Marked for Victory

In those early hours, before sleep-drenched skies stretched and beckoned forth the day, I lay thinking and praying. Perhaps it was the unrelenting predawn blackness that made me painfully aware of the struggles of my friend. Poor health. Unmet expectations. Dashed hopes. Emotional abuse. Bad choices. Painful memories.

To the waking world she appeared stalwart and strong. To her community of close friends she admitted her heart was crouched and wary. Because I knew the stories from her past, I called out to God on behalf of this one who has so often been a victim.

Unbidden and unexplained, a small phrase appeared in my mind, “Marked for victory.”

With those three words everything changed. My mind whirled with the implications of this new designation. A person marked for victory is called a victor, not a victim. Her destiny is not the passive plight of a helpless victim, but a noble effort whose success has been predetermined. Commissioned as a warrior in the heavenly realm, she can rest assured in the promise, “We are more than conquerors through him who loved us.”

This was hope in the darkness. It presented a truth for her and for all who long to snatch victory from seeming defeat.

An enemy has declared all-out war on her soul. His finely tuned battle plan has been crafted to sabotage her ability to become all God created her to be. He hurls abusive words and demeaning thoughts at her. He heaps insults and rejection. As if this is not enough, he deceives her into thinking it is all her fault and she is only reaping what she has sown. He is particularly pleased when she loses sight of the battle entirely and simply accepts adversity as her way of life.

Her current difficult circumstance is just the battlefield on which the war is being fought. The enemy will use either ill health or ill will to equal advantage. A trying circumstance is not her enemy, but rather the arena in which the battle rages. 

Ongoing warfare produces serious wounds, but being wounded is not to be confused with defeat. Her wounds are not the battle; neither are they the enemy. Wounds are a result of warfare. They hurt. They need care. They need healing.  But they do not keep her from victory.

Ultimately those three words ‘marked for victory’ reminded me that she is fighting a battle that Christ has already won for her. Even as the battle rages on earth, victory is declared in heaven.

I continue to pray for my friend, but now I pray she will dress for battle in God’s armor, stand firm on God’s Word and have the courage to continue in God’s work. And I want her to be encouraged by the knowledge that a whole army of fellow warriors battles alongside.

I Choose Joy

Sadness drapes my shoulder like an ill-fitting frock, tattered and torn from too much use. I would prefer not to be wearing it at all, but everything else in my wardrobe of emotions seems oddly inappropriate this season.

This untidy display must seem unnecessarily dramatic to the casual observer. After all, my losses are the occurrences of an ordinary life. Families move. Groups multiply, Schedules change. Friends disappoint. I wish the fashion police of my unkempt soul would blow his whistle and command, “There is nothing to see, here, folks. Move along now.”

For the people who linger questioningly over me, I can explain. There is no definitive scale for sadness. Each person’s sorrow is uniquely hers. It is what she can bear—or not bear—at the moment. Examining it in light of someone else’s cause for sorrow is pointless. Sorrows cannot be compared.

Furthermore the weight of sorrow is cumulative. Each sorrow compounds the loss of what has gone before. What else could explain the peculiar tears that appeared when I was making plans to ship a dog and a cat to their owner? A dog and cat that aren’t even mine! Their removal from my life is merely the latest in a growing series of losses.

I am tempted to protect myself as I skulk through my days in this misshapen garment of sadness. Today I found myself avoiding certain aisles at the grocery store, aisles with baby items, aisles with tempting children’s treats, aisles with pet supplies—all aisles that bring back memories of happier times. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I retraced my steps, knowing that succumbing to an avoidance pattern would produce an increasingly narrow world.

All is not loss. In spite of the dark tone of these mournful musings, I am reminded continually there is One who never changes. I cling to the truth that “Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). While the circumstances of my life waver, the One in whom I find life never does. People may come and go, but Jesus has consistently lived up to his promise, “I will never leave you or forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5). If you too have locked arms with Jesus to steady yourself in an unsteady world, then you will understand the statement I am about to make.

In the midst of sorrow, I choose joy.

I will greatly rejoice in the Lord; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation;
    he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress,  and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.
For as the earth brings forth its sprouts, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to sprout up,
so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise
    to sprout up before all the nations. (Isaiah 61:10-11)

(If you see me around still dressed in tatters, please remember emotions don’t immediately answer to decisions of the will.)

Closing the Gap

“Do you see the gap where the two walls meet, up there near the ceiling?” he asked.

I had to look for a few seconds before I could even figure out what he was talking about. Then I saw it—for the first time ever…even though it was part of my office.

“Architects are trained to see those details. I can’t walk into any room without noticing what isn’t quite right.”

I have been thinking about our conversation. It explains a whole lot about the interactions between the architect in my family and me. I am beginning to feel sorry for architects and designers because I realize that the pleasure of just existing in a space is forever lost to them.

I focused on how sad it is to be an architect until I remembered my own dilemma.  It isn’t any easier to be an English major who has been trained to be vigilant about misplaced commas, dangling modifiers and incorrect syntax. I won’t even begin to expound on my frustration with faulty thinking, illogical conclusions or the lack of developing a proper thesis. I am forever prohibited from a trouble free reading of drivel attempting to masquerade as literature.

My geologist husband is no less aware of what he has been trained to see. (This explains why he checked topological maps to make sure we were well above the flood plain before we purchased our home.) I suspect every area of expertise brings with it a critical eye for what is right and an instantaneous recognition for what fails to meet the standard.

It is this intentional focus I want to bring to knowing God. I want to study him through his word. I want to observe closely his workings through creation. I want to see how the life of Christ is lived out in the redeemed students of God’s character.  I want to become so familiar with God, the way he thinks and speaks and the things that are important to him that I will recognize instantly when my life is not in alignment with his.

I won’t be able to close the gaps between God’s order and the chaos of worldly thinking, but I want to notice them with the instant acuity of an architect who looks at an improperly constructed corner. I want to make sure that what is off and insufficient does not pass for okay and unthinkingly pleasant. 

Most importantly I want to give the Master Architect permission to build my life in such a way that there are no gaps between his plan and the finished product.

Lessons from the Least of These

This morning I cradled my newest granddaughter in my arms. She smiled at me again and again, her eyes twinkling with recognition and delight. I'm not sure why she started smiling at me before she smiled at anyone else in the family. I like to think it is because I was there when she was born and didn't leave her side for a day.

Slowly her sparkling eyes began to fade under the flickering cover of her eyelids. Her body settled ever more contentedly into my arms as she drifted off to sleep in the safety of my arms. She was the perfect picture of trust.

Suddenly her peaceful face contorted. She squirmed and gave a yelp of pain. Her morning meal was working its way through her still developing digestive system. This is an all too familiar occurrence. In some baby way, Ashlee seems to know I am doing what I can to comfort her. I don't think she doubts her safety or my efforts. But pain is pain. I have watched her smile at me between her cries, as if to assure me she is happy I am holding her and helping her through the hurt.

In a God-flash moment this morning, I see myself in Ashlee. I am nestled in the arms of my heavenly Father. How tenderly God holds me even as I squirm from the discomforts of my situations or cry in pain. I recognize that my pain does not remove me from his arms or his competent care. This is why Jesus tells us to become like little children who rest unquestioningly in the arms of the one who cares for them.

Liar, Liar! Arm's on Fire!

I’ve been working out at the Y several mornings a week. They use a great system called ActivTrax that helps novices like me who want to increase their strength. I suspect other people may have other goals, but I only know about mine.

I discovered during my initial meeting with a physical trainer, I had chosen wisely when I focused on strength. I don’t care to go into details about the pitiful showing my muscles made against the Cybex machines, but needless to say, it confirmed my worst fears about the effects of physical lethargy on my aging body. The trainer programmed the results of my embarrassing performance into the ActivTrax system, and the genius of the machine was set into motion. Each day the computer gives me a print out of what exercises to do, indicating the amount of weight and number of repetitions. After I complete a workout, I record the number of repetitions for each activity. ActivTrax then charts my progress and plans my next training session.

I have come to trust this program. I have learned to love the tingle of muscles being challenged to do more than they cared to do. I have secretly gloated over the rising line on my performance graph.

Last week I picked up a couple of weights and headed confidently to the bench I had already positioned for the prescribed routine. I straddled the bench and planned to swing into action. Yikes! I was shocked by the difficulty. I could barely lift the weight, and that was with my stronger arm. The full maneuver was impossible.

What idiot of a computer would have programmed such an impossible task—one I clearly wasn’t ready for!

Then I remembered… There were times when I had been running short on time and skipped some routines. Or times when the workout area I needed was full of real jocks and I had walked away from the humiliation. I never doubted my ability to do the routine at the time. I assumed I could do it satisfactorily if I had the time or the space.

Of course, I didn’t tell the computer, but I did have to put the number of repetitions for each exercise or it wouldn’t give me the next routine. I simply recorded the number I thought I could do—if I had actually completed the task. So the computer was only responding to the information I had given it, and it clearly was under the mistaken impression I could lift more weight than I actually can.

Is it lying if you don’t give a machine the truth? Is it lying if you honestly over-estimate your own strength? Who are you lying to if you breach a contract with your own intentions?

It has been three painful days since my misguided attempt at that particular routine. Yes, my arm is still a little tender. But so is my conscience. The experience makes me ponder how often in other areas of my life I over-estimate my own ability? How often do I fall short when I volunteer for a task for which I am not prepared? Have I hurt other people because I speak with an authority that is unsupported by knowledge and experience?

I am considering anew the perils of impatience and pride, particularly when they keep me from pursuing excellence. I am praying for a steadfast pursuit of the right and purposeful ‘next steps’ in every area of my life. I am asking for the wisdom and humility to make an honest evaluation of my own abilities.

A burning muscle in my arm is a small price to pay for the lesson I am learning.

And Truth Wins Out

Jury duty! The summons appeared in the mail several weeks ago, this privilege to fulfill my role as a citizen and a member of the community. It was a gross inconvenience, but it was also a testament to my constitutional rights. I was called to serve my fellow man as a member of a jury of peers and charged with the responsibility to help determine, beyond a reasonable doubt, the truth of whatever current situation was being brought before the court.

I am an experienced juror. With every previous summons, I have won the unenviable position of serving as one of the twelve in the box. In retrospect, I think I bring it upon myself. I go into the courtroom hoping I won’t have to decide whether an injured woman deserves a substantial monetary reward or a young many should be punished by years in prison, but then the questioning begins.

I have been coached on how to answer the lawyer’s questions in such a way he will conclude I am an unstable fanatic whose presence will not serve the cause of justice. But these most dishonorable intentions evaporate in the bright light of my opportunity to shine. The first question flips my ‘people pleaser’ switch. Suddenly I want the questioner to like me. I want his opposing lawyer to approve of me as well. I want everyone in the courtroom to see me the way I see myself—a highly intelligent, reasonable person who embodies the wisdom of Solomon and the mercy of Mother Theresa in one incongruous but jury eligible package.

Ah, the perils of pride and pretention. As the victim of my insatiable need for affirmation, I have suffered through countless hours in deliberation rooms eating lukewarm meals in Styrofoam containers transported from the bailiff’s favorite diner. A fitting punishment for my arrogance.

Yesterday was my first exception. I wish I could proclaim I had conquered the old self, maintained a truthful, but humble, posture and been rejected from the jury for being too spiritual and grace oriented to make the decisive vote that would be needed. The opportunity to present myself in this way never presented itself. After a peaceful day of waiting that included hours of work related reading in the library and a pleasant lunch with a friend, I was dismissed for the week because my panel wasn’t needed.

I tried to explain to someone why I was relieved to be released (beyond the inconvenience of having a busy week hijacked by the legal system). I asserted it is difficult to make a decision that will have lasting consequences for the people who are in court. I emphasized the weight of determining a verdict beyond a reasonable doubt and how little I like to judge.

As soon as I said it, I knew it was a lie—this claim that I dislike to judge. An army of critical thoughts marching through my head at regular intervals prove I am more prone to assess than to accept. My attempts to deny them entry are embarrassingly weak. I am partial to my own opinions and as I sometimes say, “If there were a better way to do that, I would already be doing it.” By implication, when I affirm my own ways, I place myself in the role of being the supreme evaluator of others.

With this summons I never entered a courtroom, but the truth won out nevertheless. I was given a reprieve from sitting on a jury of my peers. I didn’t hear the facts of another’s case and have to wrestle with the consequences of my decision.

The case I heard yesterday was tried within my mind. The truth of my own sin nature was proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

Discipline, Part 2

I just spent some delightful and insightful moments reading the blogs of people I follow. I responded to some with a written comment. To others my response was in the form of a prayer. I loved reading about their days--whether those days were good or bad. It brought warm feelings of connection to see some parts of their lives in high noon light with no shadows behind which to hide.

The sporadic nature of my own posts stands in dismal contrast. The infrequent timing reflects my status--body and soul. To use a time-worn cliche, I've been 'under the weather'--although I think this statement might be quite accurate in my case since my infected sinuses are most likely the result of atmospheric conditions. My weakened body produces a soul-weariness that drinks my creative juices dry.

There-in lies the problem. I am too content to languish until I experience an 'aha' moment. Personal aside: I do love an 'aha' moment. During those grand and glorious encounters with an eternal truth that pushes through an ordinary experience, thoughts, words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs and ultimately, blogs bubble up from deep inside and then cascade triumphantly into readable form. But they don't happen every day...

To wait passively for inspiration denies the value of intention. Inspiration requires very little in the way of purpose or discipline. Interestingly, my previous blog post was on discipline.

I find it easier to write about discipline than to practice it.

I have nothing else inspiring to say. My ears hurt and my glands feel swollen. I'm positive it isn't swine flu. And, yes, I see the doctor tomorrow. Maybe renewed health will produce more insight or at least, some amusing anecdotes.