seeing things

I didn't realize the tapping noise was meant to get my attention.

      En route to hiking trails, I'd paused to take a picture on one of the roads passing beside a section of condominiums in our neighborhood. Today had swung in with every full ounce of Fall, and I wanted to document each photographable  inch.  After all, sieve-like minds need countless ebeneezers. The more frequent and visible along the path, the better. So if you've recently seen me swinging around my iphone camera like a hobbyist photographer gone wild...you'll know why.

 

      Still, the tapping bounced somewhere to my left, so I turned on a surprised heel towards the condos.

A little face smiled through a third story window; a little hand waved widely.This precious one had been beating the pane so that she could simply wave at me, make some kind of eye contact.

 

She saw me. And she wanted me to know that.

      Isn't that the thing my soul- her soul, yours, anyone's- craves most deeply? That when we look through the panes separating us we see into the pain of another and see Imago Dei? That someone would just lay down their life for even a moment and see us?

How about Someone laying aside the Eternal throne to look an adulteress in the eyes?

And what if I mean me when I say adulteress?

 

We follow Christ's eyes when we look at someone closely.

I've found it all the more true, because, time and time again, He's the only one looking back at me when the stones piled around aren't piled ebeneezers, but encircling reminders dropped from self-inflicted shame.

When I'm the woman caught red-handed in my fear

or my jealousy,

or my wandering unbelief,

He stays in the midst of the dissipated circle and kicks my rocks to the side:

"When Jesus had raised Himself up and saw no one but the woman, He said to her, 'Woman, where are those accusers of yours? Has no one condemned you?' (Jn. 8:10)"

 Christ raised Himself up from the dust another time, too. When He did, He met a woman crying, yet again.

He recognized her asphyxiating grief and looked at her:

 

"Jesus said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?'

She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, 'Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.'

Jesus said to her, 'Mary!'

She turned and said to Him, 'Rabboni!' (Jn. 20: 15-16)"

 

Because Mary turned around, her weeping eyes met the Giver of Life, and she could actually see.

She saw the One Who condemned shame brought on by sin, and then trampled Death by way of death.

She saw closely because she'd been seen through to her worst doubt- that the Beloved Teacher she'd gratefully followed couldn't conquer what He promised He would as the Son of God.

 

Jesus proved her doubts and her grieving wrong

by the power of a tender tapping on the 

pane of her heart.

 

The glory of seeing lies in the light of day where our eyes receive color by way of absorbing every hue but for the one we're actually seeing.

Somehow, Jesus sees every color of ours all at once, still finding the true hues that we harbor beneath weak surfaces.

 

You are seen.

No, even more than that-

In Christ, the Father sees you hidden in His Son's Life, wrapped in daylight, and standing outside of the tomb.

 

O, my soul, turn around. Even in the good things, the worthy undertakings, don't forget the greatest ebeneezer is the stone rolled away.

 

Remember that the tapping is actually a call to life from the True Gardener, the Only Conqueror,

The One Who gives you sight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day by day

"It's almost like it's hard to breathe."

This beautiful friend, a sister who's been pressed wiser by oppression itself, she says it in the heavy dusk. The atmosphere sags so low that her sentence could probably prop it up and form an all-encompassing tent above our own, so pinprick small. And for a suspended moment, her words even pierced through cloud and the realization weighed more than the humidity:

 

The unseen always outweighs the tangible.

Because the unseen is actually more real.

We sit straight beneath Glory, right within His Holiness, and somehow it takes condensation-saturated air to wake us up to the fact that our lungs might as well collapse from the Almighty's proximity. But, instead, His Spirit moves as wind through the weight and fills us up with breath. All that air-space above you? The miles that a person can legally own by real estate standards?

He's holding it up with a mighty right hand.

 

If you think about it, your head starts spinning with a sort of altitude sickness.

The external pressure that could cause our watery bodies to implode, He matches with an equal internal pressure.

So, not only does He hold everything together as the One who knits our fibers tight (Col. 1:17),

He holds us together when every opposing force should altogether crush us.

 

Sometimes pressure seems the only thing this world is capable of manufacturing. You can wake up sensing the barometric rise in your own chest like a waiting for the weighing to lift. It's so tangible you swear the thing is an anvil and you might just cave in upon yourself, after all.

But you- dear friend-you and I were never subjected to futile collapse and introspective, devolving implosion.

We are subjected in the hope of redemption, "because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God" (Rom. 8:21).

Can I repeat that for my own sake? My head is spinning again.  My stomach is doing flips.

We're delivered into a glorious liberty when we allow the pressure to deliver the hope He always intended.

Every warring evil that pushes gravity like bricks-- Jesus builds into the delivery room for Hope.

Jesus freed us from darkness by way of salvation through repentance. And then He continually births in us new Hope, because Hope is the stake with which He chooses to hold things up.

 Out from under the canopy, you can breathe. You can take heart, and a new one at that.

 Another dear friend who's been well worn-in with pressure, she told me that, recently. She who feels nearly as if her internal pressure might fall out of equilibrium because of blinding pain.

 She told me to take heart.

Now, I want to tell you.

Christ's yoke rests light on your shoulders if you ask Him to take the iron one made by this world.

When you're bound to Him, you don't fear stratospheric miles burdening you,

Sickness hounding you,

Debts threatening you,

Heartache squelching you,

Pride trapping you.

You only become dizzyingly aware that it's infinitely easier to breathe, being bound to Him. That, here, you are gloriously free in the Reality of the Unseen.

 

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen...For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life. Now He who has prepared for us this very thing is God, who also has given us the Spirit as a guarantee" (2 Cor. 4:16-18; 5:4-5).

 

Burning like everything

  "My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; my tongue is the pen of a ready writer…."

-Psalm 45:1    

     From the midway of June bleeding into recent July, the Lord has spoken this Scripture to my heart three times, in three ways. One time gently, in preparation. Two times audibly, through a father that I dearly esteem.

The first time made me laugh hard.

     As a band, we've just come off the running heels of releasing a CD-- one so awe-striking in its gunshot start and its cross-country course that the work has left us all stunned. Come time for the concert, we each questioned reality a good bit. Beforehand, we joked in backstage fervor that it felt like birthing a baby in front of 100 of your closest friends. That picture? Very apt, as it turns out.

     And, afterwards, after sharing in song with saints, engaging the Father's own heart, boldly approaching His throne of grace... His beautiful awe struck me even harder. It buckled my knees and emptied my chest clean of useable air.

    So that next morning, when knees and lungs couldn't move from bed, I laughed when He traced the verse clear in front of my eyes. Laughed like Sarah before she met her son Isaac. Before she knew that faith has to run wide-eyed, hunting for the next immeasurable victory He'll win, expecting that it will be holy in its foolishness. That the way Christ leads in triumph stumps even our most learned wisdom because He uses the weak things to flat out confuse.

 

    Like Sarah, I laughed because I was confused. I was confused because my tongue hadn't been full of compositions, but of grieving questions. Because my hand had stayed plastered Job-style across my mouth for a-year-and-then-some.

Because My Author again had articulated a truth that my postpartum, joy-wearied soul could not.

After so long struggling for words, here He was telling me softly,

"My overflow will be your theme. It's time to pry the scared hand off and doff the fear at the door. At My Door where only I AM the Way in and no fear can enter in My Living Gate , because I've already banished it far. I will inhabit the praises of My people and My overflow will be your theme."

 

     Laughing turned to crying when I realized that He was not only putting words in my dry mouth, but He was asking that I continue to speak them. That I extend my hand with a ready pen, and that it reach across distance of fear and divulge deep unto deep and grasp

   your hand.

     My friend, whoever you are and however well we know each other...it doesn't matter but for the fact that we share in what Christ is teaching our ever-brightening eyes. We share in His death as in His life (Rom. 6:5)! Oh yes, there are revelations needing to be kept between our souls and the Father's unending heart. It would be desecration to air every intimacy. Please don't mistake that.

But when He laid it heavy on my mind, that I was holding back words from fear, I knew confession was needed. Confession to you. In this new format.

      You see, as much as I delight in singing His words to people, there's deep joy in writing them out, too. Intertwined stories read as infinitely more interesting plots, and the way He made us intends a particular wrapping to happen. When we bind together as that unyielding cord not easily broken, we hurt and rejoice and triumph in a more glorifying array of Love. Our unity as the Bride brings deep delight to the Bridegroom's heart.

The part where I need to confess?

I've been terrified of entering into the world that He so loves, through words, and through the tangible.

I've been hiding. I've been wondering how in the world to stop hiding when it appears (in the safety of darkness) the only reasonable reaction to throbbing questions.

Because as beautiful as the past year-and-then-some has shown itself to be, it's also been chock full of ache.

Ache came last May when a classmate of mine ran ahead of us, pounded dirt into Glory after a brutal fight with leukemia.

She shone like Moses descending the Mount whenever she came to school for classes. Her determination shook your bones and made you want to run miles like she did on the cross-country team.

Her mama asked if a friend and I would sing "Healer" and "Yet Rejoice" at the memorial service.

And in the wail that threatened to erupt from grief, there instead grew this rugged Hope of Christ's Healing. Right in the eyes of friends bearing their hearts and a solid wooden box.

Right in the middle of a hole staring open.

 

Ache came in last June when a dear family friend lost ability to remember altogether, and graciously He relieved her from body.

Again, song was asked for. And again, the question hung like a "how"? How to play songs for the hurt? How to declare that this is always True: Jesus is ALIVE.

Especially when your heart starts doubting…?

Then my grandma's sister leaves us and the last song she asked for? Amazing Grace.

A woman trapped by her shaking body and inability to control it asked for the only thing that heals.

 

And in this most recent, whirling April when the mama of four gorgeous girls ran Home, too…

It burned like too much fire.

The feet that scaled the mountain seemed like two feet too many... and with a family behind her?

She'd been diagnosed with a second bout of breast cancer when my Mama got the same news.

 

She'd shone so bright and so hot that fire lit up everything around her when she lifted those beautiful hands heavenward and sang.

She lifted herself as living offering that desired to be quenched by nothing but a burning, holy Flame.

Even when inside her burned like everything.

 

The songs she leaves ablaze in our midst still grow hot, and all these memorials

All these cherished souls left behind,

All these words to proclaim,

They pull the hiding heart out.

 

 

Because, friends, hiding in grief is simply no option when you hear the good news the blessed feet bring (Is. 52:7). Tears, yes. Questioning, yes.

Hiding, no.

I'm sorry that I have.

When the lives of these healed saints declare that

The Gospel breathes LIFE into dust people, you know it more true than anything. Jesus took the place of His people's sin, broken so that we can actually LIVE fully, reunited with Him Who gives LIFE.

I don't know about you, but that turns my tears into laughing, again. That looses the stifled sadness into a full out sprint that tells the world, "He is alive! Oh, have you heard?!"

He's alive and I've heard it from His own mouth.

It makes me want to sing it to you. Share His goodness with you in the face of what strikes us hard across the soul.

Yes, it makes my heart overflow with a good theme. And if you agree, something glorious will come of our sharing.

His Name will burn on our lips.

And we will burn like everything.