BEING A MIRACULOUS SIGN

Today's blog is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Christy Lewis, who walked around on this earth being a miraculous sign until Jesus took her Home on July 13.

"This is a wicked generation. It asks for a miraculous sign..." Luke 11.29

Though style may be optional, that we become rescuers is not. If we have been rescued from the grave, gratitude should prompt the kind of desire to obey our Savior and Master that compels us to throw out the only Lifeline there is, remembering all the time that it is He who is the Lifeline and we are only the thrower-outers of it.

Jesus performed many miracles in His short ministry, but His main purpose was to point the people to the Answer to all their needs, not just the one that was clamoring at the moment. Remember how indignant the people became when instead of healing a man's legs first, Jesus chose to proclaim that his sins were forgiven? He asked the question, "Which is harder, to heal a man's legs or to forgive sin?" In the end, He did both. His point was that we are shallow and foolish seekers who ask for a limb to be bound up while ignoring a dying root. After healing someone, Jesus didn't ask all of them to go out and heal other legs or eyes or stomachs. Jesus, rather, wanted the recipients of His miracles not necessarily to go out and do miracles but to go out and be miracles. That way, when others saw a life victorious over lust, greed, worry, envy, pride, and the like, they, too, would want to be healed in those ways. They would want to know and follow this Great Physician. Following the Great Physician is the crux of all matters and the desired product of all miracles.

Once Jesus was summoned by two sisters to come quickly and heal their brother Lazarus, one of His dearly loved friends. His response to this was ,"This sickness will not end in death. " Most of us know the end of the story: Jesus lingered where he was four more days before making it to Bethany and finding a dead Lazarus who was already stinking. On this occasion, Jesus decided to use the circumstances to glorify the Father by bringing credence to His Son: He raised Lazarus from his dead physical state and restored his former physical life. Therefore, many of the onlookers put their faith in Him.

But even if Jesus had not raised Lazarus from his dead state to a living state, what Jesus said would still have been true: Lazarus' sickness would not have ended in death. (It is interesting, and maybe even helpful, to note here that when Jesus spoke of a believer's death, He customarily called it "falling asleep," not "dying." "Dying " was a term reserved for what we call "the second death.") Lazarus had "fallen asleep" and was enjoying eternal life! Every time I read this story, I feel sorry for Lazarus, whose body might have been stinking, but whose soul certainly was not. In fact, those four days were his best days ever! I have even wondered if the fact that Jesus was about to interrupt this lovely new Life might have been at least part of His reason for weeping! It is also interesting to note that this occasion is a close parallel to the one I mentioned a few paragraphs earlier with the lame man: Here, too, before Jesus performs the lesser, but more visible, miracle of healing/restoring the flesh, He makes sure to instruct the listeners about the deeper, more lasting-- but less flashy-- miracle of restoring the soul. In the lame man's case, He spoke of forgiving sins; in the case of Lazarus, He confronted Martha with these words: "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die." We know He is not promising Martha that no one who believes in Him will ever literally die, but rather is referring to the death of our souls. Only after He has made this clear, as before with the lame man, does He deliver the miracle that everyone wanted to see at that particular moment.

There is an ongoing controversy in these latter days about whether or not not people are still endowed with the ability to perform the kinds of miracles Jesus and some of His followers performed. However, there is nothing debatable about whether or not His followers should be miracles. We are instructed to be a "peculiar people," "sanctified," "a people that are my very own," " a holy priesthood," and "a royal priesthood," just to list a few descriptors of the picture of a Christian. We have been redeemed by the blood of the perfect Lamb of God. We have been raised to walk in newness of life. In short, we should look different, even odd. The world should look at us and scratch their heads.

When people watch us live, do they notice that we are not acting, reacting, and responding the way we "should" be-- meaning, the way the World usually does? Are we a living testimony to the power of the resurrection of Jesus?

Ours, too, without a recognition of our Savior, is a "wicked generation"-- a skeptical generation, a generation of creatures who begin losing hope at an early age and harden as they grow older, trying everything under the sun to quench their desires and to give their lives some kind of meaning. Most of them, having failed to find it, pass on the next generation their skepticism and hopelessness. We are God's primary sign to this wicked generation.

God wants to make something supernatural of us. Is your life a miracle?

[I lost a friend last week. Her flesh fought a hard and admirable battle, but finally she fell asleep. Many of us prayed hard that she would once again, as she did a few years ago, beat the cancer, rise up from her sick bed, and go back to teaching school and playing with her darling new granddaughter. Some believed almost to the very end that the scripture, "This sickness will not end in death" would apply to Christy. I hope that today's words will help them all to believe that indeed it did. Christy was a Christian. In all the ways that matter the most, her sickness did not end in death but in victorious eternal life!]

Where Do You Anchor Your Hope?

The before and after of a clematis: the loveliness of last week is a skeleton today.



"If they obey and serve Him, they will spend the rest of their days in prosperity and their years in contentment" (Job 36:11).

What do such words as this really mean? Can it all be as simple as it sounds? Here might be an even better question: How can this particular person, the tortured Job, give such a far-out testimony? All of his days were certainly not spent in what most of us would call prosperity and contentment. And notice that Job said this in the middle of his story, after he had been beleaguered with ruined health and destroyed family and goods, and before God gave him "twice as much as he had before."

Why twice as much? I have heard many say, "That wouldn't have helped me any! Everybody knows that getting another child- no matter how much you love that child- can ever take away the grief or 'make up for' losing the one you lost." But we need only to keep reading to learn that it must have worked for Job because verse 12 says ,"The Lord blessed the latter part of Job's life more than the first." I interpret that to mean that Job was happier, more contented, more fulfilled in the latter part than he was in the first part. Did his spiritual blessings correspond with his physical blessings? Was he more spiritually blessed because he was more physically blessed? I don't think so. I think he learned something about the goods of this world that enabled God ( if you can strain your imagination a little to get what I mean by the Lord of the Universe being "enabled" as though there is some greater enabler above Him... ) to grant him not only more children (and beautiful ones, at that!) but also better health and more possessions. Perhaps after he had learned to proclaim what he did in verse 36:11, he could have owned the whole world and still taken it lightly compared to what he possessed as a child living in the hand of the one Holy and sovereign God.

Listen to 1 John 2:15-17: "Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world-- the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does-- comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever." He is saying that by loving the world we cripple our ability to love, and thus obey, the Father.

Why? Does this necessarily have to be true? J.I. Packer, in his wonderful little devotional book, Great Joy, explains it in a way that hits me between the eyes:

"Love of the world is egocentric, acquisitive, arrogant, ambitious,
and absorbing and leaves no place for any other kind of affection.
Those who love the world serve and worship themselves every
moment. It is their full-time job. And from this we see that any-
one whose hopes are focused on gaining material pleasure, profit,
and privilege is booked for a bereavement experience, since, as
John (v. 17) says, the world will not last. Life's surest certainty is
that one day we will leave worldly pleasure, profit, and privilege
behind. The only uncertainty is whether these things will leave us
before our time comes to leave them. God's true servants, however,
do not face such bereavement. Their love and desire center on the
Father and the Son in a fellowship that already exists (cf. 1 John 1:3)

and that nothing can ever disrupt."

What is happening to us now-- what we own, the titles we aspire to, and the pleasures we enjoy-- therefore, must be prayed over diligently. We must pray seriously for discernment concerning it all. We must take care to learn and keep learning whether we are allowing our love of all of this to become our ultimate hope. Herein lies the snare. None of this can become our hope, because none of this lasts. John and Job both seem to be warning us about these temptations to allow our hope to be built upon the hopeless; they seem to be recommending to us a continual assessment of our true focus so that we can redirect it to the only One who holds in His hand our eternal assignment when we are finished with this fast-fading life.

"All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field. The grass withers and the flowers fall because the breath of the Lord blows on them... but the word of our God stands forever." Isaiah 40:6-8

A Visual on My Father

My grandchildren (clockwise from upside down Bryson, Callie, Eli, Joel, Allison)

The other day I was watching a movie in which spies were talking to other spies on their cell phones. I got tickled for the thousandth time about the way people like that, as well as policemen and the military, use their own gussied-up language (usually pointlessly elongated) to say mundane things. The one I noticed that day was "I don't have a visual on him," meaning simply, "I can't see him." I decided it might be funny if I started talking like that and made a mental note to use that terminology soon in some everyday conversation with some unwitting friend or family member. Tuck that away for a minute.

I have been doing a lot of pointed praying the last couple of weeks. Been talking really honestly with God about some of the things I am confused and concerned about. The confusion and concern has lasted longer than I am comfortable with since, as a Christian, I have been graced with such gifts as the indwelling of the Holy Spirit and loaded with such benefits as being the daughter of the King of the Universe, the one and only Almighty and omnipotent God! Thus, lately I have been asking Him some specific open-ended questions to which I have hoped He wouldn't mind giving me some specific and definite answers. Mindful of James 1:6-8 , I made a point of telling Him that I would have my eyeballs and earballs open especially wide in an effort to be ready for His answers. I 'd like to share with you how all that has gone... how, as one spy might say to another, I have been afforded wonderful "visuals" on God at work. (I have also decided that, like the spies and the Army, my sightings are too significant, too ethereal, to be spoken of in any words as mundane as "I have seen Him." No, I have definitely been getting "visuals" of God as He has faithfully answered some of my very pointed prayers lately.)

My first pointed request was in the form of a poem inspired in part by a couple of scriptures: "The Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly" (Psalm 84:11).
"Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me" (Psalm 51:10-11).

Now that I'm nearing fifty-nine,
I desperately need this heart of mine
To be taken afresh into your hands,
To be molded anew to fit your plans.
Oh, the clay there seems so hard and dry-
I am moved so little; I never cry!
I know you don't want a heartless head.
I'm starving for tenderness; I need to be fed.
True sympathy and empathy I'll need to impart,
So I need to be moved way down deep in my heart.
I desire to feel, but I'm as dry as husk.
My healing will come from no less than your touch.
So won't you please rain on this dry heart of mine?
For I've miles to travel; I'm just fifty-nine!

I said these words were "in part" inspired by those scriptures, but they were brought on, too, by a long time of trying to figure out if something is wrong with my insides. Once a person given to demonstrative emotions, this older me is calmer, much less demonstrative, especially concerning sadness, sympathy, empathy, loss. My abiding joy is deeper than ever, and my laughter, excitement and energy are intact, but the output of tears has lessened dramatically. I am surrounded by friends whose tears flow freely, whether they want them to or not, so I have felt a sense of loneliness as mine have dried, and my heart has steadied. What's wrong? Why have I changed so? Does it show in other places in my life? Am I dead? Some have answered emphatically, "NO! This is a blessing, Jan, not a curse! Give thanks to God and don't get distracted about this." But I needed to hear God say this, so eventually, after stewing and re-stewing, I presented my case to Him in this poem. I asked Him to make known to me if He was displeased with me, if I had become hardened out of some sin I had, from years of neglect, just somehow normalized. I felt like a dark cloud that desperately needed to rain but couldn't. Was my heart providentially calmed in these storms or was it dried up prematurely by prevailing ill winds?

And then my six year-old granddaughter, Callie, came for a week. We frolicked and snuggled, went fishing, deer-watching and frog-catching. Then...she left. Suddenly, I couldn't squeeze her, drink her in with my eyes, and bathe my ears in her delightful little voice and laughter. She was gone, and the memories were so fresh. Achingly fresh. I woke up wanting to find her beside me, but nothing of her remained but a little black teddy bear and dozens of sticky notes with her writing in every color. My heart was rent with longing.

When she had left we had picked up her little brother, Eli, and since he is two, I had to shake off my melancholy, perk up, and be on full alert. Again a bond was formed. For a week, this little guy captivated me with his unique language-- few spoken words but a whole lot of intense gazing into my eyes with earnest earnest entreaties to complete the communication that his words left lacking. And the way he would blissfully fall asleep on my chest with little provocation flooded me with Nana tenderness.

And then, just like his sister, he went back home to his parents. Again I walked around a little lost in the silence of my very orderly house, and listened fruitlessly for "Nina," his unique name for me. Once again, I fell deeply into feeling a kind of loneliness that was almost palpable. Then it hit me: I was getting a visual on God! He had heard my cry and had shown up to give me His answer. He had opened a curtain to let me see and feel a heart that still pumped with appropriate emotion.

My visual on God has given me a better visual on myself. The poem might have bled out a little bleakly onto the paper, but I'll bet if I continued it (maybe I will!), it would have concluded on a different note, much like many of David's who started out in the dark talking about God in third person and then somewhere in the middle having gotten "a visual on God," ended up praising Him in first person. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters, He restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and your staff, they comfort me." Psalm 23:1-4.

I have learned at least two lessons from my very pointed prayer:

1. It could be when we undergo a huge change that makes us feel almost like a stranger to ourselves that this is an answer to a long-time prayer request upon which we might have unconsciously lost hope. ( i.e. Yes, for most of my life I was too agonizingly emotional!) Thank you, God, for the rescue from that; I'm so sorry for calling the blessing a curse. My friends were right!

2. Maybe God is saying to us modern day psalmists, as He was to the old-timey ones, that how visual He is to us depends upon how auditory we are to Him.

HEART SURGERY

"For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of Him to whom we must give account." Hebrews 4:12-13

Heart surgery is a time-consuming and critical process. The sharp scalpel cuts deeply, and the bleeding is profuse. One could die in the midst of this procedure whose goal is to restore normal and safe living.

And yet, no shortcuts can be allowed; the entire tedious and painstaking distance must be accomplished to restore this life-sustaining organ to its original design and function. No shortcuts-- even though the healing process will take much longer and be much more painful when the cuts are the deepest, to repair the most serious damage. Some, being warned about the pain, the danger, and the long period of recovery and convalescence, choose not to go through it, though the doctor pleads, explaining in vain that a reasonably secure life cannot be had without it.

And although the doctor might even attempt sometimes to explain the malfunction and the procedures he will use to correct or alleviate the problems, the patient rarely fully understands, never having been a heart specialist or surgeon. She must decide whether to trust the doctor and submit, lie down on his table and be cut into, or decline, and limp through the remainder of her life in an unwhole and precarious condition.

It is all so easy to see when we put it this way. Most of us, after thinking seriously about the alternatives, choose to have the surgery. We choose to entrust our lives to basically a stranger who will cut into our organs and do whatever he chooses, rather than the alternative of having our lives cut short. But the Great Physician comes to us in His Word pleading His case for our spiritual health. Page after page he admonishes us to get that death threat we are harboring taken care of , to let His sharp scalpel cut out the malignant intrusion that is little by little, day by day, eating away the life of our spirits.

That's the way most people lose their spiritual health-- not in one huge leap off God's bandwagon but by sliding a foot off, then a leg, a hip, and finally lowering themselves another few inches onto the world's highway. Today come to the Doctor and ask to be diagnosed. Take the medicine, get the surgery, take the cure no matter how long and slow the healing process might be. The truth is that although our bodies will die, all souls live eternally. Hopefully, that is good news to you! If it isn't, the Doctor is in.

"knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened." Matthew 7:7-8

-from Broken Jar: 365 Days on the Potter's Wheel

COMING TO KNOW

"Keep climbing trees past forty."

Here's a poem I wrote to give my freshmen at the end of each school year to chew on during the summer. It's a preacherly teacher's disjointed and random potpourri of sermons to ensure that even though they survived my class, they would never be rid of me. Not the most eloquent of poetry, not even the most eloquent of my poetry; in fact, it barely deserves to be called a poem, but here it is. If the shoe fits, wear it.

With this bouquet of blunders I collect as I grow,
Oh, to come to live what I'm coming to know!

It's only real rest when it's respite;
Apart from real work, there can be no relief.
Until what I think is tested by fire,
I've no business calling it belief.

Compassion comes in all flavors.
Too varied to discover its lack.
Some show tenderness in the tears that they shed,
While others bear its load on their backs.

The softest-seeming ones of us
Sprout prickles that can tear others' hearts;
And the hardest of us whose tears may be few
Are the softest in some of our parts.

When we admire another so deeply,
We must always be careful still.
Or, as we emulate their light that breeds health,
We'll adopt, too, their struggles and ills.

It's bad to be petty and fragile
And something we should fight to undo,
But in that attempt lurks the danger
Of becoming insensitive too.

Most things are difficult before they are easy;
What we dwell on eventually comes true.
It takes longer to learn what we don't want to believe
Than it does to learn what we do.

When wringing your hands in frustration
For all you can't do for the many,
Remember it's better to save one starfish
Than to give up and not rescue any.

When you're stuck in the traffic, quote scriptures, say a poem,
Pick a flower, but never grow bored;
Be abundantly thankful at the break of each day;
Rejoice in the hope of the Lord!

Expect late doctors, slow trains, and long lines;
Stash a book and some paper and a pen.
And even when you're certain they won't be returned,
Don't silence love notes to a friend.

Don't praise for pay; don't keep tabs on your loans;
Don't rest of the laurels of your past.
Keep climbing trees past forty;
When approaching first base, run fast!

Play the piano by candlelight.
Believe in your visions' powers.
Savor the simplest pleasures;
Study the faces of flowers.

When you tell a person you love him,
The strength of that love won't feel true.
'Til you go to the trouble to tell him the why's
And give honor where honor is due.

When seeking to change to respond like another
Who doesn't gush or rush madly in,
Remember you're you, and what good is revealed you can do,
Not to do it is sin.

When your mouth starts promoting yourself, shut up fast;
Get alone with your motives and God.
Your silence is a treasure stored up for safe-keeping
In Heaven far away from earth's sod.

Words can do damage, just like sticks and stones;
Think carefully before they're begun,
But when affection begs to be spoken,
Your silence is as deadly as a gun.

Hoarded love never builds interest;
Study hands with your eyes and your touch.
Practice playing second fiddle.
Relinquish some things treasured much.

Learn from your garden: Weeds that sprout up
Will grow back 'til you dig out the root.
Fertilize steadily with God's rich Truth
To grow delicious and nourishing fruit.

When we walk with the wise, we, too, will grow wise;
When we sleep with the pigs, we will stink.
When you wash your white underwear with your red socks;
Don't be surprised when they're pink.

When vulnerability becomes such a burden to bear
That you doubt you'll survive one more fall,
Remember it really is better to have lost love
Than never to have known love at all.

Make peace with being resistible.
Don't insist on being a must.
Don't set your heart on receiving a crown
Down here where the best gold will rust.

Allow grace to burn through the parts you don't like;
Don't let the bad drown out the good.
Consider them not just for who they are,
But for who they would be if they could.

When someone's neglect has bruised up your spirit,
And their silence has cut to the bone,
Likelier than not, another close by
Walks in shoes that you're stepping on.

The first shall be last, and the last shall be first,
Most things are not what they seem.
Seek more to understand than to be understood;
Never take away more than you bring.

Don't assume those you cherish assume that you do.
Update often, so they'll never doubt it.
Strive not to take love that come easy for granted;
Think what you'd be missing without it.

Say "Please" and "Thank you" even to children.
Don't interrupt, though you're antsy.
Inviting folks over though your house is a mess
Says their house doesn't have to be fancy.

Love words! Collect them like daisies.
Don't lack one for any occasion.
This one to comfort a heart in its grieving,
That one to sing celebrations.

The path to true wisdom is to live and to learn,
Not to mess up and forget.
Pray to struggle in worthy pursuits,
And when it's something you can't change, don't fret.

APPLES OF GOLD: A LESSON FROM PARADISE

Although I am sure- being so blessed as I am- that I grow blase about multitudes of my blessings, there are some that my eyes seem to stay wide open to. Two of them are the natural beauty of God's creation and the heart-rending beauty of good friendships woven together by a mutual love of our Father. Friendship- phileo love- is a blessing I hope none that I love ever miss; and as far as it depends upon me, everyone in my family- parents, siblings, husband, children,and grandchildren- will get some of that treasured kind of liking from me in addition to my loving.

One of my favorite places on earth is Hawaii, and for the last five years, my four trips to visit Candy have sweetly commingled these two favorites of mine: God's palette of nature and His gift of delightful friendship.

Through open windows in Hawaii exclamation beckons- a chirping of overflowing life from streamlined, pointy-angled birds investigating green mangoes or papayas clustered in a cornucopia of voluptuous clumps. But if, when you look, it's not the birds, it's likely the ventriloquism of exotic geckoes whose voices cast giant fuchsia shadows to make up for their pale coyness of the flesh. Why are they so loud to the ear, as if to beg me to know them, while so quiet to the eye? (What do they fear we will find lacking in them?)

Life can't contain itself here. Everything aside from the visual presence of geckoes is elevated, magnified, amplified, multiplied, heaped up like rubies and emeralds in a cartoon-pirate's treasure chest. In some other setting, the abundant variety of color and texture would be gaudy like a lady gone blind, or maybe just pretending to have so that she could throw all caution to the wind and parade around town in green and yellow striped stretch-pants and a purple floral hat with orange silk tassels. And all these things, as though their vibrancy weren't enough, bear taste and/or fragrance! Its tantalizing energy grabs you without your effort.

It's a lazy, undisciplined kind of attraction that happens here. It requires none of the nobility of making allowances for weakness or the mercy of sifting through the hard edges of blemished flesh to find the pristine soul within. No, none of that; it is all just out there. Even a small-minded buffoon can find it and, with no effort whatsoever, can have it to put in his grimy, undeserving pocket! An overly-eager dog ever at his master's feet, it's the pearl-on-the-outside-of the oyster kind of beauty, unlike, say, the desert of West Texas that must grow and grow and grow on you always taking the costly gamble that your life won't last long enough to get you there. Here in Hawaii, you're already there. It takes nothing. All you have to do is be here. Just go outside, or sit in any house with open windows- which is all of them- and you are smack-dab in the middle of it. No gleaning is required.

Now I move from the voice of the gecko to the voice of good friendship. It is both more and less than I thought it was. And maybe more and less are not the right words, but some old scales are falling from my eyes, and like all scales that fall from eyes, I never knew they were there. Oh, I haven't changed my mind about how fine it is to the touch. It is still a satin pillowcase, powdered sugar, a cello's voice on a summer evening- fine and rich and soothing- calling me out of where I wish to leave into where I long to nest. It reaches ever so deep to scratch unfathomable, itchy regions. In this respect it can feel almost like the oxygen that we draw in mindlessly yet crucially. We are going along blithely through our lives doing it, breathing, and owning it, friendship, and then we lose our regulator forty-feet beneath the surface, or we move away or be moved away from, and we realize the vast worth of the thing. Gray has turned silver, pink has stretched into red, yellow has grown golden, nevermore to return to its paleness. It's the way danger which has always been foreign finally becomes real once we feel its hot breath on our necks. It jells into something solid. I'm thinking that most of the people I know are still in the liquid stage, waiting but not knowing they are waiting. Many die that way. It probably doesn't hurt. It's just a jewel they never mined. But once it jells and you understand that it is real and solid and indispensable, a lot like oxygen, well, you never can take it for granted again. You have learned something you can't unlearn. Hopefully, this is a blessing, but whether it is or not, this is the case.

So, yes, I have known all about the value of this deep-throated, velvet voice of friendship-love, and I haven't changed my mind. The thing I am seeing with a better focus than before is another facet of friendship that some might interpret as less, or at least shallower, than the oxygen aspect of friendship. Some might even say that this thing can happen just as well between two random hobos on a boxcar riding only from here to the city limits of the next town as it could between someone you would go so far as to call a friend. And here it is: Friendship's song is sometimes sung to us in the simple melody of noticing... A pretty perfume on your neck, the luxurious new sheets on your bed, the way you spoke so gently to the checker at the grocery store. Sometimes friendship is at its best when we simply lend generously the rare eye of appreciation. Of course appreciation for the good things you have done for me, but not just that. For your taste, for your uniqueness, for your God-given creativity that makes you different from her, and her, and him and me. For a tastefully-chosen well-cultivated flower by your front door, the nuances of flavor produced by just the right spices, the ingenious, harmonious placement of the pictures in your bathroom, for the aptly-spoken word, like "apples of gold in settings of silver," the perfectly curved cupping of a hand on the cheek, for a shared song, a book, or a movie that haunts your heart, for the magic glance speaking secret recognition of a shared memory sent to you from across the room. These simple acts of noticing and speaking our appreciation are all voices of friendship.

And it is not enough that the other person in the boxcar just sees what you see or even feels what you feel. She will jump off the train in the next town and bid you farewell. Don't say that friendship can be defined as the characterization of just anyone who can notice and appreciate. No. It is only when some tried and true, gentle caretaker of your history- someone whose decision to stay in the boxcar or jump off has a lot to do with your plans- graces your life, like salt on your food, with these less-than-crucial-than-oxygen deeds, can it be enough.

And it really can be enough-- deep enough, rich enough, solid enough. Sometimes, maybe simply because life suddenly tastes better, this feels as welcome as oxygen, and who knows why? I don't care why. I'm just glad that I have learned that it is so.

Why We're Not Invisible

My mother-in-law,Velva Doke, and Bryson,one of her great grandsons


Wonder why we're not invisible-
Unshackled by these shells;
Unencumbered by callous flesh,
Delivered from this spell
Of deciding worth by what we see,
Applauding only the skin,
Quickened to the temporary,
Blind to the eternal within...

Yet there must be some wisdom to this wrapping,
For each of us got one at birth;
And even in Heaven we'll get one anew,
So no doubt they must have some worth.

Are they given for our learning-
To struggle with purpose to see
All the way through the flesh to the bones
Down to the you and the me?
To teach our eyes to burn through the husk
To discover God's seed in the heart?
To fight the Foe whose dazzle bewitches
Then leaves us alone in the dark?

I have just returned from the hospital bad of my precious Mother-in-law, whose eighty-eight year-old body is failing her in more ways than her weary lungs have breath to tell. Her shell is so very weak and weary, and, having been sealed with the Holy Spirit of God for the day of her redemption, she would be pleased just to go ahead and trade it in today for the Heavenly one that awaits her; but alas, Her Creator continues to pump blood to and from her heart and bring air in and out of her lungs. She understands exactly what Paul meant when he encouraged the Corinthians about the outward part wasting away while the inward part was being renewed. And she has not lost heart! In all her struggles to generate enough energy to converse and to keep herself from nodding off, she still manages to grip firmly the hands of her children, gaze resolutely and lucidly into our eyes, and tell us with firm determination, "You are not to worry about me. I will be just fine!"

These bodies we were given are certainly not for keeps, and those who realize this and give preference to the nourishment of the inward parts over the outward trappings, can approach the years of "wasting away" with peaceful resolve and even anticipation. The rest of the world stands back and watches curiously: approaching death cheerfully is not natural to the ways of this world. It is other-worldly, supernatural.

Yet, though they will fade, God chose to give us these bodies for a while, and we are to take full advantage of them and use them faithfully as a training ground for Heaven.

A Greek man named Demosthenes wanted more than anything to be the world's greatest orator, so he filled his mouth with rocks and practiced until he could execute every syllable with precision and even eloquence over the impediments. Maybe learning to really see with this limited vision and really move upward against the world's unforgiving gravity is the reason God blessed with us with the frailty of flesh for a few years. For every rock that threatens to kill our hope of living eloquently, God breathes into us His power to overcome. The world knows such eloquence is too much for the flesh and moves in for a closer look. This is true evangelism.

"Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal" (2 Corinthians 4:16-18).