In Spite Of

I lie there snuggled close in the toasty gray of our fuzzy bean bag. I am safe and warm, and I feel the smile of Someone watching close overhead. 

I've looked at a myriad of bright lantern stars twinkling in the heavens and scanned for their patterns. I've lain under blue skies clouded with fluffy abandon and looked for shapes in the whiteness. I've heard thunderstorms pound incessantly and watched lightening scratch a jagged wound across the darkened sky like an angry sword. I've watched the shreds of soft sunlight filter gently through groves of poplar and spruce and stood there with tears filling my eyes. I've woken up like a child on Christmas morning to view the wildly colorful sunrise that my Creator painted in the early morning. (He could have picked brown you know.) 

And I have come to believe in Him soundly. People may call me crazy, or ridiculously optimistic. They may think I am a religious nut or someone gone completely off the deep end. But perhaps if they would see what I have, and understand what I do, they would also believe. 

You see, I have come to know a God in spite of pain. His presence has become more dear to me than any physical or mental strength ever could have been. His love is the kind that walks through any fire and outdoes any darkness. He shows up in the places that no one else can enter and understands the situations no one else can decipher. He is the kind of God who carries His children when they can't stumble forward anymore, and the kind of God who holds His children when the questions outweigh the answers a million to one. He is the One Who follows His prodigal to a thorn bush just to pull him out and gently dress his self-inflicted wounds. I hear Him cry in anguish over His people who walk away when He gave everything for them.

I know He is a God who redeems and restores the most broken of places. You see, He never avoided pain, even though He could have. In fact He walked right into it - on purpose - just because He loved us all. And as I lie in my bean bag memorizing the woolly threads before me, I know that He is here too. Pain is no longer to be avoided, but embraced. I am small and broken, but He is still strong and good. My soul thrills, and my aching brain clears, at the simple thought that He is here. I remember the nail prints in His hands, and understand the paradox of a deep heavy pain meshed with an aching heart of love. And the more pain I see, the more I feel my Saviour's heart. 

Perhaps I am odd. Perhaps I am different, but I have come to know a God who finds us in our dark places. He rejoices over us with singing and reminds us that we are His - always. And I rejoice in my fuzzy little corner, because I have found a God who is good, regardless of circumstances. I have tasted a Presence so true, I wouldn't trade it. I have found a truth so holy, I wouldn't deny it. I have found a love that nothing can uproot or undo. He is mine and I am His. ❤️

The River Still Runs...

A couple days ago, I was standing beside the tiny creek that runs through our property. It comes from somewhere up in the mountain, and during spring it is at its peak for pressure and beauty. I stared at the foaming water for awhile, feeling the sound, and watching the constant eddies swirl and turn. I noticed the jagged and mismatched trees that were left behind after some bull-dozing, and was a little disturbed by their insanity. They seemed to wreck the perfect image of nature before me with their scraggly reaching arms. But a picture came to my mind as I surveyed the scene. I looked at the strewn trees once more, and saw the destruction and ruin we can experience in life. They held a metaphor for the days when questions run deep and the answers are few. They showed the damage of unjust pain and the sheer misery of the things this cursed earth offers. 

Then, I looked down and noticed faith in the river. It danced in and out under the hanging branches, never threatened by their presence. It foamed over rocks and even created shallow pools of stillness along the river's edges. It never stopped and it never diminished. It just kept moving on its course. It had a destination and nothing would stop it. I knew too, that if I were to throw a branch into the moving current it would simply carry it along in a quiet victory. 

Perhaps this is us. When the days look long and things seem senseless, when the sky is dark and there seems to be more rain than blue sky, we simply must offer a tiny mustard seed of faith and see what our Lord does with it. Faith is quiet, but it is true. It can survive the news of another cancer diagnosis. It can live through an unjust and painful childhood. It can handle misunderstandings and mockery, and it can continue walking when the directions are given only a day at a time. Have faith. ❤️

The Jagged Way

I will praise my loving Saviour

Even though my heart is thick with pain,

When I'm walking through a valley

And the sky is ripe with rain.

All I see are thorns and thistles

Prodding in from every side.

Rocks and pebbles jar my pathway

Like the nagging doubts inside.

Joyful thoughts of yester's sunshine

Cloud their way into my gaze.

I remember them with envy

Seeing only darkened haze.

Cups of cheer turn into weeping

I can't hear the words of hope.

All I see is dark foreboding

Stealing every buoyant note.

Yet I lift my hands to silence

Trusting that He still is good.

Knowing that He's always held me,

Even in the deepest flood.

Maybe some day I will reason

All the trials into truth.

Seeing all my Master's purpose

And the beauty it produced.  

                           - C.H.

I May Have Begun to Like Dogs 🙄

I used to struggle with dogs. They seemed to be everyone else's favourite non-human except mine. I mean, I could handle chickens better. At least they stayed in their cages and produced eggs for my morning breakfast. I could be thankful for that, but I struggled mightily every time I walked out our front door cleanly dressed for school to find a muddy, scraggly belly rolled out in front of me for a rub. I mean, really?! Mocha didn't seem to get the fact that I was clean and had places to go. But, me trying to be good-natured and kind like I was supposed to, would begrudgingly find the cleanest spot in all that mud-infested fur and gingerly rub the toe of my shoe across it. After a brief minute, if that, I would retrieve my shoe back to myself and head off on my merry way to school. 

But then, some things changed. When I was in a lot of pain for a few weeks due to my knee injury, I would often find some place to lie completely flat. Since I am an outdoors person, I would pick places like the grassy front lawn, the porch swing, or even the solid deck floor. Then, something interesting happened. The dogs showed up. We have five on our property between all the family members and they would come over to see how I was faring. The first time, the three pups bounced all over me. Tumbling and bumbling completely oblivious to any pain it could be causing. My well-meaning siblings yelled at them, but they just wouldn't leave. Strange to think, since their was no strong attachment on my end. But they were puppies, and blissfully unaware of any rules of etiquette with hurt people. 

As the other two puppies finally listened and made their way over to my siblings, the third and most awkward and clumsy one, Waffles - yes you heard his name right, and no I definitely didn't pick it - climbed right up into the crook of my arm and laid there, belly-up, snuggling against me like an infant. Now I have never held such a hairy, snuffly baby in my life, but really, how can a person resist when a creature seems to think that you are one of the very best humans in the world and they have no other place they'd rather be than with you. I felt a little too much like the cantankerous grumpy Grinch who slowly got melted by acts of love from an innocent young child. Truly, it did melt some of my puppy prejudice and I began to see these wiggling creatures through slightly different eyes. 

Over the next few days, the puppies, my slowly becoming friends, would visit me whenever I chanced to make it a few steps outside the door. I remember one specific incidence where I was sprawled out on the porch steps with my blanket and the three puppies came to pay their respects. I lay there looking miserable and they mirrored the mood excellently. Carefully positioning themselves around me at various angles, they settled down to stare mournfully at me or off into the distance. I felt strangely akin to Job with his three friends sitting solemnly in the dust and misery. 

Now, it has been a few months since this tale happened, but I do believe I like dogs a little more than I used to. To the point that on our first snow day from school, I put on my snow gear and travelled out to the steps for a wild leap into a snow drift. As I landed with a poof of white powder, I felt a whole bunch of wriggling bodies join me in a tornado. And, it was hilarious! I giggled and tried to get them off of me and then we did it again - a couple times - until my knees had all they could handle and we went back to our Job-style positions in the snow bank. I sit and they sit. I think and they must be thinking too. I am silent and they are very still. 

So now, when I come home from school and get out of my red ride, my words go like this, "Hey Swaffles! Hey Oreo! What's up Shadow?" And they bounce around like the most delighted things. Perhaps we shall be friends after all.

Those Parents

I see them. They come to our classroom to visit and stand by their children's desks. Faithful fathers show up to bring devotions every Thursday. Moms pack school lunches and arrive at 3:30 to provide a ride home. They come in pairs and sit in two blue plastic chairs for our parent-teachers meeting. I talk to them after church sometimes, and they show up interested and delighted at school programs. 

I see them, and I know them. I know the way their hearts ache for their children who struggle. I hear the pain in their questions as they wonder how they can help. I hear them talk about prayer, and know there are many times where they wrestle over and over again. I also hear them talk about their failures and how they wish they could have done things differently. Sometimes I hear their song grow a little dim with discouragement and exhaustion, but I have hope. 

Hope, because I've seen many parents make it through tough seasons. I've seen teenagers come out of situations that could only be rescued by God's mercy. I've seen children mature when it looked impossible for them to arrive, and I've seen the light of God restore the most hopeless of people. 

I write this post simply to suggest that we ought to be more grateful for the ones who raised us. They have seen choppy water that our boats haven't reached yet. They are the ones pleading at heaven's gates, so that our boat can be guided by the same Master who led theirs. They are the ones trying to figure out when to give advice and when to hold their tongue. Sometimes they get it right and sometimes they get it wrong, but all they want is for us is to arrive safely and avoid some of the pitfalls they walked into.

Love your mom and dad, my friend. They aren't perfect. They've done things wrong. But they have enough love to fill a decent-sized ocean, and maybe some day when you are in their place, you'll come to realize the sacrifice, blood, sweat, and tears, that was put into your success. 

The Tech War

Steemit

This could be a scary and dangerous topic. Some of you are shutting your ears and walking the opposite direction right now because, as one of the men in our church would comment, I'm about to make your toes quite warm.

Perhaps that is true. But you see, this is more of a testimony than a sermon. Just lately, I went through a season where I was a lot more lax with technology—or more specifically social media—than I had been for awhile. A lot of it was because I was tired, and some was simply for a distraction, but I have learned a lot in the process. 

Number one, it wasn't completely worth it. Although I got some spiritual food out of some of the better channels, I got to a place where I was begging God for more of His Spirit. Mercifully, He showed me the importance of having enough quiet space in my mind for His Spirit to speak.

Second, I have come to see how easy it is to drown things out with whatever social media platform we pick. It's more fun to watch some funny guy make jokes online than to think about the fact that I feel unloved or hold anger towards someone in the deep recesses of my soul. 

A third thing I have discovered is that it is very easy for us as a generation to become lazy spiritual seekers. It's simpler to type a question into Google and find a pat answer from a variety of sources, than to actually take time to sit before God, search His Word, and hear His voice on the matter. The consequences of too much of this will be a generation of confused, anemic Christians who have only the opinions of others to stand upon.

Fourth, what you take in is what you think about. If I watch documentaries on trafficking, guess what my dreams are about! Now in no way am I downplaying that good movies can be beneficial. Neither can we avoid what is true, but I've found it essential to siphon what I put into my mind so that it remains lovely, pure, honest, and of good report. 

I have come to believe that just like many other things in life, social media and the internet is being monopolized by Satan as a subtle and crafty means to attack the Church of Jesus Christ. If he can't get us to believe untruth in outright lies, He'll bring it to us in sugar-coated entertainment. 

Each one must decide for himself, but as soldiers of the Cross of Christ, it is crucial to consider every single area that is open to attack. Even the strongest soldiers die in battle if they aren't alert and are missing some pieces of armour. 

Am I perfect? Absolutely not. I don’t have all the answers or have it altogether. As I told my students recently, I fight the war every day too. But perhaps this is an issue we need to start facing. Not in shame, not in fear, but in honesty and courage. Together.

A Life of Purpose

freethoughtblog.com

Many people tend to wander through life aimlessly, taking each day as it comes and letting things happen as they will. Others fly through it like a tornado, trying to find excitement in each moment before that grave day when their breath falls silent. And the question begs to be answered... What is our purpose? It breaks my heart when I observe people who have no passion for living. They simply exist. They breathe and take up space in life because that is all that they know how to do. They live the life of least resistance, blending in to the surrounding vibes with little thought of what matters or is true. They've never entertained the thought that they could make a difference in life and so they don't even try. Life is simply a set of events that happen as they will and need to be survived.

Then there are people who take life by the handles and make it work for them. They are the investors, the planners, the get-it-done-on-timers; always responsible, always volunteering, always making a difference. And yet catastrophe hits even them, and they are forced to ask, "What is life really about? Is success guaranteed by promotions, good job interviews, raising a large family, making a lot of money, or staying on good terms with the people around you?"

This past Thursday morning, we skimmed through the book of Acts during our school assembly devotions. We looked for places where the Apostles displayed a life of zeal and courage, and the instances were many. I asked my students, what made the disciples do those things? What made them risk their lives like that? One student replied, "Because of Jesus." And I have to agree. They had been given much and they were willing to give much in return. 

I am convinced that in order to live life well, one must have a vision, and, I think it's safe to say, that the higher the vision, the deeper the dedication. Everyone wants to be part of something important in life. Nobody really wants to reach the end of their life and realize it was wasted. Unfortunately, too many people wait until it's too late to begin living a life worthwhile. As our Saviour Himself stated, "Life is more than food and clothing." It was obvious in the way He lived. 

Were all the things He did grand and glorious? Were all the things He did oustanding? I would venture to say it depends on what scale of measurement you use. You see, He spoke. He cried. He gave. He blessed. He burned with righteous anger. He healed. He listened, and loved in the small moments as well as the great. And then He died the most influential death on the planet. Whether small or great, every single thing He accompished was done for a purpose.

So, perhaps if you feel unfulfilled and unsure of what life is about, you ought to ask Him. He seems to have had a vision higher than any human I have ever met. The interesting thing is, that He is able to pass it on and his followers seem to end up in the same life of zeal and self-sacrifice that he did. Just ask Him. I think He'll have a pretty good answer for you. 

For The Child Who Survived

There's a saying that states, "If you treat everyone like they're hurting, you're right 99% of the time." I've been doing a lot of thinking, and processing lately, and this post is for those who were never heard, those who were unloved, those who were hurt, and those who remained deeply scarred. The following scenarios contain a mixture of fiction and nonfiction. If any of them resonate with you, just remember God loves and cares deeply. 

I was the one who shrivelled inside because I was never good enough. I wanted to please you Daddy, but somehow I could never reach the target. The chores weren't done right. I should've been able to play baseball like my brother, and I was never as good at things as you were when you were young. 

I'm sorry, Daddy. Really, I am. I keep hoping that one day I'll be the son you always wanted.

 

I was the one who stood up tall and took care of my Mommy when she couldn't take care of me. Outside I was strong. Everyone told me so. When Mommy became a crying mess, I calmed her down and then held my siblings, so they would feel safe. I turned 16 and took her to psychiatrist appointments. I talked to the doctors and helped her with meds. Sometimes I was tired, but I kept doing my job.

Maybe someday I'll get to be a kid again, but not for now.

 

I was the middle child, the forgotten one. It seemed my older brother got everything. He got to ride a bike first, and I got the hand-me-downs. He got to help Daddy fix the shed roof, but I had to pick up nails from the ground. Sometimes I wondered if Mommy and Daddy really loved me. Daddy was happy when my oldest brother turned 11 and could drive the tractor. But when I turned 11, he said I was too young and so my oldest brother just kept doing it. Daddy said I'd probably hit a fence post anyway.

Maybe someday I'll do something great in life, but I doubt I really matter anyway.

I was the one who wasn't normal. I would have loved to run and jump like everyone else on the playground, but cerebral palsy kept me stuck in my chair. Mom and Dad said I was special, so I tried to smile at everybody, but some days I just wanted to be like the others so badly. Why couldn't I do high jump and play King's Base? The other day I said I wanted to get my license, but Mom just got a weird look on her face. Whatever that was all about. 

I just wish I could be like everyone else.

 

I was the one who protected everyone. I don't know what you had against Mom, Dad, but somehow it made me spitting mad when you'd criticize and yell at her. Is there no way we can be good enough? I hate the fact that we have to look good in public and pretend everything is fine. Maybe one day I can forgive you, but at this rate, I'm afraid I'll turn out right like you. 

But then, I never was much of anybody anyway.

 

I was the one who starved myself. When Mom and Dad went through a divorce, I lost it. I remember the screaming and yelling, and the nights I hid under the covers, pinching the fat on my body. I hated it. If I would just be good enough, surely all this ugliness would go away. I lifted weights and jogged for miles. I avoided sugars and limited fats, and then... I almost died. The nurses told me I had anorexia and made me eat a lot of that gross fattening food.

I still hate myself. If I'd just be a better daughter, they'd surely get back together.

I was the one who was adopted. I love my new mom and dad but it hurts that someone didn't want me. I wonder where my real mom is anyway. I must've been some horrible person for her just to pitch me like that. Who disowns their own kid anyway? People tease me at school too. 

I wonder what's wrong with me? I should never have been born. 

 

And somewhere you have a story. The one that eats at your insides and keeps begging for attention. Some children grow up with love and protection; others do not. Life is difficult, and people let us down. The list of stories above could have gone on for a long long time. I've heard enough people's heartbreak, and had enough of my own to know that there is a vast variety of stories that people carry. 

This weekend I came across the shortest verse in the Bible, John 11:35 - Jesus wept. I looked at it and was flooded with the overwhelming compassion and love that Jesus has for all of us. He doesn't always provide easy and quick answers to our situations. (Many of our whys may never be answered on this side of eternity.) But I do know that He is the One that has come to sit with us in our pain. He is the One that binds up the broken-hearted and brings sight to blind eyes. He delivers captives and brings freedom to the oppressed. There is no situation too hard or too deep for His love. Sometimes it takes years to truly heal, but He will do it in His timing and His way. Trust Him. ❤️

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