Beneath the Fog

I gaze out large picture windows to the frosted world beyond. Fog is frozen in time.

Everything is covered with tiny crystals just waiting for a shaft of light to set things sparkling.
It's a wonderland of beauty.

It's a world of potential…

Thoughts swirl softly. These snowflakes of the mind quickly absorb all external sounds as I contemplate life…

There seems to be a parable gazing back at me through the window.
A parable of my life. A parable for me.








This fog? Sometimes it grows thick, enshrouding me in a gray blanket. I cannot see the mountains in the distance or the sun above the clouds, yet I just have to trust they are there.

Then the fog freezes, and I shiver as crystals form. It seems my life has gone from bad to worse.  I'm stuck beneath the fog while icy fingertips paint me with the ice of trial.

Yet when the fog lifts, sun pierces the clouds and I am set sparkling. And I realize that the freezing fog was what made me beautiful.

God creates jewels in foggy shadows.

He calls me His jewel.

Perspective.

It's all how you see it.

And I'm realizing that lately I've been looking from the wrong perspective. 

It's easy to get stressed or frustrated or discouraged when all you see is the here and now.
When schoolbooks and assignments pile high and additional responsibilities add to the mountain.
When it seems like you are just barely making it from one day to another, one week to the next. 

But last night in the quiet of the evening I saw a glimpse of hurting hearts, pleading eyes, thankful smiles.
And I was reminded why I'm here and why I'm doing what I am.

Perspective changes everything.

Asian Aid: Giving Hope Today (video)

A Different Dream

Sometimes I wonder how it can be so hard to let a dream die.

Just when you think you've come to the point of full surrender, of letting go, you wake up and realize that deep within the dream is still there. Suppressed maybe, but very much still there despite all heart-searing efforts to remove it.

It's an interesting feeling when your heart plays tug-of-war. One half sings. The other half cries. Yet in the end it knows what is best. It knows what will hurt least in the long run.

And that is to surrender. To let the dream die.
Because the dream was never mine to cherish in the first place…

In fact, no dream is mine to cherish.
No dream but One.

And so I pray a simple prayer.

Lord, make my life Your dream. And make my dream, You.

Photo Credit: Michel Lee

Ideal World

We are walking down our driveway treading gingerly over icy patches. And as the brisk air turns cheeks to rosy red, we dialogue. It's just the two of us, mother and daughter, surrounded by pine trees enclosed by gray sky.

My mind is full. Thoughts dart back and forth like a confused colony of bumblebees. I feel as though my life is falling apart, yet I remind myself that it is not. It just feels like it.

And as I expound on my feelings to my patiently listening mother, she starts to smile. I've always been a perfectionist, and this is no exception. But somehow I've lost perspective.

Her words gently bring me back to reality as she articulates those very things I need to hear.

I want to live an ideal life in an unideal world. And I realize that what I think is "ideal" really isn't realistic. Yet there is perfection in every step of the journey, and I must learn to love each chapter of life He brings.

So I am seeking to simply do my best and not rake myself over the coals wishing I could have "done better" when in reality I have already done my best. Because this is just another one of the devil's traps, convincing me that I am compromising when God says perfection is in the journey. It's easy to forget experientially, but I'm learning.

God looks at the heart, not the checklist.

And when He is in my life, my world is ideal.

Transfigured.

This morning it's like I'm there. Standing. Speechless.
Watching while my humble Teacher is unveiled to be the King of glory that He really is.

I want to take off my shoes, but I can't.
I want to do something, but I can't.
I want to say something, anything that would fit the moment, but I can't.
I'm glued to the ground, hands behind my back, lips sealed shut.

All I can do is observe in silence.

My eyes flit back and forth between faces like a dancing butterfly.
This glory, this radiance, is too much for me. Yet then I hear a voice speaking.

I turn to identify the source and abruptly realize, it's me. 

What in the world am I thinking, saying, doing? 
You don't just go and interrupt a divine experience like this!

I clamp my mouth in silence while my mind does a virtual replay.
Tents? Tabernacles? For Beings accustomed to golden mansions? Blinded moment.
If only I could rewind ten minutes and try again, prepare a script, something…

Suddenly I hear a voice from the sky declaring my Master to be His Son. Then all is hushed. Glory is gone.
I feel a penetrating gaze upon my flushed face. It's as if He can read my mind.

"It's only when you dare to speak, my child, dare to do for divinity, that you can be transfigured. Even if what you say is illogical and what you do is awkward. It's the heart I see, the heart I pay attention to.

"Don't be afraid to dare for Me, for as you do, you will be transfigured.
And it's when you're transfigured that you can truly begin to know My heart."

Dare to do. Dare to be.

Transfigured.

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?