Becoming Washers of Feet

I'm writing less and more sporadically these days, and it seems more raw. I thought when I came back from Serbia last October I would be a more liberated, world wise writer. I was wrong. It seems that words have become like a jagged, ugly cry rather than a thing of beauty. But some things of beauty, at least outwardly, are hideous. A brand new baby in a smelly, manure filled stable for example. Or perfect Jesus, with the tender voice and piercing eyes, blood matted on a cross. Perhaps that's where worth comes in, the holy meeting the putrid in a visceral mess.

Lately, when I un-clench a protective hand from my blood red heart, I stare at a silver vein running through it. It creates a stark contrast, this sliver of hope tracing itself on flesh. A promise held in trust. It aches like a splinter and throbs like love, tethering it's owners together, stretched thin through time and space.

What story can be told? I've told it before, over and over. Hands I've held in my own, small and dry from lack of care. Chewed for comfort, missing a mother's touch. I remember the feel of them; some days I wish I didn't. And yet he smiles and coos and laughs, if you can call the sound he makes laughter. Who's womb bore him and then gave him up when illness clamped it's steely jaws around his mind? Why would I, a stranger, grieve and cry and pray and beg for his life more than his own flesh and blood? What could her story be.

Sometimes I remember his fragile frame and wonder if a soul and body can just disappear. How many months until his stick legs are bent and twisted, never to straighten again? Will his smile dry up and the mask of loss be his to wear forever? Will the dull, glassy, institutional eyes replace the sparkle? Will he be lost for good? At the moment I see life flicker behind his eyes and I pray it doesn't vanish.

I'll see him in July. I catch my breath and wonder what I'll find. Will he be in the little bed, arms pushed through the rails, waiting? Will he have changed? Will I be able to bear seeing him again?

Sometimes I wonder how the world can take the burgeoning weight of her orphans without ripping at the seams of her huge heart, when it feels my own cannot. How do you taste the brutal love of a Father grieving for his children and not stagger under the weight of it? I cannot, and so most days I cry.

I cry for his mother who knew a beautiful, sweet child and lost him to disease. I cry for the hopes she had for who he would be. I cry for his body, his time, his future, his days locked away from love. I cry for what could have been and what may not be. I cry for me to have seen him and have fallen in love and have to live without him. I cry for everyone who hasn't seen, and lives as if he and his brothers and sisters don't exist, and miss the agony of caring. I cry because I escaped a life of neglect that so many in the world have known. I cry because Jesus cries and he wants company in the grieving. I cry because one day I trust I won't have to any more.

He's just one orphan of so very many, why could it possibly matter that I love him? Ezekiel 16 contains a peculiar passage that hints at the answer. God says to his people Israel, "No one had the slightest interest in you; no one pitied you or cared for you. On the day you were born, you were unwanted, dumped in a field and left to die. “But I came by and saw you there, helplessly kicking about in your own blood. As you lay there, I said, ‘Live!’" Is that not the story of humanity, of me? Is that not the story of the cross?

What if God had passed  by on the day we became orphans in the Garden at the beginning of time? What if he decided Jesus was too great of a price for our own lives, could you blame him? But he didn't. He has pursued us as though we have always been his sons and daughters.

That's what I came away with this Easter season. I was reminded that a great God stooped to clean and care for an orphaned humanity. I was reminded that I'm not greater than my Master and just as he washed feet it's my privilege and responsibility to wash feet too. Wherever I may find them. In my home, in my church, on the side of the road, in Serbia.

I wish I could daily wash the feet of this little orphaned boy. But right now I can't. And so I daily choose to bear the burden of love and wash his feet in prayer from a distance. It's always more complicated when holy and profane meet. I don't know if I'll ever bring him home and be his mama. But I will climb in the yoke of suffering with Jesus. The cross has made a way, and burdens that never seemed as if they could be born, for the love of Jesus, can be. I will labor for this child. The heavy heart that comes, in the light of Jesus, becomes a joy.

When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. “Do you understand what I have done for you?” he asked them. “You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them. John 13:12-17

Who's burden are you carrying, who's feet has Jesus asked you to wash. The burden becomes joy when carried in love.

Letting Go Of Fear

What's Holding Me Back

I'm afraid. Man I hate seeing those words in black and white. I would argue with them, "I am not afraid, I'm bold and courageous." But I really can't.

Life has grabbed me up in it's jaws by the scruff of my tender neck and yanked me around. The reality of living in this broken place will do that, to all of us, now and then. Have you been jerked around by life lately?

The smoke and mirrors of the lies this world tells has left me searching for the purpose I was just holding on to a week or two ago.

The day after I found out my Mom has cancer I got an email from a friend who has sensed God laying ministry to Serbia on her heart as well. Her letter was filled with the same heartache of life that I was feeling. My friend Nichole, who traveled with me to Serbia, called me that week with her own painful news. Hurts and disappointments had piled up at her door as well. Each one of us was experiencing a family crisis, a limiting of resources, the weariness that seeps deep into a soul from being in battle.

It seemed that Mom's illness was the straw that broke the back of the proverbial camel. I was shaken. It pealed back and revealed other wounds tucked away. This past season of ministry left more scars than victories on the tender skin of my heart and I've realized I really haven't dealt with them. I've let the experience define who I am rather than what God says about me. Truth be told I wonder if I've really dealt with the scars from the ministry experience before that.

I found out that a young woman I mentored has divorced, I really don't know if she's walking with Jesus, and it grieves me. Could I have done more? The question drifts in on the wings of pain, "am I enough?" Maybe you ask that same question.

I fight with words regularly. Are they a gift God has graciously set in my hand, or a wisp of smoke, a dream I chase. Am I really a writer? It's hard to tell. Homeschooling, well maybe we shouldn't even go there. I've loved my time with my children, but I'm not at all certain this year has been effective in my son's educational process.

Just a few months ago I felt confident. What happened? I find myself in a slow crawl instead of a brisk stride.

Moving forward with passion and conviction to love the  residents of Dom Veternik scares me the worst of all. What if I fail? Public humiliation, international exposure of my weaknesses, it's the stuff nightmares are made out of.

Laying Fear Down

I think, though, that a hands and knees crawl is a good place to be. Bowed down for blessing. Isn't that where so many men and women of the Bible found themselves blessed? Mary giving birth, prostrate, vulnerable, and in pain received the fulfillment of promise into her waiting arms. I remember childbirth, it lays you flat, takes your breath away, and drains you of yourself. I'm amazed that in that moment Salvation exploded onto the scene, as a helpless child. God sure has a funny way of doing things.

And so I find myself once again, obsessed with God's glory. More afraid I will miss out on the light of salvation dawning on the people of Serbia than that I will expose myself to public, international, humiliation.

In the midst of all of these vulnerabilities came words that spoke to my deepest fears of not being wanted, needed, or enough. An anonymous comment (actually there were a few) on a post telling me I was an enemy to the Serbian people, not wanted or needed, accusing me of false humanity. Instead of deleting the comment I've left it. Because really words intended to wound were a gift. They caused me to look more deeply at my motivation and ask God to purify it, to use what was of him and strip away my own pride and self, there is always work to be done in that area. The Serbian people don't need me, and I needed to be reminded of that. Traveling to Serbia, praying for God's goodness in their lives, witnessing love and mercy, that's a gift. God merely invited me to see what he is already doing, honoring his own name and offering mercy to anyone who wants it.

So, I guess for the last few weeks the fight has been one of engagement. Will I gather my wounds and fears close to my chest and protect them like treasures, stepping away from people and circumstances that could wound me further? Or will I lay them down as an offering at Jesus' most worthy feet as a gift of trust, bearing the scars as a reminder of his grace, and walk back to the fight of loving, praying, and going?

I choose the later, but it's a daily, if not hourly, choice. I don't really know what that means for my future with Serbia. I pray to return, I desire to work for their good, I hope to be a part of their story. And in this new season of church ministry I'm still looking for my place. I'm waiting on God's leading and provision for the next step. So, I stretch my hands open in availability to him, palms up, ready to receive the blessing.

Maybe you feel the same way, a little gun shy. Afraid to engage in life. Perhaps you'll be as emboldened as I was by this quote I heard in the movie "Mirror Mirror" recently. The King says to the Prince on his wedding day, after victory is won, "You found this kingdom caught in the clutches of greed and vanity, yet you did not retreat, you entered the fight, we all owe you and your brave compatriots a great debt of gratitude."

Our elder brother, Jesus, didn't retreat from this world, he entered the fight and now he holds open the door for us to join him. I want to enter the fight. Will you?

Seeing Costs

How much can a heart endure? After a front row seat to suffering I wonder. I'm listening to Brandon Heath's Give Me Your Eyes as I write this. Months ago, as I prayed for the eyes of Jesus to be transplanted into my heart, this song shaped me. Blurry stains began to stand out in sharp contrast; evil and blood transposed over blue skies and carelessness.

If I'd known then what I know now, that seeing costs, would I have asked for heavenly vision? Like a fever I caught, that got under my skin, God vision was more than I bargained for. My Mikey-boy and his Mama and sister, calling for grace. Could I let them in my life? Can I let them out?

Today, at my table, Mikey, an impish grin and jelly stains, worked so hard on his letters. What was a commitment for the year, to invite him in and teach him every week, is over. Finished. The serrated blade of loss cuts at my heart and I feel the love spill.

Tonight his Mama ran to my house afraid and hurting, a wild fury of tears and pain, a burst of terror through the front door. And it was done. Crying, praying, trembling, laughing, and crying again, we sat together. A promise, I won't loose you, and then she was gone.

I hope she's gone forever, a new life, a new chance, and still I'm sorry. No more standing in the in-between of our yards and faith, discovering Jesus. No more Mikey standing at the front door grinning, "Hey Mi(ss) Be(ck)!" No more Hello Kitty tattooed girls giggling and getting into trouble. And I wish I hadn't been too busy earlier this week, when I was cooking dinner, to draw with chalk in the driveway. I wish I'd said I love you one more time.

I trust I will see her again but it won't be the same and I'm sad, so very sad. Yet I'm hopeful. For months I've been watching a baby struggle to be born. Tonight she called out to Jesus for help. I believe he's faithful and will give her new life, spiritually and physically. I know the Father doesn't start good works merely to abandon them.

Now comes the pain of sorting through the future, of starting over. The pain of upheaval and uprooting. The pain of wounds healing, of letting go. Fresh tears come as I remember something Max told me tonight.
"Mikey asked me today if I was his brother."
"What did you say?
"I said no. But I think of you as a brother. That's why I call you bud."

I think of you as a brother. Eyes that see with a new vision. Dare I pray that my children see with the Father's heart? It will cost them. It cost him.

Seeing costs when we engage. I don't know what her boyfriend will do. He's scary. As I lift my eyes from typing this post the Names of God emblazoned over my door frames call out the reminder of our Great God. And I pray Jehovah Sabaoth fight for us, Jehovah Nissi spread your banner of victory over my dear friend, Jehovah Mekoddishkem clothe her in your righteousness, Jehovah Shammah be present with the brokenhearted, Jehovah Jireh provide all she needs, Jehovah Shalom rule over these dear ones in peace, Jehovah Rohi seek out your lambs and shepherd, El Shaddai won't you satisfy.

Love, a chance to die

What is love? It's a chance to die. Anyone who says otherwise has slapped a sentimental emotion on top of love for self. Jesus leads the charge, sets the example, our older brother in love and death. Love isn't love unless it is consummated on the altar of sacrifice. 

Of course I didn't know this at twenty two, fourteen years ago. I was in love with the idea of love. Love was forged on the anvil of submission that first year of marriage. As a young bride I asked, "do I trust my husband enough to submit to him? Do I trust God enough to trust my husband?" Peace followed that first year of marriage as we learned to serve and submit to one another. 

Life never remains tranquil though. The rocks of disappointment, expectation, circumstances, and desire hide beneath the surface ready to shipwreck a marriage. Goodness knows over the last fourteen years there have been moments we've both stared into the abyss of despair and resentment. Amazingly, at the bottom of each of those pits stood a Priest and an altar. An invitation to die. Out of the ashes of our burnt wills has arisen the life of Jesus birthed in new love and commitment. My life for yours, until physical death parts us.

I'm not naive, even though our marriage is stronger and sweeter than ever, love will remain a journey strewn with altars. Here's to a life of death and a continual rebirth of love! Thank you Chris for dying to self and loving me daily.

This is my commandment: Love each other in the same way I have loved you. There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. John 15:12-13

Today Chris and I celebrate our 14th anniversary of a united life in Jesus! I want to hear your story of love. What has God taught you as you have learned to love others?