three mile moments

I like to walk at the park for multiple reasons, two of which I'll share with you right now. The first, I don't like running. This makes walking much more attractive. Second, when I'm at the park and I'm just walking, I am finally forced to slow down and think and absorb the struggles of the day, the purple-reds of the sunset, the worries I carry between my shoulder blades and temples, the regrets of yesterday. But I've come to realize that something else happens during these three mile moments, when I let it. When I finally just allow myself to focus, I am faced with the reality that despite all the emotions and aches that life hands me, I have been given the overwhelming gift of grace. Sometimes I feel absolutely breathless when confronted with the magnitude of this gift. The creator of these sunsets that inspire me so, the maker of the legs that take me on these walks, the giver of this mind, these fingers, my heart - his love for this one human being is more expansive than an open Oklahoma horizon.

Yes, sometimes it leaves me breathless.

But not often enough. Let's be honest. I should be so breathless that I'm absolutely drowning, suffocating because of this realization. Instead, I wonder how many calories I've burned or what an ex-boyfriend is doing or if I should get a haircut tomorrow. Not bad things. Not good things. Just things. And that's the problem - these things have so much power that God's grace becomes almost an after thought - something I pay homage to in the morning while I scarf down oatmeal and coffee or once a week, three rows from the pulpit. I think you can relate.

God's been using these three mile moments to teach me. He says, "Look at me. I've got this plan. You're a part of it. I'll be happy to clue you in once you slow down." But he doesn't even really say it - just a whisper really, a whisper that brushes my cheek and reminds me that this God who is grand is also gentle.

And I guess that's why those three mile moments are so special. They paint, sing, shout of God's character in a chaotic world that doesn't invite us to walk or think or be. I think God's calling us to live beyond those three mile moments, though. He's ready to push us beyond what we think we can handle and make those moments what drive our every decision. Isn't it ironic that God pushes us to slow down? To let him do his thing? To allow him to be God? Isn't it ludicrous that we don't let him? Isn't it baffling that he's willing to wait?

pieces

This is an article I originally wrote for the March 2010 edition of the Crossings newsletter. 

"Pieces"

Nothing is so broken that God can’t fix it.  A person is never so broken that she can’t be fixed.  I am not too broken for God.  You are not too broken. 

I think sometimes we think that we’ve just messed up too much, told God we could handle it one too many times, or pushed God too far away.  I know I’ve found myself there.  I may not verbalize it, but my actions and my thoughts speak loud enough – “God, I just don’t think you’re big enough to fix me this time.  I’ll handle this myself.”  And I fail every single time.

Sometimes we’re broken because of our own choices, sometimes because of the choices of others.  Whatever the reason, God calls us to run to him with our broken pieces.  David was broken because of his sin.  Paul was broken because of his past.  Esther was broken because of the loss of her family.  And God healed and used each of them.  He took their brokenness – their cracks, their scars, their flaws, their heartaches – and made something beautiful.  David is remembered as a man after God’s own heart.  Paul wrote a great deal of the New Testament, and Esther saved a nation.  Each differently broken, each differently used, and each lifted up and put together by the safe, strong hands of the Father. 

It’s so easy to hold on to our broken past – our broken pieces –  but when we do, we inevitably dig those pieces of sharp-edged heartache deeper and deeper into our palms until we bleed.  And God lets us.  He will let us be as stubborn as we want, but he’s ready to take the pieces out of our hands when we’re ready to surrender.  He puts them together and makes something beautiful again – he “turns our messes into ministry.” 

For me, surrendering the broken parts hasn’t been a one-time deal.  I have to weekly, daily, sometimes hourly, make the choice to let go and let God be in control.  I have scars on my hands from the broken pieces and from the heartache that has come because of my own unwillingness to let go.  Of course the past forms us – of course our scars become a part of us and of course we can’t just pretend life doesn’t happen.  But even those scars, the ugly parts of life, can be made into something beautiful – God is big enough to handle our brokenness.  We just have to let go. 

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”  Psalm 34:18

the land between

I don't like being stuck - being stuck in traffic, in a boring lecture, or in the grocery line. Sometimes being stuck can feel claustrophobic. Recently, I heard Jeff Manion talk about "the land between" and that got me thinking. I think sometimes when we feel stuck in life, we are in that "land between" - that land where life doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense when doing the right thing seems to produce no results; it doesn't make sense to keep trudging through the mundane tasks of daily living when there seems to be no purpose; it doesn't make sense three months or years or decades after the death of someone special and no one else seems to remember your pain but you. Jeff Manion calls this "the land between" and to feel stuck in this land can be absolutely terrifying. You're totally terrified of always being here. Of always being depressed, of always feeling alone, unsure, afraid, or mediocre. But we don't have to be stuck. This land and these feelings aren't a life sentence - a life of stagnation is different than a life temporarily stuck. In fact, the very name "the land between" would suggest that we are going somewhere.

And maybe that's what is so frustrating about the stuck feeling. You know where you want to be or you at least know it's not here. But let's face it - sometimes there are detours, sometimes plans change, we lose the map. Sometimes life is unpredictable and it is in those moments when we feel so stuck that God gets to be God in our lives - if we let him. In the land between, when we feel stuck, broken down, complacent, unsure, battle torn, or even lethargic, we have the privilege of letting God take charge. In fact, I would argue that being stuck is on of our greatest opportunities for growth and maturation.

I know I have found myself in this in-between place. I'm residing there right now, and I suppose that's why Manion's talk so resonated with me. It's like he was saying, "Sarah - listen up. It's not what's happened that's important. It's not your big plans or fears or wants for the future that are to be your primary focus. It's this place right now. This land between that you hate so much, God's ready to show you himself. Stop worrying and striving and just be, just listen, and enjoy the extravagant blessings of the Master Plan-Maker, the perfect Guide, the only One who can bring you from this in-between to his future promises."

And I'm slowly beginning to realize that it is in this in-between land that I truly have the chance to just let God take care of me. Let's face it - life's definitely not going in the direction I had planned just a year ago, or even eight months ago. But God's promises were for something better than my plans, better than my "Egyptian workload," if you will.

I'm even starting to realize that I can be grateful for the uncertainties and the sometimes very dull repetition of just doing daily life, because I'm learning to give even those small moments to God. It's easy to turn to God and ask him for help in a crisis. It's not always so simple to remember to thank him for my lunch. I would even say that I can - that you can - be thankful for the timeline of the land between that can sometimes last mere days or sometimes last years. We can be grateful that God loves us enough to leave us here until we're ready to move on to his promises. Because, honestly, if we're not ready for his promises, they aren't going to mean much. The land between makes them even sweeter, not only because we have struggled to arrive and come out stronger, but because in our struggles, we have had the chance to form a friendship, an alliance, a total dependence on the Promise Creator.

So God, thanks for loving me enough to let me get stuck and thanks for being there to take control when I'm ready to let go again. Thanks, God, for your promises, but thanks too, for the land between.

night sounds

My attempt to be creative: night sounds.

And I find you in the night sounds. The sounds that remind me of what was, what is, what I imagined would be. And they are only sounds. And they are only memories. And they are only summer. And they haunt. And are sorrow, smiles, serenity, sadness, and really nothing at all.

But something.

Although they are only crickets singing their songs and cars speeding someplace important, they are a strange melody. And I wonder if you are in the night sounds.

And I listen.

The night sounds tell me that you are. Or could be, at least. And so I listen. But the more I listen, the harder it is to hear.

I allow myself to drown in the night sounds.

And they morph from purple-pink sunset sounds to the gray sounds of rainy evening, dark apartments, and cigarette smoke. And then I swim deeper into the sounds - the night sounds that help me find you, that are you. And as the night sounds grow stronger and stranger, I wonder where they will take me next. I have accepted that I have no choice about the destination.

And I think I like the mystery of it all. I never was good at making decisions.

Are you in this next stanza of the melody? In this next deep layer of watery music? Half moons and shooting stars and midnight drives along well-worn highways. Knowing something beautiful, clinching fists, gritting teeth, and watching it die. A disease I hate, but cannot beat, cannot understand. I'm drowning in these night sounds.

Are you there?

And my chest will explode, but there have been worse endings. The night sounds are a canvas covered in memories. And as I give myself to the night sounds - as I suffocate in their frightening beauty, I realize you are not in the night sounds.

I have found myself in the night sounds - free to breath, free to remember, free to let go, free to be me.

beginnings

Today I begin the adventure of blogging. Maybe you'll read this and come back. Maybe I'll only write for myself. I'm convinced that I write selfishly anyway - it fulfills a need for me. This is a blog about the in-between, about the little moments that connect to the bigger moments that make up this experience called life. Even though in books and papers the parentheses that are inserted are just an aside - a whisper or an "oh by the way" - I like to think that it's in these little, unimportant, parenthetical moments that are life defined. And that's all I'm writing about - life. The big things, the little things, the middle, whispered, mundane, strange, tragic, beautiful moments of life. Enjoy. And if you're comfortable, feel free to come back (and share your thoughts with me, too).