Category Archives: words

The Work of Our Hands

Today I have the privilege of creating words with my Creator over at The 7th Year blog. A few weeks ago, my mentor and friend, Alicia Chole, asked me a question. In The Work of Our Hands, I respond.

Both Alicia and I invite you to the table of grace today to add your voice to the conversation. While you’re there, you might take the time to explore The 7th Year, a 52-week, spiritual formation journey written by Alicia. Fuller still, “The 7th Year is a movement of souls who—weary of a spiritual diet of event-to-event experiences—are devoting a year of their lives to the intentional cultivation of life-long sustainable nearness with God.” (Alicia Chole, The 7th Year)

Click here to read more.

Peace for the journey,

Confessions of a Reluctant Juror {handling the truth}

Truth exists. Truth isn’t relative. Sometimes, however, truth gets buried beneath the details—layer upon layer of story that muddy up the process of discovery. Why conceal it? To quote Jack Nicholson’s famous line from the movie A Few Good Men . . .

“You can’t handle the truth.”

The truth is, once the layers of a story begin to accumulate, once personal involvement becomes so thick and entangled in the details, and once a step or two is taken across the line that exists between honesty and deception, well, handling the truth means handling the history related to that truth. For some people, it’s impossible to go there, to live there . . . with truth.

Handling truth. Handling lies. This has been my portion over this past week, sorting out the intricate details of a civil case. With the invaluable aid of the other eleven jurors sitting next to me, we did our best to dig through the layers of one particular story. In doing so, we reached a conclusion based on the minimal amount of evidence presented to us.

Yesterday afternoon, we walked away from one another and back into our own lives—our personal stories that now include a chapter called Room 327. The truth? Well, I think some of it remains back in that courthouse, buried in the hearts of the plaintiff and defendant involved in the case. Between the two of them, truth exists. I’m fairly confident in my conclusion, though, that neither one of them willingly wants to handle it. The story is so deep and its layers so thick that truth no longer has a commanding voice in the matter, perhaps only a faint whisper every now and again.

Handling truth. Putting our hands on the Bible and promising to tell it, so help us God.

So . . .

Help us, God. Help me, God. To handle the truth. To reverently, passionately, confidently, and with full assurance hold truth. Speak truth. Mean what I say and say what I mean. Put my hand on the Bible and have it signify something . . . signify everything, knowing that as I live my life before men, I first and most importantly live my life before God.

God is Truth (see John 14:6). He knows truth. And when I have failed to get to the truth of the matter as it pertains to my own life and to the lives of others, God alone holds the key to perfect understanding. He has sorted out the details, sifted through the layers, and that which remains hidden to us (sometimes by us) has already been found by him. Truth cannot be concealed from God’s eyes; truth is revealed . . . always, ever-present and crystal clear. Sometimes, however, our vision is blurred by the fig leaves we use to hide our many sins, our shame, and the overwhelming pride that led us to believe we could live independently from truth.

To live truthfully, is to bow soul-naked before God. Those unwilling to do so are those who have no fear of God. Instead, they fear man, a tangible fear to be certain. But it’s not an eternal fear. If we could really take hold of the everlasting, take hold of the truth that what is happening down here on planet earth is but a dress rehearsal for what is to come for our eternal tomorrows, then we’d no longer have to place our hands on the Bible and swear our allegiances to truth. We’d just live truth. Our word would be our oath and our souls would breathe easier. Our crosses would be fewer and our burdens lightly carried.

Handling truth. How goes it in your own life? Where does your allegiance lie? Who do you fear most . . . man or God? When was the last time you bowed soul-naked before your Creator and allowed him to sort through the layers of your story to get to the truth? You may not be able to handle the truth, but God can. God does. God is. And with the help of his Holy Spirit, he will release you from the fig leaves that are preventing you from your freedom walk in this earth-garden.

I pray that kind of freedom for each one of you today. I’m praying it for myself, to live so honestly before God and before you that we don’t have to waste a moment in the courtroom of life to get to the truth.

The truth is . . . my soul has been profoundly affected by my experience this last week. My heart is open to all the ways that God may want to use it to teach me more about him, more about his people, and how better to live that more in this earth-garden until he calls me home to his heavenly one.

Soul naked before the Father. Even so I come, Lord Jesus. Teach me to handle your truth. As always, friends . . .

Peace for the journey,

Five Years of Peace

Five years ago, I started this blog.

  • Five years.
  • Half a decade.
  • 1826 days.
  • One-ninth of my life.
  • 555 posts.

Who knew it could be done? I certainly didn’t . . . not back then. Back then, I was just a little girl dreaming about collected words—thoughts yet unreleased in the previous eight-ninths of my life. Back then, I didn’t know a thing about blogging; I just dove in one day, swimming in the thought of it all, and here I am, five years later still paddling my arms and drifting with the current wherever it carries me.

I never thought it would last this long. Never. Honestly, I never had a plan. I’ve just kept at it, one word at a time. Looking back, I’ve crammed a lot of life into these past five years and chronicled it accordingly. A recorded history of messy faith wrestled out in front of an audience.

Interesting then, that I should I come across a passage of scripture this week, undetected by me in the entirety of the nine-ninths known as my journey on planet earth.

“Here are the stages in the journey of the Israelites when they came out of Egypt by divisions under the leadership of Moses and Aaron. At the Lord’s command Moses recorded the stages of their journey. This is their journey in stages:” (Numbers 33:1-3, NIV)

A journey in stages. Forty years. Forty stops along the way. Chronicled at the command of the Lord. A recorded history of messy faith wrestled out in front of an audience—us.

Why? Because maybe, somewhere in the Israelites’ stages—those “starting places” according to the New American Standard Version of the Bible—we find ourselves, and we collect God’s strength for the journey ahead.

Our path to Canaan is not unlike the one the Israelites traveled. There are many stages along the way. Pauses that shape us; pauses that launch us. Starting places, not ending ones. No, never ending ones, not yet. The Lord hasn’t set us on this course to finish us here. Our finish comes later—in a stage just beyond this one. Until then, we mark our course, and we leave a trail of faith so that those who step behind us won’t have to wonder where we’re headed.

I suppose that’s the sum total of what’s been done over these past five years—this one-ninth of my recorded history. Stages and starting points of a messy, unglamorous faith. In it all, I hope that I’ve written more truth than fiction, more faith than doubt. Most importantly, I pray that these posts serve as sign-posts–not so much in regards to where I’ve been, but even more so to where I’m heading.

Thank you for walking alongside me, readers, and for allowing me to join you in your journeys of faith these past five years. It’s been a beautiful stage of grace, a starting point for many deep, enduring friendships. It’s hard for me to imagine another five years’ worth of words at this cyber address, so I won’t go there . . . won’t plan a moment of it. Instead, I’ll walk on in faith and with gratefulness for every seed of grace that’s grown in this place.

This is my journey in stages.

I walk it with Peace.

time . . .

 

“We’re growing older, realizing we cannot stop the hands of time.”

So said my elder friend in her annual Christmas greeting to my family. I felt the profundity of her proclamation. It’s nothing new; it just hit me harder this go around, struck me in the center of my heart. We’ve all heard it before, maybe even said it a time or two, a comment about our inability to halt the progression of time.

I’m not sure I really want to . . . stop time, but there have been a few occasions when I’ve felt some pain regarding its passage. At the core, I imagine it’s my desire to hold more of it . . . to manage time and to dispense it as I see fit. I find this yearning in others as well. It’s not always obvious, but every now and again, someone lets it slip . . . a word or two of regret that lingers as sadness rather than fond remembrance.

I heard it from my daughter’s lips on Christmas day when she realized that her unwrapping was over. Instead of savoring each gift, she tore into her treasures and could only watch as the rest of us lingered with our piles. She couldn’t stop the clock, and while tucking her in bed that evening, I saw the tears welling in her eyes as hope disappeared into the night with her whisper, “I wish we could do it all over again; I wish tomorrow were Christmas.”

I heard it in myself on Christmas day while listening to the CD my husband made for me of my eldest son’s 1998 cassette rendition of “It’s Carol Time”—song after song of Nick singing a cappella his favorite carols from the hymnal. In 1998, he was nine years old—a boy just discovering his voice via a microphone and a tape player. In 2012, a man now twenty-three, still discovering his voice. And I cried at the passage of time—this brief blip on the radar of my life that came and went by rapidly, almost without notice.

I heard it in my mother’s voice during a phone conversation this afternoon . . . a word or two that led me to believe there’s more to the story than meets the eye. That the passage of time has her, too, wondering about the swiftness of it all. A Christmas come and gone with but a few, brief memories that might easily fade with time.

Three generations of Killian women, all of us thinking on and digging into the depths of what it means to live a life too hastily and to know that no matter our longings, we cannot slow the hands of time. We can only live time as time arrives.

It’s a difficult thing to weigh it all out, especially when emotions run wildly and hearts are easily wounded by realities that cannot be manipulated, only experienced. Perhaps this is why so many of us struggle this time of year. We’re positioned for remembrance, for reflection. We don’t get to manage the calendar. December 25th comes for all of us, whether or not we’re prepared for its arrival. It’s thrust upon us, and we must walk it through.

Yes, we’re fine with remembering the Savior’s birth; his story lived way back then. But what about ours . . . our right now? Christmas also positions us to remember the birth of other things, other seasons in our lives; in doing so, we live the weightiness of the passage of time. It can be a grievous contemplation; accordingly, it shouldn’t be overlooked or underestimated. Instead, it should be given room enough to breathe, thereby allowing our grief a good release, a tilling up of the soil that cradles grief’s roots for the new seeds that God longs to plant therein—a fresh planting of the Lord to supplement the soil of our yesterdays.

If we cannot heartily grieve, then we cannot healthily move forward. We must acknowledge the pain that we feel regarding the passage of time; in doing so, we’re better prepared for the steps that lie ahead. Carrying grief or carrying regret into our tomorrows will limit forward progression. This doesn’t mean we can’t or shouldn’t feel it; it simply means that we should live it as it arrives—recognize it, speak it, and give it the respect its due. This is how we gain better perspective. This is how we live truthfully before God and before his created. This is how we work it out and release some of the heaviness attached to time’s seemingly, increasing cadence.

We are growing older, friend, with each moment we’re allowed. It’s true; we cannot stop the flow of time. We can, however, live our moments authentically, wholly, and wonderfully engaged with the process. I don’t know what this will look like for you in coming days, but for me, it looks like this—a stringing together of a few words and thoughts from time to time that most accurately portray the stirrings of my heart. Perhaps they will stir yours as well, allowing you a moment or two of reflective pause, enabling you to put a few words to your story. If so, then this has been time well spent—sixty minutes of my life that I cannot reclaim, only release forward . . . to you. Do with them what you will; live them as you are able. Live your moments as they come so that you, too, can release them to your history with highest regard and without terrible regret.

And just in case you’re wondering, you mean the world to me. The time that you give to me is a rich grace from God. I love you each one.

Peace for the journey,

 

When a Friend Walks Away . . .

 

There it is again . . . that trigger that sends my mind spiraling. Accordingly, here are my tears, falling into my water bucket. I no longer know the identity of the wetness that soaks my rag and buries the floor in mop water. I scrub and scrub, trying to wash away the mess that has accumulated on old tile. It doesn’t seem to matter; the shine’s not what it used to be. It stays buried beneath old woundings, refusing the work and will of the sponge attached to the effort.

When, God? When will this floor heal?

When, God? When will my heart heal?

I have a festering wound. It’s been with me for awhile, almost two years now. Most days I don’t notice it, but every now and again, the trigger flares up, and the hurt returns. I’m tired of carrying it. I’m tired of feeling it. I just want to let it go and move on. Perhaps there are some of you who feel the same way; you’ve been hurt, and the corresponding ache fills your heart every time you think upon it. You feel isolated from the world that was supposed to understand you and accept you, most days in spite of you. Instead of receiving you, the world has rejected you, or at least the two or three who purported friendship with you only later to deny your existence.

Almost as if you weren’t there.

My hurt has resulted from a post I wrote about a popular, Christian book after it made its debut. I thought my review was fair and gracious. Others thought otherwise. The review has since been removed from my blog, not because I don’t believe in the words I wrote back then but rather, because, I was wounded by the responses I received from others. My skin isn’t thick; my skin is tender, my heart even more so.

Almost immediately after writing that post, my readership declined; not casual readers or those who happened upon me via a Google search, but those I counted as friends. They just walked away with no explanation (one of the reasons behind my growing disdain for social media . . . it’s just too easy to walk away from one another). Oh, they never said this review was the reason for their departure. They didn’t have to. Sometimes a heart just knows; sometimes discernment is easy.

And so, I’ve carried this ache for a long time, and I can no longer pretend it doesn’t hurt. I see those friends out in the social media world when I take my daily stroll in cyberspace. I’ve kept tabs on them, hoping that something would change, that they’d move back into my world. But they haven’t, and it’s time for me to let go of what I thought was friendship and begin to release myself from this obligation to matter to them. They no longer wish to be here, and while this reality hurts me, I no longer wish to cater to this pain.

This isn’t a game to me, friends. What I do here matters to me. You matter to me. I’ve spent nearly five years building relationships with some of you, and I thank you for affording me God’s good grace, even when I’ve not always said what you wanted to hear. I don’t always get it right, but I’m always willing to try, always willing to be honest about my struggles, my failures, and my triumphs.

Shouldn’t we do better at loving one another? Shouldn’t we live grace rather than just talk about it? When we make an investment into the hearts of one another, shouldn’t we stick around for the outcome? Maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t expect so much from my readership. Maybe then, it wouldn’t hurt so much when someone walks away. Maybe.

Tonight, I’m wondering about it all, and I’m asking God to heal my hurt and to show me how to make my heart a good fit with this forum. Tonight, I needed to say a few things and begin to flesh out how I’m going to move forward in this space. How am I supposed to write heart-words without risking heart-wounds? I don’t think it’s possible.

And so, I’ll scrub a little longer. Stay on my hands and knees and keep at my floor cleaning until something beyond old tile and accumulated mess begins to emerge . . . until I see the shine. God kneels with me. Even when the world walks away and distances itself from me, God sees me. He doesn’t play games with my affection, nor does he play by the rules when it comes to dispensing his love. Instead, he receives my affection and loves me beyond the rules, beyond the limits of what’s reasonable.

He is where the heart begins to heal. He is when the heart begins to heal.

Tonight. Right now. In this moment.

Even so, Lord Jesus, come and shine me up with the generous love and favor that belongs to me as your daughter. I want to keep loving, keep writing my heart, and keep showing up in this place. Heal my wounds and bring discernment to my spirit. Help me to forgive, and help me to move on. Remove the accumulated mess from my heart, and replace it with a fresh cleansing of grace. Thank you for always kneeling to my need and for never leaving my side. Amen. 

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