Barefoot Christian Growth and Fellowship

Sand's between our toes as we play at the park. It's early--cool yet-- to be barefoot, but still . . . .
We reach for the skies with feet as we swing. The girls' hair is tangled from the wind. Lukas dangles from the top of the monkey bars.
Ern and I laugh and joke and enjoy these gifts. This park in the middle of an urban neighborhood is just the perfect solace on this weekday evening here at the end of March.
It's across from a church.
Wouldn't it be fun to have a church service here at this park? Could we sing, could we listen, could we worship while we played? It probably would be difficult and for a number of reasons wouldn't be a good choice for all such meetings.
But in the movement of arms and legs, the throbbing life of it, God speaks of who we are, who we can be in Him, with no pretenses.
There's something to be said for church picnics, for meeting together out of doors, the way it strips down walls and barriers, brings the child in each of us to the forefront.
When we relax, focus less on the show we intend to make, and humbly love and learn, we grow. When our kids fight and we must teach and guide, when we feel lonely but make an effort toward someone else who seems ostracized, our spiritual muscles get exercise and like physical muscles, throb with life. His Life and not ours. In our church families, nuclear families, and with the world--the people--around us, there's something to be said for bare feet stretching toward the sky.

Birthday Prayer

Lethei's so excited about her birthday's coming. She will be three. I hope for her, for each of my kids, to know God, belong to Him, have a strong faith, be encircled by Him, moved by Him. I pray that when Christians are self-righteous, argumentative, simple, sinful, broken, they--my children--will be gracious, see God at work, looking to Him and not to them, not to these people. I pray that when Christians are humble, helpful, giving/sacrificing,  passionate/praising, sincere, they--my children--will see God at work, looking to Him and not to these. I pray that when unbelievers are striving, floundering, swilling, wondering, they--my children-- will speak of God at work, of Him, and He will be seen in their lives.
I want for them to be first and foremost His children, His representatives, His spokesmen, for after all, He has only lent them to me for a time. May He ever be Who they see and Who is seen in them. With every birthday, this prayer is mine for them.

One of my boys on a bicycle flies through mud with Dad running after, trying to catch up, while I stand at the door, testifying that Jesus is God.
God Himself.
Only One without dirt could cleanse us from ours and we're all filthy, from the inside out.
He was accused of blasphemy for His claims. He is Liar, Lunatic, or Lord.
He died for me. Took my place. And rose again.
The back door slams and my boy, out of breath, rushes up to me and says, "What did they say, Mom?" just as I close the front door.
I hug him.
"They don't believe."
So thankful for the Divine One. I can't handle my own dirt. I can't ride fast enough, and the harder I try the more it splatters on me.

Renew Remember

She looks from the picture, laughs, and says, "I was in your tummy."
"Yes, you were," I say and I smile, wondering at how I could have given birth to this fairy child with her "butter" wings.
How could this dancing creature be mine?
Her heart is light and joy-filled.
She believes in her future.
I sometimes feel swallowed by dark of past and present. By earth. Where are my wings?
When will I fully emerge from my cocoon and fly/rise? How can I look to that yet live in this? With joy? With purpose?
There are tasks. There are blessings.
But most of all, I ask Him to help me, to work in me and through me, to shine His light, blow His breeze, and remind me of my new birth.

Temptation

It's an apple, a little bruised in places, but still crisp and sweet.
It's only a piece of fruit, an indulgence, a pleasure.
Self-sickness seem so appealing, trivial.
Why then afterward do we wonder why we didn't see the edges, the stomachache, coming?
or that it would bring Him so much pain as well?

I am touched by words not my own but that my heart responds to, that speak for me, that I wish were truly who I am all the time, that I pray to be true of me:

I am no longer my own, but thine.
Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.
Put me to doing, put me to suffering.
Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee,
exalted for thee or brought low for thee.
Let me be full, let me be empty.
Let me have all things, let me have nothing.
I freely and heartily yield all things to they pleasure and disposal.
And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
thou art mine, and I am thine.

NotFailing

Felicity didn't pass her swim class. She'll have to take it again. She doesn't seem troubled, or even overly aware, of this fact.
But I am reminded of my failures. I laugh and joke about them. But the memories still hurt. I lost my race and ran off to pout. My daddy followed me to scold me for my attitude, to make me congratulate the winner. Her freckled face and red hair and confident smile hurt. Because of the ugliness of my heart. Because of my own sense of inferiority. Because I wanted to be someone important. The only compliment my gym teacher ever gave me was something of an insult, "She has good form, but no momentum." I sat on the bench when I played basketball in junior high. When the rest of the team wasn't playing well, the coach turned to me and counseled me to go out there and execute a play as she described. I went out there, flapped, flopped, and failed and got pulled back onto the bench. I guess coach had forgotten for a moment, why I was sitting there next to her to begin with. Even as a high school cheerleader, I was remarkable in taking out two other girls with my round-off.
My husband dreamed of skiing in the mountains with his wife someday. He got a woman full of fears and awkwardnesses, ineptitudes. But he's not complained.
My daughter feels no real sense of loss by this failure. Because she is loved. Because she knows she has other skills. Because she is who she is. Because she will have other chances.
My failures have taught me that I am small and God is big. That I am His and He may do as He will. That He gives and takes away. That He loves me unconditionally. That tomorrow is another day.

Snow and Spring

I read about half of John 20 to the kids after breakfast. Lukas said, "It's the Easter story."
Outside snow is falling, though two days ago we danced across the yard, dazzled by light and warmth. Will spring ever come?
How dark, gray, cold, and dirty my life often feels. Small. Pointless. I sweep, wash dishes, do laundry, pick up books and toys and coats, again and again and again. I make the same meals over and over. It's so monotonous, so seemingly pointless. I grump and groan in my mind. I want an escape.
Last night we swam in cool chlorine-scented waters and saw a member of our church family, a fellow respite seeker, season defier. And then we opened the door to leave and were hit by blasts of cold air freezing the damp still in our hair and on our bodies.
We can go inside. We can pretend the snow isn't there. We can shut ourselves off from it and dream of spring.
The snow is beautiful, blinding white, falling straight from heaven again and again. It is soiled, spoiled and then becomes new again, as more falls.
It can penetrate to the bones, make me shiver uncontrollably.
But it is not forever. Spring will come. New life will rise.
In the meantime, I do not want to miss any of it. God is here too. He is continually covering my dirt. He warms me from within even when it isn't warm without.
He died that I might live. He is alive.

Fellowship

The dinner with Christian friends was not about the food, though there were interesting pairings,  butternut squash coconut soup, bowtie beef stroganoff, cherry tomato Caesar salad, banana tofu, representing different traditions.
It was a time to hear someone's heart,
concern for a sister, loneliness and dissillusionment, trepidation about changes to come, exhaustion, boredom.
It was a time to share our hope,
what we all look to for meaning, for comfort, for strength.
Our differences make our commonality all the more vital.
We feed more than our bodies.

We walked, Ernie and I, while the kids rode their bikes or tried. Lethei's little bike is foot-powered and her feet didn't seem to her to be powerful, so it wasn't long before she was walking and I was carrying her bike. Then she put up her arms and said, "Carry me."
I obliged.
But when I put her down again, she didn't want to do the work herself. Frustrated with the snowdrifts, crying as she tripped over one, she left her shoe behind.
Cinderella fared better with one shoe. My Lethei contentedly plopped on the bench and kicked out one bare foot. "My shoe has snow in it," she said. She smiled, happier without it until she stood up again, and then she wanted it back. Even a cold snowy shoe is better than no shoe at all.
She walked back, mostly. Daddy tried to help her ride a bit.
Then that crazy giggle when we finally saw our house. She had made it. She had? I'm thinking she'd not have fared half so well without us.
How like my taking credit for getting somewhere, growing somewhat, when I'd repeatedly cried to be carried, tripped up, complained about something and then wanted it back when I no longer had it, stumbled along and then thrilled at seeing the progress, made possible by God at work in me.

Today my kids played outside in the trailer that is parked on gravel at the back of our back yard. They wore jackets or no jackets, long-sleeves or no-sleeves, shorts or long pants or skirts. Each of the four of them seemed dressed for a different season.
They wielded sticks and dropped them. Some far away land in their mind had come to life for them, some adventure.
I watched from the window, occasionally calling out to be careful with the stick or asking if the lighter-clad ones were cold.
They seemed dazed by the sight and sound of me. I was not a part of their imaginary world.
I am thankful for the dreams we nourish as children and adults, for the hope that keeps us striving, looking forward to the next day. Creativity found in art, music, literature, helps us reach beyond ourselves. Most of all, I look forward to the realization of the world that is truly beyond the wildest imaginings we have in this one. Better, sweeter, lovelier, and more compelling than we can comprehend, centered around The Creator Himself.

I sometimes feel that organized evangelicalism is an excuse to fight over unimportant details that have nothing to do with faith in God but more to do with feeling important, feeling special. How odd that we want to do something to be special when Christ's death for us makes us loved beyond imagining. Being His should be more than enough.
Sometimes someone does nothing but serve, through her personal sacrifice, through his unselfish, unassuming generosity, pointing to the One who made that great sacrifice. When I look at these people, I don't feel  hurt or frustrated, I don't even think about them,  but am so drawn to their God. Then I feel less overwhelmed or even crushed by the churched and instead  wanting to truly and actively be a part of the church, God's bride. His.

God speaks to us in the beauty of the world He's put us in, with changing seasons, with the complexity of leaves and flowers and creatures of the animal world. It's easier, it sometimes seems, to feel close to God in the woods, in the country, in the quiet and the stillness. But God is in the urban settings too. He's seen in people's efforts to create a home for themselves, to be civilized, to conquer the wildness. But we cannot conquer the sadness, the pain, the wrong, that rages within. Not without the work of the Divine. We bear testimony to our need of Him in our desperate attempts to make our own beauty.
I want to find His beauty. I want to be caught up in it. I see it more in the people who inhabit the world He's created. In them, more than any other work of His, I see His greatness, the handiwork of love, compassion, hope.
In the variance of features, in the brilliance of blue eyes, the depth of dark ones, in the lined cheek, in the smooth, rosy one, in these I see the love of God. God so loves the world. The people of the world.
I marvel at the small, sweet hand of my youngest child. She is not a product of chance. She is not without a reason for being. She is full of promise because the precious, perfect One died that she and I and you might know everlasting life and fullness of joy. Today and forever.

Arrogance

I need grace to deal with arrogance, to say, God knows, to recognize the pain behind the expressions of false confidence and humbly throw myself at God's feet, secure enough in Him to not be hurt by others' pride or take refuge in my own.

Review of Kendall's Unashamed to Bear His Name

I appreciate Kendall's emphasis on accepting the stigma of the gospel. While Christianity is a rational intelligent and loving faith, it is also exclusive and radical. It is offensive unless God softens our heart so that you respond to it as demanding your humbly throwing yourself at the foot of the cross for forgiveness and transformation followed by a changed life of service to God. We are to be actively sharing our faith and it will be embarrassing at times to do so. But of course we should not be any more offensive than is necessary and we can--more so than I believe Kendall stresses--appeal to the rational and yearning part of man as well as acknowledging that there are everlasting consequences for sin--a real hell--that should be fearful to us and cause us to turn to God to escape the wrath to come. As for Kendall's take on embracing unusual manifestations of the Spirit though they may be scandalous, I agree we may be too quick to discount that which we feel uncomfortable with, particularly those who are less emotional and more cerebral. However, I also feel this experiential approach is very suspect to human involvement and taint, which to his credit Kendall acknowledges, though not so much as I think he should. How is God glorified by people laughing uncontrollably? or barking like dogs? Must we really--as K. suggests--accept this kind of thing because even if it's bad, there's no way to separate the good from the bad in it? If so, why not? If so, how much bad must we embrace? Did Christ ever tell us we must do such a thing--accept bad for the sake of good? Is it really worth it?
I received this book from Book Sneeze in order to review it.

Review of Todd Hunter's Our Favorite Sins

 Hunter suggests fleeing temptation, practicing small denials of self, spending time in liturgical prayer/meditation as some tools for avoiding temptation by developing an attitude of consecration to God and living for the future not merely the present. Ultimately, I do believe the problem is internal, is caused by wrong values and a need for a re-ordered, transformed inner self. However, I'd say this transformation isn't something we can simply, formulaically achieve, though these efforts certainly can help and it is useful to have a game plan, nor would I elevate prayer book prayers, as he seems to, over Scripture itself or even over personally constructed outcries to God. It can be helpful to have routines for prayer to make it a healthy habit. Referring to others' words can help us to quickly settle into the spirit of worship and God-ward focus and inspire our own prayers. This book is thought-provoking but I really doubt it would be of much help to nonChristians, contrary to Hunter's suggestions.
I received this book from Book Sneeze in order to review it.