Why Jesus Came

My collection (so far) of “why Jesus came” verses:

to serve (Mt 20:28)

to give His life a ransom for many (Mt 20:28)

to preach in other towns, too (Mk 1:38, Lk 4:43)

to call sinners (Mk 2:17)

to do God’s will (Jn 6:38)

to save His people from their sins (Mt 1:21)

to be the Savior of the world (1 Jn 4:14)

to die (Jn 12:27)

to save the world (Jn 12:47)

that the world might be saved through Him (Jn 3:17)

to destroy the devil’s works (1 Jn 3:8)

to give sight to the blind and to show those who think they see that they are blind (Jn 9:39)

to bear witness to the truth (Jn 18:37)

to save sinners (1 Tm 1:15)

to seek and save the lost (Lk 19:10)

What Poetry Can Do

(A sestina, for the (fun and fascinating!) collaborative photography and poetry prompts on “Conversation”: photography (click on the July 22 PhotoPlay article) at The High Calling, and poetry at T.S. Poetry.)

I returned from out of town to see
the “conversation” prompt and wanted
to yell, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!
Do you really expect me to write
a sestina in TWO DAYS?”
(For crying out loud!)

Anonymous

(All photos are part of this set at my Flickr account.)

This is my first opportunity to use the 4000-cubic-inch Kelty backpack they gave me for my birthday. We are always curious about how much our packs weigh, so we weigh them before leaving the house. Charles’s, as usual, comes in heaviest (25% of his body weight), then Derek’s (22%), Titus’s (20%), mine (17%), and Byron’s (13%).

After a two-hour drive we begin at the Venable Trailhead, 9000 feet elevation. By tomorrow we will gain 3000 feet more. The last time we went backpacking at “the Sangres,” it was September, and the wildflowers were already dead. This time, they are at their peak. I wonder at the plants and animals in this wilderness. All creation really does sing His praise.

Of course I know the Columbine, our state flower . . .

. . . and the Aspen, which every Coloradan knows . . .

. . . but, ignorant of birds, bugs and botany, I don’t know what anything else is called up here. I can’t identify them, so these are anonymous beauties. What are the bushes we bushwhack through? What kind of bird makes that two-tone call? Whose are those faces greeting us from the trailside (“Welcome! Welcome to the mountains!”) Are those moth caterpillars that keep greeting us from midair?

What is the name of those little trumpets heralding in unison, “The Lord is good! The Lord is good!”

I don’t know their names. I only know them by where they are; these wildflowers, this ground cover, those birds are the wonders I always see at “the Sangres”—the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

I, too, want to be known by la sangre de Cristo—the blood of Christ. I want the world to identify me by what Jesus has done for me on the cross. I want to be an anonymous beauty, made beautiful by wearing Christ’s righteousness.

If Jesus is known by His scars,
may I be known by His blood, known
by la sangre de Cristo.

Father, I ask again, may it be no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.

“He must increase; I must decrease.”
(John 3:30)

(Linking with Laura Boggess for…)

When Our Home Was Like a Prison

My husband says that “love believes all things” means that we should believe the best about one another, that we should give one another the benefit of the doubt, that we should not assume the worst.

Marriage strengthens in the refining, and we were in one of those crucible times. The way to a deeper love and stronger marriage was not to walk around the fire but through it, and we did so. We were “open and honest with one another in an attitude of love and humility” (quoted from our wedding vows). That morning we had one of those soul-wrenching conversations, and I carried it with me throughout the day. But it was morning, and we had to go to work.

Charles works at home, down there in the basement office. I work at home, too, so I heard the noise coming up through the walls between us. I stopped short at the sound. I couldn’t believe it.

He was humming.

While I spent my day stewing, burning over the morning’s interaction, he was joyfully humming! My brow muscles violently bunched together, and I exhaled a puff of disgust. How could he hum at a time like this?!

God (thank God!) did not allow me to remain in bitterness, and my boiling spirit calmed to a simmer. Later that night, Charles and I had a chance to talk again.

I listened as he shared, “I understand better the importance of music. I’ve been having a hard time focusing on the wrong things, and my mind kept going back to the morning’s conversation. I couldn’t get any work done. But then I started humming, and that helped a lot. It got my mind back on God.”

Oh.

Then I remembered the song he was humming:
“Oh, the deep, deep love of Jesus . . .”

Our home that day was like the prison in Philippi long ago.

The crowd joined in the attack against Paul and Silas, and the magistrates ordered them to be stripped and beaten. After they had been severely flogged, they were thrown in prison, and the jailer was commanded to guard them carefully. Upon receiving such orders, he put them in the inner cell and fastened their feet in stocks.

About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening to them.

- Acts 16:22-25

Charles was simply being like Paul and Silas, singing and praising God in the midst of hardship. I was another prisoner who heard him.

But instead of singing, too, I only kept myself beaten and flogged, slouching in the shackles of bitterness.

Next time, I will believe the best about my husband. I know why he sings—and I will sing, too.

(Linking with Ann Voskamp for Wednesday. Click on the Holy Experience badge below to read more posts on The Practice of Love)

Second Meeting (Girl with a Broom)

[These words from L.L. Barkat brought back this memory...]

She and I first met at the National Gallery of Art. Immediately I knew we were friends; we had common heart-hues, likenesses in our life palettes. She understands me, I thought. The friendship solidified in our ten-minute encounter, but I did not see her again for three and a half years.

The most visited place in Washington, D.C. is not the Lincoln Memorial, nor any monument or Smithsonian musuem. It is Union Station, its 270 stores and Amtrak and Metro hubs bringing multitudes passing in and passing through.

We had just lived forty hours on a joggety-jiggly train. Our legs, not yet adjusted to unmoving ground, took us into this Union Station with lurches and sideways steps. Signs hung from the ceiling, and we followed their arrows to the food court where we plopped car seat and duffle bags under two adjacent and amazingly unoccupied round metal tables, the kind you would normally find in someone’s backyard deck next to the grill.

The lunch-buying mission was mine and mine alone. Competition breeds the skill to sell, I guess, and the woman selling wraps somehow caught my eye within three seconds after we found our table. A slice of tuna wrap hung precariously on a toothpick at the end of her extended arm. She singled me out and beckoned with quick, downward thrusts of the chin. “Come! Free sample, you take! Come!” I came, took the sample, and returned to our table with a Chicken Caesar, a Chicken Arizona, and chicken-strip kid meals. The other food court vendors never had a chance.

Over this lunch we determined what to see before checking into the Governor House Inn. We stepped out into the gray mid-May D.C. drizzle, and my happy heart drove impatient feet straight to the National Gallery of Art.

I stepped in and first took in the architecture, the floor . . .

. . . the ceiling . . .

Then I looked for her, the friend who made such instant soul-connection three and a half years earlier. Which hall? Which room? My footsteps were quick. As I went, a thought came to me and I asked a security guard, “Is it okay to take pictures?” (Yes!)

Then, I turned a corner through a doorway and found her.

Hello again, friend. I’ve waited long to see you.

I stood very close, looking up. Sunlight from a skylight caused a reflection, so I moved a little left and right, a little closer, a half-step back, so I could see every part. My feet were planted. Standing close, I stared, looking up.

A security guard stepped to my left and warned, “Not too close. Just eight to ten inches.”

“Thank you,” I answered without looking at him, and stepped back.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed. By this time I was crying. So happy.

I took the first picture. My heart was not the only part of me that was rushed, and a sudden brightness reminded me I had forgotten to turn off the flash. I turned it off and took more photos while an elegantly dressed museum visitor approached me from the right. “I don’t think that flash is very good for the painting,” she said, firm and patient.

I turned to her and smiled, patient, too. “Yes, I turned it off,” I explained. “It was an accident.”

Another five minutes, and the security guard came back. “Found a good spot, have you?”

I turned to him, happy that someone noticed my appreciation. “Yes! This is my favorite painting in the whole musuem,” I said, speaking in a kind of hush.

“If you stand in the same spot for a while, we start watching you,” he said.

Well, he was doing his job, after all. I gave no answer.

“Just make sure you don’t get too close. Eight to ten inches.”

A scenario flashed through my mind of several guards coming at me from all sides and taking hold of my upper arms (Come with us, ma’am.) while I cried and made a scene (I just want to look at her!). After that I was more careful. Our meeting will have to be sneaky and clandestine, then. I decided to have fun with this, secret-club style. I took several steps back and even sat on the couch in the middle of the room. I crossed my legs and assumed a nonchalant pose, occasionally glancing at the other paintings. I got up and spent twenty minutes in other parts of the Gallery, then returned. I peeked in at her from the next room. Hi again! I see you!

I had arranged to meet my family in the coat room at 4:30, and it was time. I said goodbye, happy for a second meeting.

We donned our coats, grabbed our luggage, and stepped out. It was no longer raining.

********

(Originally posted for a 2010 book club.)

Related: Mistaken

Linked at Seedlings in Stone:

The Benefit of Deficiency

My husband said that the harder something is, the more likely I am to try it. He’s right. I’ll snatch up a challenge like I would a free book or chocolate bar.

So when someone challenged the women’s retreat attendees to memorize Romans, chapter 12 in two days, my heart rate increased. I felt like I did in college, right before a tennis match against a nationally ranked player. I thrive on adrenaline and competitiveness. Memorize Romans 12 by Friday, and I’ll get a prize? I took the bait and ate it up.

The first two verses went down easy (I guess because I had previously memorized them):

I urge you, therefore, brethren, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what the will of God is; that which is good and acceptable and perfect.

(Romans 12:1-2)

But after that, it got hard to swallow. Verse 3 took me by surprise. I thought I was just taking up a memory challenge, but God had another purpose.

And through the grace of God given to me I say to every man among you not to think more highly of himself than he ought to think, but to think so as to have sound judgment, as God has allotted to each a measure of faith.

(Romans 12:3)

The two days I had to memorize this chapter were the same two days I was—(this is not fun to admit)—thinking more highly of myself than I ought to think. Internally I wrestled with thoughts about someone in the Body of Christ, someone to whom God has allotted her own, individual, unique, God-given measure of faith. Why does she do things that way?! Why can’t she communicate like I do?! Things would go more smoothly if only she would …

According to the Scriptures, I was not thinking so as to have sound judgment. Arrogance is not sane.

As meditation is inherent in memorization, I began to think about this. I continued with the rest of the chapter:

And just as we have many members in one body, and all the members do not have the same function; so we, who are many, are one Body in Christ, and individually members of one another. And since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let each exercise them accordingly…

(Romans 12:4)

Somehow it’s supposed to help with realism and humility (not thinking more highly of myself than I ought to think) if I consider how God has gifted each of us differently.

She and I are different, just as all the members of one body are different—all the body parts don’t have the same function. An eye cannot walk. A hand cannot taste.

In the Body of Christ, one person cannot do what another can—and this is for everyone’s benefit. By God’s design and intent, it is good for me to have a lack. Many lacks. “Deficiency” is beneficial. Pride thinks I am better. Humility understands I am not.

I did reach my goal of memorizing the chapter in two days. But God had accomplished His purposes, too. He corrected me into humility and gave me a better love and appreciation for others in the Body.

On top of all that, I got a great prize . . .

. . . to remind me that the Word of God is a light to my path.

This Thursday Bonnie Gray hosts a community of those who share about a verse containing the word “faith.” Click on the FaithBarista badge below to read more posts on faith!

Weight

We spread out two nights’ worth of backpacking, covering the entire lower level of our home with sleeping bags, Therma-Rest pads, two tents, freeze-dried dinners, rain gear, S’mores ingredients, fishing lures, flashlights . . . did we forget anything? We roll, fold, stuff, tie, pack, and squeeze the air out. Somehow, we confine our shelter, food, clothing and every need into five packs, compact and tight.

Our backpacking preparation always culminates with the same ritual: we weigh each pack. (Hear the drum roll.) Tense and unmoving, we watch the scale until its numbers settle. Then comes a trumpet accolade and the announcements:

Charles: 51 pounds!
Monica: 28 pounds!
Derek: 15 pounds!
Titus: 10 pounds!
Byron: 3 pounds!

The packs weigh more than they did the last trip, and our faces beam.

At the trailhead I shoulder my load, taking pride in every pound. Why do I keep track of how much I carry? Why am I proud of the weight on my back?

It is my own weight, mine, and I carry it alone. See? I can carry it! My strong legs take the trail and its thousand-foot elevation gain. I can do it. I need no rest.

It is an illusion, and I fall for it again: self-sufficiency. Anxiety hovers close by, ready to swoop down on me. I am now a clear and easy target, having marked myself with pride.

But the deadly talons never reach me. God’s Word has come between.

So, humble yourselves under God’s strong hand, and in his own good time he will lift you up. You can throw the whole weight of your anxieties upon him, for you are his personal concern.
- 1 Peter 5:6-7 (Phillips)

Father, I don’t want to hoard my worries from You. Protect me from thinking that I operate on my own strength. I recognize that without You I can do nothing. Teach me (again) humility, which is an anti-worry shield. Show me how to shed pride and transfer the weight from my shoulders to Yours. I want to labor for You, but only by taking the yoke of Jesus. With this yoke upon me, may I learn from You and find rest.

When we humble ourselves each morning by casting all our cares on the Lord, we will start the day free of care. The humble are genuinely care free.

I’ve discovered how true that is about myself and my soul. Where there’s worry, where there’s anxiousness, pride is at the root of it. When I am experiencing anxiety, the root issue is that I’m trying to be self-sufficient. I’m acting independent of God.

- C.J. Mahaney, in Humility: True Greatness

(We just went backpacking, so I’m remembering this (originally posted 9/17/2009).)

(Linking with Ann Voskamp, who hosts on Wednesday a community of those who share about Humility. Click on the Holy Experience badge below to read more posts on Humility)

“How can anyone be arrogant when…”

I was trying to remember what God
taught me about humility…

Ah, yes. It was that
memory aids humility.
That was it.

Now . . . what exactly was it
that I was supposed to remember?
Ummm . . .

Oh, right! Remember the Lord’s works.
Let His goodness pass before me—
His blessings in abundance,
His help in wilderness times.

There was something else, though.
Something else He taught me
about humility.
What was that other thing?

I had to look back
at my journal (the brown one)
for that entry, and there it was,
dated Saturday, 7 March 2009:

1 Corinthians 1:29 “As a result, no one can ever boast in the presence of God.”

=> Key to humility: being in God’s presence! If I ever find in myself pride, arrogance, selfish ambition, then the thing I should do is put myself in His presence—live in constant awareness of His presence. If I am always acutely sensitive to the fact that God is with me, how can I boast in myself?

Could it be, maybe, if
remembering aids humility,
then forgetting also
aids humility?
The one is to remember God;
the other, to forget myself.
If I turn my eyes to the fact
of God’s presence—and especially
God’s presence on the cross—
I can’t be the self-conscious
me, prone to pride.

Well, that reminded me
of something else I read,
so I pulled out the book
and found the page:

“How can anyone be arrogant when he stands beside the cross?”

- Don Carson, as quoted by C.J. Mahaney, Humility: True Greatness, p.68

And, the amazing thing—if I look
on God’s presence
and forget my own (so I cannot boast),
in the resulting humility,
He
looks
at me.

“But to this one I will look,
To him who is humble
and contrite of spirit,
and who trembles at My word.”

(Isaiah 66:2)

(Linking with Ann Voskamp today. Click on the Holy Experience badge below to read more posts on Humility)

What Makes a Good Cook

I planned a gourmet dinner
fresh basil, roasted red
peppers,

of course, chocolate
was involved
for dessert.

But as soon as I turned
my mind to the grocery bill
the gourmet turned grumpy.

Stinginess takes
a few letters out of “hospitality”
and turns it
into “hostility.”

Stinginess wipes
away all blessing,
but the whole
point of having them over
is to bless them
with light and open heart.

Let someone else look
at the receipts.

Don’t eat with people who are stingy;
don’t desire their delicacies.
They are always thinking about how much it costs.
“Eat and drink,” they say, but they don’t mean it.
You will throw up what little you’ve eaten,
and your compliments will be wasted.”

(Proverbs 23:6-8)