Category: Uncategorized

Fill in the Blank

Nothing has marked the last decade or so of my life more than the feeling of inadequacy and confusion about what I’m even doing here on earth.  I know I haven’t found all of the answers, but I am more certain than ever that God gives each of us a calling of some kind – a purpose beyond ourselves that will somehow honor him.  Have you found yours?  While some of the imagery in Jeremiah can be difficult to understand, read the first chapter if you never have.  God calls Jeremiah, just like he calls each one of us.  Up until the blank, this is directly quoted from verse 5: “I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb. Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my __________.”  The verses that follow are a discussion between Jeremiah and God; Jeremiah immediately points out his limitations, and God rebuts him with, “Don’t say _______.”

I’m still trying to fill in my blank, and I know it has more than one answer: I am a wife, a leader, a volunteer, a writer…  I will no longer say, “I’m not good enough” or “I’m not talented enough” or any other excuse I throw at God.  I am what he created me to be, and that’s enough.  To deny his power and ability to work through me is to deny God’s character; every excuse I offer is really just a form of unbelief.  What fills in your blank?  It can never be blank; there is always a purpose for you on this earth, or you wouldn’t be here.  What should you stop saying right now?

For a really long time, I had two specific screen savers on my desktop at work and on my laptop.  One said “Jeremiah 29:11” which says, “‘I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  The other was a quote from a Tony Evans sermon I heard on the radio about that verse: “You’re still here.”  That was the answer to the question he posed, “How do you know God has a plan for you?”  If you’re still breathing, there’s something left for you to do here on earth.  It’s that simple: fill in the blank.

Beating the Martha Mindset (Luke 10:38-42)

This has been one of those hard-fought weeks.  Everything is a struggle, and more than once I found myself in retreat: zoning in on the hurt or imagining what my pregnant belly would have looked like.  It’s even harder now that my sister-in-law has begun her third trimester, and it feels like so many of my friends are expecting or have newborns.  Every ounce of my being wants to have a baby – to endure all the aches and pains and beauties of pregnancy, to feel every movement and kick growing inside me, to finally hold that growing and kicking being in my arms, to give my husband the amazing gift of children and to share everything that entails with him…  In the past, I wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone because it hurt too much to pronounce that desire; it would have meant admitting to a “dream deferred,” and I didn’t want to admit how badly I was hurt by the method of deferment.  I though it was easier never to acknowledge the desire at all, somewhat in the vein of “what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”  Instead of allowing my dream to be expressed and comforted, it began pushing out in anger at everything, but mostly anger at myself and anger at God.

I tend to beat myself up over everything, whether I am at fault or not.  I blamed myself for losing four babies, and I have carried that guilt and shame for three years now.  Nothing so starkly pointed that out like my sister-in-law’s pregnancy.  Her “success” only felt like an indictment of my failures; the joy my husband’s family expressed over her pregnancy pointed out that I was a disappointment that had only caused pain with each announcement.  It is so easy to blame myself and hate myself for our losses.  If I am somehow culpable, then I don’t have to address how my belief in God’s goodness has been challenged.  I don’t have to question how and why my faith has been shaken.  And I have hated myself enough to shoulder that responsibility.

I have been Martha for most of my life; I have almost always known that I am acting out her role, begging Jesus to acknowledge her hard work and admonish her lazy sister to help out.  I never knew how to just sit at Jesus’s feet and listen until I had tried everything else.  I’m still a long way from Mary, and I have miles to go before I can accept myself exactly the way I am, but for the first time in my adult life I don’t hate myself.  I don’t need constant assurance to feel loved and validated.  I am an amazing creation of God; to think otherwise is blasphemy.  To hate myself as much as I have is to deny God in me and to hate what he created.  I am slowly sitting and scooting closer and closer to the Master’s feet, and it’s harder than I ever imagined to let go and just rest.

“Circumambulation”

The air sparked electrically around him, as if the presence of God would suddenly snap and remove him from this solemn duty.  The fear of this annual trek slowed his limbs even while his mind sped through preparations and possibilities.  Had everything been done as required by the sacred commandments?  Aaron’s fingers moved of their own accord to the sash tied tightly around his waist.  He was sure he had made every preparation according to the words God gave to Moses, but his heart still fainted, trembled, died at the thought of entering this holiest of places: the seat of God, the temporal home of God’s presence among his people.  What if it wasn’t enough?  Was he truly clean enough to enter into the pure light of God?  Could anyone ever be?

            Never once forgetting his duty, his purpose, on this holy day, Aaron tightened his grip on the censor, inhaling deeply of the precious incense.  His fingers again flitted around as if willed by their nerve endings to assure themselves of his readiness, feeling each stone in his breastplate, finding comfort in the cool smoothness of the stones and the comparative roughness of the nubby linen of the ephod.  Only after the fingers had reassured themselves did Aaron’s feet creep cautiously closer to the curtain.  Though the incense was held firmly in his hand- the smoke drifting out at the level of Aaron’s waist- tiny fingers of smoke swirled out from under the fringe of the curtain- the hand of God reaching out to feel the holy smell of incense.

            Aaron’s hand trembled at the curtain opening.  His feet stalled another moment as if contemplating an abortion of their necessary mission.  A gentle clinking noise from the bells sewn into the hem of the ephod confirmed that Aaron’s feet had not given up on their mission.  Quelling a wave of dread, Aaron gently pulled back the curtain and entered the Holy of Holies.  The curtain dropped into place behind him, and Aaron felt his breath stop in his chest.  His heart stilled so quickly that Aaron knew he was going to die.  He was not pure enough or clean enough to stand before God and atone for his people.  Brilliant lights arced and danced before Aaron’s eyes, drawing him back into this moment and the realization that he had not died.

            Streaks of light now flew up and around the seat of the ark.  More and more streaks fingered their way around the room and towards Aaron.  Each pointed ray of light struck Aaron’s very being and illuminated everything around him.  The beams flashed through the ephod, through his flesh, and into the deepest recesses of his heart, soul and mind.  While Aaron was marveling at this sensation of light that could pierce his core, he became dimly aware of the smoke filling the mercy seat.  Each swing of his censor sent another finger of smoke toward the ark, spiraling purposefully into the growing mass of smoke.  The mass burgeoned and reached higher and higher until Aaron thought it would explode through the tent roof.  When it seemed impossible for the smoke to grow any more without completely filling the room, it began to move into a distinct shape.

            Just as Aaron recognized the form of a man seated on a throne hovering over the mercy seat, brilliant light flashed out from the core of the seated man and radiated like fire all around the ark.  The fire was so bright that Aaron’s body responded instinctively by prostrating his body and squeezing his eyes shut before the throne.  The intensity of the light caused his eyes to water so that the floor beneath his face held an ever expanding puddle of tears.  Aaron heard a deep, guttural groaning and was surprised to feel it issuing forth from his own throat.  He felt as though his very soul was speaking to the presence of God, though his mouth formed no words and no other thought besides awe had entered his mind.  The truth from every fiber of his being was communicating directly to God by way of his vocal chords.  And, without words, Aaron understood the essence of what passed between him and the cloud before him.

            Time had stopped in the purity of this moment.  Aaron could not say if he had been bowing on his knees for seconds or for days before he felt a hand reach for him out of the fiery cloud.  In spite of the burning hand approaching his head, Aaron was no longer afraid as his spirit sensed the flames draw closer.  Cool fingers like soft spring breezes urged his eyes open and gently wiped the tears off his face.  Then an achingly tender and fatherly embrace lifted Aaron to his feet and steadied him in front of the ark.  Aaron placed the censor in front of the mercy seat and began to sprinkle first the blood of the bull that would cover his own sins and those of his family, and then the blood of the goat to atone for the sins of all Israel.

            Deep in his soul Aaron felt the oppressive weight of their collective sin burden.  He felt crushed beneath it and struggled for breath to complete the last required sprinkle.  When the last drop of blood touched the ark, Aaron felt blessed relief from the suffocation in the form of an unspoken promise.  His heart rushed and his breathing came freely as he was wordlessly made to understand.  This would not be forever.  There would eventually be one Sacrifice that would be enough- enough for Aaron and his family, enough for Israel, enough for all eternity.  The day would come when the blood of one sacrifice would be pure enough to atone for all mankind, and Aaron and his line would no longer be needed for a day of atonement.  His task completed, Aaron stepped out from behind the veil, full of the knowledge of God’s promise, full of the awe and presence of God that he would never in his life be able to share with mere words.

“The Priesthood of Trees”

In the woods I feel

the hushed sacrament of a cathedral.

Even the ground whispers

divine incantations through the settling leaves.

Hallowed psalms chant on the breeze

until they rise into a mighty wind,

lifting tree branches in their offering of praise.

Holy streams of water pour

over dry and thirsty creek beds,

baptizing rocks and moss into overflowing life.

But the trees- the trees are twice as holy,

like sons of Aaron consecrated to praise and to intercede.

Sacred limbs raised in adoration

filter pure, all-consuming light,

offering glimpses of blessed redemption,

providing shelter from righteous perfection.

Soaring buttresses of trunk and limb

climb ever closer to divinity, eternity,

silent chapel walls of grace

First Words

Apparently, beginning a blog is like writing the first paragraph of a novel or the first line of a poem: by the time this post is actually published, I will have deleted most, if not all, of the words in this paragraph, maybe twice.  Some I will re-type after considering the phrasing and determining that the words really do convey my thoughts accurately.  At least half will rumble around in my mind until I decide they are unworthy of print or inadequately express what I’m trying to say.  I have always hated extemporaneous speaking because I cannot draft, edit and perfect what comes out of my mouth.  Writing has always been my go-to method of communication because it gives me time to think about what I really want to say.  So I have tremendous expectations of blogging – freedom of expression, a chance to share my thoughts with someone who isn’t forced to listen to me out of pity or politeness, the opportunity to help someone who struggles like I do, the opportunity to struggle together and pull each other along.  But, the truth is, I’m a little too scared to share with my friends and family that this is my blog site.

My fear of sharing stems from the same struggle to choose the right verbiage: words are extremely powerful and definite.  Naming something gives it shape and meaning, imbuing the emotion or object with immediate form and power: fear, hope, Anne, home, fire, expectation, birth, death…  So if I name my journey, if I give words to the infinite synapses firing off in my brain, making them finite and defined, will my loved ones see me more clearly?  Or will I be wishing I had never strayed from my journal?