Friday, January 29, 2016

If I Could Do Anything?

Guys, I had the weirdest moment the other day.

I was scrolling through my news feed and  came across a motivational pic - you know the kind, big scenery, papyrus font - asking this question: if you could do or be anything in the world (and money is no object) what would that be?  Make it happen.

And normally I don't even read motivational bits but I laid back on the couch and stared up at bare branches against a white sky to think about this one.

And my mind went blank.

I couldn't think of a single thing I'd rather do. 

I shook my head and thought harder, because surely there's got to be something?  (Contentment isn't usually my preset.)

I love to write. I love to read. I love the beach. I love warm weather.  But would I prefer to be sitting on a beach, reading, writing, with no Patrick? No hilarious, frustrating goons pulling me out of my innate laziness?  No morning sickness and no meals to cook and nobody singing adorably to themselves, lost in play?

I really wouldn't.

I found myself grinning up at the naked tree in the cold sky.

This life is my favourite.

I mean, would I love to be slim and have better skin and be living this crazy life on a gorgeous island with a beautiful self-cleaning house and all my extended family and friends nearby? Yes! But would I give this up to pursue something else? Not in a million years.

This is my answer, motivational pic: I love my circus. And I'm deep-in-my-bones grateful that I get to live it every day.

Monday, January 25, 2016

I Want to Read About Going Home

It's probably the pregnancy hormones. In fact, I'm sure it is. But the other night I read a headline that just killed me. Patrick came to bed a good 20 minutes after I'd thrown down my phone in disgust, and I'd been sobbing the whole time. I couldn't seem to get a handle on my response.

This world is so warped and there is so much nauseating evil that sometimes you just find yourself crying in the dark begging God to make it all end. 

The other night Sam picked up my Bible,  climbed into a cozy chair, and announced, "I want to read about going home."

Oh my sweet boy. Me too. Me too.

Here - this is not our home. This is soaked in sin and reeks of cruelty .. wounds and bruises and putrifying sores.

I don't want to read the headlines. I want to read about going home.

But I am so glad that Jesus chose the opposite way.

He left home and plunged into this place, this gasping shame, and placed his hands right on the filthy body of humanity. He spread out his arms and took our sin and provided the cleansing stream of salvation in His own body on the cross.  He came to us. And knew far more than a headline worth of our depths. And knew our hurt. And knew our rage. And loved us. And loved us. And loved us.

And so I don't get to just hide in my house and read about heaven (although that's good). I don't get a speedy pass out of the wounds and bruises and sores that surround me (although someday I will, yes, find myself in my long home). 

Instead I get the charge to bear the same grace, the same comfort, the same mercy that has healed my same wounds.  To live the gospel and speak peace and hope and serve the hurting in Jesus' name. His hands don't hide from the agony - they reach toward it. His heart doesn't close up to avoid the pain - it opens wide in welcome.  He didn't keep himself out of this fray - he came. He came. He healed and nourished and comforted and taught and died for all of our sin. 

And he tells us all, all of us who have been so comforted and forgiven and made well in His care: go and do likewise.

And then someday ... we'll all go home.