Thank you, CC's!

I find myself in an unfamiliar part of town this morning—trying to make the most of an inconvenient block of time between dropping someone off at the airport and picking up someone else. Curbside parking for an hour is prohibited and circling the airport is tedious, or dangerous, if it attracts unwelcome attention from airport security. It is pointless to snake my way home through morning rush hour only to use my driveway to turn around and head back.

I could, of course, pay to park my car and then park myself on a backless bench in baggage claim. But why, when I can certainly find a nearby coffee shop? Latte with soy, free Wi-Fi and a soul-refreshing hour of solitude. With Southern University so close, certainly there will be multiple choices of places to sit, sip and study. But, no! No CC’s. No Starbucks. At least none that I can find.

IHOP it is. I feel a little bad as a solitary female taking up a booth large enough to accommodate a family of six or team of burly men. Not that my presence is inhibiting the steady influx of guys, all wearing short sleeve shirts with collars, who arrive for loud conversations served up with hearty stacks of more calories than I consume in a week.

The other women in the restaurant are here to serve. The sweetest of these calls out from across the room at least three times, “Hey, honey. Sorry. I see you. I will be over shortly.”  Startled I lift my head from my computer to smile and assure her I’m fine. Do I really look that starved for attention? Apparently, because this same caring soul repeatedly interrupts my train of thought to inquire about the warmth of my coffee and the adequateness of my food. It must be highly unusual for someone to order just a dish of fruit in this house of carbs. (I wonder if my order will make the company newsletter.) I also learn it confuses the system if I don’t pay so she can close out my ticket in a timely fashion—although she gives me permission to stay after I pay.

The experience makes me appreciate certain aspects of the bona fide coffee house like never before. And so, CC’s, I say, “Thanks.” Thanks for

• Saying just one cheery “Welcome,” when I enter the door.
• Handling the business end up front so I can put away my cash or card before I grab my cup.
• Serving one steaming latte with the option of soy that arrives so hot I need a holder; one that maintains a reasonable temperature for the duration.
• Arranging a selection of just right tables, perfect for a single laptop on a working day or a plate with goodies on a day with the kids.
• Offering a tasty selection of bite size goodies, no expectations attached.
• Knowing I always need the Internet and providing it free, along with places to fuel my laptop's insatiable need for power.
• Creating an atmosphere where the hushed tones of other patrons is punctuated only by the periodic sounds of beverage making machines,
• Making it easy to pursue a solitary train of thought or a thoughtful conversation with a friend.
• Establishing so many venues near the places where I work, play and live.
• Being a caring-but not too caring-community.

Leaving IHOP I have a ridiculous need to explain my odd behavior. When I share that I just needed a place to work while waiting to pick up someone at the airport, my server exclaims, “Oh, my. Well, you be careful out there, honey.” Her parting concern makes me glad I am leaving her a tip equal to the cost of my small order. But don't worry, CC's. I can't wait to be back in your cozy, and non-intrusive care.

Light Shines

A friend and I discussed how we had spent a recent holiday.  My own triumphs paled in comparison to his efforts. He had tackled the non-functioning landscape lights along the walkways of his newly purchased home. This was undoubtedly an issue he could resolve by taking apart the individual lights, checking the wiring and making sure all was suitably in order.

Satisfied with the thoroughness of his efforts, he confidently flipped the switch. Nothing happened! Rechecking his rewiring work did not reveal any errors. Determination and diligence failed to produce even a flicker of light. Eventually, and I’m not sure how, he discovered the lights were not tied into the electrical current. Without that connection, these correctly aligned lights could never be a source of illumination.

This humorous recounting reminded me of my early years, ones that showed similarly frantic but futile efforts. Don’t get me wrong. I am not talking about electrical wiring. Even I am smart enough to know my technical limitations. I am talking about ambition and goals. I think that hardwired into every child is the desire to glow with a light that others notice, one that will, in time, make a difference in the world. At least that was how I was wired.

Childhood was the time of assembling the correct parts—loving parents, solid biblical teaching and excellent education. Even in retrospect, I can’t find any pieces that were left out of the process. At some point I was boxed up and shipped into the world with the hope I would light a pathway for others. As a follower of Christ, I wanted that pathway to lead them directly to him.

I was soon installed in the garden of family, church work, and secondary and college teaching. What an opportunity to shine! What a pitiful light! Certainly I was meant for more.

In an effort to improve output, I poured over countless manuals—the how-to books of being a more loving wife, a better mother, a more effective teacher, a more faithful friend, a more honoring daughter, a more committed follower of Christ. I would immerse myself in their paper bound knowledge and emerge with renewed resolve to do it right. From the information acquired there, I would set about refitting and retooling the structures of my soul. It was exhausting work, but I was diligent and determined. Given enough time, I was sure I would get it right. But I never did!

Repeated efforts produced the same inadequate results. During one of several absolutely worst, but ultimately best, seasons of my life, I came to the end of my resources. With counter-intuitive wisdom, I unclenched my fists to let go of my own efforts.

Now my heavenly Father could take hold of my hands and he gently showed me the problem. I was disconnected from the source of power, the Holy Spirit of God. I was wearing myself out trying to be the light instead of letting Christ’s light shine through me.

Unlike the lights along the walkway at my friend's house, it wasn’t that I had never been connected to the source of power. That unbreakable connection had been made the moment I committed to follow Jesus. My problem was I had never learned to depend on that power.

At first it was hard to grasp the magnitude of the discovery. I read and reread Ephesians 1 and 2, underlining then circling any phrase that reminded me I was in Christ. I had been firmly wired into the breaker box of God’s eternal power. Nothing could separate me from his love or the resources he provided. The power of the Triune God was available to pulsate through my human wiring and spotlight his love and majesty.

The knowledge that the essential wiring was in place gave me hope. Tapping into that power brought me joy. While I was in the process of living ‘do it myself’ Christianity, the concept of living by the Spirit had seemed mysterious and inaccessible. Now I could see it was logical and attainable. I felt as if God himself took me to a spiritual breaker box. With his light shining into the dark cavity, I clearly saw the on/off switch. I flipped the controls and chose him.

Joy filled me, power surged, light shone.

I will not be insulted if you stop reading now. In fact, I really wanted to end here for several good reasons. First, because I can’t imagine why anyone would want to read anything longer than this is. Secondly, because I am lazy, and while it was fun to dash off the above writing in under a half hour, it will take me much longer to write applicable conclusions. Thirdly, because I really wish this were the end of the story, and I could declare I lived happily and glowed brightly ever after.

The truth is that living with an active, power-flowing, light-producing connection to the Holy Spirit requires continual choice. I have to begin each morning by committing my minutes, my body, my decisions, even my interruptions, to God to be used as he sees fit. Before I put bare toes to the cold floor, I acknowledge my own abilities will never be enough to walk out what he wants to do through me. I make the hard choice to set aside my rights to a personal agenda, and I give him permission to have my life his way.

This conversation is one God and I must have often throughout the day. Sadly I have discovered I have an inborn, unthinking, tendency to flip the switch that transfers power back to me. Almost anything can trigger the impulse—a difficult person, an unresolved problem, a road under construction or people I love to be with, a problem I can solve, a journey with smooth sailing.

It may take a few minutes or a few hours before I recognize the absence of his light. I may notice it in the effort it takes to be kind or to be effective. I may see it reflected in my eagerness to take credit for a job well done or to use people to make me happy. I may feel it in an emotional overreaction to something that doesn’t go my way or the pride I have when something does. I may be reminded by the still small voice that whispers “Let this mind be in you that was also in Christ Jesus.”

Reconnection is as easy as an in-the-moment decision to reconnect to his power. It’s a lot like pushing the reset button on a ground fault interrupter—that electrical outlet in your kitchen or bathroom that shuts off the flow of electricity when you splash water or overload the circuit.

Joy fills, power surges, light shines.

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.