ground in front of him. He looked into the desert in the direction that the city was, an hour and a half away, and sighed, already exhausted.

“Hello.” An unexpected voice came from behind him.

The boy leaped like a skin-and-bones cat from the well, landed on his hands and knees in the dirt and looked back. A man walked up to the well. He was thin and maybe 35 years old. His clothes weren’t dry, long faded fabric like the boy was used to seeing. Around his upper body were thick brown vines woven into straps, holding on a backpack in which was woven pockets and tools of many types. He wore an animal skin around his waist and upper legs but instead of fabric wrapped heavily around his feet and ankles he simply wore a sole of pliable wood wrapped in leather that became straps that tied around his feet. He wore a big fresh green leaf on his head for shade.  He must be from the mountain forest country in the other direction.

As he walked to the well, he pulled his backpack off and set it on the well. He unrolled a pouch made of an animal hide he pulled from a pocket in his woven pack.  He knelt against the well and rested his elbows on it.  He opened the pouch and connected the rope to it.  He looked over at the boy and held it out to him.  ”Will you please draw me some water?”

The boy hesitated.  His dad and others asked him to bring them water quite often, just because he was weak and couldn’t defend himself.  But this man seemed to have different motives.  Even just the “Please” and his small smile, and the way that he waited for him patiently, made him seem different.

The little boy was accustomed to serving and so it came as second nature to get up, and do it yet again for this man. He took the rope and lowered it, let the large pouch fill, and then drew it back up, again using almost all of his reserve energy.  He handed the leather pouch to the man and started to turn around so he could catch his breath in the shade of the well.

But the man said, “Wait.” He dropped a drip from a small vile in his hand into the water, and then held the pouch out to the boy and said, “This one is for you to drink.”

The boy looked at him questioningly. “Why would you ask me to draw water for you and then give it to me?”

“Because that is the type of king that i am. You have proven yourself worthy of my kingdom. Now drink it.”

The little boy had known it! there was something different and special about this man! But the boy had been trained to be skeptical so he asked, “Why should i believe that you are a king?”

“Don’t you already know it?  The ones who are worthy of my kingdom recognize my ways.  Drink, my friend.” The man’s smile was almost brimming over with tears; he was so full of joy! It was as if he had been searching for members of his kingdom for years and he had finally found one.

The boy smiled.  He put the water skin up to his lips and tasted it.  It was sweet.  He glanced down at it.  It was clean and glistening as well. The boy lifted it and continued drinking until the whole pouch was emptied. He knew who this man was.  He was the son of the king who had been run off years ago.  This man spoke justice.  He had given water to one who deserved it, instead of commanding someone to draw it and then taking it from them. And this man knew how to make the water clean and good.

The boy sighed and let the water run down and fill his stomach.  It seemed to rejuvenate his system as it soaked into him.  He felt stronger, even than before drawing the pouch up. He looked back up at the man and said, “Why did you come?”

“I came to divide people,” he said.  ”I came to start the war.  I came to bring a new way of life to those who want it. Can you tell your parents that you will no longer draw water for that rat king?”

“I don’t know!” The though of it horrified the little boy.  ”My mother and father would disown me.”

“Could you do that, if it meant that it would help my kingdom take over in your city?”

The boy thought about it. “But my family is all i have.”

“Could you do it?”

The boy swallowed and looked into the moist pouch as he pondered. “I could do it if that’s the only way. They love their kingdom.  I hate it.”

“Then you are worthy to be in my courts with me.” The man said with a somber smile. “For now, my trusted vassal, you should do everything your parents say except for things that would help that impostor king. In that way they will know where you stand, even as you love them and honor them.  They will see my kingdom coming in you before the rest of my army arrives.  And if they do reject you, and you have no where to go, come and find me.  Now, go do good work, my boy.  I will return soon. Tell others, and prepare the way for me.”

“Yes, my Lord. It will be my honor to obey.” The boy swallowed, just now realizing the gravity of what he was about to go back to. This would divide his household, but it was the only way. It was long past time for the new king’s kingdom to come, and he would no way turn it down after waiting so long. And maybe even his parents would beleive him and invite this new kingdom, but if they didn’t, the boy still had to try.

The boy loaded up the two buckets onto his shoulders, turned and whispered a genuine “thank you” and set out for home.

He seemed to have new energy. He seemed to have an inner strength.  He no longer felt weak and sickly in the core of his being. He was ready to stand up to his father when he needed to, and ready to serve him when that was necessary too, because both would be serving the real king.

It was going to take incredible strength that was rarely seen in his city.  But he was confident that he now had it.  And he wasn’t sure if it was just something in that water, or if the man truly had the power to bring a new kingdom into the city, and a new life into the hearts of his people.

The quiet revolution had begun and he was ready to risk all to bring it home.

Matthew 10:34-39

A lot of people jog on the road that I drive to work. On my way home today my eyes lingered on a woman whose body showed how well she had been doing at exercise.

After a second indulgent glance I looked away with a little splinter of shame in my eye. I also, up until now, had been doing so well.

My first thought was that I had made it more difficult for God to love me, and I had hurt Him somehow.

But a moment later I thought that if anything, He felt even more love for me in the way that you have compassion on someone who is hurting themself!

How could it be that where my eyes secretly go and the lust my inner heart feels could hurt anybody but me? . . . unless someone loves me enough that it hurt them when they saw me not being the best that i could be.

And even if i had done something more overtly harmful to someone, like snapping at my coworker, or criticizing behind someone’s back, how would that even hurt God? Is there anything i could do to damage our invincible God or diminish his infinite reservoir of life? I think that the only reason our every sin hurts him, is not because we’re attacking or stealing something away from him, but because he loves each of us so much that it hurts him when we’re taking away from ourselves, the ones he loves.

It is really easy to love a humble person. . .

and really easy to hate a proud one.

I was praying for a friend to have patience toward her clients because i thought that was what she needed.  After a long day we had talked about our doubts and wanting to feel God, but I thought her biggest immediate obstacle was her exhausting daily grind. I was wondering if God would answer my prayers, and prove my doubts wrong.

The next day she emailed me and told me IT had happened. But IT wasn’t what i thought. She had woken up from a nap and felt God powerfully real next to her for a moment, like she used to feel when she was a kid. God had supplied for her, but it wasn’t what i had prayed for. It was better and deeper.

If the plot was predictable, we would doubt the abilities of the Author. 

If my faith needs proof to be faith, that is no faith at all, Ross!

Though sometimes i doubt the faithfulness of my Author because he doesn’t give me what i ask for, when i look at all the blessings i have in my life, i am thankful he has given me exactly what i have. . . instead of what i wanted, in the way i expected him to give it.

“If you remain in me, and my words remain in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be given you.”
-Jesus, son of God and doubting men.

Lord, remain in me. And teach me to ask for things expecting you to blow them out of the water. . . to strike me with awe. . . to prove me wrong. . . to fulfill ancient legends and promises. . . to crush my heart of stone. . . to teach me to worship with my doubting mind. . . to show up kneeling next to me when i wake. . .

At prayer and worship last wednesday i felt so moved and close to God that I prayed that my friend sitting next to me would be hit with the holy spirit like a tsunami.  I thought if ever God would answer my prayer it would be now, and it would be this.

So I peeked at him every now and then expecting to see him weeping or kneeling, totally overcome with praise.

But nothing happend.

My faith started spiraling down again after that moment. Was there no one listening to my request? Doesn’t he say to ask him? and to have faith? And that if we remain in him whatever we ask will be given us? Well it wasn’t. . .

at least not yet.

In a novel I wrote last november i depicted prayers like seeds that we plant. We must pour into them with faith that they will grow, and in their own time, even sometimes far after we have given up on them, they will sprout up and bear fruit.

the same friend who i prayed for that night taught me something a month or so ago. He said, part of our jobs as men is to carry our history. We must remember what God has done for us. 

So in my doubt I asked myself, what prayer HAS God answered for me? 

A couple years ago my cousin started a downward spiral of his own. If doubt is my little demon, drugs is what pulled him down. Way down. He was addicted to Heroin living on the streets. I prayed hard and heavy for him.  I watered that prayer consistently for months and months.  Until I became weak and pretty much gave up.

He almost died in the hospital a couple months ago. It looked like total defeat. But then. . .

his liver and kidney unexpectedly started working again.  Now he has been clean for something like 80 days.

I guess i have to remember that God hears my prayers. And He was working his own plan during church in my friend’s heart. It was so immature of me to expect that my friend would be touched in the way that i am during praise– that he would be touched in my timing, instead of God’s timing for him. I even presumed that my friend wanted to be touched. Maybe his free will is not in a posture to let God touch him. . .

yet.

And if i were praying with the faith that is broken in the five minutes of not seeing results, it is probably me that holds a self-serving, fickle posture before God.

I’m sorry, Yeshua. I have faith that the story you write is better than the one i would. But I confess that my doubt is sometimes stronger.  But i thank you for this doubt, because through it, I am humbled, and remember to bow and weep before you again.

Amen.

I have a lot of doubts that God i pray to in my head really exists.

But i’m a little bit more confident that there is a God that hears me. And i think this is where he inhabits:

Science: every law of nature we have discovered was designed and commissioned by him to hold this world together in sustained harmony.
Relativity: As the universe expands nearly at the speed of light, the earth ages bilions of years, while the unmoving center ages about 7 days as told in the Bible.
Marriage: The love and sacrifice of man and woman reflects the love between God and man.
Ancient Myths: the greek gods who lived out the stories of old, and who also may be mentioned in Genesis. And the main theme that reoccurs in the myths over different ages and cultures is the hero legend, where a member of the people conquers a previously insurmountable barrier and brings new life to the people.
Movies: Heros that fight and sacrifice for a greater good reflects the archetypal legend in our hearts.

Anyway, when the God on Christian radio or the nice and tidy Jesus that fits neatly into a shoebox with Bible verbiage seems less and less real, I turn to look for him in everything in this world, that ever existed.

What if God wants to grow certain traits in us, and what if we will not be complete until we have developed all of them. How would we develop the trait of faith? I think we would have to be put into a world where we can’t know for sure what is true, and then told to trust someone else’s story of reality.

Maybe that’s where we are. If we’re in this world to learn faith, by definition we can’t know what is true. And even though it’s difficult, God knows that this is the only way we could be complete.

God, why do you give me struggles and doubts and the possibility to turn away from you?

My people,

i want our story to be a deep story.
More redemptive than reconciled enemies.
More chivalrous than a warrior fighting to win his bride.
More victorious than recovering prisoners of war.

And there would be no such story without the struggle.

about 6 months ago i started observing my heart while we were singing worship songs.

it revealed itself as a heart-sized, bean shaped vessel in my chest, and if i payed attention to it, i saw emotions in it that my brain had covered up.

And then i pictured God, hovering in the expanse above me, as the answer to all those emotions. If i felt sadness, he was there to comfort me. If i was joyful, he was the giver of my joy. If i felt longing, he was the ultimate fulfillment of my longing. This observation of my heart’s connection to God got my head out of the way and made for much closer worship.

And over time as i practiced picturing this posture with him, strange images started appearing to me.

The first one appeared a few weeks ago. It was about the time i moved from my comfortable apartment into a house with roommates. Moving in with roommates is a good, purifying process, and has helped remove some little sins that I had long held on to.  That was the week i saw the image of a sandy oatmeal-like liquid being drawn out of my little bean-shaped vessel and flowing up to God to whom i was singing.

That happened for a couple weeks as if there were two weeks-worth of dirty oatmeal to be removed.

But then last week i saw an image of my vessel being splashed into with a clear, refreshing water. My little fist-sized, bean shaped heart was beginning to look more like a beautiful glass vase being cleansed and filled with refreshing water.

And then yesterday a new image appeared to me while singing. For a moment i saw my chest as a simple room in a house, swept clean.  Big glass doors were opening to a courtyard and a fresh breeze, redolent of sun-caked clay and shady summer trees wafted through.

I lived in this house, and it was clean from distraction, clean from possessions. I was the simple keeper of this humble temple, and I was awaiting a guest.

I think i understood that my guest would arrive and ask grand things of me. I trusted my guest to be the man of my house and I wanted to be his servant. I was eager to follow any request.  I was trusting and anticipating the beautiful work he would do inside of me.

And then the songs ended.

Lord, this vessel is simple, and small. . . and it is all i have to give. But it is clean and it is yours. I am ready. Come and build your beautiful kingdom in me.

If only i could pray, not to the idea of God in my head, but instead to the real God that made it.

Ever since his dream, Derrick could picture what the little dude inside of him looked like. Whenever he talked to him, Derrick imagined sitting next to him on a little couch in the little control room in Derrick’s chest. The two of them controlled everything Derrick’s body did from there.

But it was a constant battle, because both the little Derrick and the other little dude wanted to drive.

As Derrick was waking up one mornng he told the little man, “Yo, J-dog, I think I got it covered, today. I’ll let you know if i need some help.”

Jesus was sitting pensively on the back of the little couch somewhere near big-Derrick’s beating heart. He watched the little Derrick rouse from the couch and sit down at the little stool in front of the control panel behind the gigantic eye-shaped holes they used as a windshield of the big walking machine that was big-Derrick’s body.

“This is a big day for you, Derrick, for sure.” Jesus took a breath and watched Derrick situate himself. ”What do you think about taking a moment to–”

“It’s cool,” little Derrick interrupted. ”I think I got it under control today.” He concentrated on his control panel.  He wrote down everything he needed to do today on a little dry erase board with one hand, as he moved the big levers, making big Derrick’s body put on his clothes.

—

“Nice game, Derrick.” a cute girl smiled down at him as she walked by. “And congratulations on homecoming king. Save a dance for me.” She fluttered her fingers at him as a wave as she walked away.

Derrick smiled up at her as he put his basketball shoes into his bag. He thought, “I can’t believe Candace Walters just said that to me.”  He couldn’t stop smiling.

Jesus put his hand on little Derrick’s back in the little control room of his soul. “I’m so happy that you’re so happy, Derrick.”

“Oh yeah, thanks Jesus. This has been the most amazing day of my life. You’re so good to me, man.”

“You’re welcome, D-rock. You tore them apart tonight with them three pointers. But, dude remember we have to stay humble. The game isn’t about worldly points, remember? I gave you those as gifts for you to enjoy but it’s about you an me, man. Don’t let the gifts i give you take you away from me.”

As Derrick made his body stand up a couple of the basketball players put their arms over him. “D-rock, you coming to our party?”

He glanced at them quickly. They were the coolest guys on the team. “Um, yeah, sure, when is it?”

“It’s like right now. We’re going to the park. We have some beers in my trunk.”

Derrick felt like he needed a powow with J-dog in his heart and he stuttered it out, “Um, yeah. I have to go my locker and stuff and i think i’ll be there.”

“Are you sure it’s ok, man? I thought you were against alcohol and stuff.”

“No,” Derrick stuttered, “I’m not against alcohol. . .” He tried to think of something clever to say but they beat him to it, “Alright, see ya soon, your highness.” The one who was captain of the team punched him in the arm like they were suddenly long-time commorades and the boys rambled out to their cars.

As Derrick turned the dial on his locker, he prayed, “Is this ok, Jesus? I really want to go. Are you against alcohol?”

“No way, man! Jesus replied. ”the best parties in heaven have some pretty wicked wine. But you do have to be careful because you’re too young, bro. You know?”

“Yeah,” derrick whispered to himself as he thought about if he still wanted to obey him or not.

“Hey, you know what you should do? You should go and see if you can help anybody there. Sometimes it’s at those parties where people are the most desperately lonely.”

“Hmm, yeah, maybe i could bring a unique, cool drink instead of beer too.”

“Dude, it’s brilliant. Do it.” Jesus was proud of Derrick.

Then a boy approaching Derrick’s locker said, “Hey, Derrick. How are ya?” It was Chad. A tall, lanky clumsy kid with a big nose who always spoke a little too loudly and was a little behind on all the jokes. Derrick had told him on Monday that maybe he’d be free on Friday. . . and it was Friday.  Chad continued, “Hey, i was wondering if maybe you still wanna hang out tonight? If not that’s ok. I know the homecoming king thing kind of changes stuff.”

“Hey Chad. Yeah, man. . . um, i just told some guys i’d meet up with them in a few minutes. . . ”

“Ok, that’s ok, man.”  Chad started to turn around and walk away, and Derrick hesitated to say anything. this could be his easy way out.

Jesus whispered into little-Derrick’s ear, “Now! Derrick! This is the moment,” and it traveled up through Derrick’s body and consumed his heart and came out of his hands and mouth like invisible spritual fireballs. He opened his mouth as he touched Chad on the shoulder. “No, Chad, come with me man. It’ll be fun.”

Chad turned around and tried to hide his smile, as he spoke a little too loudly. “Ok, that’s cool man. I’m free tonight.”

Jesus did a fist pump and quietly said, “Now we’re talking. . . Game on.”

—

When they got to the party at the park, a lot of people were there. Not all of them were drinking but as soon as Derrick pulled up, the basketball guys came up to his car, a beer waiting in their hands for him.

But Chad stepped out too.  Someone said, “Who invited him?”

“I did.” Derrick said quietly.

Someone said, “Dangit. that kid is such a goofball.”

Derrick laughed and replied, “Hey, every king has a jester.” they all laughed. Derrick tried to smile a lighthearted grin at chad. Both of them satisfied that he had sufficiently diffused the situation.

Derrick and Chad drank their Henry Weinhart’s cream soda they had brought, and in fact that was a bigger hit with the other kids than a lot of the beer. Everyone wannted a bottle.

Things were going well until about midnight when one of the drunk dudes started a fight with Chad. Derrick turned around to see Chad stumbling backwards, and the guy that had pushed him was telling him off. Derrick ran over there and when the guy saw him he told Derrick, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Dude that kid copped a feel on Candace!”

Candace looked up at Derrick, a little caught off guard by the boy’s claim. the guy said, “It’s ok, we’ll take care of this kid, Candace. he doesn’t belong here.”

Derrick looked at Chad who gasped, “I tried to give her one of our cream sodas.” Chad still had two cream soda bottles in his hands and could not have touched Candace like the guys was accusing him.

“Yeah, that kid doesn’t belong here. Who invited him?” Candace had decided to join in the trash talking and looked up at Derrick to include him as well.

There was silence.  Derrick looked at the ground. A couple people who knew who had invited him looked at Derrick. Chad saw Derrick hesitate, so he turned around sadly. “It’s ok, I’ll just leave. I gotta get home now I guess.  It’s ok, I’ll walk.”

Derrick closed his eyes.  He knew exactly what was at stake. Everything his physical body had hoped for for so long would be lost if he stood up for Chad right now.

It seemed like time stopped, but it didn’t take long. As soon as Derrick had thrown himself onto the couch next to Jesus crying, “What do i do!? I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for!” he heard the calm voice say, “Do you want to be like you were before?” Derrick remembered how he used to do everything for himself. He used to be nice to retarded people because it would make him look nicer to others. He used to try to get the hottest girl in the school because he had believed that would prove he was good enough.  But ever since the dream, Derrick knew that wasn’t the way to play the game.

The inventor of life did not design the game to be played for popularity or looking good. The creator of the game was the one who created the purpose for it, and was sitting on the little couch next to Derrick in his soul. The purpose was not to win by looking good to others, it was only won by being united with the man on the little couch next to him, the creator of the game, and even Derrick himself.

“Now! Derrick. You know what to do, D-rock. You can do it.” Jesus whispered. And that is when the life poured out of Derrick again. He couldn’t tell if it was good life or bad life at the time, but something was definitely happening.

“Wait!” Derrick called after Chad.  “I’ll give you a ride, man. I think I should probably go too.”

He shook a couple hands on his abrupt walk to the car, and waved to the rest of them. But there were those faces in the crowd that smirked at Derrick for the social suicide he had just committed.  Among them was the captain of the basketball team, and also the face of the beautiful Candace Walters.

—

when Derrick got home that night, he threw himself onto his bed. He yelled into his pillow, “You’re so stupid! why did you make me do that! I try to be nice and look what it gets me. You suck! You suck! You suck, Jesus. You ruined everything for me.”

Little Derrick looked up and Jesus was sitting with him on the floor, by the little couch in his soul.  He was crying too. “I’m sorry, D-Rock.”

“Don’t call me that! We are not cool.”

Jesus whispered, “You did so well, tonight, buddy. You did so, so well.” Jesus could barely put his words together, his lips were quivering, on the verge of tears himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude. I tried to do what you said i should do, and look what it got me. I’ll never have a chance with Candace. I’ll never be cool with the basketball players. this is ridiculous. I should have never listened to you.”

Jesus was silent.  Finally Derrick looked up from the wet spot on the little couch and saw Jesus looking down at him compassionately. “You did it so well. You still think it’s about the points and looking good to other people but it’s not.”

“What else is there? I really wanted a date with Candace. I’ve tried so hard to get cool friends . . . but now. . .” Derrick buried his face in the couch and growled his frustration.”

“Check your facebook, Derrick.”

“What?”

“Check your facebook.” Jesus said quietly.

Derrick slowly, suspiciously got up, and pushed the levers to make his body roll over in his bed and pull his iPhone out of his pocket. he opened the facebook app and checked his latest messages.

There was a message from Chad.

It said, “Dude, Derrick. Thank you so much for inviting me tonight and standing up for me. I’m really sorry i made you look uncool.  But i just want to let you know that i’ve been thinking about becoming a Christian too.  I just didn’t know if it was for real. But no one would have done what you did for me tonight unless Jesus were really, truly real to them.  I want to let you know, that I prayed that i could know Jesus like you do. And it’s weird. it’s like all of a sudden I’m sitting down with him in my room and we can just talk about things. And it’s so weird, it’s like I’m not alone anymore. I used to feel so alone.  Anyway, thanks for inviting me tonight but even more so for introducing me to my new friend. Peace out, Dude.”

Derrick turned over in his bed and dropped his phone onto the covers.  He sighed.  He saw himself on the couch with Jesus and remembered that everything in the world would roar around him, but the only thing that mattered was if he was cool with the little man sitting next to him on the little couch on his soul.

Jesus was smiling at him.  Derrick crawled over to him and he seemed to shrink down like a baby. Jesus took him and cradled him in his big arms and rubbed his back. All of Derrick’s stresses left him. He whispered, “I’m sorry i sometimes forget you are more real than anything that happens out there.

And as he fell into deep peaceful sleep the last words on his lips were, “I love you Jesus. I’m so sorry. thank you. . . thank you.”

So I’ve come up with some techniques to help me praise God better when we sing at church. Maybe they can help you too:

1)Picture yourself as an ant in the carpet of God’s house. You become much less self conscious, and you feel small. . . which is good for praising someone big.

2) Observe your heart. I used to try to force myself to think what i should be thinking to praise God better. Didn’t work very well.  Then i started just observing how i felt. it worked surprisingly better. I don’t know why but i usually feel the root of my emotion as living in this fist-sized, bean-shaped thing in my chest where my heart is. By focusing on it I can usually tell if I’m joy-filled, or guilty, or sad, whereas before i couldn’t ‘feel’ anything because i was too cerebral. Then i remind myself that God is the answer to my emotion.  If i am sad, he is ultimately the one that will take away my sadness. He will forgive my guilt.  He is the giver of joy. And then I can praise better. I’ve moved from my sterile thoughts to my engaged heart.

3) I recently started picturing that little bean shaped bag of my emotions emptying as i sang. Like all my gritty dirt was being sucked up by God as my voice rose to him.  I tried that for a week or two, (weeks in which I happened to be fairly victorious in my battles with sin) and the next week i noticed something strange. When i tried to observe my heart again, suddenly i got the image that that little bean shaped bag was being splashed clean and filled with clean, fresh water. After the dirt had been sung out, living water was being sung back into it.

4) I’ve found that when i can hear my voice singing, i start to try to make it sound good for others.  Add some vibrato. . . spice it up with some harmonizing. I think something that might be better is if i did my best to make my voice blend in to the crowd, and enjoy participating as a family praising God, not a soloist. It’s beautiful when we realize our singing is a team sport :)

5) Have you ever been to a concert where you’re dancing and singing at the top of your lungs. It’s funny how some of the songs we belt it out to, we don’t really know what they mean, or for which cause we are lifting our voice. But singing at church, we are singing for our multi-faceted master, the prototype of what we will be, the hero of our story, the captain of our army, our ancient, loving father. Now that’s a cause and a person worth dancing for.

Spend your words like they’re quarters.

I’ve had a lot of doubt recently.
It just seems like my fate doesn’t get any better than someone who doesn’t pray.

I don’t ask for things very often, but i asked to be healed from the pain in my neck.

That was like a couple months ago. I went in for an MRI today because it still hurts and now my hand is going numb.

It makes me wonder if prayer does anything at all.  Is there anyone listening. . . ever.  I shuffle my feet, mutter my doubts, and consider walking away from it all.

But then i look at my life and when i really see it clearly, its rich bounty brings me to tears. I met a woman at the MRI office today and she found out about my writing, loved it, and told all her friends. Never has something so encouraging to my writing happened before, and wouldn’t have happened if this neck pain had been taken away.

And then i ask myself, do i have food? Yes, in excess.  Do I have talents? Yes. Do i have people that i love and who love me. Yes. Many, and deeply.

I realize that I am in a better place than perhaps i have ever been before, and I am ashamed that i have ever complained he hasn’t given me exactly what i need.

And why does it seem like the man who prays has no better fate than one who doesn’t? I think maybe it’s because sometimes Yahweh spreads lavish gifts even on the man that doubts and turns his face from him. This is the type of God we have, and the type of love he has for us.

Lord, your will prevails over mine again, and gratitude knocks me to my knees.

(thank you, Denise for ministering to me)

Last night i lay in bed and felt my little heart beating.

You asked it to keep this little body alive

and it does so quietly.

Teach me to be so faithful.

Sometimes i feel like a boat in a storm. When i get harshly criticized or feel like nobody likes me, I am completely blown off course and have to struggle to just stay above water. And sometimes when things are going really well, i forget where i came from and become a proud person. They both come in waves.

But i was thinking, what if in everything i could anchor myself to a rock inside my chest that did not move, and on which Jesus sat. And if in every circumstance, instead of letting the external events turn my boat around and jar it off course, i pulled tighter on the anchor and looked inward to the face of my captain who wants the best for me.

And if i really saw my rock as Jesus sitting two inches behind my sternum, and if i retreated to a little meeting with him before i lost my cool, maybe I wouldn’t get so sunk or so selfish.

i think the key is that it would be my compassionate God, the one with the eyes on all time, even my encouraging captain who would inform my feelings and reactions instead of the uncaring, fickle world.

fear of God may begin when we glimpse the fierceness of His love

It’s not about what we do, it’s about the person we are becoming.

Derrick was the best, nicest Christian in the whole school. . .

If you could really call him a Christian.

He walked with all the ugly, poor, and mentally challenged kids at school and everybody loved him for it.  He practiced his Bible verses on the bus and knew them better than anyone at church.  He was the go-between for his parents and his rebellious brother and sister.  He had a very kind-hearted, pretty girlfriend and left romantic notes on her locker every day. He worked hard in his classes and when everybody was cheating off of each others’ papers, he was very proud that his eyes didn’t wander.

But pride was the problem that his whole house of cards was built on . . .

He didn’t realize he gave it a jostle when after six months of dating he dumped his girlfriend.  “She’s a great girl,” he thought to himself, “and it sounds terrible but i think i can get better.”  He broke it off after church, in a very polite and proper way but she was devastated and cried for days.  Although he was lonely sometimes, he found himself already looking for better girls.

It wasn’t until a month later that his life crashed down.  It happened when another boy asked her out.  The guy that asked her out was older, better looking, had a job and a car already, and played football on varsity.  PLUS, this new boy was a very strong Christian. This is when Derrick realized his mistake was that he stayed with her until he thought he could get better, not because he really loved her.  She had loved him with true, real love, even though she COULD have gotten someone better looking and more talented the whole time.

A realization hit Derrick like a football tackle.  On the inside he was just as selfish as everyone else, if not more.  He didn’t really love anybody.  Everything he did was to look better than everybody else.  On the third and deepest day of his depression is when he had a dream.

Derick lifted his head from sleep and saw he was in a little control room, with two large, eye-shaped windows in front of him.  He looked down at the control panel his head had been resting on.  It was covered in lights and buttons.  The buttons were labeled things like “Smile kindly” or “give a complement,” and there were switches that could be turned to things like “act compassionate” or “act humble.”  There were levers sticking out of the ground beside his stool that were labeled, “Move arms” or “Move legs.”  There was a microphone sticking out of the control panel near him through which he could make the machine say things. He was a little creature controlling a human body!

He looked around him and saw score sheets and pie charts proudly hanging on the walls of his control room.  And there was a vinyl sticker of a beautiful girl, stuck to the big wall behind the control panel.

He got up from his little stool and stepped to the wall where he looked at the first chart.  At the top it said, “How Good I Am:”  he looked at the list under the title and it listed all the names of the people that he was nice to on a daily basis.

The next chart was the number of Bible verses he had memorized compared to the other people he knew. He was beating pretty much everybody. Then he looked at a chart that said, “How good of a son am i?” and it was a bar chart that compared himself to his brother and sister, and he was winning here too.

Finally he looked at the vinyl sticker of a beautiful girl on the wall and knew that this was the perfect girl that he wanted to get some day.  And he realized that he thought if he could get a girl like that, it would prove to everybody that he truly had value in the world. If he could score enough of the points on these walls, it would mean he was winning the game. 

He loved for people to see how good he was on the outside, but if anybody ever saw him on the inside, they would hate him.

He realized he hadn’t really loved his girlfriend, or anybody else for that matter. He didn’t really love his parents; he just tried to be better to them than his siblings were.  He didn’t even love the poor, ugly, dumb kids at school. He just wanted to feel like he was nicer than everybody else.  His memorized bible verses were just like merit badges instead of anything more than that.

All his good deeds were mere trophies for his gaudy, egotistical little control room.

Then a blinking LED in the corner of the room caught his eye. He went over to it and brushed off papers that were covering the long, narrow box that displayed messages in blinking LEDs scrolling across the screen.

He stopped and read the blaring red LEDs that he had ignored so long. He slowly put together the words as they scrolled across the screen. They said,

“Surrender. . . the . . . game. . . to. . . me.”

Derrick furled his eyebrows in confusion.  “What?” he said. “What does this mean?”

But the more he thought about it, the more he understood. As he thought about all the things that he had done in his life. . . all the really nice and great seeming things, he realized he had done every single one of them because they would make HIM feel good and make HIM look better than everybody else. He had just been playing a big, selfish game.

Then another message scrolled across the screen. . . it said,

“I. . . stand. . . at. . . the. . . door. . . and. . . knock. . . ”

It was one of his bible verses! He knew this one by heart, forward and backwards and he was proud that he knew it better than the other sunday school students . . . but suddenly he got very scared of something. He realized that there was a door in the back of his little control room. He looked at it and froze.

He stared at the door as his heart pounded harder and harder, terrified that someone was waiting at his door.

And suddenly there WAS a knock. The bible verse all of a sudden took on a very, very real meaning. It was no longer just words to be memorized in a big book.  Someone had knocked on his door.

The knock came again.

Derrick realized that all of his score cards showed that he was overwhelmingly selfish.  He scrambled to cover up all of his score charts and the picture of the girl.  He wouldn’t tear them down because of all the work he had done to fill the charts, but he definitely didn’t want anyone to see them. 

When he felt everything was finally covered he slowly, carefully opened the door. 

There was a simple, humble man on the other side and Derrick suddenly recognized him.  He had met this man before the game had begun, before he had been put into this body.  It was the creator and director of the whole game. He had a sad smile and kind eyes. he had thinning gray hair and was strong, but was very humble.

Derrick suddenly remembered that this man was the intended score keeper, but Derrick had appointed himself to keep his score instead.

Derrick trembled in fear, realizing very plainly that he had totally failed at the true game. 

“May i come in?” The man said quietly.

Derrick looked at the floor and mumbled, “Yes.  Come in.”

The man stepped inside and looked around at all of the papers taped over the charts and pictures.  Derrick knew that this man knew exactly what all of it was.

Derrick pleaded, “I’m really sorry. Please give me another chance!”

The man wandered over to the wall and pulled down the stuff Derrick had put in front of the charts.  He examined the charts and then looked back at Derrick.  The man said, “Can i destroy all of this?”

“What? Why? but i’ve worked so hard! i have nothing else in my whole life to show for anything i’ve ever done if you take away that stuff!”

The man waited sadly. 

finally Derrick closed his eyes and said, “Yes! take it all down! Do it quickly before i change my mind!”

The man tenderly pulled the charts off the wall but then vigorously ripped each of them up. He peeled the picture of the girl off the wall.  Eventually the whole room was bare. 

The man lifted the LED screen up and handed it to Derrick.  Derrick took it, examined it and then realized the man was pointing at the place on the wall where the girl used to stick. Derrick slowly carried the screen over to the wall and hung it on a nail he found there.  Then the man said, “May i drive?”

This was the hardest part of all. Derrick had never given up his seat to control the body.  What if this guy didn’t do things the way Derrick wanted them to be done.  What if this dude made him do something stupid in front of people.

But finally Derrick said, “Yes! please take it! I KNOW that you can drive better than me. I’ve messed it all up so far. Please take over. Tell me what i can do to help you drive this body.”

The man smiled, and hugged Derrick, who hugged him back like a child who knew his father had just spared him from a huge punishment. He realized that he had never known how lonely for this man he really was.  He had tried to fill his room with trophies to keep him company instead of inviting a real person, Jesus into his control room with him.  Jesus sat down at the stool and said, “Ok, now, my son, the first thing i want you to do, is to go apologize to your parents.”

“What!?” Derrick exclaimed.  “But I’ve done nothing wrong!”

The man waited, looking patiently down at the control panel.

Derrick finally realized that the man was exactly right.  He had not truly loved his parents, and they probably had been able to tell.  Derrick took the levers and made the body get out out of bed.  It was morning.  He heard his mom calling to him downstairs. Derrick looked over at Jesus at the control panel and sighed.  Derrick said, “I think i can do this.  I no longer want to play the game.  I just want you to stay here with me.”

And from then on, Derrick began to make decisions because the man in his control room told him to, not because he wanted to look good.  Derrick thought less and less about how to make people think he was good, and more and more about how to simply make other people feel good.  And just being an obedient friend to this amazing man made him feel as special as he would ever need to be, exactly the way he was.

I was on the subway in an area notorious for panhandling.  A man got on and started talking to me.  I tried to act fairly uninterested but he kept talking. 

He asked to use my phone.  I said, “hmmm.  .  . maybe. . What’s the number, I’ll dial.”

we couldn’t reach who he wanted.  But i was pretty sure it was a ploy to eventually beg for money. 

His gums were a toothless ridge on the bottom.  His skin was tough and aged.  He opened the paper and told me about everything he was reading.  I humored him, fully expecting I was going to have to turn down his request for money he would use for drugs.

I tried to pray for him.  I felt hopeless.  Prayer won’t help someone in his situation, i thought.  I’ve seen it before. they’re hopeless.

But as he continued talking i found out he had been a leader in a program that helped homeless men get off addictions and off the street.  It is called Potters hands.  The men work all day for their room and board.  they attend Bible studies three times a day.  No cigarettes and absolutely no drinking was allowed.  And my new friend had not only successfully gone through the program, had been a supervisor in the house, but was now going downtown to drink coffee, hang out with a good friend, read some scripture and watch the pretty girls.  He said he had learned how to appreciate the beautiful little things in life.

I had totally underestimated this guy, Steve.  And i had totally underestimated the power of my God.

Forgive me, dear God.  You are worthy.

I tried to pray last night, in my heated, warm bed, insulated from nature and the very real, cold elements outside.  And I kinda stopped believing in God- well for that moment.  It just didn’t seem realistic that there was someone hearing my prayers.

When i stepped outside in the morning, the crisp January air, full of white snowy light and verdant aromas made me believe again. 

If ever it is easy to believe, it is when the electricity of life jolts you alive.  It’s like those redolent winds carry the quiet heartbeat of a creator peeking out from behind a curtain, just to see how much we enjoy his creation.

Sometimes I think it’s just pretty unlikely that the Christian God exists.  Like when someone truly thinks they hear God say they are to marry a specific person, but the other person doesn’t hear the same thing.  Or even moreso when I seek direction or help in my life by praying, and I don’t hear anything and nothing seems to change.

After realizations like this, i often ask myself, “if it doesn’t seem true, then why do I still believe.”

Janie doubted she would ever meet a boy like she hoped for.  In Marysville, Washington, in 1938, the boys were made of only cat calls and football talk. Men talked down to their wives face to face and ridiculed them behind their backs.  By age 18 Janie knew every one of the boys in the small high school well enough to know that even tho she dreamed of marriage, none of them would be as good as living life alone.  She resolved never to marry a boy from Marysville.

Then one day, she saw a young man walking through her father’s apple orchard, admiring the peaceful beauty of the ripening fruit.  She went to him.  He wasn’t from Marysville.

Kirk and Janie met just a year before World War II started.  Their romance sprung up and engulfed them like an aromatic flame.  They were married within six months.  Kirk was kind and wise, and his integrity was forged deep. She thought, “I want to be a better woman for him every day.”

He insisted they read the funnies every morning and watch the tonight show every night so they could share their first and last laugh of every day.  They decided to hang up christmas lights all year round because they both loved them so much.  They taught the kids at Sunday school together to prepare for their own kids someday.  They played tennis or hiked mountains or rode bikes at least 3 times a week so they would have more healthy years to live together.  Because this love was so good, they hoped they would never die.  They looked forward to growing old together, but not to saying goodbye.

But then Kirk was drafted. 

Because of Kirk’s deep integrity, keen intelligence, and his german ancestry, he was chosen to do undercover reconnaissance work.  Because of the nature of his work, he could have no correspondence with people on the outside. 

So Jaine and Kirk said goodbye. 

Janie cried for months.  She missed him like washington apples miss a hand to hold them and eyes to see their beauty.  But she did not rot away.  She read the funnies and watched the tonight show every day to keep in good spirits for him. She made sure the Christmas lights were always working so that if he came home he would not only know this was his house, but that he was home.  She continued to teach the kids at sunday school.  She rode her bike and climbed mountains alone, or sometimes with a friend, to stay beautiful for him for when she saw him again.  She wrote him letters, in the rare case that they would ever reach him.

Five years later the war ended but he did not come home.  There was no news that Kirk had died, but the bickering couples in Marysville whispered more and more that he was never coming back.  They watched her keep herself and the big house beautiful and whispered to each other, “what a shame.” 

But to Janie, there was nothing shameful about it.  She watched the other people in Marysville get lazy and fat, watching football and gossiping at the TV.  Children congregated at her house.  It was a house of joy.  She taught them jump rope games and how to do puzzles.  dozens of kids spent their summers with her.  She raised them as much as their own parents did, fortunately for their futures.

All the men who saw Janie walk with poise, grace and joy through the grocery store or to the post office silently wished their wives were that way.  They didn’t know she was that way because her husband had treated her like she was.

And she would always be that way.  She had made the resolve, like the one to never marry a Marysville man, to never stop living like she was married to Kirk.  She would never stop being a better woman for him, even if she never saw him again.

There were hints from the military that Kirk could still be alive because his mission had become long term and crucial for the country, but almost nobody in Marysville thought it was likely that he would return.

The truth about Kirk was that he WAS still on a crucial mission that continuously supplied the USA with information that eventually became critical in the cold war.  And he stayed on this mission for his country until he died.  He was an excellent spy.  The only crack in his armor of secrecy was that he never remarried.  The germans and russians wondered why a man of such high quality kept so much to himself.

The American government had worked out a system so he could read every one of Janie’s letters from afar, but he could not respond.  An editorial printed her anonymous letters in a German paper which Kirk read every day.  The whole German nation read them, not knowing who it was to.  And it was Janies undying commitment to love him and to continually become a better woman for him, that kept him going and striving to be better himself.  When Janie passed away, it was shortly after that Kirk went too. 

No one in Marysville suspected that Janie’s committed love was what kept the Americans ahead in the arms race for so many healthy years.

Sometimes i wonder if it’s a good idea to keep loving and serving God, even when it seems unlikely that he exists.  But then i see the man that it’s making me into, and the epic story that could be behind it, and it then again seems worth it.

And as far as hearing the wrong thing from God, or not hearing from him at all, sometimes i think maybe that proves to me that he is more real than anything in my head.  That God is as real as true love and gritty war, where signals get mixed, feelings get hurt, and battles for hearts are won and lost by faith, sacrifice, and sometimes lonely perseverence. And none of these things mean he doesn’t love us or that he’s not trying to speak to us.  But he is there listening to each of my love letters, each night as i bow my head before bed and tell him I miss him.