I Am Scared

Anyone who sets himself up as “religious” by talking a good game is self-deceived. 

This kind of religion is hot air and only hot air. 

Real religion, the kind that passes muster before God the Father, is this: 

Reach out to the homeless and loveless in their plight, 

and guard against corruption from the godless world.

James 1:26-27 (Message)

"There's a situation, sir, across the sea..."

The man looked up from his computer screen, eyes tired behind the horn-rimmed glasses, the ones his wife insisted he wear. He rubbed them wearily.

"What situation?"

"People, sir. They're washing up."

"Washing up? What do you mean, washing up? Washing clothes? Quitting their jobs? Cleaning themselves?"

"No, sir, they're coming onto shore in boats and rafts. Even innertubes, sir. They have no papers. They have no money. Mostly women and children, sir. They have no food."

The man took the glasses off, holding them carefully by the expensive frame, and sat back in his chair to get a better view of his visitor.

"Across the sea, you say? How is this our business?" He was annoyed. So many issues, so little time. Interruptions and distractions. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose where the glasses usually rested, his eye caught movement on the television screen in the waiting room outside of his office. Past his visitor. Rude of him, really, to look past the other man, but the image, in focus now, compelled him. Ragged people, eyes too big for their heads, tent camps and fences. Refugees. 

The news agencies were all over the situation. The one across the sea. Not here. Funny to be told about it and see it, almost simultaneously. Not here. Not our problem.

"How is this our business?" He asked the question again, but even as he asked, he waved his hand dismissively at the screen in the other room. His visitor blinked at the gesture and turned to see the news report. A long moment passed before he turned back, tears in his eyes.

"We should help, sir. They need..."

Interrupting, the man behind the computer replaced his glasses and looked back at the screen.

"Not today. Not our problem. Not our mess."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm scared."

"Me too."

Tuesday school, her daughter jokingly called it. Tuesday morning Women's Bible Study class. They were studying the Old Testament - all of the good kings and bad kings - all of the judges and heroes. They were at the years of captivity, Babylon, and the worshipping of idols and the killing of babies. Horrible things. Unbelievable things. 

But the conversation today was not about scripture; it was about the terrible events on the news. Shootings. Bombings. Terror. And the refugee crisis in Syria, home of ISIS, the worst of the offenders. Horrible things. Unbelievable things. Scary things.

"Did you hear the President's speech? About Syria and the refugees? He wants to let 10,000 more come over here."

"Ten thousand? That's more than our whole town! We only top out at a little over seven. Thousand. And that's counting every, single man, woman, and child. And probably a few hound dogs..." With a little smile. To lighten up the situation. "Aren't we already doing enough? Remember when we started the backpack program for the kids? Twenty. We wanted to feed twenty. Now it's up over three hundred."

"And the Peace meals. Don't forget those."

"Ten thousand. Imagine. I read about it on Facebook the other day - one of those newsfeed articles. There are millions coming over the borders over there. With just the clothes on their backs. Because their homes are gone - they've been bombed. And the men are coming in - taking girls, taking women, taking boys." Tears threatened to overflow the dam of eyelash and mascara.

"I say we need to take care of our own. Right here. I mean, what if some of those terrorists sneaks into the group the President is talking about? It's just not smart to take that kind of chance - like inviting those people right into our own backyard... It scares me.

"Me too."

_________________________________________________

"What do you see?"

"I see postings, left and right, for and against, controversy and agreement. Heated, argumentative, pleading, and divisive."

"Good. Social media is an excellent tool for stirring up. What do you hear?"

"Fear. Whispers in the dark, heads in the sand, voices of avoidance. I hear thoughts: not me, not here, and let someone else."

"Ah... wonderful. Our plan is working. Can you feel it?"

"I feel terror."

"Yes. Can you smell it?"

"I smell Death."

"Yes. The end is near - our long-awaited victory. Yes."

Heavenly Father, 

I can only imagine the power for good 

that would be released into this world if 

we followed your Son - 

Love the Lord, your God, and Love one another. 

Help us to be united in these two. 

Grant us wisdom to see through curtains of controversy - strengthen us to glorify you. 

And Father, walk beside the homeless, the hungry, and the broken - 

comfort them, heal them, give them hope,
And help us to help them. 

In the holy name of your Son, Jesus, 

Amen.



Linking with Unite, #TellHisStory

Dance

Sierra, showing off some dance moves....

...praise his name with dancing

and make music to him with timbrel and harp.

For the Lord takes delight in his people;

Psalm 149:3-4 (NIV)

Maybe it's part of being a mom. I'm just not as interested in my own affairs, as I am in figuring out and enjoying my daughter. Or my husband. Or my dogs. Or just about anyone else who wanders into the orbits of our family solar system... yes, it's Five-Minute Friday and whatever comes into my brain is getting typed and sent out. Eeek!

It's true, though. I honestly am finding other people to be oh-so-fascinating. Maybe it's not motherhood, just a level of maturity... Yes, I can discuss an endless list of 'doings' and 'activities' - but they only touch the surface of this dance we call life.

Dance - it's the word of the day. It makes me smile. Images of my daughter, faithfully executing dance moves in front of the Wii - controller in hand, or tucked inside her zumba belt, riding out the dance on her hips. "It's my favorite", she laughs, as she follows song after song.

They are all her favorite. I've said it before - she's an equal-opportunity-type girl and this is a lesson she's taught me. It's not necessary to prioritize. How freeing is that? When everything brings joy?

I remember thinking of love as an unquantifiable. If you love, you love completely. You can't give just a little bit of love. It's an all or nothing kind of thing. Untouchable. Abstract.

Until you see it in action.

"Remain in my love." 

"I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete."

"My peace I give you."

What wonderful gifts!

What a life we live!

David danced his joy in front of God and his people. He danced out of sheer exuberance and into praise. I don't know how coordinated he actually was - my husband is also a warrior who doesn't necessarily 'dance' - my inclination is that David, dancing with all his might, probably looked a little awkward - at least in Michal's eyes. Michal who judged, right?

"Make a joyful noise to the Lord!" I was given the gift of grace when trying to keep up with a first reading of new music in the middle of a choir of music majors. Ergh! Notes, rhythm, words. How in the world did they get all three on the first go-round? The book says 'make a joyful noise - it doesn't say you have to sing it perfectly' - Grace. From the gentleman sitting next to me.

The point? I believe we were made to celebrate. To celebrate God, to celebrate life, to celebrate each other. We have options. We can stand on the sidelines and judge, or we can participate.

Wholeheartedly. Whole body - whole voice - with complete love, complete joy, and complete peace.

Everything can be our favorite.

You are Here

It's Five-Minute Friday, where I join a community of writers on a one-word prompt. Five minutes. Just five minutes to write, and in that writing, to incorporate the one word. No editing, no rewriting, no going back. The prompt this week is: here.

You are here
Like at the mall
And I'm looking at the shop directory
The map with the yellow star
Just past the Food Court
Fragrance of Cinnabuns
Like fine perfume
I have to find the restroom

You are here
I watch the blue dot
On my phone
Move along a black thread
Untangled from back roads
Hay bundles litter the fields
Furred checkers
On a titan gameboard
Fresh breath of clean

You are here
The U-haul orange
Almost hits the eaves
Ramp clanks
Dolley-wheels squeak
Garage door rumbles open
Empty house
Soon-to-be filled
Smells like emptiness

You are here
My finger points to the number
Chapter and verse
My daughter's bible
On her lap in church
Next to the journal
Where she copies holy words
Of grace and love
I inhale her innocence and
Exhale prayers for her safety

You are here.
On this journey
In this place
Wrapped in His arms
Peace to you

You are here.

Not Perfect for the Worms

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, 

that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.

John 3:16 (KJV)

Yesterday was, in the words of my daughter, a good day. The full moon reflected light across our neighborhood; it was Oh-dark-thirty when we walked down the driveway, across the road, and climbed into the jeep. Sierra, with her backpack slung over her shoulder, tenderly carried our breakfast - two boxes of sugary-pastry snacks, to eat on the trip to the river. Her pack was ready; ipad, a chapter book, a workbook, and a bag full of colored markers. My husband and I both carried bags - lunch, waterbottles, extra jackets, bait, poles...

By the time we arrived at our special fishing spot, the moon was a distant memory and the sky showed promise of beautiful blue.

I sat on the back of the boat, trying to throw my line into precisely the right patch of sunlight and weeds, the perfect place where I knew my fish was lurking. The breeze molded the water into precious waves, breaking on the shore and whispering through the rushes, like an instrumental accompaniment to the singing of each cast and plunk - musical and fulfilling.

It was a perfect time.

I looked around and stretched my arms out wide to my husband, my daughter, and the lake - an all inclusive hug, and I said it out loud. "This is perfect."

Then I spied the bait container. I'll bet it's not perfect for the worms. I know, I couldn't help myself.

So, here's the thing. We live with perspective, we see the world through a particular point of view. Ours. Some of us, at times, try on a different perspective, a different way of seeing, a different point of view. 

I was sitting in church today, listening to the message about John 3:16. God SO loved the world --- he loved ALL of the world, not just our little corner and our little opinions, ALL of his creation. ALL his creatures, ALL of mankind, ALL of US. He still does. He even loves those who don't love him back, those who don't love anyone else, those who don't love themselves. 

Something to think about...

Linking with Janis, and Charlotte

How Do You Choose?

Welcome to Five-Minute Friday, where writers madly scramble to respond in five minutes to a one-word prompt. No editing, no revisiting, just the page, the thoughts, the words, and the timer. The word today: Free. 

Our Creator was. And is. And is to come.
Eons passed in His Void before He spoke.
From His breath, emptiness became.
Darkness, light, heavens, earth, oceans, and sky.
All that we know, all that we are, fashioned and molded
Lovingly, purposefully, with great gentleness and quiet command.

Thou shalt not eat of the tree...

But we did. And we do. And we will continue.
Children of Mighty Jehovah
Created with free will

And there are wars.
And there is poverty,
And slavery,
And abuse.
Neglect,
Manipulation,
Great sadness,
And terror.

But there is also kindness.
There is sacrifice,
And humility,
And community,
Joy,
Hope,
Seeds of faith,
and grace.

Created with free will.

How do you choose?

I wanted to respond to the shooting in Chattanooga, a terrorist act against our military. My husband is military. I am military. I remember the shooting on Fort Hood. The shut-down of schools - the scrambling to pick up my daughter - the frantic phone calls and text messages to know that my husband was safe. For our family, peace in the moment. For others, a forever reminder that our world is not. Not  

And now this. Again. It is one thing to know, intellectually, from a distance, that we are hated. It is another to feel it, see it, in acts of terror in our own home. 

The problem is free will. The answer is free will. In all things. I choose to not be frightened by circumstances, both beyond my control and beyond my comprehension because I believe in Jesus Christ, my Savior, and my hope for a new world. A better world. A world I will be a part of. I choose hope. I choose love. I choose joy.

The Strongest Thing

This post is a continuation, in a way, of A Fragile Thing.

For I am convinced 

that neither death 

nor life, 

neither angels 

nor demons, 

neither the present 

nor the future, 

nor any powers, 

neither height 

nor depth, 

nor anything else in all creation, 

will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:38-39 (NIV)

Imagine this:

A young man walks into a church during bible study on a weekday morning. He sits in the church for an hour, listening. Impressed by the kindness he is shown, he almost doesn't do what he came to do. But a voice whispers to him. A voice in the recesses of his soul. A familiar voice. A voice of darkness. "Do it."

And he does. He opens fire on the very people he has been sitting with, killing eight with multiple gunshots. A ninth dies at the hospital. He tells them they have to die. That voice has taken over his life.

Days later, the survivors gather at the young man's hearing. They tell him what he has stolen from them. They show him the depth of their sorrow. And then, they forgive him. There just isn't room in a heart for hatred and love. They choose love.                                                   Find the article here.                             

This is a strong thing.

Imagine this:

An infant is adopted from abandonment. He is terrified of people. He has been diagnosed with a language disorder. He has a sensory processing disorder. He is not an easy child to enjoy. And yet, his mom takes him out, to explore places, to be with people, to interact and intermingle - always hoping beyond hope that he will connect.

And he does. To a stranger at a rodeo. He laughs and giggles, and discusses the bulls. The mother sits by in tears because a miracle has happened. Her heart is full at the kindness of that stranger, the one who chose to love a boy unconditionally.                                                     Find the article here.

This is a strong thing.

Imagine this: 

A young woman with Down syndrome is preparing to graduate high school. She is excited to do and be like the other graduates. She is excited about the robe, and the hat, the diploma, the ceremony. But she can't do it all by herself, independently. She can't quite wrap her intellect around the alphabetical order, the turn this card in at that table at this time, the lining up and the marching in, the waiting your turn. It's all confusing.

A young man, about to graduate himself, with honors and a scholarship to play football, on a day when it should be all about him, chooses to take this young woman under his wing. Into his care. He does it out of kindness. The kindness of a stranger enables the young woman to soar through the ceremony, without helicopter adults; she is doing and being like the other graduates. It is a gift.

Read about it here, here, and here.

This is a strong thing. 

Imagine this:

El, the Master of the Universe, created day and night and all that they encompass with His holy breath. He formed creatures to inhabit the air, the sea, and land. Then He made man and He made woman. These He made in His own image, companions to each other and to Him. He gave them His world, His universe. He gave them free will. He saw that all was well and good.

Free will includes temptation. It includes enticement. It includes choices. The man and the woman made a choice that separated them from the face of El. It was a disobedient choice. It was sin. And sin then became a part of who they were, separate from their Maker. Sin was separate from good. All was no longer well.

But El, still loved his creation. Unconditionally. Even when they wronged and disrespected His wishes. Even when they allowed the not good to ruin them, to ruin the earth, to ruin the creatures. And He made a plan to redeem them.

Through selfless love, He came to earth. Fully man and fully God. Through selfless love, He experienced hurt and pain, hunger and sickness, violence and greed. Blameless He allowed Himself to be sacrificed. For the sins of men. He experienced punishment and returned grace. He experienced thirst, and returned mercy. He experienced hatred, and returned forgiveness.

Through selfless love, He changed the world.

This is the strongest thing.

"If we could imagine the love of one who loves men purely for their own sake, and not because of any need or desire of his own, purely desires their good, and yet loves them wholly, not for what at this moment they are, but for what he knows he can make of them because he made them, then we should have in our minds some true image of the love of the Father and Creator of mankind."  --O.C. Quick

Heavenly Father,

Thank you for your love, your unconditional, all-powerful, inseparable love.

Help us to remember to love others as you have loved us.

It can change the world.

It is the strongest thing.

Linking with: The Sunday Community, Monday's Musings, Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood, RaRaLinkup

A Fragile Thing

Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. 
Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. 
Ephesians 3:17 (NLT)

Fragile: 

• (of an object) easily broken or damaged, flimsy or insubstantial, easily destroyed
• (of a person) not strong or sturdy, delicate or vulnerable

-Web definition from Google search

We are at chapel. My daughter is wearing her favorite blue dress, the one I bought her for a homecoming dance four years ago. She is excited this morning, and has been telling me about her 'friends' on the short ride over, the chaplains and their wives whose names she has learned in the past few months of attending. She tells me that Cody will be out of town, but his wife, Jenn will be there. She tells me she is a leader; she has a job. She tells me she is a good usher. 

We walk through the door into the back of the sanctuary together. We are early. I watch her look around at the people who have arrived before the service, like us. I see her eyes light up as she spots those she knows. We find a seat. Her friends are spread out, mingling and talking. They are all engaged. I sense her impatience; she wants to say 'hi.' She wants to say 'Happy Father's day'. She wants to mingle and talk.

I tell her that she can't interrupt. She needs to wait. So she sits next to me; she's smiling in anticipation. I'm proud of her; this is social maturity. She is learning. 

I see her favorite chaplain break away from his conversation. She sees him, too. I nod my ok and she jumps up to greet him. She says all the things I expect and more. She asks him if he likes her dress. She tells him her father has a cold. She tells him where we had lunch yesterday. He smiles and nods; I can see he tries very hard to understand her. From my seat, I tell him that yes, we had a great day with lunch out, and no, unfortunately my husband has a cold so will not be at chapel...I want to translate without making her think she's spoken wrong, and without him feeling like a frustrated listener.

This is a fragile thing.

The ushers are called to the front and the plates passed out. My daughter doesn't get a plate. She doesn't understand. I anticipate her confusion even before her arms raise and lower in question. Her friend of the do-you-like-my-dress conversation rescues two more offering plates from behind the pews in the front. He hands one to my daughter. I see her breath of relief. I hear her voice in my head: I am an usher. 

This is a fragile thing.

I think about the responsibility of holding someone's esteem. I think about how it must feel to realize someone has gone out of their way to see you, to speak with you, to listen to you. To be with you. How do you handle the attention? Do you watch what you say, realizing that your words are an influence? Do you want to make sure you listen well? Do you want to rescue them? Teach them? Build a relationship with them? Respect them? 

This is a fragile thing.

It is humbling. It is heavy. I think of depending on, living for, trusting. I think of parents and teachers. I think of friendships. I think of outside influences and pressure. I think of self esteem and confidence.

These are fragile things.

I think of Jesus.  I think of God.  I think of love. 

Love through Christ is not a fragile thing.

Heavenly Father,

Thank you for your mighty love. 

Help us to recognize our fragile things and to cover them with your strength, 
your kindness, your compassion, your righteousness.

Thank you for placing people in our lives who demonstrate how this is done.

You are amazing. 

Linking with Sunday Stillness, and Spiritual Sundays

All the Time

This is a 4000-word Curio story. It may be too long for blog-hopping. But if you decide to stay, this is the scoop about Curio stories; they are my way of working out questions I have. I have written two others, one about the Garden of Eden, and one about Curio's Show and Tell. This story helped me sort out the question of if God is good, why....  I realize it is not a complete explanation and I relied very heavily on essays by C. S. Lewis. He, in fact, is Curio's professor in this story.

God is good.

All the time.

All the time.

God is good.

Curio was confused.  Again.  It seemed like every day there was something.  Something to make her squirmy, uncomfortable, doubtful, or like today, just plain confused.

She focused on the words she had written.  The gold ink reflected the light and they glimmered and shone on the page. It wasn't the first sentence she was having difficulty with.  Those words glowed.

God is good.  Yes, He was. Glowingly, wonderfully, sparklingly good.  Just the thought of Him lifted her spirit, like effervescent bubbles that tickled the nose, like a spray of water on a hot day, like goosebumps on the underside of her wings that stood her delicate down on end. She bounced a little on her seat; she just couldn't contain her enthusiasm for her good God.

It was the second part, the frequency part that had her stymied, that almost had her cross-eyed with frustration. All the time? Really? Did that mean always and forever, continuously without rest? As in time never-ending? An infinite line of goodness? Or did it mean each and every incident, every single action? She pictured the heavens filled with infinite points of goodness, spinning and swirling into galaxies of kindness and decency, into universes of righteousness. But if there were points of goodness, then it followed there would also be points of not-so-goodness, of nothing-ness, and even, perhaps, of bad-ness. Wouldn't it?

Curio could list lots of examples where it didn't seem like her good God was good at all. When it seemed like her good God might be acting a little to the left of good. She started to count, extending her fingers in recitation. It didn't feel very good when her friend Patience lost her temper and huffed away without a word. It didn't feel very good when she stubbed a wingtip playing 'Roll the Halo'. It didn't feel very good when she went to bed with no supper just because she had stretched the truth a little. And those were just a start.

What about the news she was hearing, like distant thunder, of war and pestilence, of hunger and disease, of fear and anxiety? Again, Curio stared at the words on the parchment before her. All the time. 

She couldn't stop her hand from raising; it crept into the air above her head, stopping and starting, stopping and starting. Face warm, stomach shaking, wings all aquiver, she blurted out one, single word...


"But.."

"But, what?" Voice calm, the Substitute Teacher focused on the trembling, little angel.

"But, He's not good ALL the time." Her voice was very, very quiet, and her eyes were filling with tears.

Curio found it impossible to look at her classmates; she was so distressed. Why, oh why had she interrupted a perfectly good lesson? No matter how much she wiggled or squirmed in her seat, she couldn't push herself any further down; she couldn't make herself invisible. She felt miserable. Case in point, she wasn't feeling so very good in this moment...

Hand down, now, she chanced a peek toward the man in the front of the room, the substitute. Without lifting her head, she looked past her lashes, peering from beneath the glow of her halo.

He was looking right at her. Her first inclination was to duck, but she chose, instead, to face him. A single tear dropped to her desk. Her lips smiled at the thought of showing this stranger her weakness, her emotional uncertainty, her lack of control. Not for the first time, she wished she could disappear.

Curio noticed his eyes first. They were soft brown, rich and loamy like the silkiest of clays. He had introduced himself as Jack, simply Jack and had insisted the class must call him that, without any honorifics or pretenses. The writing on the board, those simple four lines, which all the angels had dutifully copied into their notebooks, was his. English schoolboy, proper and precise. He was not dressed in heavenly robes and did not have wings, as other substitutes had. He wore earthly garb, a roomy, tweed coat with wide lapels, a comfortable sweater vest, and a double-windsor-knotted tie. He was, beyond a doubt, professor material, linguistics they had been told; and in those deep eyes, holding her gaze, she saw deep tenderness, and infinite kindness.

"Ah," his voice was as soft as his eyes. Abruptly, he turned and began taking measured steps, back and forth, back and forth, across the front of the classroom, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Curio could feel her classmates; she sensed their emotions, eddying and swirling like rainwater in a flooded drain spout, like waves in a tidal pool, like her own confusion, embarrassment, curiosity, and determination. Overflowing without release, pressing and pushing, jostling and splashing. As their professor paced, Curio noted other hands, some raising into the air tentatively, some thrust forcefully overhead, some waving frantically.

The Professor stopped his pacing and stood quietly. His posture commanded attention; without moving his head, Curio could see him acknowledge the fountain of raised hands. He cleared his throat softly and the fountain splashed apart, the hands lowered, uncertainly at first, and then faster, with purpose, until there was nothing left in the space between heads and ceiling except haloes and wings. The classroom was silent.

"What are the natures of God?" The Professor-named-Jack stood poised by the board, ready to write.

"He is all-knowing," Patience called out.

"And all-powerful," added Principio.

"He is all-loving." Wisdom's voice was just a whisper, but it cut through the silence like thunder.

Jack, using Curio's favorite gold marker, wrote:

• Omniscient, 
• Omnipotent, 
• Omnibenevolent

"Which of these is NOT good?" He turned to look at the class, angels sitting at the edges of their seats, quills poised. His half-moon eyebrows raised and lowered with the inflection of his question, causing his hairline to bob up and down. 

No one answered. 

Patiently, he pointed the marker to the first word. "God is all knowing. Do you agree? Can you think of any examples?"

Puppetlike, heads nodded and haloes glimmered and gleamed. Agapio raised his hand. "God knew the Babylonian king's dream." The professor nodded in agreement.

"God knew what David did to Uriel." This, from Honoria, blushing slightly.

"Circumstances. Do you agree? God knows events. Is there another kind of all-knowing? One that isn't incident oriented?"

Curio's hand shot into the air. Again, before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "Wisdom!"

The professor smiled, as much at her impatience as at the correctness of her answer. "Well done." She could tell he was pleased. It made her heart glad to please him.

He turned again to the board and added a definition: omniscient - all knowing, all wise, all seeing. Then he pointed to the next word: Omnipotent. "And this one," he asked, eyebrows raised slightly, causing lines on his forehead to wrinkle, giving him a slightly surprised expression. "Can you think of examples for this?" He looked over the class with his plowed forehead and quizzical smile.

"The plagues of Egypt...the great flood...Sodom and Gomorrah...the Tower of Babel...Jonah and the whale...Jonah and the worm...Isaac..." Titters and squeaks erupted through the room. "...yes, Isaac, and Jericho and Gilead..."

The response was immediate and loud. Not quite chaotic, and the professor practically danced in agreement to all. "Yes, yes!" He exclaimed, he sang, he shouted. "Words, phrases, thoughts, ideas!"

Titters and squeaks. Curio couldn't hide her smile of delight at the antics of this man. The classroom sparkled with amusement, none more than he, swirling with arms raised and coattails flapping. "Yes," he exclaimed again. Then his eyebrows drew together into a 'V' and his voice thundered, "Yes, power that created the universe with a WORD!"

And the angels sat delicately, dangerously, adoringly still, because another voice was booming through the room:

I am he; 

I am the first and I am the last.

My own hand laid the foundations of the earth,

and my right hand spread out the heavens;

"Is this power good?" Jack whispered into the silence after the storm.

Heads nodded solemn assent; Curio found herself balanced on the edge of her seat, wingtips pointed, toes curled against the straps of her sandals that barely touched the floor beneath her desk.

Next to the word Omnipotent, the professor had drawn and labeled columns, and placed headings over each: Creation and Destruction. "Categorize your examples, you may work together if you wish."

Curio moved next to her best friend, Patience, and they looked at the categories together, trying to remember the examples from the frenzy-before-the-voice.

"God created the earth," Patience began. Curio agreed, remembering the sound of HIS voice echoing foundations of earth...

"And the heavens," Curio added. They both scribbled Earth and Heaven in the first column.

The classroom was all abuzz with activity and discussion as the angels worked. "What about the Plagues of Egypt?" Curio, even as she voiced the question, was already writing Plagues under the second column; she remembered the destruction by the locusts, the biting flies, the river running red with blood, and she remembered the wailing of Egyptian families on the morning of the Passover. Unconsciously, she snugged her wings up next to her ears, soft, downy, sound-blocking, memory-fogging wings. Definitely destruction.

She stopped writing mid-word. Her mind had caught up to her hand. Destruction? She abruptly put her quill down and looked at Patience with horror. How could destructive power be good? Remembering the smell of sulpher and the raining of fire on the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, Curio felt queasy. Again, she heard screaming; she saw the burnt corpses, the scorched stone, she felt the groaning of the earth beneath toppling walls. Anytime? She remembered the panic from the rising waters of the flood, like a never-ending, incoming tide, the unstoppable, inexorable drowning of all that was green, all that breathed. Except for a lone ship floating like a cork above the waters, floating with the hope of a world. She was right back where she had started, feeling confused, and uncomfortable. Somehow guilty, somehow ashamed.

She knew what she needed to do, right there in the middle of the classroom, in the middle of the activity and noise. Carefully, Curio placed her quill on her parchment, then she folded her hands in her lap, trying hard not to hold them too tightly. Squeezing her eyes shut in an effort to push away from distractions, she tucked her head down, and prayed. "Oh God," she thought silently, lips moving with earnest sincerity, "Oh God, forgive me for thinking anything but good about you. Forgive me for doubting you. I am just a little angel, God, and you, you ARE. Thank you for all your works. All of them, because they are good, because you are good. God, I know you made me to glorify you. And I do, really. You are holy. You are awesome. You are God. And I'm not. So maybe you can help me understand a little of these things that confuse me. A little. God. If you want to. Thank you God."

Curio still had her eyes shut tightly; it was her ears that sensed a change in the room. It had just been a short prayer, but in that time, the noise in the classroom had gone from active to silent. Raising one eyelid from beneath her bowed head, Curio noted dropped jaws, wide eyes, and paralyzed quills. All of the angels had stopped writing. Angel mouths shaped like angel-O's, angel feathers in shocked disarray, angel halos tilted in unexpected surprise. Curio opened both eyes, swinging her head away from the stunned look on the face of her partner, to the front of the room where the Substitute Teacher stood by the board, with the two columns. He was the center of focus.

And he continued to be the center of undivided, scrupulous attention as he wrote each example Curio had so viscerally remembered, under both column heads: Plagues, Flood. She looked at the words, shining in gold marker, written fluidly, painstakingly in English schoolboy cursive, twins, commanding recognition as creative power as well as destructive power.

"Curio," the substitute's voice rang out, "How can this be? How is it possible for one event to occupy two columns?" She stifled a nervous giggle and pushed down her immediate thought: God's power makes it possible....get it?...it's the punchline to a celestial joke...tada-dum. Instead of blurting out her first thought, with a silent thank-you for help in controlling her tongue, she focused on the first word. Plagues. Yes, the plagues were, plain and simple, bad. But they helped Moses accomplish God's plan for the Hebrew slaves. They helped to soften Pharoah's heart. Out of Egypt was born Israel. The laws of Moses. The birthplace of the Messiah.

Curio's heart skipped a little beat in her excitement. And the Flood. The sinful world was destroyed but God gave the new world a promise of hope, with his rainbow. And He had chosen the survivors. Noah. Out of Noah, Shem. From Shem, Terah. From Terah, Abraham. Then the impossibility of Isaac. And so on, all the way across generations to Jesus, son of Mary, betrothed to Joseph of Nazareth.

God's destruction led to Redemption. To new life. To hope, to grace, to mercy.  To Love himself.

She began to talk, to explain, trying hard to control the pitch and speed of her words. She was so very excited about her conclusion. The words poured out, her thoughts and connections. She saw the other angels nodding and she smiled inwardly when she saw a couple of her friends give her the thumbs up. The professor still stood by the board with his gold marker. She was in the middle of reciting the lineage of Noah when she stopped short, her words arrested by a new thought. The professor was writing Sodom and Gomorrah in the Destruction column, and had paused and turned slightly toward her, perhaps waiting to hear how the annihilation of these cities was also redemptive, cause for new hope and life.

She couldn't think of anything. This was, in her mind, pure and simple destruction. And destruction couldn't possibly be good.

Could it?

Behold, I set before you the way of life and the way of death.

The voice, just as it had before, filled the air and spaces within the classroom. It ruffled wings, feathers rustled like leaves in a wind. The silence erupted into a chorus of sharply indrawn and expelled breath. The atmosphere tingled, Curio felt fine webs across her face, and knew them as echoes of power, charged and electric. She knew HIS voice and closed her eyes in anticipation of HIS glory.

"Ahem." Quietly, the professor cleared his throat, gathering the attention of the angels like a net gathers fish.

"Did I mention that this is not an easy lesson?" His brown eyes shone, a little tired, perhaps, yet his smile was full of light. He walked slowly down the aisle and stopped by Curio's desk. He smelled like soap and spice, and she thought she detected a faint hint of pipe tobacco. The scent of him, earthy and real, calmed her. He looked down and his smile widened. Curio noticed that he wore a pocketwatch, the chain draped elegantly from his vest. The initials CSL were engraved in a swirly monogram.

"Did I tell you," he was looking directly at Curio with this, "that this is one of the Great Debates in Christendom? That for some, it is the make-it-or-break it reason to believe or not to believe?"

Curio felt curiously relieved. Yes, she was still confused, but at least she wasn't the only one...

"But," he smiled very broadly at this, winking at Curio, "God is good."

"And," he continued, walking swiftly back to the front of the room, "We are about to unravel this debate." His words had quickened; his pitch had risen from baritone to tenor; his step could only be described as lively. Curio knew to get her quill ready because his excitement was contagious. She knew THIS was going to be good.

"The argument is: If God is good all the time, then all that God does must also be good. And because God is all-knowing and all-powerful, then He must be responsible for all things. If, however, there are bad things, then God can't possibly be good. At least not all the time.

Curio wrote his words as he spoke, nodding in agreement. He said it so easily, so clearly. She caught her breath at the thought of her good God, and the logic that was proving Him faulty.

"We've looked at God's omniscience. I believe we decided that the knowing, seeing, and wisdom were all good. Then, we started to look at His omnipotence, and we could see that redemption was part of the equation. And redemption is good. But we were faced by a conundrum about His goodness when we considered Sodom and Gomorrah. Now, let me remind you of an earlier event. Would you consider the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden to be an act of God's power? Yes? Was it God who caused Eve to sin? It was the serpent? Are you sure?"

Curio knew what he was leading to. The serpent could not have tempted Eve, if she had not had the ability to choose. If she had not been given the gift of free will. Honoria had her hand in the air.

"It was her choice. She chose the Tree of Knowledge, even after God told her not to. She made a bad choice."

"Bingo!" The professor, Just-call-me-Jack, was positively ebullient. "She chose. Was God responsible for her choice? Turn to page 212 in your textbook. Read the paragraph at the top of the page."

Curio was stunned. This was a new look at an old story. God created Eve with free will. If he hadn't... Concentrating, she flipped to page 212, it was a quote by a man called C. S. Lewis from his book Mere Christianity.

"God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go wrong or right. Some people think they can imagine a creature which was free but had no possibility of going wrong, but I can't. If a thing is free to be good it's also free to be bad. And free will is what has made evil possible."

The paragraph was only half read, when a stray thought came to Curio.  She had read C.S. Lewis before. She was very familiar with his delightful series about Narnia; she especially loved Aslan, the not-tame. The substitute liked to be called Jack; C. S. Lewis like to be called Jack. Hmm.... She continued reading.

Why, then, did God give them free will? Because free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata - of creatures that worked like machines - would hardly be worth creating. The happiness which God designs for His higher creatures is the happiness of being freely, voluntarily united to Him and to each other in an ecstasy of love and delight...And for that they've got to be free."

Oh my! HE wanted them to choose to obey; HE wanted them to choose to love HIM; HE wanted them to say Yes to HIM.

The professor continued. "So, what is good? You can be good for the mere sake of goodness; you cannot be bad for the mere sake of badness. You can do a kind action when you are not feeling kind and when it gives you no pleasure, simply because kindness is right; but no one ever did a cruel action simply because cruelty is wrong - only because cruelty is pleasant or useful to him, In other words, badness cannot succeed even in being bad in the same way in which goodness is good. Goodness is, so to speak, itself: badness is only spoiled goodness. And there must be something good first before it can be spoiled. There is but one good; that is God. Everything else is good when it looks to Him and bad when it turns from Him. "

Oh my! Curio was processing the professor's words. God was good all the time. Humans made bad choices. But how... how could her good God not KNOW those choices would be made? How could her good God allow a world with pockets of the absence of good?

“If God 'foresaw' our acts, it would be very hard to understand how we could be free not to do them. But suppose god is outside and above the Time-line... You never supposed that your actions at this moment were any less free because God knows what you are doing. Well, He knows your tomorrow's actions in just the same way--because He is already in tomorrow and can simply watch you. In a sense, He does not know your action till you have done it: but the moment at which you have done it is already 'NOW' for Him.”

Oh my! The cost of free will was sin. And God knew it as it happened. Curio thought back to the columns Creation and Destruction. She considered that word redemption. She thought about her good God, the God who always had a plan. A plan! Curio's quill knocked the inkwell off the desk, she raised her hand so quickly. She jumped up and down in her seat; she couldn't contain her excitement.

"My dear Miss Curio, is there something you'd like to share?"

She felt quite breathless and gulped a couple of times before squeaking out the precious name.

"Jesus."

The professor stood for a moment, beaming at the class. Then he abruptly turned to the board and wrote:

It costs God nothing, so far as we know, to create nice things: but to convert rebellious wills cost His crucifixion. 

She remembered a verse she had learned long ago, a verse about God loving the world so much that he gave his only Son...

She remembered the scars on the hands and brow of her Teacher. The scars she could see beneath his sandal straps. She remembered the day when 10,000 angels cried because God hadn't allowed a rescue, the day the veil in the temple split. Because, she now understood, God had planned an even greater rescue, an even more daring rescue than that of lifting a man from a cross. Any angel could lift a broken body, that was compassion. God-in-the-Flesh took on the sins of the world, even at the cost of the-Father-God turning his face away. And He died with those sins. He took them to the grave. That sacrifice, that undeserved suffering, THAT was love. And love was the ultimate good.

Omnibenevolent. She should have figured it out from the start. All-loving.

The substitute finished writing:

"But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.”

Curio couldn't help herself. She had to say it. It needed to be said, loud and clear and in a ringing voice:

God is good. All times. all the time, all of time, all through time.

The professor began to clap. Curio turned slowly where she stood, still breathless, and now flushed. He was clapping for Jesus. Her hands acted independently from her thoughts. She was clapping for Jesus. And for her good God - one and the same. Perfect love. She saw the other angels, her classmates, standing one by one. They joined in the Professor's applause.

Linking with TellHisStory, and Three-Word Wednesday

I Caught A Fish

I pray that out of his glorious riches 

he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, 

so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. 

And I pray that you, 

being rooted and established in love, 

may have power, 

together with all the Lord’s holy people, 

to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, 

and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—

that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Ephesians 3:16-19 (NIV)

"I caught a fish!" Her voice rose effervescently like bubbles in a soda. In her case, red cream soda, sweet, with a single note of vanilla. Uncomplicated. Like my daughter.

"I caught a fish, Mom!" She couldn't contain her excitement, bouncing up and down on the cushion of the pontoon sofa.

Here's the thing.

The fish was caught on the rod that my husband bought for her. The rod I set up with hook, and weights, and a red-and-white bobber. Not to mention a big, fat Canadian nightcrawler. It was caught while she was on the seat at the back of the boat eating lunch.

There is theology in this. Beside the symbolism of fishing.

She couldn't have been prouder as she watched me reel in her fish. On the line I had cast out, in a first effort to teach her to fish with us. Really, she was eating lunch. Really it was my fish. In my universe.

But in her universe, what was caught on her rod was hers and really, she couldn't have been more excited if she had set the hook and reeled the fish in herself. I know, because later, she actually did hook and reel in a fish, a little panfish, like the one I caught on her rod. And she was just as excited, equally thrilled, to do it herself as to see me do it with her pole. They were both her fish. And she didn't even mind when I unhooked them and tossed them right back into the river. They were, after all, too small to keep.

"Catch and release," I told her. Feeding new language into her life, preparing her for more boat trips, more fishing, more success.

It started this morning when my husband and I, drinking coffee in the office, were discussing our plans for the day. We were deciding where to take the boat, how long we'd be out, whether or not to take the dog. Sierra came down rubbing sleep from her eyes, moving in slow motion the way she does before her coffee. She walked to each of us for a morning hug and then into the kitchen to pour that cup of wake-up. Apparently her ears were on fine-tune mode despite the sleepy appearance. She brought her coffee to the desk, pulled up her chair, sat down, and proceeded to join our discussion.

"I not go." This in her no-nonsense voice.

"Sure you'll go," I brightened my voice, trying to convince her with my enthusiasm.

"I am twenty-four years old." Her comeback was to remind me that she is a young woman with Down syndrome, capable of making her own decisions. 

My husband looked at me over his cup of coffee. Smiling because he knew what she was saying, without words. He knew the second, unsaid part of her statement, the invisible part.

"Yes, you are twenty-four years old. And you're going fishing with us today. You like the boat. Make sure to pack your books and ipad." This is a redirect. The fishing isn't a choice, but what she brings with her is...

She moved to her favorite spot on the sofa at the mention of her ipad. It was time to catch up on Facebook. My favorite army guy and I continued talking about where and when and what for the day.

Voice from the sofa: "I can not go fishing on the boat. I do not have it, my fishing pole." Exact words, no kidding.

OK, this stopped our conversation cold. See, the backstory is, a couple of days ago we went fishing, and my husband dropped Sierra's pole while he was setting it up for Sierra to use. Well, yes, it dropped right off the side of the boat and we all watched as the bobber disappeared. Pole gone. Big oops. It happens.

But, what doesn't always happen, is Sierra's increasing sophistication in communicating. Two complete sentences with a plausible argument. Umm, wow.

So, we added 'new pole for Sierra' to our list of items we needed before our trip. She packed her own backpack so she'd have something to do with downtime. And we went fishing.

"I am fishing, Mom." This said from my colorful daughter, sitting on the edge of her seat, holding a pole with great tenderness and trepidation, eyes and attention focused on watching the red and white bobber floating. Right next to the boat. Lots of scaffolding, lots of help to promote her success in this new endeavor. Lots of encouragement, lots of repetition, lots of redirect.

There is theology in this.

Christianity is really simple sometimes. It's all about a sovereign God, keyword God, who is omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, and omnibenevolent. It is all about this sovereign God who made us in his image, gave us free will, and then continued to love us even when our choices went awry. Even when our choices led us away from him. It is all about the gift this sovereign God gave to us, the gift of himself, really, wholly God, yet willing to take on our own flesh in the form of his son Jesus, in order to redeem us to him. Because he loved us so much. Love that surpasses knowledge. It is all about the fact that God didn't create us to be alone, to stand solitary, to take on the world by ourselves. It is all about the fact that, through the blood sacrifice of Jesus, we have God in us - we have Godstrength, Godlove, Godforgiveness, Godcompassion, Godenthusiasm in us. We are filled to the measure with all of the fullness of God. Amazing.

I picture God in my life, working out the scaffolding, the support, the encouragement. I picture him sometimes a little impatient with the repetition, but infinitely patient bringing about result. I picture him managing the redirect. All for his plan. And that plan surrounds us. Always.

"I caught a fish."

Indeed.

Heavenly Father,

Thank you for your love. 

Thank you for your Son, Jesus. 

Thank you for this life that is so full of You - your love, your strength, your wisdom. 

Thank you for living parables, and for unexpected teachings. 

Thank you for grace unimagined.

Linking with Spiritual Sundays, Sunday Stillness, The Sunday Community
Monday's Musings, Tell Me a True Story, RaRaLinkup

Small and Full of Thanks

When I consider your heavens,

the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which you have set in place,

what is mankind that you are mindful of them,

human beings that you care for them?

Psalm 8: 3-4  (NIV)

Sometimes I just feel overwhelmingly small - just small.  One person in a world of people.  One world in a universe of worlds.  Small.  And I gasp at the wonder of this small - my infinitesimal life, because I know that God loves me.

He knows me.  He knows me and still he loves me.  He knows us all and still he loves.  He loves so much that he came to live with us - to be small with us.  He gave everything for us.  That is full-of-wonder wonderful.

And I am grateful.

Linking with Still Saturday, and Sunday Stillness

Pure in Heart

Blessed are the pure in heart,

for they will see God

Matthew 5:8  (NIV)

"Oops, I am messed up."

My daughter is telling me that she forgot to rinse her plate after lunch.  It's that am in there that gets me.  She inserts those little verbs to be in many of her statements.  Usually I find it charming.  Today.  Not so much.

I don't want her to think she's messed up.

Meet my daughter.  She is a 23-year old young woman with Down Syndrome.   She recently discovered the Down Syndrome part and insists on telling me at least once a day, if not more.  At first, I thought maybe she didn't really understand what she was saying - what having Down Syndrome meant.  But she kind of, sort of does.  I knew for sure because of an episode on Dancing With the Stars (DWTS) this past spring.

A little background.  There are three things you need to understand about my daughter.  One - my daughter loves reality TV.  She IS every contestant on every show: she chooses her team color on Survivor (before the merge, of course), she sits on the judges panel for American Idol, she renovates and designs for ALL the shows on HGTV - and points out all of the 'issues' in our house (I have chosen to be amused rather than alarmed).  Two - she ALWAYS picks the best-looking men on any show and calls them cutie pie.  And finally, three - she is an empathy master.  She feels the unspoken, the unacknowledged, the unheard.

So, we were watching a get-to-know-the contestant-better clip for James-the-cutie-pie on DWTS.  Somewhere in his celebrity life, he had received a video invite to the prom by a young woman with Down Syndrome named Hannah.  In the clip, he said he regretfully would not be able to accompany her because he was booked on that date.  So instead, he sent Hannah and her mom tickets to see him compete on the show.  I don't believe they ever mentioned Down Syndrome in the clip, but my daughter looked at me as we were watching and told me that Hannah had Down Syndrome.  Then she proceeded to name everyone else she knew or had ever known who had Down Syndrome.  And she had tears right along with mine - tears for the kindness and joy.

I love when things click with her.

So when she said she was messed up, I didn't want that phrase to click.  I wanted her to know she is amazing.  She is beautiful.  I wanted her to know how proud I am of her, and how much she is loved.  So I told her.  Simple as that.  And you know what she did?

She gave me that I-know-what-you-mean look, the old-woman-wise-face, and told me she is a young woman with Down Syndrome.  Like, of course you love me and are proud of me - how could you not?

I don't know why I was worried.

Heavenly Father, 

I know I thank you for my daughter all the time.  I just want to thank you again.  She is such a blessing.  You are an amazing God - how did you know I would need a teacher like her in my life?  At this time?  Thank you.

Linking with Unite, Unforced Rhythms, and Women Helping Women

can you imagine?

i saw a music video.  

sound was on, all the words running together 

and the bass thumped thumped from the box, 

through the floor, and drove me.  

the music drove me, 

but the images remained.  

i can't remember the song;

i can't remember the artist.  

it's the images.

flash.  

there's someone talking, 

hands waving, 

body posture all tight 

and wound up.  

bullets from their lips.  

streaking across a room, 

across a road, 

across a field.  

bullets.  

embedded in our words.  

escaping from our lips.  

shot from our mouths.  

flash.  

bullets.

The words of the reckless pierce like swords, 

but the tongue of the wise brings healing.

Proverbs 12:18

and i want to see the other side of this video.  

i want to see love in our words.  

embedded.

  

so much love that it escapes 

- tendrils of love escaping from our lips.  

from our mouths.  

like beams of light.  

like falling stars 

- streaking across a room, 

across a road, 

across a field.   

i want to see wisdom 

flowing like cool hands on a hot day.  

like cold, clean water, 

sparkling, 

dancing, 

crisp and refreshing.  

i want to see hope 

like a new leaf, 

unfurling in the springtime.  

like a rosebud, 

unmasking velvety-soft petals in a shy pageant.  

i want to see encouragement 

in rainbow array, 

spilling out in playful waves.

can you imagine?  

God, help me speak rainbows today, not bullets.  

Help my words be words that heal, that bring hope, that love.

Jesus, help me tame my tongue to your service.

Linking With:
Unite
Titus 2 Tuesday

Lord 'A Mercy

Every Friday, a whole bunch of bloggers get together at LisaJo's for a 5-minute writing festival.  The prompt comes out at midnight.  The rules are simple.  Five minutes.  You get five minutes to say what you have to say.  I have to admit, I cheat a little.  I look at the prompt and let myself stew on it for awhile before I sit down in front of the computer.  And then --- it's ready, set, go.  I do add the picture and scripture outside of the timeframe...

This week's prompt:  MERCY 

Honor her for all that her hands have done,

and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

Proverbs 31:31

We tumbled out of the car like an upended box of warm puppies - into the Indiana-farm air of alfalfa fields, soybeans and hogs. Sweet and sour.  Finally at Grandma's.  And there she was, standing on the porch in her apron and dress, socks halfway up her gnarly calves of varicose veins, wisps of gray hair like a halo.

"Lord 'a mercy!  How you've grown!"  She always said the same thing, in the same way - wrapping us up in arms that smelled like cinnamon and talcum powder - in a hug the size of Texas.   And folded into that bosom of love, we felt claimed.  Home.  Even though we'd never lived in the country, on that one-lane road, twisting and turning through planted fields and stands of trees.  We were the city cousins - come for our yearly visit.

"Lord 'a mercy!"  I loved the way she talked; things were purty, and she got away with saying ain't.  Less formal - softer around the edges - relaxed.  Memories spill over in my mind - card games around the kitchen table, fresh milk, chasing chickens, hide and seek in the hayloft, and always Grandma.  Cooking for the troops of relatives come to visit.  Doughnuts and cinnamon rolls in the freezer - canned fruits and vegetables, farm-fresh tomatoes, butchered bacon and beef.  She was so happy, surrounded by family.  Her laughter bubbled up from a deep, holy place inside like water from a well - it poured over us, sparkling cool and fresh.  Cleansing us of city sarcasm and city schedules.

Time stood still at Grandma's.  And peace endured.   She made a home for us in that country world.  Lord 'a mercy - she knew how to show love.

Father God, thank you for these precious memories.  

Linking with LisaJo at 5-Minute Friday

Today You Did Good

image from video found at http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2013/08/21/20123239-he-said-he-dont-care-if-he-dies-911-call-from-georgia-school-shooting-released?lite

You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  

But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 

that you may be children of your Father in heaven. 

Matthew 5:43-45

Sometimes I look at the news on television and just wish I could hide myself and my family from the sad, the cruel, the lost, the neglected.  From the evil.  Sometimes I wish that Newton's Third Law of Motion applied to current events as well - For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  That even if it didn't apply to actual events, at least it could be applied to the publicity of those events...something like For every bad news story, there will be an equal and opposite good news story.  I knew.  Oversimplification and wishful thinking.

But today, today was nice.  

Earlier this week, a man with an automatic and over 500 rounds of ammunition made his way past an elementary school security system into the front office of the school.  His intent was not a good one.  Thankfully, the students were evacuated safely; and the man stood down.  He was taken into custody before any real harm could be done.

The story could stop there.  The children were safe and the gunman was taken away.  But today we heard the rest of the story.  We heard the phone exchange between the 911 operator and the woman who called - the woman who works in the office at the school - the woman who was confronted by this gunman - the woman who walked with Jesus in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.  

How do I know this?  Look.  Read; in this transcript you can touch the places the nails entered, see the sword wound, feel His presence, because Antoinette Tuff absolutely, even in fear, did the things that Jesus would do.

            The exchange between Tuff and the suspect was captured on a recording of a 
            911 call made by school officials to dispatchers.

           Tuff begins by telling Hill of her own struggles, including raising a disabled child 
           and losing her husband. The bookkeeper reassures him by saying he didn't hurt 
           anyone, hadn't harmed her and could still surrender peacefully.


          "We're not gonna hate you, baby. It's a good thing that you're giving up," Tuff says 
           after having Hill put his weapons and ammunition on the counter. Tuff tells Hill she 
           loves him and will pray for him

          "School employee helped avert tragedy in standoff"  http://xfinity.comcast.net/articles/
               news-national/20130822/US--Georgia.School.Shooting/  


I don't know how else to write of this thing - this good news thing - except to say that I am humbled by this woman's actions.  By Antoinette Tuff.  I am incredibly proud of her.

Today you did good
Reaching beyond rage
And violence.

Your calm voice of reason
Stretching across the gap
Of hopeless 
Desperation.

You shared your own story
Of struggle and loss
You saw the child lost inside 
A man uncherished

In the midst of fear
You gave that man your love
The love of Jesus

Today you did good.

Father God, thank you for holding us safely in your hand.  

Linking with Desire to Inspire

Beyond Life

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

1 Corinithians 13: 4-7

I remember my dad taking me to see "Romeo and Juliet" when I was in junior high.  Ok, so I'm dating myself, but it was the Franco Zeffereli version, with Olivia Hussey in the role of Juliet, and Leonard Whiting in the role of Romeo.  I was mesmerized.  Such extravagence - color and texture in the costumes and set designs.  Unlike a play, the movie allowed the actors freedom from the stage; everything seemed so real.  Even the language.  Especially the language, because it, as much as the visual feast, placed the story into Elizabethan, Verona.  Made it believable.  And then there were the actors.  Young.  Innocent.  In love.  Yes, I was young, myself, but that's the whole reason the movie resonated so deeply - the music, the poetry, the passionate excess.  Shakespeare was writing about me - I wasn't much younger than Juliet, and I was in the throes of infatuation.

Since then, I've fallen in and out of infatuation more times than I can tell.  I remember my mother coming to me about a boyfriend my freshman year of high school.  She told me that she understood that I thought I was in love with this boy.  She told me that I was feeling right into the limits of my ability considering my age and maturity.  She told me it wasn't love - that I probably wasn't really capable of love....yet.  But she held out the promise that I would, one day, experience love...

Much later, I put a name to what I was feeling - Eros.  Simply put, it's that physical, mushy, infatuation love - untested by trial.  Unless it's forged to something deeper, it simply doesn't last.  But I have experienced a different love.

I love my husband to the very depth of my being.  He is my best friend.  We are bound together - in common experience, in common goals, in common beliefs.  Sometimes we read each other's minds.  It's not always easy, this sharing a life with someone else in such an intimate way.  Life stresses step in and muddy up the picture.  Apologies, forgiveness, mutual respect, ebb and flow.  I love the way he is able to untangle complicated situations - where I see oceans of gray, he sees black and white.  I love his discipline, his integrity, his grasp of abstract concepts.  I love the way he sees the humor around him.  I love his activity, his curiosity, his optimism.  I love the way he loves me - and the way he loves my daughter.  Plain and simple - I love my man.

I have seen lasting love.  My friend recently lost her husband after a long struggle with Alzheimer's.  Through the trials of the disease, the days when he didn't remember their shared moments, the days when he lost his mental and physical abilities, she was steadfast.  She was faithful.  Because she loved him.  And she still loves him, through the missing and the alone, she holds his memory in her heart.  Beyond life.  Unconditional.  Agape.

Like the love I have for my daughter.  Fierce.  Protective.  Like the love my mother has for me - always - back when she tried to teach me about love, and now.

Like the love God has for us.  No matter what - no matter our wrong choices, no matter our failings, no matter the paths we've taken.  Like the prodigal son.  Unconditional.        

Love.  Recently, a lot of my friends have seen the mini-series "The Bible."  In the final episode, the apostle Paul is shown in a scene where he has to convince fellow Christians that he has, indeed, been changed.  That he isn't the coat-carrying, stone-throwing anti-Christian they have seen or heard of.  It was probably the best interpretation of 1 Corinthians:13 that I have ever heard.   Two thousand years ago, God sent his only Son, to die for our sins.  To reconcile us to Him.  Beyond life.  What love is that!

Thank you, God, for my husband, for family, for friends, and for Love that came down.