Category: Words

“So, how was China?” — everyone all the time.

This is the anthem cry of every acquaintance I run into on the streets.  It’s a sweet, small-talky sort of question that has a not-so-sweet, plunge-into-the-depths-of-my-soul sort of answer.  The best way I know how to answer this question is by turning back the pages of time (literally) and asking the Abby who was in the thick of it.

Below is an excerpt from my journal in April.  Homesickness was real, discouragement was my constant companion… yet God was at work: 

“There are days when I can’t stand the smells — there is a distinct odor in buses that is overwhelming.  There are days when I want to put a sock in every loud mouth of the street-sweepers. There are days when I feel overwhelmed and suffocated by a world I can’t understand. 

But in those days, there are moments of sincere sweetness and all is put to right.  I see a daughter taking gentle care of her elderly mother.  I see a dad playing peek-a-boo with his baby.  I see old men cutting up on the sidewalks.  I see the narrow, smiling eyes of our taxi driver through the rearview mirror as he laughs at our bad singing.  

I see, for just a moment, what He sees.  He sees precious human beings who are made in His image.  Human beings that He died for as much as He died for me.” 

It’s difficult to summarize a whole year of your life in a few minutes, isn’t it? But when people ask how China was, I think about this passage.  I think about the hardship, the discouragement, and homesickness.  I think about the countless carsick journeys, the constant state of confusion when my limited Chinese language failed me, and the ache of missing friends and family.

But then, the Holy Spirit comes in and reminds me of so much more.  He brings to my mind’s eye what He saw when I was mentally and emotional undone.  He saw a creation he was mad for.  He saw beauty in the disaster.  He saw a culture He understood and loved for all of it’s quirks and strangeness.  And He reminds me how often He gave me His eyes to see the same.

We see the world through our tainted, dirty, sin-stricken eyes.  But when we step into the kingdom of God, He doesn’t just change our hearts, He changes our vision.  He helps us to look at people through His perfect lens.

How can we love the unlovable without His vision?  How can we see what’s really going on inside a person unless we remove the pride, prejudices, and judgements that so often distort our sight? How can we know Him more unless we see what He sees?

So to answer your question, China was exactly what it has always been: a place full of precious ones who He asked me to see and love.  I failed too many times to count, but He never did.

This is a poem I wrote at 1:30am when sleep wasn’t happening.  I had been pondering the incredible refinement that takes place in transition.  I’ve never published poetry… this is new for me… Have grace, friends.

TRANSITION… 

New faces, new spaces, new traces of confusion that beat against my head.

Where is He in this?

In broken places, in last embraces, in heart races because my faith has taken me beyond my comfort,

I can’t find Him here.

Yesterday we were thick as thieves, heart on my sleeve, and I believed we would stay that way forever.

But today He’s gone.

They say He’s near, but I fear that I can’t hear Him even when I try my best to listen

What’s He saying?

 

…TRANSFIGURATION…

Time has passed, it’s gone at last, the confusion that massed and cluttered my head

I start to see Him again.

But it’s different this time, my heart aligns, and I incline my ear to hear what I haven’t heard Him say before.

He’s speaking new things.

I feel alive, and I’ve contrived to understand the change of scene

There’s something different about Him.

But you know, it’s strange; He never really changed, not even a bit.

I think He gave me new eyes.

 

…TRANSFORMATION.

The new faces and spaces and traces of confusion uncovered what I couldn’t see before.

He sharpened my vision.

There was a face, a space, a trace of Goodness and Mercy that comfort couldn’t show.

He widened my gaze

In a place unknown, feeling alone, I never really was because He simply refined me.

He never left me for a minute.

If we raced forward past the borders of our imagination, perhaps we would see that with Him, there is always more.

Before I left for China, I had an intense closeness with the Father.  It was raw, real, and deep.  I was smitten by Him, and it was a sweet time.  I really didn’t think it could get any better.  I didn’t think it could (or should) change.

But when I arrived in China, everything did change.  I knew nothing of the place I was living, the people I was surrounded by, or the God who promised to be with me.  I felt abandoned, to be honest.  I couldn’t see Him, feel Him, or hear Him.  Silence and loneliness consumed me for a time.  But I kept seeking, praying that I would find Him in the midst of that heavy and hard transition.

Over the course of time and a lot of hardships, I began to know Him in a way I had never known Him before. My Father in China was different.  He was more compassionate, more gracious, more loving, and more joyful than I could have ever imagined.

If I had stayed in my comfort zone…if I had stayed in my familiar, happy, contented place, would I have ever known what I know now?  Could I have ever understood that what I thought I knew about Him was merely the surface?

Dream deeper and wider dreams about Him, friends.  He is greater than you think He is right now.  He is more extravagant and extraordinary than you believe Him to be right now.  He is more compassionate than you’re experiencing Him to be right now.  He is more.  How can we know this unless we step out and to see it? It may not be a physical stepping out of a country or city; it may be a step out in a job, a relationship, a calling, a whatever.  Wherever that transition needs to take place, I promise you He will be on the other side of it, ready to blow your mind with more of Him.

A year ago, I sat on my bedroom floor (as I often did), and poured my guts out to Father.  I told Him that everything I had was His.  And I meant it.  I truly, in the intense, profound, glorious Presence, wanted Him to have every atom of me.

Fast-forward to last week.  I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, worn-out, hair falling out from stress, lungs filled with particles of pollutants; I’m suffocating under the weight of loss and grief.  Homesickness and culture-stress has hit me again, and I can’t bear it.  Pursuing His call overseas cost so much more than I ever dreamed.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I bitterly whisper to Father, spitting out the tears that have crept into the crease of my mouth.  “I’ve given you everything.” How could I possibly give Him more?  I’ve assessed the damage… I’ve given Him my future, my comfort, my family, my future hope of marriage, etc.  What more could He want?

He asked me something in that moment… something that completely unhinged me: “But Abby, aren’t I enough?” 

I want to believe that He is, but sometimes, I struggle.

I think sometimes I surrender for the sake of obedience; it’s what my faith requires of me.  But I think Father intended surrender to communicate so much more than obedience.  It says that He is, in fact, enough.  It speaks of His great worth.  The beauty of surrender is that it is a constant act of worship. “You are worth more than even this,” it says, “and that is enough for me.”

It doesn’t always feel like I’m screaming out “You are enough” when I’m curled up on the floor, sobbing, blubbering, and aching to have back what I gave to Him.  Most of the time, I feel bitter over having lost something I loved so dearly, but He is in the business of sweetening the bitterness in me.  His precious reminder that His worth is proclaimed in surrender fills up the deep and wide in my heart.

Surrender is more than giving up what we cling to; it is taking hold of His goodness and allowing Him to fill the empty spaces left behind.  He is worth every ounce of pain that the act of surrender inflicts on us.  Simply stated, He is always enough.

“They are so thirsty,”  He said.  

With my eyes clenched shut, I was taken to a desert…Dust flying, sun scorching– an endless stretch of barren ground.  People were everywhere; they were digging with shovels and bare hands.  They were looking for water.

As I stood there watching this scene, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned around to see Him.  He had a giant bucket in one hand, a ladle in the other, and a smile on his face.  I held a cup; it was dry as a bone.  I offered it to Him, and He filled it full of water.  He filled it so full, it started to spill out the top.  I drank every last drop.   It tasted so cool and sweet.  Never had anything satisfied more.

Suddenly, I saw Him fix His eyes on something behind me.  I turned to follow His gaze and saw a person on the ground.  She was on her knees, surrounded by mounds of earth, clawing at the ground.  She was dripping in sweat and coated in a thick layer of dust.

I knew what He wanted me to do.  I held up my emptied cup once again, and He filled it.  “I promise I won’t spill it,” I said.  I cautiously stepped my way over to her. I held out my cup; she hesitated at first, looking around at her piles of dirt.  She had been digging for a while.  She timidly took the cup in her cracked and bloodied hands.  She drank it dry.  Total satisfaction and joy spread across her face.

I ran back to Him.  She drank it! I held up my cup once again, and He filled it to the brim.  I found another digger, offered the water, and they drank it!  When I turned around, I saw others running to Him, holding out their own cups!  Swarms of us were dashing around with cups full of water, giving them to any that would drink.  Adrenaline was shooting through my veins, and water was spilling out everywhere!

I found another person on the ground.  With pure, child-like excitement, I offered them the cup of cool, sweet water. They took it, looked inside, and dumped it on the ground right in front of me.  My mouth gapped open.  They kept on digging.  “I’ll find my own water,” they said.  I couldn’t believe it. Why would they keep digging when I found the source of water?

I ran back to Him again, He filled it, and I ran back to them.  Again, they poured it out at my feet.  I looked down at my feet and saw the precious water forming sticky, black mud.

The Father gave me this vision several days ago, and it shifted something inside me.  All I have to offer Him is my emptiness.  I cannot love others, serve others, or speak life into others without His pour.  I can do nothing apart from Him.  He is Living Water that is guaranteed to satisfy.   I wish that all would receive His sweet gift, but many will reject it.  Those who take and drink, however, will never go thirsty again.  That is His Promise.  

Keep running back to Him with your empty cup, friends; let Him fill it to the brim.  Our world is so desperately thirsty. 

“…let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:1-2)

When we choose Jesus, we choose to run the kind of race that makes the Iron Man look like a walk in the park.  We tie up our sneakers, blast “Eye of the Tiger,” and start running… but we literally have no idea what sort of race we are about to run.

As we begin this mega-marathon, we quickly discover that it requires more than we can offer. We feel immediate exhaustion.  We can’t shake the feeling that we are lagging behind.  We encounter unexpected and completely devastating losses.  We watch as other runners stop and walk off the track.  At some points, we look around and feel completely alone.  Our legs shaking and our hearts pounding, we stop.

This faith race is wearing us down already.  Condemnation haunts us.  Anxiety and fear weaken us.  Disappointments and failures drain us. Confusion blinds us.  Humility knocks us down.  Hopelessness hangs like a weight around our necks.  This marathon forces us to give everything we’ve got, and we are tired of giving.  Just tired.  As we stand there, sweat dripping down our necks, we start to ask the make-or-break question: “Is is worth it?”

Suddenly, we look to the sidelines and see saints upon saints calling out to us, spurring us on.  We turn and see hundreds of weary runners clinging to each other, trudging, limping, dragging onward.  Others are screaming out in an adrenaline rage that lurches them to the front lines.  Anguish is carved into their faces, but they grit their teeth and keep moving.

As we watch the citizens of heaven march forward, there is a sound in the distance that gets louder.  Amidst the breath of broken and wearied runners, we can hear the sweet call of our King: “You can do it.  You’re gonna make it.  I’m here!  Just a little while longer!” 

Endurance, friends.  That’s what it’s all about.  We fight to finish the race set before us.  The Father is the voice that moves us, the Son is the finisher that saves us, and the Spirit is the fire in our veins that drives us.  When we do finish, we won’t look pretty; this race will cost us everything, because it cost Him everything…but it will be worth it.

I know I’m young.  I’ve barely covered the first lap, but sometimes I feel like I can’t go on.  This faith journey is one of questions, confusion, difficulty, persecution, and suffering beyond what I thought possible.  So don’t patronize me or look down on me.  Help me, encourage me, lift me to my feet.  I can’t make it alone, and you can’t either.  We need each other.  We need to remind each other that the One who ran the race before us is waiting.  More than anything, He longs for us to cross the finish line and collapse into His arms.  And boy, will we collapse.

I often wonder at the Father’s words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”  At the end of this race, when I stand before him sweating, dirty, aching, and spent…will he really look at my shabby, slow-paced, unimpressive marathon and call me faithful?  I hope so.  God, I hope so.

We all share a desire to belong.  I’m not sure if we are born with it, conditioned to want it, or discover the importance of it when it is absent.  All I know is that if we don’t feel like we belong, life becomes meaningless, confusing, and dismal.

Don’t let those silly hipster, non-conformist, millennial yippies fool you.  They want to belong just as much as you and I.  In fact, “acceptance” has become their mantra.  Why?  Because they know that being accepted into a community or movement is essential.  Abraham Maslow created our five hierarchy of needs: 1) psychological 2) safety 3) belonging 4) esteem 5) self-actualization.  Belonging is the unassuming middle kid here.  Now, I’m no psychologist, so I can’t speak too much into this, but I would argue that above becoming “self-actualized,” we desire to belong.  If we felt like we belonged, we would perhaps disregard the necessity of all the other hierarchal needs.  Just a friendly thought.

You all know the spiritual lesson is coming, so I won’t delay.

Last night, I spent some time in His Presence.  Solid time spent, but I must be honest, time with Him has been a struggle lately.  I’ve just felt insecure.  I’ve been uncertain as to what my identity in Christ actually looks like.  In this era of “self-discovery,” He calls me to “Christ-discovery,” and while that’s all well and good, I wonder how my individuality marries the community God-head, forming one identity?

Muddling thoughts. Questions beget questions. Spirals into deeper confusion.

So I sat there in some necessary quiet, and I listened.  There in silence, The Father spoke simply, profoundly, and pointedly:

You belong. 

“What does that have to do with identity?” I wondered.  After sitting on it for a sec, it hit me.  Then I grinned from ear to ear.

Listen, if we understand that we belong to him, then every part of our identity in Christ begins to fall into place.  Our “self-actualization” or “self-discovery” simply doesn’t compare with the knowledge that we belong to a Creator.  In this beautiful belonging, we weave our desires, our behaviors, our minds, and our hearts to His.  We belong to Him and with Him.  Our human need to be accepted has been met completely by Him!

What’s interesting about the word “belong” is that it has two meanings (shoutout to Webster for providing both the insightful definitions):

to belong: (v) to be property of, (v) to be a part of 

Come on, guys!

By nature of our created existed, we are property of the Most High.  We bear His image upon our broken bodies.  We breathe in and breathe out His designed breath.  We laugh, cry, scream, and whisper with a voice He patented.  We are His very own copyright.

Not only are we copyrighted by our loving Father, but we are a part of His community!  We are a part of the community of heaven.  We belong to a body of believers.  We join with the angels, screaming around the throne of God, “Holy, Holy, Holy!” WOWZER.  He has accepted us into His family.

Understanding and embracing our identity in Christ is a process, I won’t argue that.  But coming into the knowledge that we belong to our Creator and have been accepted by Him is a great start.  We can rest in this.

 

 

I prayed a pretty dangerous prayer recently, y’all.  I prayed it compulsively, and I hardly recognized the serious nature of it.  The last part went a little something like this:

“Father, I’m not curious enough.  Help me to start asking more questions.”

You see, I knew that the majority of my life had existed in the safety of accepting things I never bothered to question. By nature, I am a lover of harmony.  I completely avoid anything that threatens my peace of mind, and because of this, I have accepted the non-answers to so many honest and hard questions about life and faith.  I came to the conclusion that it’s okay to not know, so there’s no sense in exhausting myself for an answer.

This request for curiosity, therefore, came out of a desire to grow spiritually.  Accepting everything because I didn’t want to tackle hard questions does not equip a spiritual warrior well, and I was highly aware of that.

 

As questions simmered in my brain, my cocksure spirit was at a sudden standstill.  I started to panic as one question opened up the floodgate to a thousand, and I couldn’t control them.  Intrusive and offensive questions started breaching the secure wall I had built around my faith.  Questions I had never even considered asking were haunting my head daily.

Where is God?  What if everything I’ve ever thought was wrong?  What if God isn’t who He says He is?  How can He seriously love me?  What is truth? How can we know truth if there are so many interpretations of His Word? What if someone I love dies…will I still love Him?

So there I was, living in the tangled mess of curiosity unleashed.

 

Curiosity wasn’t what I thought it was going to be—it required me to loosen my grip on familiar, traditional thought patterns.  Releasing my passivity, loosening my hold of the comfortable, and asking gritty questions sounded like a total surrender of my mind, and that was terrifying.

So I freaked out when I thought about the total surrender this would require of me; to be honest, I ran away.  Instead of embracing the surrender like a friend, I retreated from it into spiritual lethargy.  That’s my coping method. When the challenges present me no easy solution, I stick my fingers in my ears (metaphorically speaking) and tune out.  Not proud to admit that about myself.  However, thanks to saintly friends and the Holy Spirit, I was set into motion not long after the cowardly retreat.  Praise Him for that.

After coming out of my lethargic stupor, you know what I realized? It’s hilarious actually.

I asked all the questions without really looking for answers.

LOL. WHAT’S EVEN THE POINT OF ASKING?

Exactly.  I learned that the pain of questioning could have been alleviated had I only sought the Word, friends, THE HOLY FREAKING SPIRIT, or other reliable sources for answers.  Questioning without seeking an answer is like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.  Terrifying and deadly.  To be fair, we may not get the answers in our time frame, or even in this lifetime, but the power is in the seeking.

Moral of the story? (Thank God she’s finally coming to it)

To lay down any of our own conclusions (or lack thereof) and allow the Spirit to work through the wonderment is a deep challenge for any of us.  It’s so easy to not wonder, you know? Wondering is like digging a well.  You have to break up the earth of your being, root out the lies and stubborn assumptions that have lingered in your mind, and perhaps endure the pain that questioning begins to draw out of your soul.  Once you dig that well though, there is LIVING WATER ready to spring up.

It’s worth the toil, friends.  I believe that fully. If we dig deep, it will hurt our pride and certainties, but truth is buried there.  Ask the hard questions when He calls you to them. I’m still learning how to ask and seek, but I’m realizing that the more questions I ask, the closer I cling to Him for answers, and that’s the most beautiful thing that can come from all of it.  He wants us to be with Him, to trust Him, and to desire truth from His lips.  Curiosity may kill a cat, but it breathes life into our spirits, strengthens our walk, and inches us closer to knowing Him!

 

 

 

 

A few nights ago, I watched an interview between the late show host, Stephen Colbert and the actor, Andrew Garfield.  In this interview, Colbert was asking Garfield about the movie Silence, in which Garfield plays a Jesuit missionary who travels to Japan.  In preparation for his role, Garfield spent a period of time living and training with a Jesuit monk.  He spent his time praying, mediating, fasting, and learning the art of silence.   During the interview with Colbert, Garfield voiced his admiration for the life and transformative power of spirituality and, specifically, Jesus.

I was intrigued and zealous that Garfield’s experience with Jesus was so positive and encouraged to hear that he appeared genuinely effected; I was troubled, however, when Colbert asked him if he believed in the supernatural, and this was his response:

“Certainty about anything is the most terrifying.”

My heart sank.

Certainty is terrifying?

This led to an all-night “toss ‘n turn.”

It was the kind of night where my brain imploded and exploded with confusion… the kind of night in which Garfield’s statement pounded against me so ferociously that all I could do was lay there, wide-eyed, and take the beating.  No matter if I was flat on my back, curled up in the fetal position, or belly-pressed against a mountain of pillows, this question crept into every crevice of my mind:

Why is the world terrified of the one thing it needs the most?

Certainty, by definition, is the conviction that something is definitely true.  In a culture saturated by sensitivity, one thing has been horrifically distorted, and that is the nature of truth.  Truth, in its essence, is unwavering.  It is solid. It is matter-of-fact.  Truth cannot change.  The way we perceive truth may in fact change, but the actual, tangible truth itself does not.  New facts and perceptions only lend themselves to a closer realization of the truth which has never changed.

I’ll try to avoid sounding too philosophical—my brain bleeds when I try.

So if truth is concrete, unwavering, and certain, why do people claim that it is malleable based upon experience and choice? Why have variations of truth sprung up from the minds of many and taken on an entirely different shape?  Why do people take comfort in formulating their own version of truth?

The world has spent thousands of years trying to convince everyone that it can produce a truth that does not offend anyone.  It finds comfort in the “uncertain” because it can’t conclude a “certain” which would include everyone’s ideas. Uncertainty becomes a security blanket.  At least no one’s feelings or belief systems are shot down, right?  There, clinging to our strange existence, we little humans are all delighting in our own comfortable truths, no matter how absurd they might be; if everything is relative, then nothing is absolute, and apparently that is okay.

Is it okay? Do we honestly risk our eternity upon our acceptance of uncertainty?

Suppose there was one thing?  Suppose there was one, sure, certain thing into which we could anchor ourselves?  Suppose that one, certain thing was Jesus?

To say that Jesus is certain would create a stream of cause and effect:  if Jesus is certain, then every other belief system in the world is uncertain; if Jesus is absolute, then everything else in the world is relative; if Jesus is truth, then every other religious system in the world is false; if Jesus is God, then every other deistic claim is man-made.  If Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, then no man can obtain eternal life without Him. If Jesus is the “Word made flesh,” then the Word is alive today.

My heart aches for the world.  It claims sight, never having seen a thing.  It claims clarity, living it’s entire life in a dense fog.  It claims that uncertainty is certain, never having met the One who has saved us from certain death.  Instead of allowing the world to continue fearing and rejecting certainty, let us boldly, in love, speak what is true:  Christ died for all.  He rose again.  He loves us fiercely.  And no matter what we say or do, nothing will change that.

“For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that One died for all, therefore all died.  And He died for all that those who live should no longer live for themselves, but for Him who died for them and was raised again.” 2 Corinthians 5:14,15.

I would say this to Mr. Garfield:  Certainty in Jesus is the most beautiful thing; in fact, it is the only thing.  

I’ve been challenged, friends.  Challenged to love my suffering.

Woof.

Human suffering is one of the most questioned parts of our existence.  We watch helplessly as children starve, natural disasters wreak havoc, and human beings destroy one another.  We can’t make any sense of it.  We can’t shake the fear of the inevitable pain we will endure.  We can’t look into the face of suffering and see, at the same time, the face of love.  How can God ask us to embrace suffering?  How can God use pain for His Glory?

I’m certainly not educated enough or thoughtful enough to conquer the most popular question in all of human history, but I do have the ability to share a little bit of my own perspective.  Take it or leave it.

Firstly, I’d like to remark upon the fact that God knows a thing or two about suffering.  What He endured on the Cross has historically been marked as one of the most gruesome, torturous deaths.  According to Brant Pitre, “the Roman practice of execution by crucifixion was widely considered to be one of the cruelest and most shameful ways a person could die” (101).  Why would God choose to die in this manner?  What could He possibly hope to gain from this humiliating, dreadful demise?

While Christ died, He showed the extent of His compassion for all mankind.  It wasn’t His death on the Cross that displayed this crazy love, however. It was His suffering.  It was the physical brutality, the emotional abuse, and the pure humiliation that Christ endured.  He did this for the sake of love.  Tragedy and horror somehow produced a passionate, vivacious, unconditional love.  This makes no sense to me.  I can’t understand even the shallow end of this infinite grace and mercy.  Perhaps I will never be contented to it’s incredible mystery.  All I know is how thankful I am for it.

But what of our own suffering?  Christ’s suffering may birth a beautiful and perfect love for the wretchedness of mankind (to which we cannot fully grasp), but why must we suffer?

To this I can only reference my own experience.  Trust me, I know nothing of true suffering, so to those who do, I pray you don’t presume that I’m dramatizing my own pain.  But I will say this…pain is pain, no matter who endures it, where they encounter it, and to what extent they experience it.

I’m in a season of life where I’m required to ask for help.  To be specific, financial and spiritual help.  This may not seem like deep suffering, but to my stubborn, prideful heart, it is.  Anxiety digs it’s vicious claws into my back every day.  As I go through this terribly humbling season, it hurts.  A lot.  Why?  God’s answer for me is so simple, yet so commonly misunderstood by those who encounter a deeper, more heart-wrenching form of suffering.

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

Not worth comparing with  the glory that will be revealed?  Key words:  Glory and will be.  If our entire existence is meant to glorify the Creator of all things, then our pain must take an equal share in that glorifying process.  As much as we glorify Him in our joy, we must glorify Him in our pain. Easier said than done.  And this is not something we can comprehend while we endure it.  It will be revealed.  We will see God’s glory.  We will understand after fighting through the confusion, angst, and horror that this suffering produces.

“Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” (Romans 5:3-4)

What comes of suffering is something intangible, but so remarkably powerful: hope.  While we suffer, the fires of hope are being ignited.  The more we endure, the more we intensify our gaze upon the One who gives us that hope.  With Hell raging all around us, all we can do is keep our eyes upon the hope of Jesus Christ.  We look to the One who is not absent from our suffering.  He is right in the middle of it and one step ahead of us.

“Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me.” (Matthew 10:38)

Heavens to Betsy, that’s a rough one.  Whoever does not take up their cross… their burdens… their hardships… their brokenness… is not worthy of Him.  I ache at the thought of these words spilling from the precious, holy, unblemished mouth of my Jesus.  To be worthy of Him is to embrace my Cross…my own crucifixion…my own suffering.   This is troubling, yet there is such a hope embedded into this scripture: FOLLOW ME. Jesus, who carried His cross as both a symbol and reality of His present pain, calls us to follow Him to the place where sin dies, but HE LIVES!  Suffering is not the end.  It is not even a means to an end.  It is the way in which we know Christ.  On the road of suffering, we are discovering the character of Jesus!  This is incredible when you think about it.

Maybe this doesn’t answer the question as to why we must suffer; pain is still pain, and it’s the most realistic thing in the world to question it’s purpose.  However, I’ve come to realize that to suffer is to know Jesus in a way that we can’t know Him in times of placidity or peace.  This is the hardest, albeit most strengthening lesson we can ever learn, and I still have yet to embrace it; but what a comfort it is to know that I am never alone in the midst of it.  Jesus goes before me, enduring the onslaught of misery and heartache, and I am simply asked to follow Him. And as I follow Him, I discover Him.  I encounter Him.  I’m awakened to the Love that He has for me because of the Cross. What we endure might be unthinkable, but “is not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in us.”  Praise Jesus.

We spend our entire lives trying to make a home here.  We build houses, communities, and personal relationships in order to obtain this sense of belonging.  We seek comfort above all else.  We desire a refuge, a place of rest.  This is all well and good, but as a great admirer of C.S. Lewis, I cannot abandon this quote of his:

“I have found a desire within myself that no experience in this world can satisfy; the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

I was made for another world.  Let’s think about that.

The Creator of everything forms together a human being.  A man.  Creatively and intricately designed to breathe, eat, and sleep.  Wow.  Then He gets even more creative and makes a woman.  She was intricately designed to laugh, cry, scream, laugh some more, cry some more, scream some more, and then simultaneous laugh, cry and scream, all while cooking dinner and cleaning up messes left behind by her sloppy husbands and precious, dirty, ungrateful children.  Flawless.

So He creates this man and woman for what, exactly?  They take care of His garden.  Mmk.  They name some animals.  Cute.  They walk around naked and eat some fruits and veggies.  Gross.  But what was His intention for them on earth?  Why did He want them here, when they could have been there?  Why did he create human beings for a home in eternity, but place them in time?

I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the answers to these questions.  I am simply too small.  His Greatness cannot be measured, and yet He gives us the measurable world of time.  His Love is infinite, and yet we live in a finite existence.  His Grace is unending, and yet we only concretely know the beginning and end of creation, and nothing beyond.

After The Fall, this man and woman were “booted out” of the garden, overwhelmed by shame and guilt, and left to wander in a world of pain and suffering.  And we have been wandering ever since.  We have left the garden of our Creator to wander until our journey ends on earth and begins in eternity.  Yet, He does not leave us.  He has never left us.  His Presence becomes our home.  The very Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead is alive in us, beckoning us to keep our eternal home in mind. He has seared into us a longing for the world we were created for, and only by remaining in Him can we even begin to cast a vision for that world.

So here we are, called as wanderers for the rest of our lives, attempting to create that which we were not meant to have until eternity:  home.  Onward we trudge, as nomads in a strange place, pitching our tents wherever the Spirit guides us.  We are constantly chasing the Presence that draws us nearer and nearer to our homeland.  Only in moments of pure, uninhibited pause can we truly receive a glimpse of home.  He grants us vision to see it.  He gifts us with a persistent longing for it.  And He calls us to stand on the promise of it.