Category Archives: faith

thinking back…

Do any of you ever go back and read some of your old blog posts? If you’ve been blogging for a season or two or ten, then I imagine you’ve collected a few hundred by now. I don’t often re-visit my own. I’ve printed them off and organized them in three-ring binders over the years, but rare are the occasions when I peruse their contents. But today I did. Today I reached back over time to a year ago today, March 8th, to see if anything flowed from my pen on that occasion.
I wanted to know what was going on in my mind and heart in that season. To see how things have changed for me… where I was back then, where I am today in relation to my back then. I was delighted to discover that on March 8, 2010, I was in the middle of writing my Breakfast on the Beach with Jesus series; in particular Part Five: Eating What We’re Served. It’s one of my favorite series of posts that I’ve written. One of my favorite “talks” to give when asked to speak at a corporate gathering. Why?
Because, even as the conversation was intimate for Peter and Jesus some 2000 years ago, it’s one of the most intimate talks I’ve ever had with God as well. In Part Five, I write about some of excuses we offer the Lord for missing out on our morning meals with him.
1. Too intimate; a heart is often exposed when dining with the Master.
2. Too picky in regards to what’s being served; menu is often confrontational when receiving from the Master.
3. Too busy; schedule is often postponed when sitting with the Master.
And I am struck by my own reminder. When I wrote those words a year ago, I wasn’t struggling with my morning breakfasts with Jesus. In fact, there weren’t many days back then when I would willingly break from the fire to tend to other things. Even when I did, I carried the fire with me. I was all about Jesus and more than willing to eat whatever he was serving.
Today I weep with remembrance. Today I think upon that season… how rich and full and expectant I was and how, now, I long for nothing more than to return to those moments. To feel like I felt. To be fed by his hands. To know the warmth of a fire that nearly scorched me because of my close proximity to its flames. It was a beautiful season for me, even though my family was in the midst of an impending move. Even though we were undergoing a test of our faith in regards to church life. Even though change was imminent, requiring our strong willingness and obedience to acquiesce to God’s requirements. Despite the swirling chaos around me, God’s fire was burning brightly within me, and the Red Sea in front of me was nothing more than a hop, skip, and a jump to my “next.”
That was then, and this is now, and I wonder about that fire. That intimacy. That breakfast, and that Jesus. I want to go back there and know now what I knew back then. It’s not that the intimacy, the breakfast, the flames, and the Jesus aren’t the same, aren’t available and were only reserved for that moment in time. My mind and heart know differently, believe differently. I know that my Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. That what he had for me back then is what he has for me right now.
But my feelings aren’t there; not today. Not in the same way they were back then. Certainly I know what it is to be in relationship with Jesus; my faith has held, despite the recent assaults to my flesh. But those assaults have taken their toll, friends; they’ve robbed me of some of my passion. They’ve dulled my senses, broken my stride, and forced me to look at life through clouded lenses. It’s not what I’ve asked for; it’s simply what I’ve been given, and today I weep for a former season that didn’t hold so much loss.
Today I remember March 8, 2010. I remember those dining room windows and HWY 581 that served as my backdrop for my writing. I remember the urgent delight I felt when sending the kids off to school knowing that my time with Jesus was soon to arrive, and then out of that time, the overflow of a few words would make their way to print. I remember sensing that all was well with my soul and that I was firmly, resolutely walking smack dab in the middle of God’s will. I remember saying to my husband that no matter the road blocks ahead, this is what we must do, this is how we must live. That we were on the right path. That…
God’s plans for our lives have never felt so good… so right… so much of a “faith” thing.
And so we stepped out in faith. And now here we are, still anchored in faith, but in a different place; a different season; a different backdrop; a different test; a further trust.
Life doesn’t feel as good as it did a year ago. Faith doesn’t as well. But it is what I must do. Faith is how I must live. It’s what I’ve been named, Faith Elaine. God’s plans for my life feel jumbled… off kilter… a more difficult abiding than in previous seasons. We’re still having breakfast on the beach, Jesus and me, because my memory serves me well. And my memory tells me that an early morning fire with food from the Master’s hand is a good start for my everyday. But it’s been a long time since I’ve known the fullness of that last time… the “sure and certain” of my year ago.
Thank God for a record of remembrance… for a few years’ worth of written testimony to the reality of seasons and the ebbing and flowing of emotion therein. They buoy me along, speaking of a history that I am prone to forgetting, reminding me that faith is the anchor that holds me despite all the changes that come my way. I don’t know what I’ll be writing about a year from now, March 8, 2012. I don’t know what twists and turns, mountains and valleys await my up and coming year. But I hope that when I arrive there, that I’ll have a year’s worth of penned remembrances to look back upon that recall the steady faithfulness of my God. I hope to still be pulling my boat on shore and running to the fire to receive breakfast from his hands.
It’s what I plan to do. It’s all I know to do. It’s simply the best I can do. Accordingly, I’ll keep doing.
Doing breakfast.
Doing faith.
Doing Jesus…
believing that with all of the doing, my feelings will catch up with my year ago to become a rich stone of remembrance for the seasons to come.
You are a good people to “do” faith with, friends. In a season when so much else around me is changing, it’s a comfort to have the consistency of your presence in my life. I pray for you many intimate times with Jesus by the fire in coming days. Don’t forsake your breakfast moments with him. He has come to do life with us, impart life to us, live as life within us. To know that kind of life is to receive from his hands each day. Don’t wait for your feelings to urge you toward the shoreline. Go in obedience. He stokes the fire in anticipation of your arrival. As always…
Peace for the journey,
~elaine
50,000 words of faith…

50,000 words of faith…

It mocks me from a distance; sits on a shelf in my den, begging for notice while collecting dust. A purple, three-ring binder containing 50,000 words, personal words. Words written from a place of noble thought and understanding. Words that took nearly a year to write. Words that I thought would surely play a bigger role in my “next” than they currently are. Words that serve as a reminder to me of where my heart was twelve months ago…
A woman completely in favor of faith and the pursuit therein.
I thought I had it figured out… my faith. Little did I know that the greatest challenges to my previously rehearsed faith were dancing on the horizon, hidden from me in the moment, yet soon-to-be unveiled with the passage of time. Most of you might reason (even as I have reasoned) that, as my struggles came into view, I would take hold of the earlier written 50,000 words. That I could and willingly would apply “noble understanding” to the strife at hand. That I would pull the binder from the shelf, shake off the dust, and dig into the thoughts, precepts, and strength from my earlier season. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Why?
Because maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t ready to fully trust these words to see me through. They were good words, right words, words in keeping with all that I know to be true, but in many ways, words untested by the pulls and strains of a stressful season. Accordingly, I left the purple binder untouched, leaving it in the same place where it had been residing for the past eight months. That is, until today.
Today I dared to take it down off the bookcase. I began reading those 50,000 words again and wondering if the faith that I wrote about back then would match up with the faith steps I’m taking right now. Where did I get it wrong? Where did I, by the grace of God, get it right? Are these “old” thoughts in keeping with my new reality? Is this manuscript worthy of a second read-thru with the further goal of publication?
It’s a daunting task… this survey of a previously written faith, yet one I want to apply myself toward. In doing so, I expect my faith perspective to evolve into fuller understanding. I know some things now, hold some things now that I didn’t know or hold a year ago. Today, my faith lives and breathes at a higher level. Today, I can better address the issue of faith, because mine has been tested with the purifying flames of God’s eternal love. Today, I can hold the purple binder in hand with deeper clarity about the words printed therein.
Today, and in the days to come, I want to sit with my words before God and examine them under his microscope. I want to finish that which I thought was finished a year ago. I want my faith to live even as it writes… truthfully. Thus, I get to it. No timetable this go around, just a willingness to fall into some words, sentences, paragraphs, until the work is complete and up-to-date with my faith.
Along those lines, I want to ask you a question or two, even as I ask them of myself:
1. What would you hope to learn/gain by reading yet another book on faith? (I just typed in the word “faith” under the book tab on Amazon and the results are 93,862 currently listed titles regarding faith). Who needs another book on faith? What can be written about faith that hasn’t already been written? What is the take-away value for this book?
2. What format/style works best for you as a reader? Longer, fewer chapters? Shorter, more chapters?
3. What keeps you interested as a reader? Stories, anecdotes, scripture study?
4. Are application questions at the conclusion of each chapter important to you as a reader?
5. Any further thoughts on faith that would help me as a writer better understand what you as the reader wants…
I’d love your input; no need to answer all the questions, but your insight is valuable to me as I shake off the dust from my 50,000 words and attempt to edit them in this new season. For the record… I’m still a woman completely in favor of faith and the pursuit therein. This old, purple binder and a freshly tested faith seem like a good place to start.
Thank you for joining me on the road, and thank you for your prayers this week. I’m recovering, and I am at peace.
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from trash to treasure

from trash to treasure

I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Tears were forming in hers. We’d just settled into our evening watch of American Idol when I noticed her sadness. The “boys” present in the room shrugged it off as insignificant. Boys are like that sometimes, not seeing past the tears to the deeper issue at work. But this momma… the girl in me… recognized her tears. I cried some similar ones in my younger years. Tears that now, in hindsight, seem frivolous and unwarranted, yet tears at the time of their initial release important in keeping with the moment.
A letting go kind of moment.
Let me explain.
My eight-year-old daughter is attached to her stuff. Whether it be her well-worn blanket (a.k.a. burp cloth from her infant days), her stuffed animals (enough to allow her only an eighth of an inch of her mattress for sleeping purposes), her hidden stash of Kit-Kats from Halloween, or her Sponge Bob Crocs from two years ago, my Amelia isn’t keen on letting go of her belongings. She’s a keeper of things, believing in their significance even if they’ve outlived their practical usefulness. She’ll fight hard for their survival, and last night would prove the same.
Occasionally, my daughter drinks from a sippy cup; she wouldn’t do so in mixed company, but in the safety of home, she prefers the cups from her toddler days. Over the years we’ve thrown several out, but two remain… until last evening. Alas, one of the screw-on tops to the cups did a dance with the dishwasher and came out mangled. My husband made the tragic mistake of announcing its demise and, subsequently, threw it in the trash can. My daughter was stunned by the revelation but kept her emotions in check. For a few minutes. Until the familiar intro to Idol began. And that is when I noticed her tears.
Amelia, what’s wrong?
Silence. More tears. (*Note to self… asking the question usually opens the floodgates to further tears.)
Amelia, are you upset about something?
Silence. Tears now freely flowing down her cheeks; body beginning to shake.
Amelia, are you crying about your cup?
Hesitantly she spoke, carefully camouflaging her angst so as not to attract the attention of the boys in the room…
Mommy, I need that lid.
I thought that might be the case, daughter. Would you like to keep it in your room?
Yes.
Then go get it.
Tears stopped, eyes were wiped, and a bee-line was made to the trash can and then to her room. Moments later, she settled herself back onto the couch and all was well with her heart. And I got to thinking.
About attachments. About the heart of a child that is willing to hold onto “things”… needs to hold onto things even though others deem them unnecessary, unimportant, limited in their usefulness. About what makes a “thing” more than a “thing.” About when a “thing” becomes something valuable and about why, as adults, we sometimes think it necessary to make that something lesser in its status.
As adults, we’re well-informed and well-trained with our “letting gos.” We don’t get too far into our maturing without experiencing a few painful ones. The capacity to “let go” and do so with some measure of grace is often the mark of maturity. We preach it, teach it, write about it, and live it. My life history is replete with such benchmark moments. I hope they’ve aided in my maturation at every level, but just last night I started thinking about it all. Wondering if maybe it’s OK to keep some attachments to certain things. To store them away and keep them hidden because they became a something to me in a previous season.
That maybe, sometimes we rush the “letting go.” That we are quick to throw away the “things” that have become something to us just because they’ve gotten a bit mangled and torn by the daily wear and tear of our handling therein. That, perhaps, by keeping a few of them, we’ll have a better chance of remembrance in years to come when recall becomes paramount to our moving forward.
Indeed, we need to “get on with the gettin’” on as it pertains to our growing up on the inside, but what if our growing up is, at least in part, related to our holding onto a few things? What well-worn things have we prematurely let go of in favor of shiny, new ones just for the sake of usefulness? I have no illusions that the lid to my daughter’s sippy cup will ever serve as a functioning lid again. But to her it is useful, at least for a little while longer. Why?
Because it’s part of her history.
She and that lid have some longevity. They’ve shared some years together, been as close to one another as a temporal thing can get to an eternal beating soul. When she was a toddler, she carried it with her everywhere she went. At eight, she limits her carrying to times of thirst. And I imagine in another year or so, she’ll outgrow her need for its companionship. But for now, it’s still something to her. And I find that beautiful and poignant and a message of grace meant for my own soul this day.
She needs her lid, and I need a childlike heart that is willing fight hard for a few things worth preserving. Things that are worth holding onto because they’re part of my history. Things that are meant for the treasure box and not the trash can. Things that are more valuable because of their wear and tear over the years and because of my handling therein. Things that, in the eyes of others may not seem like much, but things that are precious to me because they have “touched” my lips and made their way into my heart as a forever keeping.
I’m not into hoarding or collecting stuff for collection’s sake. And if you’re a regular reader of my words then you know I’m all about the “letting go” process. But I will tell you this… I’m a proponent of holding onto a few things that have become somethings to us. If we don’t have a few somethings, then our lives run the risk of floating aimlessly through our earthly tenures.
We all need an anchor in this season. A tried and true, reliable “holding onto” that will see us through to tomorrow. I don’t know what yours is—the one thing that you are willing to dig out of the trashcan and hide away as a treasure in the deep recesses of your heart—but I do know what mine is. And in many ways, it resembles a well-worn, well-chewed upon, overly used, and mangled sippy-cup lid.
A holding faith.
And I will fight to the death for that one, friends. Cry some tears over it and make sure that everyone in the room, including the boys, understand the fact that my faith isn’t made for the trashcan. That instead, I’ll store it away where my daughter has chosen to store her lid.
 
In my treasure chest… my heart (I had to search hard to find it in her room this morning). There’s a history we share, my faith and me, that’s worth holding onto. May it be the same for each one of us. Let us not be quick to discard an old faith as unnecessary, unreliable, limited in its usefulness. Let us, instead, be quick to hide it as newly discovered wealth to serve as a continual anchor in the seasons to come. May your faith be your something… the one thing… you’re willing to fight for today.
Keep to it, my good companions on the journey. Keep to the road of faith. As always…
Peace for the journey,

PS: I’ll be MIA most of next week as I’m scheduled for surgery on Monday at 8:00 AM. I would appreciate your continuing prayers. Shalom.

winter’s work and the wind’s breath

winter’s work and the wind’s breath

Today’s walk outside has been a beautiful gift to me. Today, I left the iPod behind, and for the first time in a long time, I could hear my thoughts think. Thoughts about…
winter’s work and the wind’s breath.
Winter’s work. I saw evidence of it while making my trek around the neighborhood. Brittle, brown leaves lined the gutters, skittering along behind me, in front of me and all around me at the whim of the wind. A lovely sound… a gentle tapping of the pavement reminding me of winter’s work on their previous vitality. And even though their green has faded, their moisture gone, and their lush diminished to dryness, their occupancy on the street remains despite the beginning buds of their replacements. And they are still lovely. Still shapely. Still intricate in their design.
A memorial to an earlier season.
Wind’s breath. A carrier of brittle things. Lighter things. Things that have allowed winter its work within them. The wind cannot carry things heavily tethered to earth. Whether a leaf, a blossom, a bird, or a heart, when life stays attached to worldliness, life will never know the uplift of the wind—the soaring, gentle, gracious rise of heaven’s breath.
A memorial to an eternal truth. One that says there comes…
a going down before a going up.
a drying up before a flying high.
a letting go before a being held.
a tender fall before a gracious lift.
a sacred burial before a sacred resurrection.
a winter’s work before a spring’s revival.
Indeed, my thoughts could think again today, if only in brief. Just enough of a reminder to me that all has not been lost in my winter. That with the brittle and brown and drying of this season, I have retained my occupancy upon this earth. Still intricate in my design; still retaining the veins and shape of an earlier season. Still here amidst the promise of spring, yet lighter because of the stripping of winter.
Today, like my leafy friends, I’m better able to rise with the wind’s breath because of winter’s work within me—a going down, drying up, letting go, tender falling, sacred burial kind of work. A vigorous work in my flesh and in regards to my faith. Winter seasons are like that. Rigid and unrelenting at times, forcing their agenda, begging no apologies.
As with the seasons on earth, so it is with our hearts. We cannot forego winter, in favor of spring, summer, or fall. We simply must receive it as it cycles around, believing that “to every thing there is a season and time to every purpose under heaven.” Winter holds a wealth all its own, and today I briefly caught a glimpse of its worthiness. I heard it as well.
Skittering leaves pushed along and lifted up by the wind.
Winter’s work and heaven’s breath.
Even so, carry me Lord Jesus, and let the chorus of my winter be your spring’s reminder to someone who’s yet to take hold of a sacred letting go. Lift us all to that higher place.
Amen.
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the road-walking Jesus

“So Jesus went with him. A large crowd followed and pressed around him.” {Mark 5:24}
I think about both of them today—two needy souls approaching Jesus from different angles some 2000 years ago. I imagine that day was in keeping with most of the days of Christ’s earthly tenure. Days of…
crowds;
forward movement;
teaching;
healing;
praying;
touching;
loving.
Days of doing what Jesus did best—unearthing the treasures of heaven, revealing the heart and hands of the Divine. Those who knew him and loved him followed him closely, kept his words within earshot and his flesh within arm’s reach. Others—those who knew him less—followed closely as well… their motives in keeping with their needs. Some physical; some spiritual; some just trying to make sense of the rumors that preceded his arrival. Regardless of their reasons for following after Jesus, wherever he went he drew a crowd.
That day would be no different. Fresh off a detour to Gerasa and a showdown with demons, Christ stepped ashore to find a crowd awaiting his arrival. A synagogue ruler named Jarius approached Jesus with a frontal advance, fell at Christ’s feet and earnestly pleaded with him for the life of his young daughter. An unidentified woman approached Jesus from behind, earnestly hoping that a stretch of her arm through tangled robes might grant her a temporary grasping of his hem and, therefore, a permanent healing of her flesh.
Both of them candidates for healing. Both of them operating with a measure of faith. Both of them knowing that proximity to Christ’s presence was the optimum course of action to procure a sought after victory. There would be no sideline watching that day… no curiosity mingling on the outskirts of a moving grace. Instead, they would urgently press into that grace… into Jesus from different angles, believing that with him would come the answer to their need—their pain and their suffering.
I am moved by their simple, yet resolute understanding of who Jesus was; not an understanding birthed from years of scholarly tutorial or religious instruction or thousands of years of hindsight, but rather understanding birthed from personal experience. From hearing and seeing firsthand the generous dispensation of his miraculous grace and then, further, believing that such charity was intended for them at a personal level. They didn’t underestimate Christ’s sacred intentions; instead, they had enough faith to believe that they were, each one, his intention—the reason behind his walking along their road that day. And so, they approached his majesty and his mystery amidst the chaotic pageantry and secured the longed for victory that would forever change the trajectory of their lives.
Proximity to Christ’s presence is the precursor to change, friends. Whether it be a healing of the heart, the mind, or the flesh, taking hold of Jesus in your midst will secure for you his undivided attention and active willingness to undertake you cause. To place upon himself the burdens of your heart and then to mediate his grace and mercy into every angle, nook and cranny, twist and turn of your plight. When it comes to a personal need for healing, a sideline faith laced with tentative curiosity and rumored possibility holds no curative power; instead, it keeps hope and expectation lingering at the edge of what Christ came to do… comes to do…
to free us from that which entraps us—body, soul, and spirit.
We don’t get to choose the blueprint or course of action for how that freeing will occur, but we do get to choose our participation in the matter. When we approach Jesus Christ with our needs, whether it be from the front, back, or from a side-to-side angle, he never fails to get involved. God isn’t reluctant in offering his grace and tender mercy into our situations. He won’t ever force his grace upon us… make us choose him, prefer him, rely on him when our wills are tethered otherwise. But when we do ask Christ for a moment or two of his consideration—his divine intervention into our need—we can be certain of his willingness to act on our behalf.
We are what he came to do—the reason behind his walking his daily grace some 2000 years ago. The reason he left us his personal diary of sorts… a forever record of remembrance so that we might find ourselves somewhere within the story. So that we might live and record our own stories of faith, so that they might serve as a lasting memorial to the transformational power and generosity of our road-walking Jesus.
Today, if you have a need, then you have a Jesus who’s headed your way. Word is… he’s in town. Word is… the crowds are pressing in. Word is… he’s got room for one more. Won’t you join me on the road to behold the Lamb of God and then to take hold of all of that for which he has taken hold of each one of us? I’ve got just enough faith to take me there. Just enough faith to keep me there until I’ve seen his face, felt the transfer of his power, and heard his voice speaking over me…
Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace, and be freed from your suffering. {Mark 5:34}
Indeed, blessed peace for the moment. Blessed peace for my journey. Even so, dear Jesus, I come needy to your feet this day. May your peace be my portion and your healing my freedom song. Amen. So be it.
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