A Band of Delinquents

There is a man on my mind.  Well, there are several of them, a sort of band of brothers.  If you close your eyes for a moment, you can picture their tired, blackened, but determined faces.  Their hands are calloused, their feet blistered, their knuckles cracked open.  They are heroes, all of them, giving up their right to selfish perspectives in pursuit of the mission fulfilled, a vision accomplished.  A freedom achieved.

These soldiers, they love their commander.  He is a good lion--he has earned their allegiance, their respect, their loyalty.  He is the reason they believe any good, any valuable achievement, could come from this ugly, disheartening war.  His square shoulders, his shrewd strategies, even the hard stare of his golden eyes--everything about their captain is magnetic and persuasive.  Regardless of how many thousand bullets they face, the constant target of the enemy tyrant, when they fight with him they are strong, focused, and well nourished.  The winds are favorable, even when change brings earthquakes and criticism flies like dung.

And you?  You are nearly always on their mind.

This little band of heroes has shouldered a love for you that you do not understand.  They have joined together in a fight that keeps them awake at night, strategic assemblies with their commander for ways to make your freedom complete. They know that when you wake up, you accessorize your clean clothes with your shackles.  These kings, and their Guineveres, itch and chaff and bruise for you.  Their hearts bleed for your freedom.  They are lonely for your company.  And they are vulnerable, because they are weak for your resources.  Even these deadly heroes, with all their training and discipline, cannot do what you can do.  Indeed, you were designed to fight with them.  You were created to join them.  You are so necessary that without you, this band will almost inevitably fail.

This morning, before you opened your eyes, before your subconscious become conscious, the grace of the Father brooded over you, like He did at the beginning of time, a thick Spirit upon the surface of potential.  He hovered over you in travail, bringing forth a brand new thing.  He can get closer to you in your sleep, draw Himself more intimately upon you when your mind is not in motion to get in the way...when your autopilot is not engaged.  The Father was in birth, in labor, His entire self bent upon your spirit, creating something out of nothing.  He sees into your very makeup, into your core, into the foundational elements of you.  The parts that were made of dust. 

He does this every night.  Hoping one day you'll open your eyes and for the first time, you'll open your eyes.

I visited the camp of our heroes tonight and I have returned with tears running down my face.  My heart is broken that so much work is being shouldered by so few.  Have we become so accustomed to the theatre that we can watch the battle engage without a single sense of personal responsibility?

Where am I?  And where are you?

I suppose I feel like a crier on the wall.  How many of us are dangerously close to a collision with complete neutrality?  How many of us hold up our careers as a talisman, our official statement that should easily explain our absence, when in fact, all it demonstrates is ignorance?  We hide behind the duties of our children, neglecting our primary responsibility to set the example of a life that is disciplined and fulfilling.  If it is indeed an excuse you need, any one will do.  An excuse is merely the skin of a lie stuffed with a reason.  If one is so busy that they cannot respond when their gifts--or hands--are needed, a shift in priorities is desperately needed.  Each man controls his own schedule; he decides what he permits to consume his time.

There is a great need for the reanalysis of priorities.  What, by your actions, truly is important to you?  When did you last commit to something worthwhile?  A wise man once told me that if you showed him your calendar and your checkbook, he would be able to tell you what was most important to you.  If you say the kingdom is your first priority, then may I ask why other men are taking your fire?  If you truly believed yourself to be the arm, the ear, the lungs, of the Body, then why have you not poured yourself completely into it?  And if you do not know your function, why are you not consumed in the pursuit to find your post?  Do you think you need rest?  Then rest and rejoin the lines--don't just tune out.  Do not trade a rested happiness for Glee.

No one intends to become delinquent.  But we have a band of them among us.  And its time to ask yourself--are you delinquent?  Gondor calls for aid.  And these aren't the movies.  There is much at risk.  Even silence is a deafening scream.

Regardless of your choice, I honor the band of brothers among us.  I feel the Father's proud smile on them like warm sunshine and an afternoon nap.  If you are one of them, a warrior, I bless you with brand new energy and strength.  I am with you.  I will fight with you.  You can count on me.

Self Control

I sometimes wish I would have three wishes in life.  I like to think about what I’d wish for.  My husband says its obvious: the first thing you wish for is unlimited wishes.  Honestly, I think I’d be OK with three wishes—call me independent but I like to do things for myself.  
 

Sometimes I think that I’d wish for wealth.  I had a dream one time that I won two million dollars.  It was such an intense dream that when I woke up, it took a minute to realize that I was still sleeping between bed-in-a-bag sheets.  I confided to my pastor that I had the dream and his response really challenged me.  Did I know what I would do with two million if I had it?  Did I have a plan?

I just always assumed that when (not if) great wealth found me, I would be magnanimous with it, generous and philantrophic, in addition to being very well accessorized.  But when I did finally sit down to plan out what I would do with my (currently still in progress) two million, I realized it took a good deal more wisdom than I had imagined.  It became an incredible exercise in wisdom, discernment and vision.  It took a long time to consider the proper weight of things.  I do have a plan now, as challenged.  If I were to attain a two million dollar account tomorrow, I would handle it properly.

There are many things I would consider wishing for, from Solomon’s request for wisdom to my admittedly less honorable desire to be three inches taller.   We all have our list of things in life that could be so much better with just a little stroke of luck.  Or wishes.  

I was reading a book on parenting today.  The matter being discussed was teaching your children boundaries from infancy, instead of giving too much freedom too soon, and having to impose restrictions after they demonstrate an inability to tolerate unlimited possibilities.  The authors (Ezzo, Buckham) provided this formula:

Freedoms greater than self control = developmental confusion

Freedoms less than self control = developmental frustration

Freedoms equal to self control = developmental harmony

The book was focused on pretoddlers.  I, however, was hit between the eyes in revelation for MYSELF.   This formula was talking about ME.   I thought of all I wished for in my life, my big dreams and grandiose agendas, all held back by some invisible wall, a very frustrating barrier that I have been working to identify recently.  I have always imagined that my life would be one of great significance, and lately, I have felt stuck.

But haven’t we all heard the story of the lottery winners who within five years were worse off than they were before they won the prize?  Don’t we all sometimes catch ourselves parked in front of the TV or Facebook for a bit too long or too often and feel a tug as though the time were being misspent?  We eat what we want and many of us avoid the scales all together as though ignorance equals permission.  We show up late or not at all.  We avoid saying no by saying maybe.  We say one thing and do another.  We worship halfheartedly while thinking about anything else.  Wives avoid their sex lives.  Husbands avoid conversation.  No one sets a goal, writes down a date or holds themselves accountable.  And worse of all, we joke amongst ourselves, as though falling short were inevitable.  Corporate failure yields social permission, and we all agree to a society that lives beneath its potential.

In my behaviors currently, under personal assessment and an honest analysis, I am living with very little self-control.  I’ll admit it.

Could it be that my freedom in life, to achieve all that is within my potential, to become all I dream of becoming, to in essence, be who I was born to be, that I must first demonstrate a self responsibility?

God loves me so much.  I am handmade, fearfully and wonderfully.  I was carved out of God himself, made in His image, his authority on the earth.  It stands to reason that it is possible, indeed necessary, for me to transcend the barriers of humanity and live a supernatural life.  However, it is equally logical that a woman who cannot be trusted to discipline herself has demonstrated little ability to wield greater authority and influence. 

Would a God who loves me truly ask me to get my chocolate habit under control?

I’m kidding, but I’m serious.

We believers like to behave as though we’re exempt sometimes.  That we can just like everyone else, except righteous.  But I want to propose to you that any train of thought that allows mediocrity in your life is a lie designed to prevent you from shining, to hold you back from truly becoming extraordinary.  If that is not the case, tell me, what TRULY is the difference between you, one who is in theory free, and your brother, who is yet a slave to his old man or to religion?  You have been enlightened to the price what was paid to set you free.  It must require a great amount of arrogance, or an equal measure of ignorance, to pour out your potential upon the latest reality TV show.  We plead exhaustion, when we could celebrate renewal.  We are disorganized and careless with schedules, time and people.  We cry for mercy, when we could dance in grace.  It is because we plant our seed in the dirt and do not water.

Of course, in God’s design for you, there is design for rest.  Whole big chunks of renewal for your soul.  But do not be deceived—there is a huge difference between resting and loitering.  One is performed en route to your destiny, one is a barstool at a truck stop.  

I propose that God loves us too much to give us more than we can handle.  Without a plan, my dream of two million dollars was in that category (who knew?).  I would have had it and my foolishness would have been my undoing.  Could that be why so many of us are living with so little—we have demonstrated that we value excuses over faithfulness?   But I believe that many of us were designed to be storehouses, to be dream dealers, to be creative and potent in the marketplace.  We are to be the ones cutting the checks and bring revolution.

If I believe I was created for more, if I feel the tug of an unrealized destiny on my heart, then it is time to expect more from myself.  It is time to tap into God’s storehouse of provision for me and show that he can trust me with the gifts he has given me, the people he has placed around me, and the time and resources I already have.  Self control is trump.  I am not slave to my selfish whims; I am disciplined enough to choose the great over the good.

Perhaps my dream of two million dollars was a prophetic one.  I am, in any case, certain that a full realization of my life’s fulfillment is contingent upon my willingness to embrace a life of discipline.

He Already Knows--There is no hiding the truth from Papa.

I find my spirit searching for Ground Zero, as though an explosion has occurred, beloved parts of me have died, and now I am looking for purpose in all of it.  I am sifting through the rubble, begging to find a living spark.

Nick and I went to Philadelphia this weekend.  We have a history in this city...we have been here before.  We arrived once or twice to attend conferences for our business, eating peanut butter and jelly.  It was our Ishmael that was given up in pursuit of our Isaac.  Later, we were there working from dawn to stars for our second big adventure, which folded 24 hours later.  Without warning, I felt the scars of both visits begin to bleed as we passed so many things that reminded me of those visits.  Nick would point out a place that we had been, and nausea rose in my chest and I felt like I was suffocating.  Nick thought it was weird that I had such an adverse reaction.  I didn't understand it either but I couldn't deny it.

We have never been afraid to take risks, to dream beyond our current reality, to commit beyond our current ability.  We, as a couple, are unique in that neither of us fear adventure.  But as we passed these old landmarks, I felt like a gutted fish.  I had pursued both ventures with everything that I had.  Financially, physically, emotionally--I had held nothing back from my willing heart to give whatever was needed to achieve success.  And as time has passed, I have started to have days here and there where I don't think about the drought.  But it's still there, like the splinter in my mind that Morpheus talks about.  I have dreams that are so violent against my spirit that I wake up exhausted.  I see a label or hear a name and I feel my blood pressure rise.  Even though every part of me wants to take the good lessons and discard the rest as mere history, my spirit won't let me.  Every day I feel it branded into me, a burn that never heals.

I don't know how to do anything partially.  I wish I did. 

I find myself here on my little rotting deck, on a plastic lounge chair with my laptop.  My neighbor's back door is maybe 100 feet from mine and he's on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette.  The breeze is nice but it carries a slight wafting glance of someone's trashcan.  I could go inside, I guess, but I've seen those four walls as much as I can stand.  Its starting to feel like a cage in there.

I'm having a why me moment.

I don't understand how I am still here, renting this silly little townhouse.  I don't understand how anyone who has worked as hard as I have, served as selflessly as I have, loved as I have loved, pursued despite abandonment, sacrificed as much as I have...  I feel like I am Cinderella--a woman who has a royal destiny but her face is smeared with ashes.  I am hurting because I feel like I have been forgotten and overlooked, and I'm angry because that's how I react when I'm hurting.  Everything about this little scene of my life doesn't fit.  It grates against me like sandpaper on silk.  I am certainly not overlooking my blessings, but at this moment, they seem too few for all the seeds that have been sown.  So few people know what I have really done, where I have really been, all I have really accomplished.  What I have survived.

But Papa, there are no excuses for you.  You know.  You have measured the weight of it on my shoulders.  You know that I am an Olympian, that my shoulders are broad and that I take delight in the adventures you give me.  You have found joy in me.  You told me so.

But do you see the field of dry bones stretched out before me like a hideous opera?

This is not what we agreed to.  You promised life and freedom and blessing and honor.  You promised that I could trust you.  You promised a Great Adventure.  This better not be it.  At least, this better not be the theme.  I know where I was when you laid the foundations of the earth.  I was in your heart.  I was already in you.  I know your character, who You are.  I know You have not forgotten, I know You are already running to me.  I know you chose me because. 

I will not just sit.  I can't.  I don't know how and I don't want to learn.  I want every day of my life to matter.  Too many of my days are being drowned in status quo and I feel poisoned.  I know in your designed purpose there is room for rest.  But there is an enormous difference between resting and loitering.  I feel like I'm a newspaper writer, leaning against a wall of graffiti smoking a joint, ignoring a deadline.  I feel urgency but no clarity.

Wow, when I read back over this, it's the honest truth but its so uncensored.  Papa, thank you that you know my heart and that there is nothing to hide.  I'm crying out for you to renew my mind.  Refresh my spirit and bring revelation.  Fresh Jesus.  Give me something awesome to do that fills me up.  Give me faith to step out in spite of my unanswered questions.  I know you didn't create me to blend in.

I love you.  In Kelanie's words,  
all I wanna do is lose myself in you....
lean back in your arms and just let go now...
let it be to me according to Your Word...
Your ways are higher than mine. 

Mother's Day

Yesterday was my first Mother's Day. Nick took me out on Saturday night and we left Aly with my parents. We had planned to do a nice dinner somewhere but we miscalculated (typical rookie parents!) and didn't allow enough time to drop Aly off and eat before our movie started at 7. So we caught what we thought was going to be a quick dinner at Dodies (but wow was the service slow and she forgot to bring Nick's salad). Then we went to see Iron Man 2.

I'll be honest. The movie was good but I only saw half of it. I kept thinking about my beautiful little daughter and wondering if I had left my parents with enough instructions to care for her. Nick reminded me that my parents had raised three babies and could certainly handle ours. But I kept picturing my baby crying, her little chin trembling and her toothless gums and my heart broke. Wouldn't she wonder why mommy wasn't there to make it all better? Wasn't it silly of me to leave her for a cheap dinner and a blockbuster? What if something went wrong and she stopped breathing? It took the wind out of my lungs with the thought that should something go wrong and she would die, I had forgotten to kiss her goodbye. I craved her smell, her warmth, her soft little feet. She intoxicates me and I was a junkie in need of a fix.

I never meant to love her this much. I'm at a complete disadvantage now.

I practically chafed through the last half of the movie--it seemed to me to be the longest movie ever. And then I jogged shamelessly from the theater to the car. We were only 3 minutes from my parents house but I ached to return to my baby. When we walked in, I tried valiantly to look at ease and calm, but I was near tears. It had been four and a half hours and a lightyear. And there she was, perfect and sleeping in her pappy's arms. He loves her too--not as much as me, but still a great love. He would protect her with his life as readily as I would mine. She was calm and at rest and I was conflicted. I had feared we were find her in tears and inconsolable. And now I realized a far greater ache: she was already beginning to leave me.

For nine months, I was her whole world. But now, already, slowly, but unmistakably and unavoidably, she is a butterfly with brand new wet wings. She still needs me very much, but she survived a few hours without her mama. She did better than I did. But I lifted her to my shoulder this morning and she didn't just curl up--she lifted her head and looked around, eyes wide open. Already she wants to explore, to see the world. She doesn't want to miss anything.

Does anyone know where the pause button is on this moment? Or a method that I can use to bottle this excruciating sweetness before it is lost forever? I realize I am being dramatic but the reality is that over and over, mothers have given one consistent piece of sage advice: enjoy it because "it goes so fast." And while the future is bright and my daughter will always be a source of beautiful fulfillment, I am already suffering the heartbreak of motherhood. My heart is forever wrapped around this independent little girl who, yes, will find her security and safety in me for a moment, but inevitably, if I do my job properly, she will spread those wings wide and let the wind carry her away from me.

So Happy Mother's Day to me. It is a beautiful thing to carry the proudly broken heart of a mother. Much to my surprise, she is worth it after all.

It's Friday, January 15th

Can’t you see that I’m the one who’ll never leave you
Been here all along / Why can’t you see
That you belong with me
-Taylor Swift

I think the thing I am most excited to learn from my daughter is childlike faith. My own faithwalk always seems to be too heavily salted with an awareness of reality and the need for a back-up plan, should God not come through. My emergency kit. My hand is always warily poised over the panic button, though never once in my life have I needed to use it.

Our new little daughter won’t have any knowledge of the risks. She won’t be born with a fear of disappointment or failure. Her only two innate fears will be those of falling and loud noises. Everything else she will assimilate as she grows. So when we train her to know that Papa loves her, provides for her, and that she should believe with all of her heart, she will. She will have no concept of naïve foolishness or mature reason. She will, purely and flawlessly, just believe.

I want to watch her and learn this from her. I would have been that way at one point. At some time in my life, I would have embarked on an adventure with God without the foghorns of balanced risk blaring in my head. I would have been the little girl with wide eyes, hair in a shiny ponytail, sticking my sticky, chubby hand in Papa’s big one and trusting him completely to lead me to a brand new place. I didn’t need to have all the details worked out before I got there—I could just giggle at the adventure and know that when we got there, He’d be with me. When I got tired, he’d carry me. When I got hungry, he’d feed me. When I was afraid, he’d be there to make me brave.

And He trains us up for an independence of sorts, but I think this is where we get off track. For humanity, training their children to be independent means a strong dose of awareness of all of the potential dangers, risks, foolishnesses and other traps. It’s more of an awareness of the bad than of the good. It’s not a growing wisdom, it’s a prepackaged set of concrete self-preservation techniques, so that in our independence, we do not have to rely on anything, including God. We find great pride in the fallacy that we are self-preserved.

Instead, shouldn’t the launchpad of youth take us to a place where we come to a growing understanding of the unlimited nature of Papa’s grace and provision? A wide, unconditional experience that we are sons and joint heirs…that His power and wisdom have been made active in us and to come into an active exercise of it?

Shouldn't all our training for Plan B (safe, low risk, anti-bacterial, back-up plan, stay, be careful), be eradicated in a solitary pursuit for the liberty found when your only structure is built by the one who created you? When your only script, your own self definition, is found in the Person who sources you? Wouldn’t it be true personal freedom to do as Jesus did—to do only what you see your Papa doing? Not bound by fear, low resources, lack of wisdom, or a shattered identity—but instead empowered and in absolute peace that you were perfectly designed and meant to walk in the center of His favor? That you ARE worthy? You cannot simultaneously be created in God's image and of low value.

It is then, when your Spirit is fueled by this intense interaction with your Papa, that you can literally throw the “is it God’s will” question out the window. Instead it becomes “Papa, I know this is where I’m meant to go—you gotta come with me.” Stale and confused is instantly transformed into fresh and clear and on fire. No wonder so many of us wake up in the morning and have no vision for the day beyond survival. We forget that our sole purpose—our only design—is to be about what we were born to do—to bring His Kingdom to earth and represent Him. Not in a false religious façade of lies, carefully-formed personas, and smoke screens, but in a humble, honest, real pursuit and awareness that the living God is fascinating, hilarious, trustworthy, full of love and dangerous. It’s our own fault that we follow human maps to find him and then either can’t find him, or we find versions so boring or invalid that we run the other way in sheer disgust.

Papa said, If you seek me, you will find me, if you seek me with all of your heart. What is in you? What raw ore is buried deep within, like the Buddha built of pure gold but covered up by plaster. Here’s a tip—your real purpose, one that unleashes your destiny and God’s beautiful design in you, is absolutely not found anywhere in the safe walls of Plan B. God is calling you out, pulling you higher, into freedom and true effectiveness. Stop waiting for Heaven to get here and get busy bringing heaven to earth. You cannot be both representative of the God of the universe, and a spectator as the world sends up its groaning reports. You are either playing your purpose—or you are a liability. We, the body, were created to need your contributions. We are truly effective when we are completed by you. We need you.

So this morning, as I wake up and realized the first thoughts on my mind were the lyrics of a song by Taylor Swift (see above), of a lover who wanted so much to be trusted and identified, I realized that it’s Friday, January 15th—and it was created with a purpose in it. To waste it in all of my assumed humanity, to fear, to set about myself backup plans and bomb shelters, would be a pity. I’ll never need them. Instead, the cry foams up from my Spirit. I’m peeling the adult rash off of my faith. It’s time to revert back to childhood.

In three months or less, a little girl will be here who will watch Nick and I. She will see everything. I want to be childlike again for her, so that all that she learns is power, faith, trust, and absolute belief. She will be my teacher. When she puts her chubby little hand in her daddy’s, she will look at him as though he hung the moon for her. And I will learn.

The Insignificance of Injury

I have been on this road before. All of the landmarks are very familiar and strangely comforting, like a pair of shoes that doesn't fit anymore but still seems like an old friend. I wonder how many times I've come this way. Hundreds? Maybe thousands. I know the route like the back of my hand and I am fairly certain—no, I am absolutely sure—that I could finish the journey blindfolded. The way seems pleasant and easy, most certainly the logical and reasonable route. Anyone who would look at my course of decision would agree that yes, I have been quite understandable and perfectly smart to journey as I have. But even as I take another step, a small screaming voice has begun to escalate in the dark recesses of my heart, becoming more insistent with each step. I am so at ease with this road, this perfectly logical strategy, that it is easy to ignore.

Then I notice that the once pleasant sunshine that once coaxed me along has now become punishing, throwing harsh waves of heat and sulfur at my face. I try to remember why I chose this route as I have so often before. I think back to the point of decision but the moment is blurred, as one on autopilot. I feel my energy sinking and the once buoyant sense of familiarity is now sharp stabs of regret. The faint voice from within is growing still louder now, but the words still seem muddled together as though someone were speaking through a rolled up sock. I try to comfort myself by reviewing my choice and yes, when the case has been presented and all the facts laid out, the math carefully calculated, I have been perfectly understandably reasonable to come this way.

I press onward motivated by logic alone, but slowly my morale is draining away. Blisters and burns begin to emerge and this pain, this specific brand of personal torment, becomes as familiar as the road. Suddenly it comes to my mind that I remember where this road ends. It is as though the sky has turned red and all moisture has been drained from the earth. I blink to ease the sting of sand in my eyes. I have wondered into a desert and I have done it on purpose, by choice, as I have done hundreds of times before. I stop and close my eyes and now the voice is clear and easy to understand. This is the road of fear. You've been here before. It is the road of the coward and the orphan. It ends in your destruction.

I have been married for five years in October. Looking back now, I can admit that I have been easily surprised many times by just how much another person—your closest person—can damage you. Of course, there has been joy and all things wonderful. But my heart, in the hidden places, is huddled to protect a network of scars so deep, so shameful, that no one must ever see. Like every wife, I feel a responsibility to protect my husband—after all, it's not as though he injured me out of malice or intent. My scars are those of a man learning his way, carving it out of the rock and pursuing a dream. And some, if I am honest, are self inflicted.

Five years ago, I said my wedding vows to someone whom I thought I was safe with, who would protect me and be my hero. I promised to respect and honor him and thought that would be easy—how could anyone that handsome be hard to love? That was my first mistake. Respect and love are hardly the same. And as we launched into our eternal bliss, my visions of star-crossed lovers, romantic evenings, and long conversations drained away, leaving behind a woman clutching to hope like a wilted, lifeless balloon. I tried to coax and correct him out of love, not realizing that unasked-for advice always stings like criticism. So I chipped away at a warrior with broken armor and thought I was helping. When a couple pursues a dream together, it rips them open and exposes everything, the great and the despicable. I wasn't prepared.

And little bit by little bit, accidentally and on purpose, I pulled my heart away from his. I had to—somebody had to protect me. I ached with the anguish that comes from realizing you might have been wrong. Knowing every word I might say would do more damage than good, I retreated all together, sinking into depression. Had I seen potential in someone who would never see the greatness in himself? It seemed unthinkable. Would I forever be sentenced to a life of mediocrity, linked to a man who would casually bleed possibility and destiny until the day he died? Was my ambition to be completely swallowed up in him? In my heart, I trusted my instincts and knew I was right—I knew Nick had been specially crafted by the Father for a high purpose. But the pain of watching him overlook—or even ignore—his God-given gifts was too much. I just wanted the pain to stop. It was a dark overwhelming cloud that poisoned every endeavor. So I considered divorce. Life without my best friend seemed less tormenting than life with a shadow.

This was only about eighteen months ago. It is only because of prayer and Papa's grace that we crossed that chasm without falling apart all together.

The morning sun has just come over the mountains and here I sit, dealing with a new battle. Nick has gone from servant boy to knight in a few months. It is as though scales have fallen from his eyes. The Father is revealing himself to Nick and I find myself spinning, unable to put my feet on solid ground. Character has suddenly taken root and courage has steeled his spine. A little boy has become a man. The tortoise has become the hare and I find myself chasing him. And I am suffering from an acute case of whiplash.

As Nick pursues the Father, our strategies for life require more faith and less logic. It is the road of the Kingdom, where taxes are paid from the mouth of a fish and a few loaves feed thousands. There is nothing reasonable or comfortable about the way of the Kingdom. It is an adventure designed only for those who choose faith over fear. Nick has jumped in, ready to take his place as son and heir, exuding confidence and passion. He is far more than the shadow now. And I am inspired and in complete agreement. Well, almost. The part of my heart that has been diligently huddled around my bleeding scars is wild-eyed, unwilling to trust. The fortress there is solid and well-maintained, the guards practiced and not easily fooled. My husband has had moments of genius before, bright blips on an otherwise silent radar. As Eomer says in the movie Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, “do not trust a hope. It has forsaken these lands.” My heart is a place that is well guarded because it is still so fragile. One swift blow, just one more blistering disappointment, and I fear the whole of me might crumble.

I hear the voice of Papa and I know His road for me is to give up the guard. To once again become vulnerable. I have clung to my Father too long to question Him now. Is any of us so perfect that we have not been forgiven and shown grace, that we qualify to ration it in judgment upon another? The lyrics of Shane and Shane's song “Beg” are accurate: “I'm haunted by my God, who has the right to ask me / What by the nature of my rebellion / I cannot give?” As much as I might prefer to negotiate, I know there is no argument, no justification for disobedience. I want to demand of him how five years is to be so easily erased. But my questions will only cause delay. I want to hold up my pain as a talisman, my defender against future insult. But my defenses will shut down God's blessings. He has promised to make all things work together for my good and to withhold now is unthinkable. I want him to redeem my hurt. I can trust him. As Vish says, “He is a good Papa and knows how to give good things to his children.”

So I am changing course, against all logic or reason. For us to go where we must go, to do what we are called to do, to function in the Kingdom, I must close the road to fear in my heart. Fear and faith cannot co-exist. The question is: am I willing to make myself vulnerable so that the Father's complete work can be done? Absolutely. When that has been established, the course and the cost are no longer in negotiation. He who built the universe can certainly set course for me. So here I go, willing to once again trust my husband, to build a dream, to fulfill a destiny. To not do so is the road of the coward, the orphan. Of which I am neither.

A Sense of Urgency

I had an interesting conversation with my sisters yesterday. All three of us have a common trait--we simply do not know how to accept failure. It's not in our genetic makeup. There are three of us--all girls--trained by an woman of virtue and true femininity. She is graceful and postured and careful. To put it simply, she is our hero. And we try to emulate her--sincerely, we do. Sometimes we succeed.

But innately, in all three of us, an instinct to chase the sunset--to pursue excellence--takes supremacy. We simply do not tolerate well the frustrating ambiguity of mediocrity. It itches us like a wool sweater. And we squirm--sometimes in a very unladylike aggression--to be free of those chains. We prefer to struggle, to push, to entice failure, than to ensure safety. We are like Guinevere, headed off to war. Eowyn, a lady of Rohan, disguising herself as a man simply to be part of the battle. Joan of Arc. We find ourselves consistently placed as key players in an all-male cast. And when we face certain failure, as we often do, we accelerate, strategize, and step it up. Swords, once crossed, must sink deep. If we're going to fail, we're going to fail big. Go big or don't go.

Along with this appetite for the battle comes a sometimes unmeasured intolerance for wasted ability. We see potential in nearly everything, especially in others. People, to us, are like raw ore--unrefined treasure. Almost everywhere we look, almost anyone we meet...when we look into your eyes, we see almost unlimited potential. But to tell someone they have potential is not a compliment. It means their God-breathed destiny has yet to be fully tapped. It means time, the "stuff of life" as Ben Franklin so eloquently put it, is being spent without investment. And while we too have days where we want nothing more than to disappear from the front lines, inevitably we feel the burn to re-engage. It is our very fundamental design.

To that end, we struggle with empathy for those who would sit and let life find them. We find that when our paths cross with our nemesis, those who prefer a delightfully oblivious existence to the adventure of the passionate pursuit, we are ill-prepared for a graceful encounter. We want to sweep the dust from their potential and propel them along with us, to catch them up in an obsessive vision and to put their raw ability to good use. Perhaps it is arrogance or social ineptitude that finds us sincerely surprised when the daydreaming optimist, or the determined pessimist, declines our invitation. We wonder, are we simply allergic to those who are so negligent with their lives?

It is my concession, without shame, that part of this obsession for excellence is borne on the wings of a strong ego. To those who would call for false humility, I must decline. There is indeed a need for humility--but such a position comes solely from knowing one's foundation. I believe true confidence, and true humility are grounded when both the journey and the result are thrown at the foot of the Throne in praise and sacrifice. It is not profitable for God's best creation, mankind formed in His image, to walk upon the Earth as a conquered organism. I think of C.S. Lewis' character Aslan... you ask, "is He safe?" The response: "Safe? 'Course He isn't safe. But he's good."

To emulate Papa, this is a perfect picture of the fire that should be rising up in the spirits of God's sons and daughters...we're not safe, we're not conquered, we're not ambivalent or oblivious. We are a focused, determined, passionate people who have little need for external breakthrough. We look within, to the Spirit alive in us, and drive forward with strain and sweat and great risk, confident that He who started a good work will complete it. Unafraid of failure, because we understand each step, forward or backwards, to be of elemental training and foundational preparation for a greater work.

I believe that we are thinking too small. The first morning instinct of the liberated soul should be to seek out the big picture, the greatest potential, the God-sized goal. And then to pursue it. The mind that is focused on the great work, on paying the great price, has little time to be consumed by the average, the mundane, or the corrupt. There is great fulfillment, true joy, in the pursuit of something great.

So it was the three of us, these thoughts the product of a long car ride and a mutual consensus that we recognize a sense of urgency. We ended our journey in a prayer crying out for God's best. It is not the first time, and not the last, that we will pray this prayer. We feel like Jacob, sleeping with a rock for his pillow, wrestling for the blessing. Perhaps we are foolish or naive, but we have stopped praying for easy or convenient and have instead conceded that all great destinies are equally balanced by lives of great sacrifice and difficulty. Instead of requesting easy, we have asked for great. Some of the challenges have already been identified and we spent some time praying over those, embracing anything that is a prerequisite for God's complete work, rejecting anything that is unnecessary delay.

A strong sense of urgency has gripped us. There is a sickening nausea in the thought that we might approach our grave with music left inside. We believe that our generation, particularly in our family, but also corporately, must do what has been laid out to do. Procrastination and incompletion are sown on the plains of good intentions. We cannot leave this territory for our children. We must spend ourselves upon this one endeavor: that the Kingdom of God be birthed upon the earth.

There is no time to think small or to repeatedly fight small distractive battles. Perhaps that is why we cannot stop to relate to those who are not in motion. Action will produce inspiration, which will produce action. We must guard our thoughts, which become actions, which product habits, which defines character, which births destiny.

It's now. It must be now.