A Moment on the Mat

Throughout the past month, God has been inviting me into the pages and promises of the Faith Hall of Fame in Hebrews 11. Asking, beckoning, and beaming as I pour through these hard-to-swallow stories and wrestle with where I will stand.

His never-ending patience catches tears and hears me out as I ask questions He’s already answered. He waits without condemnation to see if I can say yes, to that kind of faith… the faith that says you won’t see the finished product because He’s creating “something better” for the grand finale than what my lifetime can grasp. (Hebrews 11:40)

I’ve stomped and stirred because it feels like one of those edge-of-the-diving-board decisions. Once you jump, you’re in the deep end. And you better remember how to swim. You’d think that moving to Africa would be enough, right?

“It’s high-dive time,” the Deep calls out.

I’m in. I decided to climb up that ladder.

To tighten the goggles. And hope that I don’t belly-flop.

And then I got sick. And then the tires on my car got stolen. And then my mom was in an accident that led to an emergency landing in an Intensive Care Unit.

And that was all just this weekend.

I’ve been awake since 2am, frozen on the end of the diving board.

I said yes. And no part of me doubts my God’s sovereignty or goodness.

His timing is perfect. His grace is sufficient.

But my knees won’t bend and my breath won’t catch.

That Faith Hall of Fame felt far away, as I had just enough faith to punch out text messages to three people to tell them about my mom.

I told them I could not pray.

There is an entire church praying in Texas.

And then some.

And a pastor praying in Germany.

Hands covered mine at Ten Thousand Homes and prayed in three different languages.

Carly B said, “Thank you for letting me do this with you.”

Misty said, “I know that numb feeling. I’ll be your voice.”

Pastor Steven said, “You are loved. And we’ll pray. You rest in that. Paralytic on the mat moments happen. So do friends who cut a hole in the rooftop when you’re unable to do it yourself.”

And then I understood.

The Faith Hall of Fame exists as a Family… just like our God.

Hands that cover yours.

Voices that speak on your behalf.

And being allowed to have a moment.

God won’t leave us at the end of the diving board and step back to see what happens.

He’ll listen to your friends.

He’ll see their faith standing in for yours.

He’ll look straight at you in your immobility and say, “Take heart…” (Matthew 9:2)

Today, from this faith-place where my legs won’t work, I feel the jostling prayers of my friends and family. I can almost hear their laboring to cut a hole in the roof and lower me to the feet of my Savior, the One whose faith-place carried Him into a tomb and out again. (Luke 5:18-26)

Maybe, just maaaaaabye, this is part of the pulse of abundant life… of going to new faith-places. Maybe today it’s okay for me to crawl into His cradling arms, to just rest on that mat to the rhythm of my friends’ prayers.  To lean into the Family.

The Hall of Famers all experienced frozen toes on the edge of the diving board. Most of them even belly-flopped a few times. Yet they are remembered for their faith that “conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised…” (Hebrews 11:33)

Today I will take heart. And I will be thankful. Because, with or without my words, His Kingdom is coming and His promises are being fulfilled.

Thank you for carrying me on this mat. And thank you for breaking through the barriers on my behalf.

This week, I will ask for an opportunity to carry someone else the way you have carried me. This week, I will call on the name of Jesus on behalf of another – for His Kingdom coming and for justice flowing. This week my faith is made stronger because of yours.

Take heart, your prayers will reach and carry another through my strengthened hands and heart.

On Days Like This...

Two and a half years ago, my African pastor approached me and asked me to teach our church about family. He said, "Start at ground zero because we don't know ANYTHING about family."

I interviewed him to understand what ground zero really looked like, and I quickly discovered that step one would be teaching the church why it was even relevant or worthy to teach a church full of orphaned children and adults about family.

Today, my African pastor stood before the church himself and taught about the "spirit of the orphan" - that any one in any circumstance  could feel like an orphan. And that God the Father send His Son to die for us so we could all belong in the Family of God.

He declared that we all belong in this Family. And we have a Father who'll hike up his holy robe and run toward us because He's happy we're coming Home - no matter what stench lingers in our trail. This church full of formerly-known-as-orphans hooped and hollered in the name of Family. 

THAT'S MY CHURCH!  Can I get an AMEN!?! 

The Family of God is stretching and swallowing up those who were broken and orphaned. 
And it's worth celebrating!

After his message, my pastor welcomed three fathers to stand in front of the church. He officially welcomed them as the three newest members of our congregation. THIS IS A BIG DEAL!
Fathers are running home... Children are learning they belong. 

And sometimes, on days like this...
when you've danced and hopped and hollered...
when you've held that naked, malnourished baby high over your head (risking projectiles from both ends) just to hear her giggle and squeal...
when you've picnicked and fed families...
when you've talked about Jesus and seen His miracles in real life...

On days like this...
You just have to say, "Thank you, Father." 

And get out a beach ball and play.

Holding Happiness

A million moments have come and gone since I wrote last from that spiritual and emotional place that could only be diagnosed as “a hot mess”.

There’s been brilliant breakthroughs and devastating detours.

Hope has risen, and tears have fallen.

I’ve wanted to tell you so many stories, but the words just wouldn’t come.

I’ve wanted to speak out and stand on so many Truths, but…

Some days I’ve stuttered and stumbled.

And some days I’ve sang and stood strong.

Most days were a really awkward dance of the two “some day” alliterations.

I am desperately seeking His Kingdom and His Presence…

The comfort of the The Comforter.

The healing of The Healer.

But I am doing so in a painfully human, two-steps-forward and one-step-backward kind of way. On Monday, after I poured out this stumbling, singing heart to my team, I just wanted to hold and to be held.

I wanted to hold Happiness.

Happiness is a little girl I adore.

Happiness’ 9^th grade sister carries her uncomfortable body to the feeding program in Clau Clau every week. Relief flashes through the loving eyes of this big sister when we scoop up that small, stiff body, seized by what is probably cerebral palsy, and let her go whisper, giggle, and dance with her friends from school.

We’re so gripped with love for this little girl who cannot speak to us, who has black holes where teeth should be, who can’t sit up on her own, and who can’t focus or function. All I wanted to do on Monday was hold Happiness.

Monday with Happiness. Photo by Laura Uechi.

 I leaned against the brick wall, with a bundle of beauty stiffly stacked in my lap, and I loved her. I stroked her skin and told her how beautiful she is. I melted as her glazy eyes found mine when my voice hit a note she liked. I unfolded her fingers enough to put one of mine inside her unyielding palm. I kissed all over her face and neck and arms. I spent a ridiculous length of time making faces at her while I watched hers react, imagining what a full, unhindered smile would like. And I prayed and prayed.

Carla came over and sing-songed a promise of Happiness dancing down streets of gold. Brett came and oogled and cooed with the enchanted eyes of a father.

 

Photo by Laura Uechi

And I thought about this Kingdom I’m pursuing.

This Comforter and this Healer I’m appealing to.

And how, all wrapped up in this broken body, I think He’s here.

Suddenly, I started to wonder if Everlasting Joy has a day where He just wants to hold His Happiness.

Does Eternity’s Keeper ever just want a moment to hold and behold me?

Does He fold me, stiffly unsure, kicking and screaming, into that big, holy lap of His, and position me to see and to hear, like I did with sweet little Happiness?

Does He see how broken and diseased I am, yet coo and oogle and stroke my skin and call me Beautiful?

Does He speak a thousand words over me with a cascade of sensations, pictures and octaves, until I hear that one that makes my glazed eyes find His face? And then does He melt?

Does He paint glimpses of His face through Creation just for my reaction, imagining what my unhindered smile, my unhindered heart and vision will be like?

Are His Fatherly eyes filled with enchantment for the day His Happiness will dance with no pain, no suffering and with absolute freedom down golden streets into our happily ever after?

Whether we need to hold or to be held today, I believe there’s a sovereign grip on us. A lap you might not even know you’re in yet.

Behold, the Holder has come. He cuts off chaos, sets us free, and never-ever will stop moving mountains on behalf of His beloved.

You are His Happiness. Behold an be held. 

The Other Brother

It’s been a thick week at Ten Thousand Homes – higher highs and lower lows, the heat got turned up in the spiritual realm – hot enough to boil over and to burn, and well over a hundred people are on base going as in many different directions. I got bowled over.

Facebook flashed my friends’ exotic and fabulous 30^th birthday excursions and happily-ever-after family photo shoots, while Lifa and I sat in a broken-down car on the side of a dangerous mountain road over an hour from home.

Sundresses and sunburns blazed the shades of the land of the free and the home of the brave from pools, beaches, boats and barbeque pits, while I had to bring Lifa home early and lock ourselves in the cottage in front of a space heater because he just couldn’t stay up long enough for us to see even one firework crack or have the South African version of a s’more.

I’ve wanted to run away this week.

To drop everything and go back to the “normal”.

I wanted to be finished with leaky washing machines, faulty electricity, part-time single-parenting, windows that won’t close, my favorite pair of jeans stolen off the clothes line, snakes and scorpions coming in, and humanity’s bruises, bumps and burns.

I want to feel my Creator and my Savior. I want to feel His breath in my lungs. And I can’t.

I’ve been pining for the “normal” – to get out of this thickness. But it hasn’t worked, hasn’t helped. It’s left me feeling much, much more broken.

I tried to hobble back to His gates this morning. I tried to bring my broken self into the yard, and see if He’d show up. I found myself wondering if my heart and my faith were even in the right place to do that, or if I was still just trying to put a band-aid on my bo-bo.   

I remembered the story in Luke 15.

A father had two sons. One son wanted to get out of the unconventional love of his household and see what the “real world” had to offer. He wanted to taste and see “the normal”. So he asked for his share of the inheritance, and, with heavy pockets and an extra pep in his step, he went out and feasted, played, prostituted, and squandered. Soon enough, “normal” bit back with all of its brokenness and disillusionment. The son wasn’t living in the household of his inheritance anymore. He’d cut off the source of his wealth, and he’d run dry. He hit rock bottom, and decided to go crawling back.

His understanding of life was from the “normal” now, so he figured that, if he applied some strategy and some good PR, he could get hired at his dad’s house. He wrote a speech, prepared a resume, and approached the property with a defeated gait.

Immune to the unreaching, unseeing, uncaring grip of “normal”, the father had been out watching for him. He threw dignity, position and pride out. They never really applied where he lived anyway.

That father hiked up his robe, and ran to his son with the forgiving and overcoming speed of unconventional love. The speech started, but, not even knowing what PR is or why a person would need it, the father he never heard it. He was busy ordering for the finest robe, ring and sandals to be lavished on his son, and shouting out proclamations for the party of a lifetime. “Normal” was spoken over, defeated in the name of love.

When I’ve read this story before, I’ve usually related more closely to the other son. The one who never left the house, but was out working the fields when his brother came limping, and when his father went running. That well-behaved one that said, “Daaaaaaad, I’ve been slaving for you in the fields, and you’ve never even given me a morsel of the feast you’ve prepared for his wasteful, squandering vagabond.”

That unconventional father just looked back with eyes that never even flashed “normal’s” gauging glare and said, “Son, you’ve been at the source the whole time. You never even have to ask when you’re in the place that doesn’t run dry. Stop worrying about the work and the rules when you get hungry or lonely, and come have a feast.”

This time, this week, I’m not stomping from within the gates and from the fields of the harvest. I have before. But not this week.

This week, I’ve lusted for “normal”. I’ve wanted to squander my inheritance on things that don’t seem as vile as prostitution, but aren’t really that different.

I would’ve left the Source just to go back to my counseling career in America, just to see my mom and my sister and have a normal conversation with them, just to live in a household that is not surrounded by chaos, just to share in the poolside moments and holiday weekends, just to have normal relationships with people my own age and in my own stage of life, just to have the chance at a more-conventional family, just to be a part of the daily lives of my friends and their children, and just for a decent shower where I could actually shave my legs.

And, only because I’ve hit spiritual rock bottom, I stumble back this morning with a speech. And the hope of getting hired to take out the trash… or even worse, do the dishes.

I’m not sure if my heart is in the right place or if I just want relief. I’m wondering if my Father is looking for me, and if he will interrupt me to dress me in a robe of righteousness – not because I earned it, but because it’s been finished. And because everybody who comes Home is adorned in it. Will he slide that signet seal on my finger, the one I wanted to hawk for another one that came with a white picket fence?

Does the limp of that other brother go away when those fancy new sandals are placed on his feet? Does the thick leather and fine sole take the edge off of all those broken toes, stubbed on the reality of the dry and parched “normal”?

I’m begging to know.

I receive support in US dollars. I grocery shop with ZA Rand. I’m constantly calculating the exchange rate to determine what’s “worth it”.

When will I stop trying to calculate the exchange rate of the Father’s house? When will I just know the inherent weight difference of that robe of inheritance compared to the facebook feed and the friends and family I long to be around today?

Even on broken toes, limping to the gate with a persuasive speech prepared, I can tell you and my Father that I choose to exchange the “normal” for joy everlasting.

Some days I cry because I’ve been working so hard trying to earn my keep, but that unconventional Father has always been eager for me to come and enjoy the room He prepared for me.

Today I’m that other brother who squanders and grumbles. I’m not sure about that robe, except for it’s promised. And I’m not sure if I just want to wear the sandals because my feet hurt.

But my Father knows.

And hears.

And comes running anyway.

I’m crying today – and still grumble-limping.

And he’s preparing the feast.

He’s never grumbled or wanted to go back to “normal” – not even when I took his wealth, his investment, and spit at it, in the name of “normal”. Not when He sacrificed the fattened calf for the party, or when He sacrificed his beloved Son for our redemption.

Let your Kingdom come.

Let normal be over and done.

Heaven’s gates overcome,

The lust for “normal” be done.