If we build our homes on
Sinking sand
When the storm arrives
Do we think we can
Stand on shore
While all that we were
Floats away?
It's like setting sail for a
Distant land
Putting all your trust in the
Captain's hand
When you know all long
That the boat's going
Down
Down
Down
Keep your eyes on the Son
Put your hope in His heart
Your life in His hands
Your trust in His love
Keep your eyes on the
Son
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Kicking Against the Goads
Discovering how truly far-reaching Your grace is has been one of the most humbling experiences of my life, humiliating to my flesh and bone in every way possible. Why do I so despise myself for needing You so badly? Don't we all? Even those who don't know it? As in no other situation, I am no where near being alone in this one thing.
Why, then, is it my core frustration?
For all the love and adoration I have for You, I have that much more self-loathing for being so totally incapable apart from You. But the truth is, like with most things, that what I feel is the exact opposite of what is actually true. My greatest joy in life is my total incapability of functioning apart from You. We are intertwined, involved and complicated, mysterious and beautiful and frightening in how unlikely and yet totally perfect we look together.
I love you more than I can bear at times. For as long as I breathe in this world and into the next, I am Yours. Thank you for Your patience with my ignorant and childish ways. I hope and pray and yet also know unswervingly that neither my ignorance nor my immaturity weary You.
For indeed, nothing does, least of all me.
Why, then, is it my core frustration?
For all the love and adoration I have for You, I have that much more self-loathing for being so totally incapable apart from You. But the truth is, like with most things, that what I feel is the exact opposite of what is actually true. My greatest joy in life is my total incapability of functioning apart from You. We are intertwined, involved and complicated, mysterious and beautiful and frightening in how unlikely and yet totally perfect we look together.
I love you more than I can bear at times. For as long as I breathe in this world and into the next, I am Yours. Thank you for Your patience with my ignorant and childish ways. I hope and pray and yet also know unswervingly that neither my ignorance nor my immaturity weary You.
For indeed, nothing does, least of all me.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Action-Oriented
John 14: 30-31
Jesus went to the cross out of total and complete obedience to the Father's will. There was and still is not an ounce of weakness in Him. The enemy had no hold on Him ever - not in the Garden, not before the Sanhedrin, not in Herod's palace nor in Pilate's court, not at the cross nor in the tomb. Jesus visited these solemn places not out of weakness but out of the strength and the love of a Father that obedience requires.
And He did all of this for our benefit.
Yes, of course, there is the most obvious (but no less powerful, humbling, and awe-striking) benefit - direct access to our Beloved Father by the grace of an all-purifying forgiveness that the cross and resurrection provides for all who believe.
But the example - oh, the beautiful example! - of how to live.
"He [the enemy] has no hold on Me, but the world must learn that I do exactly what My Father has commanded Me."
Everything Jesus did and said on this earth was only ever for our benefit, so that we could watch, learn, and emulate.
The cross is the purest, most beautiful, most sacred example that the power of love and obedience can change the world.
Jesus went to the cross so that we would never have to. But with that action, He also set into motion a responsibility for action.
Jesus went to the cross out of total and complete obedience to the Father's will. There was and still is not an ounce of weakness in Him. The enemy had no hold on Him ever - not in the Garden, not before the Sanhedrin, not in Herod's palace nor in Pilate's court, not at the cross nor in the tomb. Jesus visited these solemn places not out of weakness but out of the strength and the love of a Father that obedience requires.
And He did all of this for our benefit.
Yes, of course, there is the most obvious (but no less powerful, humbling, and awe-striking) benefit - direct access to our Beloved Father by the grace of an all-purifying forgiveness that the cross and resurrection provides for all who believe.
But the example - oh, the beautiful example! - of how to live.
"He [the enemy] has no hold on Me, but the world must learn that I do exactly what My Father has commanded Me."
Everything Jesus did and said on this earth was only ever for our benefit, so that we could watch, learn, and emulate.
The cross is the purest, most beautiful, most sacred example that the power of love and obedience can change the world.
Jesus went to the cross so that we would never have to. But with that action, He also set into motion a responsibility for action.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Where the Lost Are Found
Tattered pages
Scribbled down words
Memories fall from my eyes
Rearranging
Chorus to verse
But I haven't written the lines
Yeah, it's funny
This story I'm in
The plots and the characters
Wear away thin
Winds are raging
Seasons changing
And I'm only moments from
Where I'm beginning
You will ask me
Girl, where do you
Run to when the sun
Goes down
You will find me
Over and then again
Where the lost are found
Scribbled down words
Memories fall from my eyes
Rearranging
Chorus to verse
But I haven't written the lines
Yeah, it's funny
This story I'm in
The plots and the characters
Wear away thin
Winds are raging
Seasons changing
And I'm only moments from
Where I'm beginning
You will ask me
Girl, where do you
Run to when the sun
Goes down
You will find me
Over and then again
Where the lost are found
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Lifeline
You are my lifeline when I'm in need
You are my anchor, the Rock beneath my feet
You are my sanity, my Prince of Peace
You are my lifeline
You are all I need
And when these feet are walking blind
You are never far behind
See me to the end, my Faithful Friend
And You know
I will go
With You
You are my anchor, the Rock beneath my feet
You are my sanity, my Prince of Peace
You are my lifeline
You are all I need
And when these feet are walking blind
You are never far behind
See me to the end, my Faithful Friend
And You know
I will go
With You
Friday, May 27, 2011
Confessions of a Scab-Picker
I enjoy picking scabs.
This is a dirty secret of mine and an unnecessary confession, but I would venture to say that I am not alone. It is my best guess that if most people were honest with themselves and with others, they too would find themselves in the dirty-scab-pickers club.
What is it about picking scabs that fascinates me so?
Perhaps it is a nervous habit. It could be a sort of self-loathing painful infliction of punishment. Could it be that it is unconscious - a Neanderthal reaction attesting to the truly animalistic nature of us mammals?
Truthfully, I think that I insist on picking at the scabs on my body because somewhere deep inside, I just can't stand that my body can fix itself without my help. I am offended with this well-working, independently-run machine in which my spirit has set up shop. How dare it function without my permission? Did I sign release papers or hand over the rights about whether or not I wanted that part of body to heal?
I suppose if it were physically possible, I would shove my hand into my chest cavity, clutch my beating heart in my fist and holler, "No, you do it like this!" It is not so far-fetched for me to believe that if my lungs were more like bellows that I would gladly take a hold of the handles and pump away, happy and contented in my self-sufficiency.
Whether I like it or not, my body does not need my help to heal itself. Day after day, year after year, cut after cut, scrape after scrape, my scabs will form and then simply sit, doing their work in the time frame that they know is best. They are not rude house-guests, staying on my body for 3 weeks longer than necessary, eating my food and watching my TV and sleeping in my bed.
No. Scabs stay only as long as they need, and then, usually without my noticing (let alone my help), they are gone. And when they do leave, they reveal soft, slightly pink, brand new skin. This skin is as new as the day I was born, untouched, unhurt, ready to brave the dangers of the world once again with a fresh perspective.
The pain in my life - the cuts and scrapes that my soul endures - heal in a similar fashion. And in a similar fashion, I insist on helping it along in an already set-in-stone process. I conjure up ways to forgive or set myself free or to forget what has happened or protect myself the next time around. I pick, pick, pick, pick away at the scabs of my heart, convinced that it will never heal without my help.
But You designed both my body and my soul in similar fashion. Neither need my assistance to heal.
In fact, the less I tamper with the scabbing wound, the faster and cleaner it will heal. A wound that is opened and reopened again and again is exposed to any and every thing that would come and infect and infest and do its damage.
If I leave it alone, if I let it go, my wounds will heal on their own, guided by Your hand down the winding path of time.
You alone know how long it takes for a heart or a mind or a body to heal. And while it frustrates me to no end that I cannot see what is going on under the cover of the scab, I know that You know what You are doing. You designed this process long ago, before I had a body or a heart to wound.
I trust You with the scabs of my life.
And I will not pick. Pinky swear.
This is a dirty secret of mine and an unnecessary confession, but I would venture to say that I am not alone. It is my best guess that if most people were honest with themselves and with others, they too would find themselves in the dirty-scab-pickers club.
What is it about picking scabs that fascinates me so?
Perhaps it is a nervous habit. It could be a sort of self-loathing painful infliction of punishment. Could it be that it is unconscious - a Neanderthal reaction attesting to the truly animalistic nature of us mammals?
Truthfully, I think that I insist on picking at the scabs on my body because somewhere deep inside, I just can't stand that my body can fix itself without my help. I am offended with this well-working, independently-run machine in which my spirit has set up shop. How dare it function without my permission? Did I sign release papers or hand over the rights about whether or not I wanted that part of body to heal?
I suppose if it were physically possible, I would shove my hand into my chest cavity, clutch my beating heart in my fist and holler, "No, you do it like this!" It is not so far-fetched for me to believe that if my lungs were more like bellows that I would gladly take a hold of the handles and pump away, happy and contented in my self-sufficiency.
Whether I like it or not, my body does not need my help to heal itself. Day after day, year after year, cut after cut, scrape after scrape, my scabs will form and then simply sit, doing their work in the time frame that they know is best. They are not rude house-guests, staying on my body for 3 weeks longer than necessary, eating my food and watching my TV and sleeping in my bed.
No. Scabs stay only as long as they need, and then, usually without my noticing (let alone my help), they are gone. And when they do leave, they reveal soft, slightly pink, brand new skin. This skin is as new as the day I was born, untouched, unhurt, ready to brave the dangers of the world once again with a fresh perspective.
The pain in my life - the cuts and scrapes that my soul endures - heal in a similar fashion. And in a similar fashion, I insist on helping it along in an already set-in-stone process. I conjure up ways to forgive or set myself free or to forget what has happened or protect myself the next time around. I pick, pick, pick, pick away at the scabs of my heart, convinced that it will never heal without my help.
But You designed both my body and my soul in similar fashion. Neither need my assistance to heal.
In fact, the less I tamper with the scabbing wound, the faster and cleaner it will heal. A wound that is opened and reopened again and again is exposed to any and every thing that would come and infect and infest and do its damage.
If I leave it alone, if I let it go, my wounds will heal on their own, guided by Your hand down the winding path of time.
You alone know how long it takes for a heart or a mind or a body to heal. And while it frustrates me to no end that I cannot see what is going on under the cover of the scab, I know that You know what You are doing. You designed this process long ago, before I had a body or a heart to wound.
I trust You with the scabs of my life.
And I will not pick. Pinky swear.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Because I'm Happy...Because I'm Free
I heard the birds singing this morning, and it made my heart leap in my chest.
It made me wonder, "What are they saying to You? Are they thanking You for the sunrise? Are they telling You how grateful they are for the wings that carry them fast and high over trees and rivers and buildings and streetlights? Do they long for the dawn, for their cue to speak up and sing out their songs of gratitude?"
I want to be like the sparrow. She is not the most glorious of winged creatures, but she still has a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart. In all her glorious drab-colored down and in all her magnificent minuteness, she has caught Your eye enough for You to give her a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart.
I am the sparrow. I am the least of those whom You created with purposeful intention to look and act and be like You, yet You give me a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart. I am dull at times and am certainly very small in comparison to all You are and all You have, yet You give me a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart.
Your eye is on the sparrow.
Your eye is on me.
It made me wonder, "What are they saying to You? Are they thanking You for the sunrise? Are they telling You how grateful they are for the wings that carry them fast and high over trees and rivers and buildings and streetlights? Do they long for the dawn, for their cue to speak up and sing out their songs of gratitude?"
I want to be like the sparrow. She is not the most glorious of winged creatures, but she still has a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart. In all her glorious drab-colored down and in all her magnificent minuteness, she has caught Your eye enough for You to give her a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart.
I am the sparrow. I am the least of those whom You created with purposeful intention to look and act and be like You, yet You give me a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart. I am dull at times and am certainly very small in comparison to all You are and all You have, yet You give me a song to sing and wings to fly and a place in Your heart.
Your eye is on the sparrow.
Your eye is on me.
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