Thursday, December 18, 2008

The One Thing That I Know

I have come to the sad reality that I am not very good at anything. I am not putting myself down or claiming any false humility here. Honestly, I am not not good at very much. I generally find myself surrounded by very intelligent people. They are wise in the ways of missions (the term "missiology" was completely foreign to me until last year--who knew you could get a degree in it?), remember facts and scripture, somehow can quote beautiful poetry or obscure scripture. I often find myself in awe of these people. I haven't even gotten to musical talent or athletic ability, yet. However, I think you get my point. Of course, growing up (and still now, if I am totally honest) I wanted to be noticed. The usual way of getting noticed is to be really good at something. I played sports in high school but I never scored a goal in soccer and I was usually second to last place in hurdles (yes! I beat somebody!). I didn't even come close to valedictorian in college and I sat the bench my senior year in volleyball. I like to draw, but I am not an artist. I love music and I can't sing worth a lick (however, I sound very similar to Leigh Nash in the shower--just kidding). I desperately wanted to excell in something--to stand out, to hold a secret gift that unlocked the beauty and power of God, to usher people into the thrown room with music or art, and be in a chick band would have been kind of cool, too. Am I painting an accurate picture, here?
Lately I have been thinking about all of this. Thinking about who I am, who I wish I was, and how none of that really matters. I only know one thing, and that is all I need. In fact, I find myself incredibly passionate about it. I am not always good at showing it, but I am confident I am lavished with it. I revel in the paradox of it all and swim in the delight of it. I dance with joyful freedom to its rhythmical beat and weep openly to its piercing truth. What better way to describe it than the words of Rich Mullins, "It is the reckless, raging fury that we call the Love of God." It is the one the thing that I know.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

A nostril, a coffee bean, and a toilet

It all began at breakfast time. I must first explain a few things about meal time with two four year olds. It is inevitable that three things happen at least once during a meal: someone falls off the chair, a cup is spilled, and someone has to use the restroom. It is a common ritual for Seth to suddenly jump up without a word in the middle of eating, run to the bathroom, quickly pull down his pants and start a #2. He usually occupies his time with singing. During one of his random bathroom runs, Lydia asked me for a coffee bean to sniff and of course, being the thoughtful twin sister that she is, she asked for one for Seth so he, too, can enjoy the coffee bean while on the pot (which is much different than a coffee pot). After a couple of minutes, we hear Seth say, "I can't get the coffee bean out! Daddy, can you help me?" Yes. It happened. What every child must experience at some point in his/her young life, he shoved it up his nostril. Matt went in the bathroom armed with tweezers, and to no avail he was unable to retrieve the coffee bean.
I must interupt the story here to say that once a week I make it to the office for Devotions. It is a wonderful time when I get to interact with adults, participate in a Bible study, and well...enjoy not changing a diaper or spilling something on myself. Today was one of those "Devos Days" and I watched as all of my adult conversation got clogged up a nostril of my son who was still working on his #2. We thought the emergency room was the next step. Thankfully, the good 'ole farmer's blow (commonly known as the snot rocket) came in handy and it saved the day, saved us an ER bill, and saved my "Devos Day". The moral of the story is: never give a four year old a coffee bean while sitting on the pot.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Reflections on Christ and other sundry items

For two thousand years the world has felt the effects of the piercing of Christ...and yet it seems hopeless. I am watching people broken, living in fear, starving, angry, intoxicated by power, choosing sin over Love, empty, jealous, selfish, and ultimately sad and lonely. I am waiting for Redemption to ride in with His sword and slay the evil that seems to permeate every human soul. Where is my Jesus in the midst of this hell? And then I remember...He is not found in the roaring thunder, He is in the quiet whisper. His is in the gentle coo of a infant born with no notoriaty. And then I remember He doesn't do things my way and my hope for a better world is crushed, the shards are planted, and the Spirit brings life from my brokenness. I am watching Him redeem through painful submission and glorious trust. I am watching the horizon break with warmth that overtakes the cold night. I am reminded that my tears won't stop until I am finally home. Until then, this is the land of my sojournings.