one step enough for me

I'm in an interesting stage that most young adults will recognize: that strange borderland of "transition," a foot in two worlds, belonging to neither.

Let me explain. I have friends on Facebook posting about new couches for their homes, revealing pictures of their newborn children, announcing engagements, and moaning about midterm exams. But not the same friends on all four counts. I'm in that awkward stage of "Well I'm out of college but not really to the next part yet, but thank heavens I get to preview it from this cozy seat."

Just kidding. I could skip the preview, thanks.

Tomorrow I go in to speak with an advisor about a secondary education certification program. Basically, "Do you have what it takes to teach High School English?" I've been working through a lot of things and have come to a resounding conclusion:

I don't know what I want to do with my life.

Of course there are the "ultimate goals": seek, serve, and obey God, love people, live with boldness and courage.

But there are so many ways I could do that. I could

• Move to a south Asian country and teach English.
• Get a job as a marketing professional in a local business.
• Work part-time at a coffee shop and tutor international students.
• Get a masters in English and teach at a college.
• Get a masters in Library Science and become a librarian/archivist.
• Complete teaching cert and teach high-school English.
• Get into the publishing, journalism, or media world.

In short, there are about a billion different things I could do with the education and talents I already have. But the options are a little overwhelming, and I'm scared to move for fear I'll make the wrong choice.

This is my solution for the fear: Remember. Remember. Remember the signs. Recall the mighty deeds of the God Who Saves, of God With Us, never leaving, never sleeping, never failing. Remember how He brought the children of Israel out of Egypt, how He led them through the desert, gave victory to Joshua, direction to Daniel and Joseph, provision for David over and over again.

My God is a God who plots the path of kings. He is capable of handling mine.

But sometimes, you're 21 and driving down a road and suddenly you're not just driving, you're running away from all the responsibilities and expectations and hopes and dreams you thought you'd given up for lost (and maybe from God, too). And the future catches in your throat and chokes you and suddenly you're sobbing in highway traffic and praying "God, God, God, don't let me be for nothing!"

And then you remember that you're 21, that you still have a good 60 years on this planet to do something, to discover what it is you're here for, and in the meantime there is a bed for you to sleep in and a wonderful thing called parents to hug you and comfort you and make you cookies and dinner and tell you it's okay, that you're okay, that you're not a failure, that it's not for nothing.

But oh, to have dreams again! To know what it is I would do with my life, "time and money aside."

Lord, direct my thoughts and decisions, that I would always seek after you, and not after my own desires.

Here in the dark, I do not ask to see

The path ahead; one step enough for me

Lead on, lead on Kindly Light!

-Lead Kindly Light, Audrey Assad

before your face

The light penetrates my eyes, piercing
my face, stabbing deep into 
my heart, and suddenly
all the words I have ever spoken,
all the thoughts I have ever pondered, are there
trembling under your gaze.

I am ashamed. Woe is me, for even
standing in your presence--that alone is enough
to shake my heart and soul to the core
as your beauty and majesty surrounds me
overwhelms me
envelops me in its glory.

But
You see my thoughts, the futile workings
of my mind, plagued by sin and doubt.
You know my motives and my heart; there is
no secret I can keep
No nook or cranny too secret for you to uncover.

My heart is laid bare, and behold, it is barren.
My thoughts are nonsense, like the jawings of a
drunken two year old
My soul is a shattered cistern, unholy and broken
destroyed almost beyond saving
And I am undone.

Why did I doubt you?
Why did I lose hope?
Why could I not wait an hour and pray for my deliverance?

Why were my intentions misguided?
Why did I waste so much time?
Why did I not listen better to your prompting and study your Word?

Forgive me for my nonsense questions
For this babbling mouth, so lacking of wisdom.
Create in me a clean heart
and renew a right spirit within me.

“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?” 

-C.S. Lewis

Compassion on the Cross

Something that struck me when listening to a version of the crucifixion was Jesus’ perspective through it all. I listened to a sermon by Pastor Larry Osbourne of North Coast Church yesterday wherein he talked about Jesus being fully human—he didn’t know everything that was going to happen, and even the power in him to heal came from the Holy Spirit (and it wasn’t always there). He wasn’t a “Clark Kent” Jesus—just faking that he was man. No. He was FULLY MAN. He emptied himself, gave up all his rights and superpowers and subjected himself to God’s will fully, a choice we see climaxed in the Garden of Gethsemane.

That’s a horse of a different kind. But the thing that struck me especially was that in the Garden, Jesus prays. We all know that. But he doesn’t just pray for himself—he prays for his disciples and all the Christians who are to follow (John 17). When he is being arrested and Peter gets hasty and hacks someone’s ear off, Jesus stops in his tracks (ignoring the fact that, y’know, they’re taking him away to be tried and killed and he’s just been betrayed by one of his friends) and heals the guy. As he leaves the house of Caiaphas where he had just been condemned and ridiculed before the council, the only thing on his mind is to look over at Peter, who has just denied knowing him.

The list goes on. Hanging on the cross he tells John to look after his mother (when he probably had a whole lot more on his mind—like, you know, the fact that he was slowly asphyxiating and bleeding out and hanging from a torture device made of wood). But my favorite—the thing that really made me kind of breathless—was the thief on the cross.

The crowd is ridiculing him. One of the thieves joins in, mocking him and telling him to save himself, but the other guy jumps in and professes a very surprising belief in Jesus. And does Jesus just nod, or even ignore the guy (whose salvation profession may or may not be to the heart sincere?).

No. In the middle of the agonizing pain, as his wrists and feet throb, as the thorns press into the back of his head, as his back screams from rubbing the raw, flogged skin against the rough wood—in the middle of having the sin of the entire world, both past, present, and future laid upon his shoulders, as Satan rubs his hands in delight, as the Father turns his face away and the sky begins to blacken, Jesus looks at that thief and loves him. Tells him that he is forgiven and will be with Him in paradise.

That blows me away. That in the middle of the biggest event in human history, the most important thing to Jesus was not looking dignified as he hung there. It wasn’t praying one more time for God’s will to change. It wasn’t even focusing on being the perfect sacrifice. His love was so great, and so personal, that in the midst of this incredibly important act that would be the crux of history, he spoke into the life of one person. One insignificant person—we don’t even know his name. And comforted him. And gave him the promise of life.

Obviously I’ve never been on a cross and will likely never find myself there, but when I am the busiest or most anxious or things are the most chaotic around me, do I stop and care about others first? Do I “consider others better than myself” and put their interests and needs before mine? It’s easy to do it when your belly is full, or on the road with them, or in the everyday grind of life. 

But on the cross. In the trial. Where is my focus?

O Lord, that you would make my heart love others as you loved them! That you would make me into a person who cares deeply and passionately with a selfless love that surpasses understanding.

He is jealous for me

Love's like a hurricane, and I am a tree

Bending beneath the weight of his love and mercy

-David Crowder Band

contemplating surrender

I am contemplating surrender and finding that it is not an easy task. It is simple enough to speak with your lips, "Lord, take my heart and let it be/ever only all for thee," to pray "Be my all-in-all; ruin my life, the plans that I've made. It is no longer I who live but Christ lives in me."

But how does one sacrifice? How does one eternally give up all claim to earthly possessions and feelings and anxieties and desires? Or rather the question should be "CAN one give up all those things?"

I know with my head that You want The Whole Tree, Lord, and not just this branch here and that limb there. You want to uproot ME. To break ME. To unform ME so that you may plant in MY place a thing that is GOOD and of YOU. And I long for that, Lord, with all that my sinful heart can long.

But must it be a daily surrender?

Must I take up my cross every day?

Must I die a thousand deaths-of-self, offer up my will again and again on Your altar in the hopes of one day being conformed to Your likeness?

Will I ever be whole?

"Father, I want to know Thee, but my coward heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from Thee the terror of the parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all those things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou mayest enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no night there. In Jesus' Name, Amen."

-A.W. Tozer, The Pursuit of God

spring evenings

On rare spring nights, we used to walk together, just you and I.

Those early spring evenings, where the weather wavers between soft humidity that fluffs my hair into a Victorian masterpiece and cool, breeziness with a hint of winter still clinging to its edge--the light of the waxing moon, set like a gleaming white coin low in the eastern sky--the leaves, once red and yellow in autumn, now blowing, all skeletons and dry remains, around our ankles.

At first when I leave the house, I am alone, head drooping, eyes fixed on the white path of our driveway beneath my feet meandering their way along. But soon the stars begin to sing and a lonely mockingbird, and I look up from my heavy thoughts

and see you. Waiting. As if you've been here all the time.

(but of course you have--I just pretend not to remember)

Sometimes you take my hand and lead me along the path, but other times we pace side by side, not even needing the simplest touch. The cats follow us and rub up against your ankles, and you tuck a strand of frizzing hair behind my ear and whisper, "What's wrong?"

And fragment by fragment, syllable by broken syllable, the words come--angry, bitter, full of self-pity, of hurt and disappointment and despair. Foolish words. Biting words ("Don't you care that I am perishing?"); sincere words ("I can't do this on my own."); and sometimes, on the darkest nights, no words at all.

Mostly I forget you are the author of my story (strange miracle, that we should be able to talk in such a way) and simply vent (because, after all, who else was there to vent to? And you asked, after all).

You never interrupt me. You simply listen, sometimes taking my hand or leaning closer to me or, when I can't keep the tears from filling up my eyes and wetting my cheeks, wrapping your arms around me and saying, "There, there." But you always let me finish.

And then, when all my words have run out and I have nothing left to give, no more tears left to cry, you wipe them away and take me in your arms.

"You poor, shortsighted thing," you say, stroking my hair. "If only you could see, Dear One. That this isn't how it ends. That this isn't even where it begins. That in five years tomorrow's exam or So-and-so will not even be remembered to you. You're constrained by time--but remember that I am not. I know how it ends, and trust me, it's beautiful. Beautiful. Just like you."

A bitter laugh. A "Just like me," in the most skeptical of tones.

A finger on my lips. "Just like I made you. Do you think I couldn't have given you raven black tresses or clear gray eyes if I had wanted? Dear One, you are perfect. You are mine."

"But I'm not--"

"You are mine."

"But my life--"

"--is beautiful, for I have planned each step you will take."

"But my heart--"

"--is yet weak and young, but I will grow it in due time."

Eyes drop to the ground. There are a few tears that mingle with the dirt my shoes are playing with.

"But why couldn't it be a love story?"

I feel your arms go around me again, and the warmth is all around me as you breathe into my hair, "Oh, Dearheart. It is a love story. But so much truer one than you know."

----

On rare spring nights, we used to walk together, just you and I. And when you looked on my mouse-brown hair and eyes long dimmed by tears and face I never could reconcile as even passably pretty and told me I was beautiful and Beloved--not the skeleton leaves nor the cold light of the moon nor the doubts and fears of my own waking soul could shake the love that was kindled between we two.

And in other early spring evenings, we shall walk together again.

The Author and Perfecter

As a writer, sometimes I think it might be fun to meet my characters one day.

But most the time I have my senses about me and realize that they would probably kill me as soon as they figured out who I was rather than having any sort of gratitude toward me in the least.

Which absolutely makes sense. Allow me to explain.

One of my favorite quotes on writing sounds something like, "Figure out the worst possible thing that could happen to your main character--and then make it happen to them." Which for some authors has to do with physical torment, but for me means emotional torture that seems as though it is beyond all enduring--and indeed, it may be. I make young Prince Leo have to choose which of his brothers will be killed first. I force Theo into marrying (SPOILER ALERT) the bloodthirsty princess who merely wants the throne. I take two lovebirds like Livi and Agravaine and set them at odds so that they spend more time than not in anguish over the fact that they are always fighting.

But why? Is it merely because I am a masochistic mastermind who is taking out my frustration with the world and my life on these characters? Because I like seeing people suffer, even if they're only imaginary?

No. (Well, for some writers, perhaps, but not for me.) I make these things happen because in the beginning, the characters are not complete. Leo is spoiled and haughty. Theo is corrupt and sneaky. Livi is prim and quick to anger. But through their traumatic and sometimes horrible experiences, a change comes over them. None of them, coming out on the other side, would look back and say, "I'd rather none of that had happened."

(Except for maybe Theo, but he's an exceptional case.)

Still, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to meet one of them. To stand face to face with Leo and have him look me in the eye and ask, through gritted teeth, "Why? Why would you do that to me? Make me choose? Send me nightmares? Put me in the hands of evil men?"

He would ask it, of course, at the moment when things looked their darkest. Because he cannot see the future. He does not know how the story will end.

But I do. I have planned everything out from the beginning--knew the end before he was even taking baby steps, so to speak. And my time-frame is different than his. I can jump about, from the beginning to the end to the middle and back to each again, in ways that he never could. And because I know the end, I would be able to put my hand on his shoulder and look back into those tortured blue eyes and say, "It's okay. It's okay. They aren't going to die. You'll be alright. You even get a girlfriend out of it. Just be patient and trust me. I know what I'm doing."

--

How much more so is God the author of our lives? When things are the most turbulent and I can't possibly understand what's going on, sometimes I cry, "Lord, WHY?"

I can only imagine him shaking his head and smiling sadly and saying, "I'm so sorry, Dearheart, but you must persevere. And don't worry, my love--the ending is beyond your wildest dreams."

Even though I don't know what he's doing right now, I must simply choose to trust that his plan is best, that he has trials ahead for the purpose of developing my character (and the character of others), that he loves me more than I even love Theo, and that he knows the end and it is good.

Because God, unlike certain literary authors I could mention, has already decided on a happy ending.