Faithfulness for Faithfulness

[In reading back through my journals, I came across this entry from two Christmases ago. It's as poignant a thought now as it was then…]

Oh for more time… There have been countless things from recent days that I’ve been wanting to record in my journal yet alas, time is slipping through my fingers like water and so many things will probably remain unsaid. But I must tell of His faithfulness. He is always faithful… Faithful to sustain, faithful to give, faithful to comfort, faithful to love, faithful to bless, faithful to me. 

Throughout the past few weeks I’ve seen His faithfulness time after time despite my errors and mistakes. And I’ve been thinking back to His faithfulness over 2,000 years ago… when He faithfully sent His Son, His only Son, to redeem this wretched, lost world. 

                                     ~ ~ ~

I cannot even imagine the heart-wrenching tears shed that day, so long ago, when the Father gave up His Son. The pain, the agony of separation, the immeasurable sacrifice and most of all, the knowledge that victory is not necessarily certain. Eternity’s future rests upon the success of the mission. The wicked foe will try his hardest. 

All Heaven feels the solemnity of the moment. The final embrace, the final words, the final smile among tears as Son assures Father, “It is for love, Abba, for love… They are Ours. I must redeem them. There is no other way to pay the ransom. There is no other way to annihilate sin forever. There is no other way to demonstrate Your true character to the world. There is no other way for them to understand divinity except if displayed in humanity.” 

There is a pause. The unspoken pain of separation is felt. Father and Son have never been apart before. And through the eyes of Heaven, the reason for estrangement seems hardly worthy. Angels look on in wonder at how heavenly beings can treasure marred, sinful creations. Yet love is stronger. 

The Son speaks a last time with tears in His eyes. “Oh how much I love You, My Father! Oh how much I love You! ” And then He is gone. The throne sits empty. All heaven is silenced. The attention of the universe turns upon planet Earth, upon the young virgin, with growing stomach. 

After what seems like an eternity the momentous night arrives. The young couple arrange to sleep in a dirty stable. Sobs of angels ring throughout the heavenly courts, yet they know this must be. All Heaven holds its breath. Suddenly a penetrating cry breaks the atmospheric silence. Jesus is born. Heavenly beings look on in astonishment, hardly comprehending that the tiny bundle could be the King of the universe, the One who just days before was commanding the heavens. Yet indeed it is He, born a helpless, tiny babe, born to save.

For thirty-three years heaven continues in tense observation. The throne remains empty. Joyous songs remain dimmed. Once again we find a silent Heaven anxiously observing another night in history. Yet this time, it is not a baby’s cry they hear but a cry of heartbreaking anguish and soul-wrenching pain. They see Him, apparently forsaken by even His Father, still acknowledge His love and forgiveness to the undeserving. Sobs again fill the atmosphere of heaven. Finally a cry rings throughout the universe. “It is finished.” All Heaven stirs. Victory is assured. The King has conquered! 

Eager anticipation mounts as angels are selected to make the triumphant flight to earth. Heaven sits on the edge of its seat, waiting… Finally the command is given. Trumpets sound and the quickest flight to earth is made. The leading angel throws the stone aside. Moments seems to drag by. Suddenly there is movement within the dark and dusty grave. Christ steps forth victorious! 

After remaining on earth just long enough to comfort the heart of a weeping woman, Christ ascends to His Father. He has waited thirty-three years for this. Tears mingle with smiles as Father once again embraces Son. Heaven is reunited. Finally the Father speaks. “Welcome home, My Beloved and Only Son… You have vanquished the foe. You have conquered sin forever.” Angel voices chorus, “Hallelujah!” 

And yet, though sin was defeated over 2,000 years ago, our world still exists in its deplorable state. The reason? We have not returned faithfulness for faithfulness. Human hearts have waxed cold. Christians are content to live a lukewarm existence. I see careless indifference on every side. My soul burns with agony. 

But like the faithful few of long ago, there are a handful today who recognize the faithfulness of the Father. Although the depth of sacrifice is beyond human compensation, they loyally give what they can in return—their faithfulness. 

Will I be found faithful to Him who has given all for me? 

The God-Treasure

I've seen many styles of boxes in my life…

Woven boxes. Cardboard boxes. Wooden boxes.
Metal boxes. Jeweled boxes. Ceramic boxes. Glass boxes.

And although they might be a varied as butterflies, they have this one thing in common.
They are boxes.

You are a box. I am a box.

Some of us are bedecked with natural beauty, a jewel-like appearance.
Others feel like moving boxes, scarred by rough treatment, defaced with permanent pen-marks.
Countless have erected a formidable metal barrier surrounding the heartbeat, the vulnerable.
Some feel as though everyone can see right through the glass of our exterior.

Yet despite the extreme discrepancies, we are all boxes.
What matters is the content inside.

Because without the treasure, every box is worthless really.
We all have an empty void that we need the God-treasure to fill.

The question is,

Does the God-treasure inhabit your box?

Blessed and Broken

In contemplating gratitude I am reminded of a story, actually two stories. Stories that have been the theme of my year…

It's bread He holds in His hands as He lifts eyes to heaven on the crowded hillside surrounded by 20,000 people or in the upper room with His special twelve. This bread, this life, this miracle waiting to happen…

After He blesses, He breaks. Because brokenness without blessing makes men destitute and hearts grow cold.

The blessing always comes before the breaking. 

Yet brokenness is not the end of the story.
Blessed bread is broken and given away. And it's in the giving that it's multiplied. 

Healing comes through brokenness.

The promise grows to meet our need. Whether twelve or twenty thousand.
Miracles happen. Bread is multiplied. Hearts are fed. But only through torn pieces.

--

I’m blessed and broken, as a token, of a love I can’t deny. 

I’m torn in pieces, by my Jesus, the only way to beautify. 

Though the pain be bittersweet, This transformation He will complete.

I’m blessed and broken, for only brokenness can heal.

© Glesni Mason, 2013

The Thankful One

Dust billows and rises under tired feet to meet fading day. On the horizon silhouettes form the welcoming outline of a small town where thirteen weary travelers anticipate spending the night. Gathering fatigue slows the pace of some, quickens others. All is silence besides the gentle crunch of footsteps.

Suddenly a gasp escapes the lips of one in the group as ten shadowy figures approach the travelers.
They are untouchables. They are the lowest of the low. They are lepers.

I can feel the tension, the awkwardness of the moment.

"What audacity!" one disciple whispers to the other.
"The nerve of them! Don't they realize that this is prohibited by law?"

Audacity indeed.
And Someone recognizes it.

Ten men cry for mercy from One who men say is the Mercy-Giver.
Jesus commands them to go. And they go.

Following the running men at a relaxed pace, the group of disciples and their Master continue on.
The gates of the village are not far now. Warmth and nourishment are imminent.

Yet silence is abruptly interrupted again as a man rushes excitedly toward them.
It's one of the lepers with tears flowing freely down glistening cheeks. He has something to say.

"Thank you, Jesus… 
       …thank you, thank you, thank you."

In his delirious euphoria he can say nothing more. But that doesn't matter. 
This Samaritan has grasped what Christ has been vainly trying to teach the Jews for months.

Gratitude is a lifestyle.

One man was thankful and soon his testimony converted hundreds.
Because his thanksgiving was not a one time event, but a way of life.

And I wonder what kind of thanksgiving I have…
Am I living a life of gratitude?

Beautiful Ugly

I love all things beautiful.
And it's a beautiful life I live. Every part of it.

Oh, I may cry. I may wonder.
I may wish things were different.
I may at times wish to see beyond the misty shroud upon my pathway.

Yet my God is also a lover of the beautiful. 
And making my life beautiful is exactly what He is attempting to do. Even through the ugly.
Because sometimes it is the ugly that makes something beautiful. 

Sometimes it's the only thing…

The beautiful-ugly.
If anything falls under the category of miracle, that does.

A miracle of Love poured out upon an ugly planet bathed in ugly scars.
A miracle that transforms ugly hearts.

A miracle that looks past ugly surfaces to discern uncut diamonds, hearts of beauty covered by years of filth.

He calls the ugly beautiful…
        He calls each beating heart beautiful…
                He calls me beautiful…

And He promises to love me forever and always. Not because I'm beautiful, but because I'm ugly. 
It's the ugly that makes the greatest contrast when transformation occurs anyway.

He calls my ugly beautiful.
My love overflows.

Weak Hands, Feeble Knees

It's dark outside. Soft light streams over my shoulders. I love new mornings. My eyes scan the page as I absorb verse after verse.

The guidelines for the race. The provisions for the runner. These things call my attention.

I haven't run a race in a long time. At least an official one.
But I know the exertion, the endurance, the positive morale needed to finish any endeavor.

And I stop to think of races I have participated in or observed. Something disturbs me.
Each runner is only running for himself. 

He has the end goal continually before him. But he has no concern for the other runners.
His only concern is to win.

But we run a race in which all can be winners.
And we have no right to run past those who are weak just because we are stronger.

No right at all.

Instead we are obligated to lift up weary hands and feeble knees. Because we are not in this race for ourselves.
We have a duty to help those that are struggling to run beside us.

It would be a terrible thing to run through those gates of pearl alone.
Lord, give me eyes to see, lips to speak, hands to heal. And them to me today…

Obedient Suffering

"…He learned obedience by the things which He suffered."*

My eyes turn an unfocused gaze to the opposite wall.
Little shafts of light dance bokeh-style.
My mind is far away.

Is this what makes men invincible?

To suffer and yet trust. To sorrow and yet sing.
To not understand and yet obey.

Is this? Is this the secret?

I think so. Because it says He was "made perfect." Entirely.

But oh, how hard it is to always accept the gift with outstretched hands, especially when it hurts.
Yet this obedience in the midst of suffering creates a beauty, a strength, a trust unlike any other.
And when we come forth, we are called sons and daughters, children of eternity.

"…He learned obedience [was perfected] by the things which He suffered."

May I never resist the fire.

* Hebrews 5:8

Measure of Love

I walk in early morning darkness, dawn barely touching the skyline. Gloved hands covering my ears in an attempt to keep warm. I pray and ponder.

What is it to truly follow the footsteps of One who went before?

I've seen plenty of good weather Christians, those who follow when the path is smooth and easy. But when it turns steep and sharp rocks cover the ground, when the trail turns into a muddy mire, when thorns pierce tender feet, it's easy to turn aside. Because following in His footsteps hurts sometimes. I know. I've been there.

Yet there is no middle ground. 

Either you follow or you don't. 

I think of Joseph. Unconditional following. From a favorite son to a common slave to a trusted servant to a condemned criminal to a prime minister. 

I'm sure he wondered why God was leading him on such a rough pathway, but he chose to trust, chose to love despite the hard lessons taught in this school of adversity. 

"If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me." {Luke 9:23}

You only "come after" one you love or respect. How much you follow depends on how much you love.

The question is,
How much do you love Him?

What Are You Doing Here?

Sometimes you just have those moments. Moments that slap you in the face and demand a reason why.

And you don't have one. 

Or if you do, it's an excuse that doesn't hold water. 

I've been there. Far too recently. Far too often.

The still small Voice whispers when you're finally quiet enough to listen.

"What are you doing here?"

My silence deepens. I have no answer. Because really, I'm the one who got myself into this mess. 

It wasn't His fault. And any defense I attempt to make will just look foolish.

I know why I'm here. Really, I do.

It's just difficult to admit that to Omnipotence. 

Because if I had just claimed Power, things would be different. 

Yet He offers me angel food and angel water. Heaven's fare. 

And I'm nourished. I can listen again. And hear the Voice. Still and small. 

He says, "Go."

And I return to the place where I last saw light, where I last had victory. And go forth to conquer. 

This love, this pursuing, amazes me.

I go.  

To Know His Heart [The Making of Heroes Part IV]

Sometimes we see only the love.
Ardent affection springs from our own hearts as we offer Him praise.
We warm His heart.

Other times we see only the pain.
We instinctively draw back because we don't want to risk being hurt.
We break His heart.

Rarely do we see both and want His heart.
Because our natural tendency is to shy away from pain.

In fact, our reflex reaction is to stay as far away as possible.
And so when we are wounded, we hide hurt, fester hurt, and too often avenge hurt.

We want the love, but we don't want the pain.
And we think we're doing ourselves a kindness… 

A falsity if I ever heard one.

How can we expect to know the heart of God and not know His pain?
We pray to be intimately acquainted with Him, and yet we don't want the package deal.

Is it that we don't trust Him?
Have we forgotten that it's God's heart that throbs with joy and anguish blended, always?

If we are going to make any impact on our generation, we have to know and have God's heart.
And we learn only by embracing both love and pain as He sends them our way saying, Thank You…

He's the Giver. He gives the gifts. And He only gives good gifts.

War Strategies [The Making of Heroes Part III]

I have never understood how one could delight in destroying another. Never.

How butchery of such character could ever evoke enjoyment will ever be to me a hellish mystery.

Yet since the whole world is thinking about war, why shouldn't we?

Why shouldn't we?

Our war is the most important anyway.

This is a war in which I am invested. It elicits such emotion in my heart as nothing else can.

And I find myself becoming drawn to its weaponry.

Not for gruesome results, but for glorious results.

It's war-prayer.

And let me tell you, this kind of prayer is unlike any you've probably prayed before.

Passionate, agonizing, tear-inducing, heart-wrenching prayer. For another.

Prayer is going to move the world by moving the Hand that moves the world.

But it never will until we learn how to pray. Really pray…

James says, "the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much."

And I pause to ponder Who is righteous. 

Apart from Him, no one.

"There is none righteous, no, not one."* 

A door-slamming statement if I ever heard one. If it weren't for this one thing. 

My God delights to clothe me in His righteousness.**

Wonder of wonders. Grace of all grace.

He calls me His treasure. And instructs me to ask. 

God's heroes are born in the closet of prayer.

Why is the most powerful tool the one we least utilize?

*Romans 3:10, emphasis mine

**Isaiah 61:10

Consuming Love [The Making of Heroes Part II]

Love is no secret.
(Or at least that's what the world says.)

The only problem is that the majority of the population defines love by the wrong terms. 

The true meaning of the word has been buried beneath the fluff of changing emotion.

And I believe one of the reasons why the number of great heroes in our generation is on the decline is because we don't understand love.

I don't claim to understand Love. Far from it.
But this I know, our love tends to be shallow and the motives behind it, even shallower.




And so our generation is experiencing a critical famine, a deficiency of love, all the while surrounded by what the world labels affection.

It is no wonder that the world is in crisis. Desperate crisis.

The love that we are called to live? It's difficult. It's selfless. It's painful. 

That's why so few demonstrate it. 

Yet difficulty is never a reason to discard. 

Because this love is what will set the world on fire. Combined with prayer. 

This love is the material of the heart of God.
The love that hurts and gives and heals all at the same time.
The love that embraces utter self-abnegation.

The love that gives back a thousand-fold. 

This is the love we must learn. This is the love we must live. This is the love we must give.

Learn Again [The Making of Heroes Part I]

It's astounding to me how easily we glide over the important details.

We see successes. We see providences. We see affluence. We see attainment.
Yet we glibly pass over the grit of life that makes men and women strong.

We read the stories of great Bible characters as if they were another strain of humanity, holding unattainable standards for our degenerate race.

Since when has a teenager become the counselor of a world power king? Since when has a young woman been willing to surrender her life for her nation? Since when has a young man become the king's best friend and saved a foreign country from extermination by famine?

Sometimes I wonder who we think we are. Or more specifically, who we think God is…

Has His power dwindled with the passing of centuries? I think not.

Rather I think it is us who have succumbed to lowering the bar.
We have allowed our standards to deteriorate over time instead of rising to meet loftier aims.

What is wrong with our generation? I attribute it to two things.
Shallow love. Shallow prayer.

We've lost grip on the Power.

It's time to learn again. Learn to love. Learn to pray.
And most importantly of all, learn to know the heart of Love Himself.

Seasoned with Salt

Swords clash while entire wars are fought over it.
People travel thousands of miles on camelback to trade gold for it, ounce-for-ounce.
Roman soldiers receive a "salarium," a partial paycheck of it (from which we derive our word salary).

14,000 uses. One mineral. And we are called to be it.

Salt.

--




Saltiness.

It's not a question of quantity, it's a question of quality.
Because if you have ever claimed the name of Christ, you have claimed His salt too.

We are all "salt-bearers" in a sense.
And I have to admit, I like salt. Somehow it makes everything tastes better.

"Salt is good, but if the salt loses its flavor, how will you season it? 

Have salt in yourselves, and have peace with one another.” Mark 9:50

But salt without its saltiness? Worthless. Impossible. (really?)

The chemical form of sodium chloride cannot be easily altered.
Only by dilution can the saltiness be compromised.

And only by mingling with the substance to which it is added, can it preserve and flavor.

It's a question of caliber.

If we want to exert a saving influence on the world, we must receive the saving salt.
The salt that has not lost its saltiness. And we must mingle in order to preserve.

The world is saved as individuals, not as masses, through personal influence, contact and association.

Salt that has lost its flavor can mingle with the world and not affect a soul.
It's a mere profession of godliness.

But a truly "salty" Christian? The world will not remain the same where he has visited.

"Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, 

that you may know how you ought to answer each one." Colossians 4:6

Unearthing Insecurities

I don't think it's just coincidence that so many on this planet struggle with insecurity.

I never thought I did. 
But I am discovering in my own life that the most dangerous insecurities are the unidentified ones.

It's a hidden trap. Disguised and unrecognized.

Christian society delights in pious platitudes. We say a lot. We want affirmation for the "high standards" that we profess. It's only natural for human nature to desire recognition.

Because of this I find myself having to constantly reevaluate my life, my actions, my priorities but most importantly, the motives behind the things I do.

Whether it is my use of social media, the way I dress, pursuing academic excellence, or anything else.

The list could go on.
It's easy to want to be acknowledged. To be appreciated. To have a good reputation, a following.

But wait a minute.

Didn't Christ make Himself of no reputation?

Yes, indeed.

It's a pause for thought.
Whose affirmation do I really crave?

I want a following. But not the following you might immediately think of.
I'm learning to desire a following of blessing.
And not just the Lord blessing me, but a blessing that leaves a wake.

I want to leave a trail of blessing behind.

And I want my security to be in Christ alone.
So I'm reevaluating.

Are there any hidden insecurities in my life that I need to address that are preventing the Savior from being my true security?

Contradictions.

I have to admit, I'm a mercy lover.

On the flip side, however, I believe in justice. Justice for the falsely accused. Justice for the underdog. Justice for those deprived of justice.

I guess that's still my soft heart.

But is mercy always kindness?

--

"We want judgment for others and mercy for ourselves," the speaker said. 

I suppose it's the nature of the human heart. We want the line held when others step over the boundaries, but we want lenience shown when we ourselves trespass. 

Two-facedness at best. 

A verse comes to mind that I've been meaning to unravel more deeply for the past nine months. 

"He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the LORD require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?" Micah 6:8



Do justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

Aren't these contradictions?

You tell me.

Since when has God required something of us, but that He did not require it of Himself?

Never.

So it must be possible. Period.

--

My mind suddenly latches onto the secret.
It's when we are walking humbly at His side that we are able to live justice and mercy combined.

It's all a matter of perspective—perspective in regard to the longterm benefit of others.

Since when has God required something of us, but that He did not require it of Himself?

Abandonment

The word resonates within me. 

A friend has challenged me on a deeper definition. And so I sit with journal in hand on a dock in mist rising, thinking.

...

Forsaken. Left to suffer alone. 

Given up utterly, completely, recklessly.

Abandonment is not often viewed as a positive concept or source of security, yet it has two definitions, and Christ lived them both. 

Unrestrained surrender. 

Unparalleled rejection. 

His life was one of sacrifice, and to Him that sacrifice was joy. A life of abandon. 

This is the life He asks of me. This abandonment lived out on a day-to-day basis.  

The actuality of living the concept is a slippery one, yet not entirely out of reach. 

My life must be surrendered. It must become not my own. And more than that, I have to crave this kind of life, or else I will never be able to live it. 

Abandonment is not an easy road. It hurts. And there is no skirting the pain. 

I must learn to treasure sacrifice and call it joy. I must learn contentment when I am utterly poured out, completely given. I must show compassion even when I feel it least. 

My life must become a gift. And I must be content to give that gift at cost to myself. 

It will cost. No question. But the cost is worthwhile. 

No question. 

Lighted Eyes

I always learn a lot through people watching. 

Heightened perception sometimes allows me to notice subtleties that others miss.

The past few weeks have given me ample opportunity for such activities. A week of VBS followed hard by joyful wedding preparations culminating in a beautiful ceremony. Four lives committed to their Savior. A weekend event highlighting missions.

Now I'm home again, for a few short days, reveling in quietness and contemplation of days past.

It's the eyes that hold me.

Eyes lighted with an undimmed brilliance. Eyes that have tasted freedom. Eyes filled with a new love.

There is nothing better than seeing luster kindled behind the eyes of my friends, and I call a lot of people friends.
You are my friend, and I want to see your eyes lighted too.

If your eyes have grown dull, Love's gleams are waiting at your command because my God is a Chain-Breaker. He opens prison doors, sets captives free, heals brokenness, ignites new love.

Will you let Him? If you are unsure of how, I would love to share.

I want to see you with lighted eyes.

Unpack the Power

Prayer = power.

I've heard it countless times before.

Yet this past weekend as I sat beneath the great white expanse of a makeshift meeting place, something the speaker said suddenly grabbed my attention.

"Unpack the prayer. Unpack the power."

Hand reaches for phone. Fingers type quickly.
Eyes return to the front, yet somehow my mind is slow to follow.

The thought strikes me.

Fail to pray and you forfeit the power.

How often do I really, really pray?
I mean, the kind of prayer that you know has Power behind it?

It's a challenge to me.

Unpack the prayer. Unpack the Power.

Strength Costs

The clock ticks loud seconds away behind me. My arms and legs pulse to constant rhythm. Heavy breathing. Aching muscles. Active mind. 

Strength comes at a price. 

Discipline. Determination. Sacrifice. 

Light bulb moment in the basement. 

My strength — it’s not mine at all. It comes at a price. 

Sacrifice is the buzz word. 

If He hadn’t determined to sacrifice, if He hadn’t determined to give His life, my strength would be nothingness. 

Of course my strength is always nothingness, but there would be no alternative. No strength to infuse power into my weakness.

Yes, strength comes at a price. 

The price of sacrifice.

Live to Sacrifice

It has been awhile since I first caught a glimpse of sacrifice from this angle. Days and years pass. Time slips slowly into eternity. Struggles come and go, some still remain.

Yet as I sit here gazing out my window at the gently falling mist, at the blossoming apple tree, at the outside of my world, I remember.

It's not that I have forgotten. No, indeed.
This thought seared its way into my mind long ere this.

--

I had prayed to be "set on fire" for a long time. Years.
At times I felt it, I breathed it, I lived it. Other times I wondered where the fire had gone…

Yet early that morning as I listened to a friend share, I caught the secret to the fire.

Sacrifice.

It all seems so logical now. An altar is merely a relic without the sacrifice.
Without the sacrifice, there is no fire.

It only makes sense that the altar is the appointed meeting place between God and the soul because it is only at the altar that the fire is kindled. Yet a kindled fire is no security for a continued fire.

Sacrifice must become my life in order to keep the flame burning.

--

This world needs flames—rather it needs fires. Furnaces that cannot be extinguished because they are fed by such devoted sacrifice. A planet of fire fueled by a generation of sacrifice.

There have been in ages past those who have caught this fire. This world will go nowhere if our flames don't surpass theirs.

Live to sacrifice. Sacrifice to live.

Vindicated.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Mother-daughter walks. I love these. Sharing. Solving. Scheming.

We pass stately pines interrupted by the occasional aspen while deep in a discussion about various struggles and trials. Suddenly, however, my mind bumps into a tree-sized thought.

This man. Why hadn't I thought of him before? He certainly experienced trials dished out with a giant serving spoon.

Our conversation becomes rather one-sided as I cogitate upon the ramifications of this century-old story.

His name was Job.

Grabbing my Bible immediately upon returning inside, I flip to the book with the same name. My attention is riveted as I read through chapter one and reach the last verses. Wait a second here. Re-read.

What's this that Job does? What's this that he says? Hasn't he just been stripped of family, fame and fortune in a matter of hours?

He falls down, worships and blesses the Lord.

Immediate shame. Is this life of gratitude my automatic response to suffering and trial?

But that's not all. I read on into the second chapter.

Another meeting in heaven is underway, and Satan appears with devilish insatisfaction written all over his face.

I can just hear the fatherly pride in the voice of God as he mentions the faithfulness of Job.

"Skin for skin," Satan declares. "Touch his bone and his flesh, and he will surely curse You to Your face!"

Permission granted.

Did God just give assent to suffering? It's hard to read it otherwise. Sometimes He allows trials and pain to obscure our pathway, yet always for a reason—that we may vindicate His character.


Job's trials are painfully personal now. Health challenges. Interesting.

Yet how does God's servant respond once again? He simply does his best to alleviate the problem and gives thanks for God's gifts regardless of whether they appear as such.

Suddenly I see this story in a different light. I see my own life, my own trials in a different way…

These things that I face are not just trials.

This is a controversy. God's reputation is at stake.

Could it be that my struggles are actually part of a test to vindicate God's character?

And if I fail to trust, if I allow faith to falter, isn't His name immediately shamed?

I want His character to be vindicated.

What will my life testify? 

He Always Endures More

I climb part of the hill behind our house to my special place of communion. Rugged boulders wait serenely as though they were the thrones of majesties themselves. A cloudless blue sky envelops the world with brilliant rays of sunlight. In the distance I hear cheerful bird melodies while I watch a silvery-blue butterfly rest gently upon my bare toes. It's time to be still…

There are few things I cherish more than peace. 

My mind has travelled thousands of pathways in the last few weeks. Big decisions to make. Places to minister. People to love. 

Yet atop my mountain top perch with a birds-eye view, my mind wanders. 

--

A heavy groan pierces the silence of midnight. The stark moonlight shining through the olive branches seems to cut the blackness like a sharp knife. Huddled beneath their cloaks a few hundred feet away can be seen a few drowsy figures. The entire atmosphere seems triggered, waiting with cold tenseness.

Stillness is broken by a movement in the shadows. A pallid form raises from the hard ground shaking in sobs of anguish. Following the silent path of gravity, blood stains red the place of conflict. With faint but determined voice come the words, "Not My will, but Thy will be done. I choose to surrender. I will give all."

Suddenly His haggard form crumbles to meet the earth. This struggle has drained from Him every ounce of strength. He has made the choice.

--

I review this scene while gazing silently across the pined landscape and my mind returns to the cause of this remembering.

Upon the cross and in the garden over two thousand years ago He shouldered the sins for an entire world of ungrateful creatures.

He took them all. He bore it all. He chose it all.

And yet when everything is said and done, Satan will only suffer for the sins of the righteous.

Christ always endures more. 

His love encompasses, His heart throbs as one in our sorrow, in our agony, in our joy.

He has been through it all, and He understands.

Trust Him.

It's a Mystery to Me…

Wispy clouds sail past my window as I watch my home of three months fade away. Palm trees wave their gentle farewell while the shimmer of tropical summer reflects the heat along with all its side-affects that has kept me close company recently. Crazy traffic-crowded streets indicate a country where every driver is a law unto his own. Trash-covered roadsides, vibrant green mountains, people who have melted their way into my heart—it is all indelibly engraved upon memory’s hallways, paint still fresh. Shortly my mind is ensconced by cloud trails to match those outside. It's a mystery to me…

I walk at a brisk pace towards the immigration hall lugging my partially incapacitated suitcase behind me while endeavoring to maintain intestinal peace. My eaves dropping capabilities have majorly improved since I first encountered this airport in January. I laugh later as I bump into someone and catch myself automatically responding with perdón or permiso despite the fact I’m now surrounded by English speakers. Other curious habits cause me to smile. Has this language, this culture, really become so much a part of me in so short a time? My mind is still whirling. It's a mystery to me…

It’s my last flight. The flickering lights of city night-life hold me captivated. They always have. Soon the view out my window evolves into complete blackness. I try to see the stars while attempting to avoid the draft coming from the exit row window. I’ve never been known to sleep easily on planes, yet at least I have an empty seat beside me this time. I curl up as comfortably as possible, heavy eyelids descending slowly. True to history, sleep eludes me while once again the inner recesses of my brain step into high gear. It’s a mystery to me…

My eyes cast a bleary gaze around my room. I'm frozen, standing in tired delirium at the doorway despite the fact that it is two o'clock in the morning and I'm incredibly sleep deprived. This room, this house, this country. How could I have become so comfortable as to count them normal? It's a mystery to me…

This enigma, this mystery has fastened its iron-fisted grip upon my heart. And in the silence of quiet morning broken only by occasional flame crackles, I find an answer.

It’s not the poverty, the necessity or even the simplicity of life, it's the contentment. 

These people accept their surroundings and day-to-day realities with a smile. They are satisfied to continue making tortillas and cultivating coffee on the mountainsides like their grandparents. 

If perfect contentment to accept with joy every situation God places in my life can make even a full life simple, that is true living. I can still dream, but I am satisfied that where He has me right now is the absolutely most beautiful place in the world to be.

It is no mystery…

Fun at the river…

Lettuce harvesting day!

Lost… :)

A weekend at the coast…

A friend in the nearby little mountain village of Cero del Torro

Promoting lettuce in San Pedro Sula

Now these are lemons!

Friday is craft day—my turn to teach… :)

The verdant garden

A caving adventure…

Mi amigas en el restaurante! 

A first-time mom, younger than myself, who I was privileged to assist through labor and birth