We are in the midst of a storm. What began as the threat of inclement weather has escalated and culminated in a full-on hurricane. We have pleaded for relief. But for all our praying and petitioning, God’s “no” has been painfully clear. Making this even more difficult is the awareness of God’s “yeses” in the lives of those around me. While I know that God is not a God of scarcity and I have been through enough mountains and valleys to discern that abundance and want often ebb and flow in God’s timing rather than my own, my human heart still feels slighted. Because the thing is, the requests we are laying before God are good things. We are asking for provision and protection that would allow us opportunities for witness, for growth, for purpose. And truth be told, it has left me confused, dejected, and defeated.

It is in this confusion that I find myself drawn to John the Baptist in new and unexpected ways.

John the Baptist enters the story before he even enters the world. His unbelievable birth is foretold to an aged Zechariah and Elizabeth who understandably question the veracity of the promise. Fast forward several months. Elizabeth gives birth and Zechariah offers a profound and pivotal prophecy. He rightly predicts that John will be “called the prophet of the Most High”; that he will prepare the way of the Lord and give “knowledge of salvation” to God’s people. To say that John was called from birth is an understatement.

There is a credible theory that John the Baptist was either an Essene or, at the very least, schooled in the beliefs of the Essenes. The Essenes were a Jewish sect that held strong opinions regarding corruption and secularism within Jerusalem and the temple. Finding fault with much of the religious elite, they viewed themselves as a sacred community and isolated themselves both religiously and geographically. They maintained a deep connection to scripture and revered the Jewish books of law, prophets, and writings. They were a people who knew, studied, and memorized the text.

John was no exception. The combination of the Essene’s devotion to the scriptures and the traditional education system for Jewish boys would suggest that John knew his text better than a teenage girl knows Taylor Swift’s musical catalogue. So when John is teaching his followers and Jesus arrives on the scene, it’s no wonder that John seamlessly weaves references to Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Malachi into his declaration. He knew his text.

At the height of John’s ministry, King Herod seized and imprisoned him, and this is where we find John in Matthew 11 and Luke 7. As John sits in a prison cell, his disciples come and report the miraculous deeds Jesus has been performing. Upon hearing the report, John sends them to Jesus with a question.

“Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?”
Luke 7:19

It’s a strange question coming from a prophet who has been tethered to the cause of Christ since before he was born. But perhaps his inquiry is less about who Jesus is and more about his own predicament. Sitting in a filthy jail, does John wonder, “If you are who you say you are, then why aren’t you doing something? If you are the Messiah, then right this wrong.”

Jesus hears the question and offers what seems like a cryptic and dismissive reply.

“Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, the poor hve good news preached to them. And blessed is the one who is not offended by me.”
Luke 7:22-23

That’s it. But it’s enough. John knew his text. He no doubt knew what Jesus said, and also, what he didn’t say.

These two short verses pack a lot of punch if you know what you’re reading. Jesus uses a marriage of several passages in Isaiah to formulate his reply to John.

“Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy!”
Isaiah 26:19

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, ad the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap like a dear, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy.”
Isaiah 35:5-6

“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the poor, he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;”
Isaiah 61:1

If we were to make a checklist, it might look something like this:

However, there is one glaring item in Isaiah that Jesus fails to address.

“…to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;”

While John rots in a prison cell, Jesus tells him no. And here’s the kicker. John is in prison because he has been faithful. He has “given knowledge of salvation” and prepared the way. He has proclaimed Jesus as Messiah. He has done good things. He has longed for good things. He has worked for good things. Furthermore, I’m certain that John’s future plans don’t include a relaxing retirement, but rather intentions to further proclaim the good news of Jesus.   And Jesus tells him no. To make the sting a bit more painful, Jesus also catalogues the yeses being granted to those around John. In one breath he tells everyone else yes, and in the next, he tells John no.

We never hear if or how John responds. I wonder if, for a while at least, he was “offended” by Jesus’s response. The Greek word used in Luke 7:23 here is skandalizō. It means to entrap, trip up, or stumble. Did Jesus’ no cause John to stumble? Did it cause his faith to trip up, even if only for a moment? It’s hard to imagine that it didn’t. It would be entirely natural and human for John to experience temporary anger, doubt, and confusion. But scripture doesn’t tell us how John’s inner conflict resolves. A few chapters later, John is beheaded at the whim of Herod’s suspicious sister-in-law. We don’t know where his faith landed. We don’t know if the nagging questions were quieted. We are left without a tidy bow ensuring that all’s well that ends well.

Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps it’s exactly what we’re meant to wrestle with in our own seasons of no. It is what I am wrestling with. In my quietest and most honest moments, I have even asked “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?”. As I bear witness to the defeating juxtaposition of my pain and others celebration, I am forced to confront my flawed preconceptions about who God is. As I reconsider the paths I was certain God had called me to, I am challenged to surrender my will, my desires, my sense of certainty and control. I am confronted with the clashing of my expectations and God’s goodness.

While all this chaos was swirling around us, my son sent a song that just happened to be released the same day the worst of the rains came. The song only has three lines. But those three lines washed over me in waves. And as I listened, I came to the same conclusion that Simon Peter comes to in John 6. “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life…”

Lately, I have been exhausted. Not just tired, but flat out weary. The last couple of years have taken their toll and my need for restoration requires far more than a good night’s sleep. What I long for, what I crave, what I need, is rest.

Rest. It seems so simple, so achievable, so effortless. And yet, most of us fail miserably at it. Ask us to work a 60-hour week? Done. Add a few more items to the to-do list? Done. Manage one more activity or event? Done. Rest? Impossible.

Why is rest so difficult? Why do we have such trouble understanding and embracing rest? Perhaps, it’s because we don’t really understand it. And we’re not alone in our confusion.

Early in the Old Testament, we are introduced to two contrasting kingdoms, Empire and Shalom. Empire encompassed much of the world at that time. It advertised wealth and success and glorified worldly gain. It didn’t matter who got hurt or what was lost in the process. Anything and everything were expendable in the quest for power and position. Shalom, or peace, on the other hand, was God’s kingdom. Shalom meant being content and knowing how to say no to the constant echo of more. Shalom meant people over acquisition. It meant love over self-interest. It meant the promotion of others rather than yourself.

It is in this tension between Egypt’s Empire and God’s Shalom that Israel finds herself in the first chapter of Exodus. While the book opens with Israel in slavery, they had not always been slaves. Originally Israel came to Egypt as welcome additions. In fact, Joseph and his brothers were given “…the best of the land” (Gen 47:6), the land of Goshen, which was located along the Nile River and rich with life and vegetation. Before they were slaves, the Israelites were willing, profitable citizens of Egypt, reaping the full benefits of Empire. They had bought in, hook, line, and sinker. In fact, they had become so entrenched in Empire that later, as they wandered in the desert, they longingly remembered and yearned for its comforts.

So God brings them out. Knowing that the longer Israel stayed in Pharaoh’s world, the further they would be from Shalom, God takes them out of the Empire to get the Empire out of them. He guides them through the wilderness, providing graciously for their needs and teaching them about Shalom. He instills the values of justice, generosity and righteousness and deepens the partnership between God and man. Finally reaching Mount Sinai, God delivers the handbook for Shalom, the 10 commandments. In this list of 10 “shall nots”, God outlines the kingdom He is calling Israel to. A kingdom of valuing others. A kingdom of interdependent community. A kingdom of mercy. And a kingdom of rest.

“Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work…”

Exodus 20:8-10

Rest doesn’t just make the list. It comes before murder, adultery and lying. God values rest so highly that He doesn’t merely suggest it, He commands it. In the kingdom of Shalom, rest is essential.

Flash forward several hundred years. Israel had long forgotten God’s laws, abandoning Shalom and fully embracing Empire. The prophet Amos accuses them of taking advantage of the needy and profiting off the weak. He chastises them because they “trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth and turn aside the way of the afflicted” (2:7). Israel was pursuing self-promotion and success with no regard for those who might be caught in the crossfire. Interestingly, in chapter 8, Amos reprimands them for another reason. Consumed with worldly gain, Israel resentfully asks,

 “When will the new moon be over, that we may sell grain? And the Sabbath, that we may offer wheat for sale, that we may make the ephah small and the shekel great and deal deceitfully  with false balances, that we may buy the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals and sell the chaff of the wheat?”.

Israel had forsaken the Sabbath. In a greedy grab for wealth, they had no patience for the Sabbath. Or for rest. Rather than honoring the Sabbath how God intended it, a time to pause, remember and worship, they saw it as an inconvenient interruption to their burgeoning economy. Who has time for rest when there is grain to sell and deals to be made?

The idea of rest is such a heated topic that by the time Jesus arrived on the scene, first century Jews were still deliberating and arguing about how to honor the Sabbath and truly rest. In the gospel of Mark, Jesus is chastised for healing on the Sabbath and even plucking a head of grain. Perhaps in an effort to stop all the controversy and resolve the issue, in Matthew 11:28, Jesus makes an invitation.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

And there it is. “I will give you rest.”

The Greek word for rest in this verse is anapausis and it translates literally as “the cessation of movement.” The cessation of movement. All movement. Not just the movement of our bodies, but the movement of our minds and hearts. To anapausis is to stop the labor of worry, of rumination, of regret and anxiety. Can you imagine that? It’s hard for me to wrap my brain around the cessation of all movement. Pausing my physical movement is easy. I can easily and happily take a break from tasks and to-do lists. But intentionally pressing pause on the thoughts and emotions that leave me heavy laden is a significantly more difficult task. While my body may be resting, my mind is nearly always racing. Even at night, as I lay motionless in bed, I am engulfed in ponderings about the day, anxiety about the future, and regret about the past. To let that go, even for a day, seems darn near impossible.

And yet, this is precisely what Jesus is proposing. But how? In a world spinning so fast we can barely catch our breath, how can we possibly stop all movement? The secret lies in the first three words of the verse. “Come to me.” Rest without Christ, rest mustered by our own doing and ability will never deliver. Rest requires more than a day off or lazy morning. In order to anapausis we have to relinquish all our inner turmoil and effort to the only one able to carry it. We must lay all the movement at the foot of the cross and just pause. Pause to take in the wonder of God. Pause to take in the miracle that we are loved. Pause to take in the unmitigated truth that there is no amount of doing that can move us any closer to, or graciously any farther from, our Father. And in the pausing, in the resting, we are able to receive the movement of God’s hand and heart. We are able to trade our incessant, fruitless striving for a crown.

The worry, the fear, the anxiety, the questioning; it’s all too much for us to bear. We were never meant to carry it. Instead, God bids us come. Come and trade labor for freedom. Come and abide in the kingdom of Shalom. Come and anapausis. Come and rest.

We dropped our second born off at college today and my heart is hemorrhaging already. I’ve been through this before with our first born so you’d think it might be a little easier this time around. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I’m finding just the opposite is true. I know what’s coming this time. I know how quiet the house will be and how empty it will seem without him. I know how big our dining table will feel with only 3 of us sitting around it. I am all too familiar with the ache at night knowing he won’t be walking through my door anytime soon.

And here’s the thing. I know all the platitudes. I can recite them backwards and forwards. He will do great and there are amazing adventures ahead for him. This is exactly what I have hoped and prayed for. He is finding his place and his purpose and spreading his wings to soar. In fact, this journey to college has been nothing short of providential. The way God threw open doors to get him to this point is something I’ve rarely witnessed in my life. I asked God to prepare a place for him and God did that, and so much more. And after all, this is my job as a parent, is it not? My goal, as a mom, is to prepare him and launch him and celebrate him as he forges his own path.

All this is true. I don’t dispute that. But true doesn’t mean easy. And true certainly doesn’t mean painless. Today, as I drove away from him, my heart just hurt.

And what I really need right now, more than reminders of truth I already know, is to be seen. What I need is someone sitting with me, seeing my grieving heart and assuring me, not just that my son will be okay, but that I will be okay.

Mercifully, in this season of loss and change, there is a beautiful truth found in the interactions of Jesus. One of my very favorite things about my Savior is His dealings with women. In a culture where women lacked value and position, Jesus consistently, purposefully, and graciously recognizes them and redeems them. One such incident occurs in Luke 7.

“Soon afterward Jesus went to a city called Nain; and His disciples were going along with Him, accompanied by a large crowd. Now as He approached the gate of the city, a dead man was being carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow; and a sizeable crowd from the city was with her. When the Lord saw her, He felt compassion for her and said to her, ‘Do not go on weeping.’ And he came up and touched the coffin; and the bearers came to a halt. And he said, ‘Young man, I say to you, arise!’ And the dead man sat up and began to speak. And Jesus gave him back to his mother.”

Luke 7:11-15

To best understand the full effect of Jesus’ actions and words, we need a bit of cultural background. While we’ve already established that women in this culture lacked any power or position, it’s important to know that any value or provision they did experience was entirely through men. Before marriage, a woman’s father brought worth and security to her. Once married, her husband took the mantle and cared for her, even bringing her to live in his familial home. After that, a woman’s value came through her sons, particularly if she was widowed. While she was eligible for remarriage, for an older woman, this would be unlikely, making a son’s role even more essential. It was understood that a widow’s sons were the ones to house, provide and care for her. Without this line of men stepping into a provisional role, a woman’s life was difficult at best.

So here we have a widow with only one adult son. And now her son has died. And she has nothing. Since all ownership and finances went through the men in her life, she has no wealth, no home, and no land. I can only imagine the depth of her grief when Jesus happened upon her. The loss of a son compounded by the loss of her value. The burial of a child along with the burial of her worth.

And then this simple but profound phrase in verse 13. “When the Lord saw her…”

There are a few different Greek words for see. Vlepo is a literal, physical seeing, the opposite of being blind. But the word used here is quite different. Luke chooses the word horao. Although we read the word in English as “see” or “saw”, the closer interpretation is “know” or “understand”. Horao is far more than looking with one’s eyes. It is perceiving spiritually or grasping the true meaning of something.

Jesus SAW her. He knew her. He understood her. He looked at her with his physical eyes but saw beyond her appearance to behold all of who she was. He knew her fears, perceived her loss and understood her grief. Gazing past the obvious, Jesus recognized every bit of heartache and every moment of raw, desperate anguish living under the surface.  And seeing her, he had compassion on her.

Likewise, my Savior sees me. In this loneliness, in this sadness, I am seen and I am known. And during a season when everything seems hazy, that brings great comfort. It’s hard for me to see what’s around the corner. For over two decades my days and my purpose have been intrinsically linked to my children. Right now, I can’t see what’s next and I feel a bit lost and alone. But mostly, I’m just going to miss my son. I will miss the evening piano serenades and the midnight chat sessions. I will miss the renaming of our pets every other week. I will miss his comedic commentaries on spatulas and coffee mugs. I will miss his jokes, his laugh and his world’s best chocolate chip cookies. I will miss his presence and his heart.

This will take some time. And some tears. But through the uncertainty, I will rest in the gracious truth that my Savior sees me. That when I am the most vulnerable and the most broken, I am seen and I am known and my God has compassion on me.

With the new social distancing and shelter-in-place restrictions, we are all looking for new ways to spend our time. As fate would have it, after we exhausted our share of family movies, we stumbled upon the brick-building, reality show LEGO Masters. As we tuned in, I expected manufactured drama. I expected Hollywood hijinks. I expected carefully crafted plot twists and suspense. What I did not expect was Episode 5 and the way it would profoundly and, almost laughably, illustrate my emotions during this time.

The challenge was a mega city build. With 14 hours on the clock, contestants were tasked with creating a large-scale city block and one team was definitely in it to win it. Two young men erected a visually stunning, magnificently detailed 5 ft skyscraper that literally dwarfed the rest of the competition. Once completed, they simply needed to roll their masterpiece into the center of the room for final judging. It seemed like a lock.

Until disaster struck.

The move triggered instability and the top two thirds of their tower came crashing down. We watched, heartbroken at the turn of events. We sympathized as one of the young men excused himself, unable to hold in his emotions. We joined with the cameras and followed him to the backstage greenroom, where he quickly succumbed to tears and disappointment.

In that moment, something clicked. Suddenly, the emotions I had been unable to quite articulate came clearly and swiftly to the surface.

You, my son, are my skyscraper. You are my masterpiece. I have spent 18 years pouring into you. I have dedicated my time, my energy and my passion into shaping you and nurturing you. I have prayed for you. I have prayed over you. I have loved you and fought for your best with every fiber of my being. I have neglected my own needs at times to ensure you had what you needed. I have sacrificed eagerly in order that you might thrive and prosper.

And here we are so close to the finish line and disaster strikes. 10 weeks before your high school graduation, the threat of an unrelenting virus threatened your final chapter. Our final chapter. So we adjusted. There were some disappointments and losses. The spring musical and Senior Prom. But thankfully, there were still some things to hold out hope for and we clung to plans for postponement and rescheduling.

Until yesterday. Yesterday it was announced that you were done. There would be no returning to school. No musical. No senior prom. No band banquet. No senior picnic. No band concert. No last day of high school.

And in that instant, the tower fell. All the work. All the time. All the effort we have exerted over days, months and years. After everything, the difficulties and the victories, we had reached the season of celebration. We were headed for the winner’s circle ready to rejoice at all God has done in you and how far He has brought you. But on the way there, this happened, and we have been unfairly robbed of the last beautiful leg of this journey. The rug was pulled right out from under us and we stand here cheated of the last pages that feel so critical to the ending of this story.

You will head to college in the fall and it will be hard for me. But to help with that transition, there are moments I needed to have with you that are now lost. There will be no lasts for me to treasure. There will be no video of your last band concert. There will be no pictures of your last prom. There will be no senior award presentation at your last band banquet. There will be no memory of your last day of high school because it came and went without notice or significance on an arbitrary Thursday in March.

And I am so sad. For you. For us. These rites of passage that we both anticipated, that we both needed, are hollow what-ifs. It is devastating. It is hard to be hopeful. Like the young LEGO builder, I have had to excuse myself for a bit and grieve this loss. I find myself stealing away when the emotions swell and I can’t move forward.

Ironically, LEGO Masters also gave me a bit of hope. Once the distraught builder gathered himself, he returned to discover a twist on the challenge. Teams were given an additional four hours to add another element to their build. And while our dream team couldn’t entirely recreate what they had lost, the additional time proved just enough to salvage their damaged build and make something new. In the end, they finished in the top two and all was right in the LEGO world.

So here we are, waiting for the twist. Here we are looking to the God of redemption and trusting Him to salvage these last few months. Graciously, our trust is well placed. After all, He is the God of the unexpected comeback. He is the God of David, who was certain he would perish at the hands of a jealous king but instead was crowned king. He is the God of Daniel, who prepared himself to die by both fire and beast but divinely sidestepped death. He is the God of Esther, who was convinced her number was up only to discover God had other plans. And most powerfully, He is the God of Day 2. After the crucifixion, while the world lost hope and teetered on the edge of despair, the God of the resurrection was orchestrating the most dramatic and redemptive twist of all. He was working to redeem death itself.

In comparison, redeeming our present circumstances seems like small potatoes for our God.

I don’t know what redemption will look like in this. My human eyes can’t see how this can possibly be made right. But I know better than to trust my eyes. I know to trust His heart. So I will trust through the grief. I will hope through my tears. I will pray for you and over you. I will hug you and support you. I will walk this path with you and together we will wait for the twist.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”

Psalm 27:14

Our family is headed on a mission trip this summer and in order to raise some funds, we decided to have a garage sale. It’s a daunting task. I find the preparation exhausting, and if I’m honest, somewhat angering. I am unsettled by the amount of material possessions we have but no longer have use for. Electronics that still work but have been replaced by the latest and greatest. Clothes that are perfectly good, albeit a little out of fashion. Furniture that simply doesn’t suit my taste anymore.

But perhaps the thing that gets me fired up the most is the things that never, ever got used. Primarily these things belong to my children, but I am certainly guilty of a few items myself. Games that were not only never played, but actually still have the cellophane wrapping. Books that were never read. Picture frames that never held a single photograph of my loved ones. Most of them gifts that were received but never put to use.

While obviously scripture doesn’t have anything to say directly pertaining to garage sale fodder, a verse I recently rediscovered certainly applies to the idea of being unused. Last week I delved into John chapter 17 and the glorious prayer Christ offers up for us. Buried in the middle of that prayer is a verse that struck me as both beautiful and convicting.

“For I have given them the words that you gave me, and they have received them and have come to know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me.”

John 17:8

It seems awfully straight forward. Christ came to give the disciples, and us by extension, the words of truth and they received them. He handed them over and the disciples took them. But is it really that simple? If we look a little closer, we find something extraordinary hidden in what seems ordinary.

The Greek word for receive in this verse is “lambano”:  to take with the hand, lay hold of, any person or thing in order to use it. Did you catch that? To lay hold of in order to use it. When Christ gave the disciples the profound truth from the Father and the absolute reality of who He was, they took hold of it and used it. They didn’t set it to the side. They didn’t admire it only to stash it on a shelf. And they certainly didn’t store it away in a closet and sell it at a garage sale years later. They took the truth and they wielded it. They woke up each morning and strove to apply that truth to their relationships, their actions and their decisions. They filtered life through the truth they had been given. They took hold of what their Savior offered and found every way imaginable to put it to divine use.

I wonder, do we do the same? We have been given the same truth, the same glorious gift as the disciples but do we really use it? We sit in our kitchen reading our daily devotional and embrace the scripture before us. We assemble in church and marvel at the verses taught there. We drink coffee with fellow believers and nod in agreement over the profound truth we’ve found in the word of God. But often we leave that truth right where we found it. We leave scripture’s revelations on the kitchen counter. We forget to carry the lessons out of the church sanctuary. We abandon those profound truths next to our discarded coffee cup.

It’s not that we don’t believe it. It’s just that we don’t carry it. We get busy or distracted. We get angry or disillusioned and we leave it behind. Perhaps we worry about what others will think. Perhaps the truth that was so light when we first discovered it has become heavy with our own baggage and shame.

We offer excuses regarding why we can’t love. We justify withholding forgiveness. We dismiss our lack of boldness under the umbrella of tolerance. And while we are all certainly weak in these areas, we accept our weakness with resolve and satisfaction. Instead of claiming God’s truth, instead of accessing the power we’ve been given, we give up. And before you know it, the truth we have been given is collecting dust in the garage sale pile.

I want to be like the disciples. I want Peter’s fire and John’s devotion. I long for Paul’s determination and Stephen’s fearlessness. I want to take the treasure I’ve been given and use it to the fullest. I want my employment of it to be so constant, so consistent that it begins to resemble an old book with torn pages and a missing cover. I want it to live in me, to breathe and grow in me. All we could ever need is before us for the taking. Every bit of strength and power, every ounce of love and grace is ours. Let us lay hold of and use that which Christ died to place in our hands.

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.”

2 Cor 4:7

Easter is right around the corner. Judging by the shelves in local stores, it’s been right around the corner for two months now. It seems every store is reminding us to prepare, prepare, prepare. And when it comes to the material aspect, I’ve done my part. I have a banner over my fireplace and bunnies on my dining room buffet. A few small gifts have been purchased for my children and the buckets are wiped down and ready to hold their bounty.

But have I really prepared? Have I prepared in the ways that count? My house may be ready but what about my heart? I’ve acquired what I need to fill the baskets, but do I have what I need to fill my soul?

The truth is probably not. In typical fashion I’ve focused on what’s before me rather than what’s within me. Thankfully, it’s never too late. So today I am brought to the gorgeous passage of John chapter 17 and asking God to do his thing and move me closer to the cross.

To give a little background, John 17 holds great significance in the Easter story. Christ had just finished the last Passover meal he would share with the disciples, his closest followers. Over the course of the meal he did His best to explain infinite truths to finite men. He instructed and encouraged them. He warned and comforted them. And then, he prayed for them. He begins by lifting his head to heaven and addressing the Father.

“Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son that the Son may glorify you, since you have given authority over all flesh, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. I glorified you on earth, having accomplished the work that you gave me to do. And now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had with you before the world existed.” John 17:1-5

Reading these verses, they strike me a little like a letter of resignation. There is a sense of no regret. An impression that Christ has done what he came to do. “The stage is set. The actors are in position and the lights are focused. It’s time to open the curtain.”

Or in this case, rip the curtain. Right in two.

“And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” Mark 15:37-38

The innermost sanctuary of the Jewish temple was called the Holy of Holies and it was the housing for the very presence of God. It was separated from the rest of the space by a large curtain. Once a year, the high priest alone was permitted to enter in order to make atonement for the sins of Israel. It was a big deal. There was washing and anointing. There were garments and traditions. Passing through the curtain was no small thing as it gave access to God and that kind of access was reserved for a very select few.

But here was Jesus blowing the whole thing wide open. Not just pulling back the curtain a la Wizard of Oz, but tearing the very fabric itself thereby giving the entire audience direct access to the author and director of it all, God himself. It’s as if Christ is saying, “There is no going back. This curtain cannot be mended so don’t even think about it.”

Oh how this must have infuriated the religious leaders. After months of gathering ammunition and false evidence of blasphemy and heresy, the very one they thought they had silenced made the most daring and politically incorrect declaration of all: “The curtain is no more. Come and meet your God.”

Suddenly everyone had admittance into God’s presence. Every daughter, every son could now come boldly with their petitions, their pain, their repentance. There was nothing standing in the way between God and his children. No curtain, no priest, no law and no sin.

It’s difficult for us to comprehend the impact of this. But two thousand years ago this was radical and even scandalous. It’s just not how things were done. There were rules, thou shalts and thou shalt nots. And while the religious leaders could not stomach the shift, those who loved their Lord must’ve wept at the sound of that torn fabric.

I have to admit that I take the extinction of the curtain for granted. The idea of approaching God directly is comfortable and familiar. Perhaps a bit too familiar. On my knees every morning do I fully grasp who I am speaking with? I’m not sure I can. My human mind is incapable of realizing the fullness of God’s power and glory. And I believe that’s just where the beauty of Christ’s death and resurrection is found. Despite our veiled understanding and human limitations, Christ’s sacrifice allows us to know God in an intimate and profound way that had never before been possible.

As I move closer to the cross and the empty tomb in the next several days, I understand that preparedness is not a one-time process. Real preparation occurs every day, 365 days a year. Each time I unknowingly acknowledge the torn curtain, I am preparing. Each time I whisper a prayer to the Father I am honoring the sacrifice of the Son. Each cry to my Creator is a product of unhindered access. Each moment, each breath, each word I utter in need or thanksgiving is possible because of Christ.

So as we approach Easter, let us look towards the Son. Let us gaze towards the cross and behold the unimaginable sacrifice mixed with divine glory. And let us not forget what is no longer there. The curtain is torn. The veil is lifted. The invitation is ours for the taking.

“And this is eternal life, that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.”

One of my favorite things about scripture is the way it all connects like threads of a tapestry. While many verses and passages hold power all on their own, often times when they are read and considered in the light of a larger story, the insight and effect are remarkable.

In all but one of the gospels, there is a story that exemplifies this perfectly. It’s found in Matthew and Luke, however, the most comprehensive account is in Mark 5:25-34.

“And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, ²⁶ and who had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was no better but rather grew worse. ²⁷ She had heard the reports about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his garment. ²⁸ For she said, “If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.” ²⁹ And immediately the flow of blood dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. ³⁰ And Jesus, perceiving in himself that power had gone out from him, immediately turned about in the crowd and said, “Who touched my garments?” ³¹ And his disciples said to him, “You see the crowd pressing around you, and yet you say, ‘Who touched me?’” ³² And he looked around to see who had done it. ³³ But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling and fell down before him and told him the whole truth. ³⁴ And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

To understand the extraordinary impact and significance of this exchange between the woman and Jesus, we need some background information. First of all, by reading previous chapters, we can conclude that the healing takes place in Capernaum, a small city on the northern edge of the Sea of Galilee. Capernaum was a Hebrew fishing village with a population of about 1500. Given this information, it’s safe to say that the woman in the story was Jewish.

Next, let’s jump over to Leviticus 15. That particular chapter outlines a long list of rules and regulations regarding bodily discharge. The second half of the chapter is specific to women with a discharge of blood.

In a nutshell, anything she sat on was unclean. Anything she laid on was unclean.  Anyone who touched her bed or anything she sat on was unclean. Anyone who touched her was unclean.

Unclean.

Unclean.

Unclean.

Since she lived in a Jewish community, those rules would have been strictly followed. That means that anyone that touched this woman over the previous 12 years was unclean. I imagine at first those around her, her friends and family, were willing to jump through the hoops of washing clothes and bathing. But I wonder if that got old quickly. After months and years, did they tire of the work necessary to live with her, eat with her, sit with her, and touch her. I have to believe she spent much of her time alone.

Twelve years of sleeping alone. Twelve years of eating alone. Twelve years with little to no community. Twelve years with little to no human touch. I can’t imagine that. I can’t imagine the stigma, the isolation, the loneliness that her ailment must have caused. Quite honestly, the physical component of her illness was probably the least of her pain.

Now, let’s jump back to her encounter with Jesus. For starters, it’s impossible for us to comprehend the enormous risk she took in being out in public. Mark 5:31 tells us that the crowd was pressing around Jesus, so it seems highly unlikely that this woman remained untouched among the throngs. And everyone that touched her would’ve been unclean. In a town as small as Capernaum it must’ve been difficult to remain undetected.

And what about Jesus? Did she realize that she risked making him unclean as well? Did she comprehend what she might be causing?

I’m not sure she cared. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Those measures are miraculously rewarded. They are, in fact, rewarded tenfold. In his mercy and compassion, Jesus heals her.

Except that’s only the beginning. A quick read of the story leaves us relieved and satisfied that the woman has been cured. That her bleeding has stopped. But if we’re not careful, we’ll miss the beautiful collateral healing that occurred.

With five simple words, “…be healed of your disease”, Jesus not only restored her body but he redeemed her dignity as well. The bleeding stopped and so did the isolation. Her illness retreated and along with it went the shame, the loneliness, the taboo. Suddenly, she could be touched. Instantly, she could be held. Finally, she could be loved.

If we could talk to her, and someday we will, I’d like to ask her which was more powerful: the physical healing or the emotional one? If she’s anything like me it would be the latter. After 12 years of being relationally and communally ostracized, the elation must have been palpable.

I wish I could’ve been in Capernaum that day. I wish I could have seen the woman’s face as the reality set in. I would’ve liked to see her eyes fill with joyful tears as she realized the full impact of what Jesus did for her. And I would have relished the opportunity to celebrate the collateral healing she so desperately needed but perhaps never expected.

This, my dear friends, is one of the most wondrous and remarkable things about surrendering to Jesus. The collateral healing. The healing beyond the immediate. The restoration of our hearts. In desperation we bring him our sickness, our brokenness, our very worst. We beg him to heal us. But divinely, Jesus wants so much more for us. He may heal the physical. He may heal our marriages or restore broken relationships. He may relieve us of pain. However, if we let him, he will do exponentially more. He will heal our deepest wounds and satisfy our greatest needs. Our need for rest. Our need for peace. Our need for love. Our need for him.

“Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

About a year ago I spent a long weekend in Arizona with two close friends. While there, our hostess informed us that it was monsoon season. We listened to the warning and headed out on our adventures. Once gone, we snickered about what seemed like an unnecessarily dramatic mislabeling of a few thunderstorms.

A few days later we were visiting some local shops and I stepped out onto a nearby balcony to view the incredible scenery around me. Gazing into the distance I began to wrap my head around exactly what we had been warned about. Off on the horizon, dark, ominous clouds gathered. It was literally a wall of blackness. A thick, heavy veil stretching from the heavens all the way down to the parched ground. You could actually see the approaching rain descending in dense, weighty sheets.

I realized our levity was horribly misplaced. We were wrong. Monsoon season. It’s a serious thing. It’s known to wash out roads, fell trees, flood homes and cars, even take lives.

The last several months have felt like my own personal monsoon season. Today we are dropping our oldest off at college and it is wrecking me. For weeks I’ve stood on a virtual balcony watching this moment come with no hope of avoidance. And I am barely holding it together. I am fragile and frail and easily nicked by the smallest thing. The last time I’ll see his backpack on the floor. The last time I’ll wake at 2am to see the downstairs light still on. The last time I’ll get a notification on my phone that he’s arrived home. So many lasts. And each one feels like a sharp, stabbing drop of rain.

In Genesis 3, after the fall of Adam and Eve, God discloses the consequences of their sin. To the serpent, He gives a curse that sentences him to a life of enmity with humanity. Adam’s consequence undermines the success he might experience in his work.

But to Eve, He reveals a consequence that strikes at the very core of womanhood.

“I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing, in pain you shall bring forth children”

Gen 3:16

I have always taken that verse at face value. Whenever I read it, my mind immediately went back to the hospital rooms where I gave birth to my three children. I remembered the intense physical pain that accompanied those days.

Recently, however, I heard this verse with fresh ears and it made me wonder. And weep. As the mother of an 18, 16 and 12 year old, I can tell you that childbearing did not end in the hospital. The process of “bringing forth” a child continues long after the physical pain is gone. In fact, I would argue that the emotional pains of childbearing continue for years and far surpass the discomfort of the physical event. My heart strains under the weight as I help my children navigate all the highs and lows of life. The job of anticipating pitfalls and diligently scanning the horizon for potential snares leaves me weary and worried.

But today, the greatest pain is in the letting go. I have spent the last two decades preparing my children to leave me. I have protected and nurtured, directed and disciplined, all in an effort to get them ready to live and thrive without me. Since they entered my world, a door has been slowly opening. A door that inevitably leads them away from me in many ways. And in a ridiculous twist, I am supposed to usher them through. While one hand clings to them, the other must hold the door. What cruel irony. I have become a victim of forced retirement and I’m just not ready to turn in my employee ID.

All this said, however, I am convinced that for every supposed curse, there is a proportionate blessing. Just as towering peaks juxtapose lowly valleys, somewhere in all this hard there must be redemption and hope.

So where is the hope in monsoon season? Interestingly, there isn’t much in the immediate aftermath. Once the rains recede, what’s left is a muddy mess. Roads are indiscernible, paths are unclear, the landscape is nearly impossible to travel. This is where I currently am. It’s muddy. And oh so messy. I can’t find my path and I am ill-equipped to navigate this new terrain. Backwards isn’t an option but forward is blurry. And exceedingly difficult.

But…

Weeks after monsoon season has passed what remains is breathtaking. Over time, the desert soaks up the nourishing water and converts it to glorious green. The rain that appeared so devastating and destructive brings life and lushness beyond compare. The dry, brittle ground springs anew with magnificence and vitality.

And this is my hope.

“Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?        I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

Isaiah 43:19

 I couldn’t love this verse more. I like to think Isaiah wrote it during monsoon season and I love to think he wrote it for me. For this time. To remind me, though difficult to perceive, that God is doing a new thing. That the rivers in my desert will give way to abundance I can’t imagine. That even though some trees may fall, they will fall to reveal a fresh path.

Change is afoot. It’s coming in heavy waves and there’s nowhere to hide. It will drench me and scare me. I may feel lost and alone. But thankfully, I have a good pair of boots and a secure rock to cling to. I am not lost because God knows exactly where I am. And I am definitely not alone. He is in my desert. He is in my wilderness. He is in my monsoon. And He is most certainly in the new thing that’s yet to come.

My son had a victory last night. A pie in the sky, write home about it, shout it from the rooftops victory. He is in an advanced film class at school and the film he helped write and created special effects for took first place in a county wide film festival. You’d have thought he won the Academy Award. He was beaming like the sun and as I watched, I quietly stored the memory in my heart.

You see, this is a kid that hasn’t had a lot of victories. In fact, for many long years we watched him struggle, unable to find his place and passion. He is not an academic. He is not an athlete. He is neither the teacher’s favorite nor the popular kid among his peers. But man is he creative. And artistic. And musical. And brilliant in ways that are often missed and difficult to measure.

With my first born we receive emails with accolades for his academic achievement. Every teacher loves him. They absolutely love him. He performs and excels in the academic box of the school system thereby garnering loads of acclaim and recognition.

With my second born, the emails are quite different. Out of 4 academic classes last semester, he was legitimately failing 3 of them. That’s not a stellar success rate.

However, he was absolutely killing it in band and film.

I hear about a lot of parents who tend to take away extracurricular or non-scholastic activities when their child isn’t meeting their academic expectations. The condition for participating in the arts, band, clubs or sports is academic performance. Get the grades so you can do what you want. Perform in what you don’t love and then we’ll allow you to participate in what you do love. It’s the advanced version of telling kids to eat their meat and vegetables so they can have dessert.

But what if for some kids the non-academic is their meat and vegetables? I can say with certainty it is for my son. Band and film are what sustain my kid. They are his lifeline. They feed him and grow him in ways the three R’s never will. And quite honestly, they will be the ticket to his success. He will never sit behind a desk crunching numbers. I doubt he will ever sit in a meeting wearing a three-piece suit and watching a PowerPoint presentation. If he sits, it will be at a piano or a laptop loaded with After Effects. His meetings will most likely be with other creative types wearing wacky t-shirts and colorful Converse. And the very air will be thick with artistic and imaginative brilliance.

I think there is a whole giant group of kids that we are doing a massive disservice too. When we dangle our kids’ passions like a carrot and then make them jump through the necessary hoops to get it, we stunt their growth. We reduce what compels and ignites them to a mere hobby and place it on the shelf next to the Legos and video games. We silently tell them that their passions aren’t worthy.

In our drive for goals and a future that our society says they should have, I believe we have lost the ability to see who our children really are. Somewhere along the way, the artists, the musicians, the athletes have been sacrificed to a system that rewards the traditional. We are completely missing unconventional genius because we are wrapped up in a subpar math grade or a weak lit paper. Furthermore, our tendency as parents is to punish by taking away our children’s passions. When the report card shows up and the numbers don’t meet our hopes or expectations we hastily strip our children of “the extras”. The interests that don’t get graded or perhaps don’t seem to count towards their future are a quick casualty in our push to deliver successful, contributing young people.

I will admit that we tried this approach early on. We threatened taking away marching band from my son if he didn’t bring his grades up. And it worked. His grades came up. While his heart went down. He lost passion. He lost joy. The very thought of losing what he loved created angst and resentment. It wasn’t long before we saw the overall ineffectiveness of what we had done and promised him we would never again make his passions part of the equation. We will never again use his creative appetites as leverage.

Now there is a new deal. Just graduate. Please. Get the diploma so you can take the next step and do what you were created to do. Is he capable of A’s and B’s? Heck yeah. He is smart as a whip and if he put his mind and energy into it we are convinced he could ace any class he wanted. But he is too busy putting his mind and efforts into learning his sixth instrument. He is too busy putting his energy into mastering killer special effects and producing unique and amazing short films.

The world needs all types and I absolutely love that I get to offer up this magnificent young man who refuses to fit neatly in a box. I am giddy as I watch his story unfold and see the colors of his life and passion spill off the traditional page. He has emphatically thrown the book out the window and traded it for a trombone and a camera and I couldn’t be prouder.

It’s time we flip the equation. It’s time we stop using our children’s passions as kindling in our attempt to lite a fire and get them to perform. It’s time we reward that zeal and enthusiasm. Rather than use their fervor as leverage, we should be working tirelessly to remove any and every obstacle that stands in the way of them succeeding at what they truly love.  It’s time we let the dessert lovers have their cake and eat it too.

A few years back, a study determined that achieving expert status required 10,000 hours of practice. If this is true, then I am an expert in Candyland. Between the hours spent as a child playing on our rust-colored shag carpet and the hours logged with my three children, I have not only hit the 10,000 hour mark but certainly lapped it.

Being an expert, I am well versed in the intricacies of the game. I’m well acquainted with Queen Frostine and Gramma Nut. I’ve floated on the Ice Cream Sea and longed wistfully to land strategically at the entrance to the Gumdrop Path.

I am also familiar with the Molasses Swamp and the frustration that ensues after drawing the card that sticks you like glue to that darn black dot while your colorful gingerbread friends blaze past you on their way to the coveted Candy Castle. You wait, drawing card after card, hoping for the card that will free you. You wait for permission to advance. You wait to move.

Lately, I have been stuck spiritually. Just like my time spent in Molasses Swamp, I simply cannot move forward. It seems no amount of prayer or petition allows me beyond this spot. And while I’m so desperate to move, longing and ready for the next location, there are lessons to be learned in the swamp. The black dot that holds us back has some wisdom to share if we have ears to hear. After some thought and digging, It occurred to me that there are generally three reasons we find ourselves stuck.

Our Sin

When it comes to being stuck because of sin, the Israelites are the quintessential example. After being divinely freed from the Egyptians, they had God’s promise, protection, and provision, but none of it was enough. In an effort to control their situation and ensure success, they authored the book on unfaithfulness and doubt. When things got difficult, they grumbled about empty stomachs. When things got dicey they blamed their leaders. When things got uncertain they bowed to every god but the One that had saved them. Eventually, God had enough and He threw down the card that would stick them in the dessert for 40 years (Numbers 14:34). Stuck with manna and quail, with sand and heat, with nowhere to call home. All because of sin. All because they wanted what they wanted and weren’t willing to trust.

All too often, we do the same thing. While God may be calling us forward, our disobedience keeps us from advancing. Surrounded by all God’s goodness, we dig in our heels and shake our fists because it’s not enough. Just like the Israelites, we want what we want. We want more when God calls us to contentment. We want revenge when God calls us to peace. We want to fight when God calls us to love. And in our desire, we sin. And in our sin, we get stuck.

Our Fear

I’m not sure when Moses figured it out. An Israelite raised under an Egyptian Pharaoh’s roof, at some point he fully realized who he was and it didn’t take long for him to snap. His anger got the best of him when he saw an Egyptian beating an Israelite and in a moment of rage he killed the Egyptian. Confronted with his actions, he did what most red-blooded humans would do – he ran. He ran fast and he ran far. Terrified of likely execution, he ran 285 miles to Midian and stayed there for 50 years (Exodus 2:15). Moses was stuck. He was paralyzed by fear of the future and halted by doubt that he could ever come back from this.

Fear and doubt are dangerous bed partners and unfortunately, they frequently pair up to freeze us in our tracks. We get trapped in the unknowns and uncertainty. We question our value and wonder if we’re even worthy of moving forward. Fear tells us we aren’t good enough. It whispers lies about our purpose and potential, often convincing us we have neither. And before we know it, we’ve let the voices in. We fret, we doubt, we crumble. We stand helpless as the enemy throws the card that leaves us stuck.

God’s Plan

In Acts 1, after Jesus’s resurrection, the disciples enjoyed 40 days of living and learning with the risen Lord. I imagine just about the time they settled into their new reality, Jesus dropped the bomb that He was leaving – for good. Furthermore, just before He ascended He instructed them not to leave Jerusalem but instead to wait for what the Father had promised (Acts 1:4). As they left Mount Sinai to return to the city, I expect they anticipated a relatively short waiting period. A few hours perhaps. Certainly no more than a couple days. So they waited. And waited. In the end, they waited ten long days, stuck in uncertainty and hopeful expectation.

Being stuck by design is perhaps the hardest of all. We are ready to move and ready to act. We hear the call, lace up our sneakers and strain our ears for the signal that will release us in all our passion and intention. But sometimes the signal takes a while and we are left kneeling at the starting line far longer than we expected. Maybe because we’re not quite as ready as we thought we were. We might need more equipping, more growth.  Or perhaps we are ready but something else isn’t. The timing isn’t right or the people we need on our journey aren’t yet in place. For whatever reason and for as long as it takes, God tells us to wait. And we are stuck.

So we’re stuck. Neck deep in molasses, we just can’t move forward. Now what?

Look Up

The tendency when we’re stuck is to keep our heads down and try and figure a way out of our predicament. The problem is that when we look down, we wind up with more fear. Focused on our predicament, we easily fall prey to panic and worry. As we look down, so goes our heart.

We are also tempted to look around when we’re stuck. But looking around sends us quickly into the trap of comparison. We see others moving when we cannot and the sins of jealousy, judgment and anger creep silently in. Questions and accusations seep in that are neither helpful nor healthy. Our eyes wander and so does our heart.

So where do we look? We look up. We look towards the castle and our King. Fixing our gaze on Him makes it impossible to focus on whatever is keeping us stuck. And when we look, we also listen. Looking up to our Lord makes us more receptive to receiving what He’s speaking to us. When we look up we see who He is rather than where we are.

Lean In

While we’re looking up, we also need to lean in and cling to God’s truths. Rather than focusing on what our “stuckness” seems to say about us, if we seek and soak up God’s promises and provision, we are able to rest even in the mire. When we surround ourselves with the truths emanating from the castle we begin to surrender and we begin to trust.

What truths do you need to hear today? What’s keeping you stuck?

Is it sin? Confess, turn and cling to the timeless promises your Father whispers over you.

“For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, ‘In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.’”  Isaiah 30:15

“Repent therefore, and turn again, that your sins may be blotted out, that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord…”  Acts 3:19-20

What about fear? Are fear and doubt holding you fast? Take courage in the Lord’s strength and presence.

 “…fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”  Isaiah 41:10

 “…for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.”  2 Timothy 1:7

Are you stuck by design? Is God’s plan requiring you to wait just a bit longer? Be patient dear heart and trust that He is working.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”  Psalms 27:14

“But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”  Romans 8:25

Being stuck is hard. Our sin sinks us, our fear freezes us and divinity delays us. But there is great hope. In His perfect time we will move with swiftness, grace and power. Until then, beloved, look up to your Creator. Lean in to the truth He sings over you. The castle calls and it will be but an instant before we are there!