The Whipping Boy

I had the privilege to attend "Day of Prayer" once a month at my last job. We would all ride to a place of solitude and give each other the gift of silence as each of us sat with God for a few hours, in silence, listening. One day of prayer I was very aware of not even wanting to come sit before God. I had fallen once again into a pattern of sin that I felt helpless in. I had spent the night before being convicted of sin and quite honestly felt very unworthy of even sitting before the Lord in silence. As I came to the Lord I told him that I questioned if I could come boldly before him, but kept repeating "Here I am Lord" in my heart. I fell asleep for a little while, which is actually sweet on these days because I feel like I am resting in the presence of Jesus. I had a dream that I couldn't ignore:

I entered the Kings court, a beautiful place that was ancient and much like you'd imagine a wonderful castle in the fairy tales I read as a little girl. I knew what I had done; I knew why I had been summoned by the King. The guilt I had for my transgressions was written all over my face and stature, and I cowered into the King's presence ready for my sentence. The King rose from his throne, walked straight to me and with his giant Father like hand, lifted my face and smiled gently while looking me straight in the eye. He told me that all my punishment had been paid for and that I would be granted the status of daughter of the King. Starring back into his eyes, I didn't feel relief quite yet and my body didn't begin to dance as would have been an appropriate response to such a gift of mercy and grace. In the quick moment that my gaze met my Kings' I realized why he could give me this gift. My feet began running as fast as my untrained muscles would take me through narrow hallways and finally up many stairs to the tallest tower. In exhaustion I flung my body onto the doors to open the chamber where the whipping boy laid exhausted and beaten on the floor. I quickly flung myself onto the boy hoping to bare the next crack of the whip. As the silence set in, and I never felt the sting of the whip come across my back, I realized that I must accept that he had taken every lash for my transgression. I hated that he had saved me. The question in my mind was "How can I live knowing he had to bear this because of me?" I felt the boys warm body under me and as sad as I felt I also looked at him and knew that I loved him. 

A few years ago while reading Tim Keller's "The Prodigal God" I remember slamming the book and thinking, "I hate that I can't save myself." I really did not know that I had such an issue with accepting grace and mercy, but something was clearly stirring in me against wanting a free gift.

Similarly, years later this dream stirs in me a similar feeling. I hate that the whipping boy accepted my punishment. I kept asking, "How am I supposed to live knowing someone else took my punishment?" 

Here's what I know. I have trouble accepting things that are free. I have literally had to learn not to dismiss every compliment anyone gives me.  I want to deserve the gift so badly. Maybe I'd rather deserve something and be proud of myself rather than accept someone else's pure love.  I want control and somewhere with in me I believe that if I could earn the King's favor or good sentence that then I could secure it somehow. I want to have control because I don't want to live with the guilt that someone else bore what I deserved. In some ways my pride wants the punishment to be reversed and it be given to me; and that is absolutely the only time I have wanted to accept death -- and that I'm not sure is selfish, but is still another hard part of accepting the gift. 

I usually like to wrap things up neatly and feel driven to make a few statements of closure at the end of a writing like this. This one is still in the operating room of open heart surgery. I know things are being removed and made new, but it still feels like an open place of work for God to operate in.  I do know that I've been more intrigued by Jesus and have wanted to know him more through this wrestle.  He wasn't just a village boy that the King summoned to be the whipping boy for me. He was the son of the King who submitted to the Father's request, and did so with love in his heart for me. That makes all the difference; I just need to accept his love. 

Wondering in the Waiting

I do a lot of thinking and praying in the shower. I know it seems crazy, but there's something about letting a full stream of shower water pour over me. It's abundant. It drenches everything. It cleanses. And somehow that process feels like a very appropriate place for me to talk to God, daily. One night while allowing the water to pour over me, with my head directly under the stream, so much that I had to hold my breath, rain came to mind as it often does.
journal entry 3.6.12 - Continuing with the theme of waiting.
Tonight, in prayer [under the faucet] I kept picturing what it might be like, and wondering what it might be like for the barren woman to feel a baby kick from within her, for the sufferers of a long drought to be drenched, soaked to the bone in rain as it quenches everything dry around them, for a mother to look upon the face of her new born child after what felt like a long suffering delivery, for a lost child to return home to his fathers' arms after years of wandering, for a blind man to receive sight having been born blind. This is what the experience, that I have not felt, but can imagine would be:
Utter joy flows from the soul in the provision, the abundant provision, of a blessing, a thing of the Garden origin. A joy expressed that has no words. What occurs is a pouring out, of rejoicing, of gratitude, of thanksgiving. It is a release of all the tension of waiting so that one would find themselves unable to do anything but, in abandonment, waller in the blessing and delight in what is good--not in an idol fashion
but rather in a way that worships the one who created, withheld, and gave the bessing, the long awaited for blessing. Surely, this too is what it will be like in the day of our Lord's return.

Breaking Croissants with the Trinity

A few months ago I read "The Shack" by William Paul Young. I loved his picture of a broken man dining with the trinity. As I recently went through a struggle this picture found its way back into my mind - a whisper of the Spirit. I had found myself, once again, in a waiting place to see how God would unveil his story for me, a part of my story that I couldn't control, so I just had to wait. Parts of the waiting were extremely hard. When decisions linger in my life, especially those related to my friendships and relationships, I find myself aching for the end result.  Most often that aching looks like praying to God in a tirade of endless analyzation.
In my picture of breaking Croissants with the Trinity, this is what I was doing. The Trinity, Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit - some how in a sort of body form - all were sitting at the small dining room table, eating of course. I'm walking around the kitchen in one of my fore mentioned tirades as they calmly listen, but eat on. I slump myself into the last empty chair and stare blankly at their faces, letting it sink in that all of my analyzation will not hurry, change, or reveal to me the outcome. I noticed a smile on all of their faces. "You know the story, don't you?" I said. "Yes," they all replied in perfect unity. "And you are not going to tell me right now are you?" I sigh. They, in unity once more, reply, "Not a chance." There's a slight discomfort in the not knowing, but the trinitarian presence melts even that away within my soul. I might not know what the outcome is, what the story will hold, but see, looking upon their faces, I know it's going to be good. The relationship I have with them is like that of my friends and family who are my trusted family. They love me. I trust them with my life.
A few days later, God did indeed reveal what will at least be the next chapter on this situation in my life. It made me quite sad. I found myself in a state of wanting to question God and demand purpose in his withholding of my desires (Sound Familiar? Good ole' Job). I let what seemed to be anguish and distress flow from my very heart as I curled up in bed and cried for Jesus to hold me. The picture of the trinity and me dining floated back into my awareness. This time I was in anguish, head down, sobbing on the dining room table with no restraints. Their faces weren't  smiling, or accusingly telling me to remember to trust the story, to look for the good. No, their faces were downcast, hurting with me in my pain. Their touch upon my back was that of a nurturing mother.
I know, like in the first picture that God, the three in one, really does have his best in mind for me. But when I feel pain, he doesn't call me to be stronger, or suck it up and remember the truth. In fact, the very essence of knowing the truth, that they love me, allows me to both know the truth but also be completely vulnerable and sit before the living God, sobbing in my pain when he withholds a desire. That is family. That is what I understood growing up - being able to "laugh till your gut hurts or cry over your mashed potatoes" at my family's dining room table. That's the family we are invited into in God's Story.

Eating from Paper Plates

I first learned to express myself in the smallest unit of culture that I know, my family. I am most thankful for my family's ability to be real, to invite others into the reality of our lives.  If you come to dinner you won't see our fine china set out for you. You'll be squished around a small dining room table bumping elbows with the person sitting next to you. You are guaranteed for someone to spew their drink in laughter, to hear incredible stories from my Dad, and for my Mom to make you a great meal and send you home with the leftovers. It's a place where you are allowed to laugh till your gut hurts or cry over your mashed potatoes. We will laugh with you, cry with you, let out frustration with you, and hopefully uplift you.  I assume that we probably overwhelm the really well mannered and quiet ones, but always when they leave I see a glimpse of something in their smile and eyes. It's a joy that they have experienced realness and they know it is right and good. I used to be nervous when bringing in the new boyfriend or friend scared that they would be overwhelmed or not fit in but now I see that it's one of the most beautiful gifts I can offer someone.  Mom always used a saying to describe us when inviting people over to dinner, "We'll be eating on paper plates, but we'd love to have you."

I have had the desire to write for some time now. I began writing poetry when I was in elementary school, and over the past few years my journal writing has been a key element in my sanity of mind. Perhaps to write books would be my goal, but I first needed a place to begin sharing my unedited thoughts. So, here it is. My writing is sort of like eating on paper plates. I don't want to write to impress, give advice or out of the need for others to hear me. I do want to invite others into my life (my dining room table), to journey with me in realness. In the words of my mom, I invite you, "We'll be eating on paper plates, but I'd love to have you."