There is a single-bulb lantern hanging to the left of my garage door. When I bought the place a couple of years ago, it seem like an added bonus to help promote a safer atmosphere. But, intuitive as something like turning on a light may be, there are a number of light switches in my basement, and I haven’t always been successful in turning on that light when I wanted to.
It was only this week, when I happened to mention it to a neighbor, that I figured out with certainty which switch manually controls that light. “If it’s not working for you,” the neighbor added, “be sure to consider changing the bulb. I have had to unscrew the fixture on mine and do that.”
Later, when I went to inspect my own more closely, I found the bulb is currently working. But a spider family seems to have settled in. And it wasn’t until the light was turned on again and I was standing up close that I saw just how cozy the webs seemed to be. I made a mental note about how I would need to clean that soon, so that when I do have to change the bulb, it will be a bit more pleasant of a job.
(Yes, this non-spider-lover admits her intentional procrastination. Why deal with ickiness when I can write an encouraging blog post instead? 🙂)
Illuminating a space can bring comfort or greater ability to see. But it can also reveal things we’d rather not deal with or would rather forget. Continuing with examples in a house, light might reveal crusty grime on dishes that were poorly washed, a thick layer of dust that’s been piling up on the bookshelves, or some previously-unknown roaches skittering away in fear.
This also applies more abstractly to the human life and heart. Why do we fear letting another get too close to us, to know who we truly are and what we have wrestled with–or wrestle with still? Why is it painful when others correct our mistakes, criticize our efforts, and reject our (sometimes imperfect) gifts and attempts? Why can we be inclined to hide from God’s goodness and love when stepping into His light would require us to be fully seen, warts and all?
Being willing to be illuminated, to be completely seen for the sake of being cleaned, is not a venture for the faint of heart. It takes courage. And yet, it is not an endeavor for the self-sufficiently brave. It requires brokenness, humility.
Can God shine His love through us while we are still growing, while we are still human in a hurting world?
Yes, glory, and amen.
But won’t His love be more fully and vibrantly able to shine if we embrace the reality of the gunk we still carry and openly invite Him to sweep away the webs?
Yes, glory, and amen.
And now that my writing task is done, perhaps this humble homeowner should stop procrastinating….
I love this picture I found through a free wallpaper phone app. Not only does it display an impressive presentation; it also reflects what I want to explore more fully in the next two months.
Before we can effectively and lastingly shine in this old world, we must first be illuminated by Light apart from ourselves.
This is a fundamental, seemingly-elementary thought. Yet, I imagine I am not the only one who needs to ponder it…and come back to be reminded of it time and time again.
There’s a beauty in the heat and vibrant light of the sun, the stars, a candle’s flame, or a campfire. Yet, all of those things will (eventually) burn out.
But there’s also a beauty in the soft glow of the moon, a piece of cold rock which is warmed by and reflects the sun. And, I suppose, something that isn’t on fire of its own making can never be in danger of burning out.
These ponderings remind me of a song I have long loved. I hope that listening to it today will help us consider whether we are more prone to voraciously shine our own light or quietly reflect a Light shining on us.
I have a confession to make. Sometimes, even though I know the last steps of the way back to my own place at the end of a drive, I leave my GPS app running until the very end…because I love to hear someone’s voice (even if it is automated) say, “Welcome home.”
In fact, when I think about all the different words and phrases I would label as nice or even wonderful to hear, those two words together have to be near the top of my list.
But as with other aspects of the human experience, hearing those words in this life, body, and house are only a reflection of a deeper longing. The longing to hear my final and more glorious “Welcome home” in Heaven.
To that end, I’d like to share words to a song I wrote many months ago. (I also wrote a melody, but today I will not sing it for you. Will simply let you hear the beautiful promise in the words and anticipate with me.)
Promise of Heaven
You slip again, I see your struggle and how you long to be free You look away, too ashamed to lift your eyes to Me Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest Close your eyes, come away To envision the place and the promise of days An eternity yet to come
Gather close, all My sons and My daughters Here on the banks of these crystal waters Claim with joy your prize Your new name, your new song Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
Your hurt runs deep, all of the pain caused by others you didn’t deserve Your soul can see all these injustices roaming the face of the earth Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest Close your eyes, come away To envision the place and the promise of days An eternity yet to come
Gather close, all My sons and My daughters Here on the banks of these crystal waters Claim with joy your prize Your new name, your new song Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and listening: listening to Jesus, listening to other people, and listening to my own heart. My brain has synthesized the things I’ve heard into three poems written over the past few days. I’d like to share them with you here and hope that they will bless you in some way.
One: “That Seed Persevered”
Sweet sixteen and summer breezes Blow where Leslie walks the road from Grandma’s house To a well-worn wooden church, A preacher to hear, new thoughts to Know. Later, she is pondering The message when Hunter draws her near And whispers, “Trust me.” Why shouldn’t she, Even if she’s only known him For a month? Certainly he knows best, Being 10 years older And promising beautiful things… Morning comes — but he is gone — Leaving behind a broken girl who will now carry and Bear his son. And seeds are snatched from soil.
Twenty-two and autumn rains Skitter where Leslie walks the road from Bus 19’s stop To a giant, thriving factory, A friend to work beside, old thoughts to Remember. Later, she is digesting The message when a voice draws her near And whispers, “Trust Me.” And she does — Like she’s never trusted anyone before (because She sees she didn’t really know what it was To know someone trustworthy — Besides Grandma, that is)… And she is overjoyed — until her son is stripped away — Given by the court to his long-absent, Only-when-convenient father. And sprouted seeds wither.
Thirty-one and winter storms Descend where Leslie walks the road from Ricker Bar To a dank, notorious motel, A stranger to meet, former thoughts to Ignore. Later, she can no longer silence The message when distant memories draw her near And whisper, “Trust Me.” How can she — Girl turned into woman of desperate means, Trapped in a place-body-world she hates But does not have a way — or the strength — To escape? But she tries — truly she does — to believe And she lasts a whole week until The maddening craving returns. And thorns choke her soul.
Thirty-eight and spring blossoms Accessorize where Leslie walks the road from Bee’s Therapy Office To a tiny white house of her own, A quiet meal to prepare, amazing thoughts to Recall. Later, she again welcomes The message when her Heart’s Love draws her near And whispers, “Trust Me.” And she does — Yet she also pleads again for the only thing She still desires — though she feels she has no right To ask for more than has already Been restored to her. Then… The doorbell sounds. And a boy-turned-man in uniform, So long lost to her, steps back into Her home, her arms, her life. And vibrant green stalks thrive.
Two: Miss Camille (the Spinster) Reflects on Life with Lists
1) Things that Look Fragile but are Really Strong Trust Tested love Carbon as diamonds A soldier’s tent Fiberglass A silkworm’s thread My heart
2) Things that Look Strong but are Really Fragile Lines of Communication First love Carbon as coal A soldier’s soul Annealed glass A spider’s web My heart
Three: Entrusted
Of all the pieces in my shop, My favorite is a howlite vase. It’s asymmetric at the top, And wears a pattern so distinct. Displayed for years – for decades – here, It’s never seemed to show its age To viewers, through the glass so clear, Who come seeking a gift “unique.” (It has been stolen more than once – Each thief left scratches deep inside – But, in each instance, I gave much To track it down and bring it back. I washed it out and took great pains To flush the fissures full of lies, Then set it on display again: A perfect buyer to attract.) They walk along and fix their eyes Upon its graceful, curving form, And I cannot disguise my pride When they request to test its weight. For when they do, they always find Its density is not the norm: A craftsmanship of wondrous kind, A worth beyond its outer face. But they are puzzled to behold No price tag hanging on the case. Nor do they like it when they’re told It will be sold once and for all On very special, certain terms: That they must hold it every day Close to their heart so they can learn To treasure gems in vessels small. One day he comes – for whom I’ve watched – He sees, and thinks while lifting it – Then whispers, “This is what I’ve sought. And your terms shall not burden me, For I can tell, already, how I will be blessed to care for this. Its goodness will be harnessed now To craft the man I’m meant to be.”
“Listen to your life and what’s on the inside. All the other sound, turn it down, and listen to your life. Let the Spirit flow, and let the Spirit show you all that He was meant to only when you learn to listen to your life.” ~NicholeNordeman
“Mr. Wallace had us read some poems in school. I liked them. They are like songs with no music.” ~Anniein The Voice of Melody
What was I thinking, offering to host a couple of friends overnight while teaching an intensive course? Didn’t I know how exhausted I would be? Yes and no. I knew I’d be tired. But I didn’t realize how tired I actually was until Jayne and Christina arrived. But I also know what I was thinking beforehand: they would need a good, safe place to stay before their very early flight. And I had the heart and space to bless them with exactly that.
My one consoling thought that evening was, “Well, I don’t have to get up and take them to the airport. I can give my weary self a break there and schedule a pick up by Uber.” I did just that before falling into a blissfully deep sleep.
I peeled myself out of bed at 4:10 am to be courteous and say goodbye. About to walk down the steps with horrible bed hair and bleary eyes, I squinted at my phone only to realize that there were no Uber drivers in sight. Ugh. I threw on a beloved old hockey jersey over my pjs and grabbed my shoes. After greeting them at the bottom of the stairs, I summarized the situation and ended with, “I’ll take you.”
Jayne kindly offered to at least drive there, since we were taking her car. But I knew she’d much prefer if I handled the city driving. And I knew that I might go back to sleep if I was just a passenger.
So off we went, cruising through lights still on overnight timers, feeling thankful that an apparently heavy rain had by then pretty much passed. Jayne, who can be incredibly positive and sunny, even at 4:30 in the morning, tried to cheer me up with a little imagining. “I know what will happen,” she declared with a grin I could still hear clearly, though I kept my eyes fixed on the onyx pavement. “We are going walk into the airport after you drop us off and meet a really wonderful, nice looking man who’s just come off of a redeye. He will have [XYZ fitting characteristics] for you, and we will be able to introduce him to you later. He will turn out to be your perfect match! It will be God’s gift to you, and this will all have been worth it!” I laughed loudly (and may have rolled my eyes). “Ok, I am more awake now,” I muttered. “Now you want me to go back home and try to sleep again after THAT prediction??”
She giggled and proceeded to tell me about her cousin’s new writing project for a good chunk of the remaining drive. “Cousin Carrie,” as we always lovingly refer to her, is an amazingly gifted poet who lives many states away. Though I have not met her, I have been deeply moved by her work.
As Jayne brought up the topic, I withdrew a bit inside myself with painful pangs charging through my heart. I thought of the half-completed poetry manuscript sitting on my hard drive, a document I have not touched for several years.
How could I ever dream of finishing and publishing it? Ithought. I don’t have a quarter of the talent that Cousin Carrie has. And when I tried to get feedback on some of the first pieces, they were never good enough. Someone always had a critical remark here and there. Just enough to make me completely doubt my ability to bless others with my attempts.
I came back to the present as Jayne was, ironically, describing a new poem Carrie had developed about the seasons of hope and despair in life: how a cycle between them is normal for us in our humanity, but how the only way to really work through the cycle each time in a healthy way is to turn eyes, ears, and hearts back to God.
The conversation between us continued. At the same time, however, I could clearly hear God whispering, “This, daughter, is my gift to you. This is why you needed to host them and get up so early this morning.” I sighed and whispered back in my heart, “Yes. I receive it.”
I dropped them off at the designated curbside and swung back out into the slightly heavier traffic. As I turned to head back through the one-way streets of downtown, I thought about Jayne’s earlier prediction and smiled. I smiled at the ridiculous odds that such a thing might actually happen. And then I smiled a little sadly to remember all the times that others have tried to feed me variations on a line of lopsided theology. The wording is always a little different, but the thought remains the same…
If I will just have enough faith and self-love to silence my quiet inner desire (to be rightfully pursued by a decent, God-fearing man), then I will somehow be mature enough to actually deserve said man’s attention. And God will magically plant him right in my path so that we can live a perfect life, happily ever after. (Sounds like Joel Osteen and Michael Eisner meeting to plan an epic movie production.)
That’s bologna. There is nothing wrong, immature, or pathetic with a single Christian person, who lives a perfectly responsible and full life of their own, still completely longing to meet and marry a good person. Years of waiting don’t have to be depressing, but a growing desire to marry is not a sign that one is sinfully discontent.
That’s because God’s love and human love are not the same. And while God’s love fills us like nothing else can, there is still a part of our human wiring that was designed for a special connection no other human relationship can quite fill.
I also realized on that surprisingly lucid and mentally productive ride home why presenting my poetry to the world more formally is such a daunting task. It’s because poetry is the song of my soul.
And who would want to present the song of their soul to the world so it could be torn down as cliche, poorly developed, and lacking in proper form?
Likewise, who’s to say when a poem is completely formed and finished? Shouldn’t that be up to the poet and not to those giving critiques?
And, in all honestly, is a poem or song ever really completely finished? I don’t know that it is, because I know the way I write a poem one day will not be the way I would write or revise it another day.
That is the cycle. The cycle of hope and despair. The poem or song of our lives which is actually the song of our soul coming out in whatever we produce or create but are terrified to show to the world.
Because we are not perfect yet. And we hear the criticisms of others far more readily than the voice of our own life.
But we should listen to that life voice when it says, “Look up. Acknowledge that in your humanity which is completely fine and reasonable. And hope for the good things God has yet to give.”
I got home and sleepily spoke some of these musings into my voice recorder before embracing another hour of sleep.
Later, I checked in with Jayne. At the end of her text reply, she added: “That guy we were talking about may have eluded us yet again…rats!”
Maybe you’ve heard one person say to another person, “Just stop and listen! Do you hear what you’re saying?”
I had such a conversation with myself the other day. It was a wake up call when I had an onslaught of negative thoughts pound through my head and I realized it was easier to just give up and listen to the negative thoughts than to actually pay attention to what I was saying to myself… to what I was believing in my heart as a result.
When I really stopped to pay attention, however, I recognized it was a little bit like the warning light that flashes on my dehumidifier when the machine is telling me that the filter needs to be cleaned.
But even though I was starting to pay attention and hear more clearly, I knew I needed help with cleaning the filter. And I knew it couldn’t be a one time deal. Just as the filter on the dehumidifier needs to be cleaned every certain number of working hours, the filter of my mind and heart need to be cleaned on a regular basis too.
It’s vital, if I want to maintain a healthy perspective.
So I wrote this short prayer that I want to start reading every morning, as a way to reset my mind for each day ahead. And I’m praying that the power in God’s response will help me to hear and catch those negative thoughts more quickly in the future, so that they don’t become such a snare for my heart as each day rolls along.
“Lord, thank You for every need You’ll fill today and every good gift waiting for me. Even the ones I can’t see. I receive them in advance with gratitude. Thank You for the protective filter You’ve set over me. If anything hard comes, You’ve approved it for a reason You know. I trust You and Your wisdom. Please clean the filter of my heart and mind so that I can see and choose to respond to those hard things in life-giving ways. Teach me how to see and how to choose. Today is good because You are good. No matter what, You are good.”
Already this month, I have posted about our need to be heard and God’s need to be heard.
But what about Jesus? Does He need to be heard?
Just as much as ever (as in each previous generation and century), His words and teachings need to be heard, understood, and applied. His teachings are true and timeless.
But how He’s heard… Well, that’s another matter.
When we are being heard by another person, I think there are three basic levels on which that can happen.
There is the level at which they are next to us or staring at us but apparently not really focused on anything we are saying.
Then there is the level where they are hearing us out, listening out of polite respect or with cloaked disdain or apathy, or adamantly opposed to our point of view but letting us speak our peace.
And then there is hearing us with their heart. To be heard out is sometimes necessary but if it never moves further, and we are never heard with the heart, something is left wanting in us.
And we must be heard with another’s heart to say that we “have been truly heard.”
Back to Jesus… There are four basic ways in which people generally respond to Him. There are those who never hear about Him, either because they have no chance or they don’t pay attention to religion-related matters.
Then, there are those who are exposed to the thought of Him or a few of His ideas, but those thoughts/ideas go in one ear and out the other.
Then, there are the people who, to some degree, hear Jesus out; He is heard by them but only in so much as they can stand to hear. Or they really like a few things that He has to say, so when He is heard by them, they pick and choose which of His words they want to hold on to.
And then there are people who hear Him with their heart.
But whenever we have our own goals and agendas, I think it is easier to just hear His words outwithouthearing Him with our hearts.
This may mean we’ve only heard part of what He said and tuned out the rest. Or, more commonly, it may mean we’ve heard His words in full but have run them through our interpretive filters to twist the meaning for the sake of protesting against Him or lording it over or otherwise harming our fellow humans.
Take, for example, a famous story from Luke, about two sisters named Martha and Mary. Martha was busy fixing dinner for all the guests, while Mary was sitting with the rest of the guests, listening to Jesus teach and finding great joy in simply being near Him.
I have heard of people use this story to illustrate how doing nothing or just being is more worshipful than working, or how Martha is a symbol of workaholics and people who try to earn their way to heaven. I’ve also heard people use the story to suggest that Jesus didn’t really listen to and value women while he walked the earth, nor did He appreciate all the work they do to help make home and family a meaningful place. Some have said that Mary is the better of the two sisters, period. Others have said that Martha should have been ashamed for speaking so directly to Jesus, and how dare she interrupt to complain to him? Clearly we are all to only be like trusting, restful Mary and completely avoid Martha’s behaviors!
But when I read the story again and invited Jesus to be heard with my heart, this is where I landed. We can imagine and gather that Jesus loved both women equally well and was pleased with both aspects of their faith: the devoted listening and the passionate service. There is a need for the traits of each of these women in all of our lives, spiritually speaking. If we really allow Jesus to be heard, we hear Him saying that it is great at times to be still and to be near Him in quietness, but also to be near Him in all things, no matter what type of service we may be doing for Him.
These thoughts may be simple, but today they are powerful reminders for me. Because I was always under the impression that I had to be one or the other: Martha or Mary. I couldn’t be both. But as I allow Jesus to be heard, I see clearly that I am both. And both aspects of me in my relationship with Him are good. The key just seems to be that I allow Him to be heard in every day and every aspect of my life, no matter what I am doing or ceasing to do, serving as He gives me purpose and embracing stillness when that would be the better choice.
I wonder what the world would be like if those of us who would hear Jesus would not just hear Him out, but if we allowed Him to be heard rightly with our hearts more often?
God speaks, but how often do we allow His voice to be heard? What drowns out His voice in our lives? Is it busyness, or fear, or selective hearing, or disbelief?
A few passages come to mind.
In Exodus 4, God appears to Moses in the form of a burning bush. When Moses hears God’s command, he protests. And God asks him, “Who gave man his mouth? Isn’t it Me? So don’t tell Me you can’t talk because I’m the one who gave you that ability, and I will tell you what to say if you will listen.” Funny, how when God says that, He’s not angry with Moses… He doesn’t get angry with Moses until Moses ignores His words and keeps protesting.
In Job 38, after God has a listened to Job and his friends debating for chapters on end, God decides to speak for Himself, and He says to Job, “Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man. I will question you and you shall answer Me.” Then, God goes on for a few chapters, letting them all have it, so to speak. At that point, we can imagine God’s voice crashing like a combination of deep thunder and cymbals and giant ocean waves.
In Colossians 1, Paul says, “For God the Father has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son He loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.” Through this writing, God is clearly speaking. He is not angry or cynical, and He is extending love and mercy, forgiveness and adoption.
So which is it? Does God speak out of anger, or does He speak out of love? He speaks our of both and in the best tone as the situation warrants it. But it seems that what warrants it is both particular circumstances and also the heart of the person or the people who are listening… IF they are listening.
(Back to Job, chapter 33, Job’s young acquaintance says, “Why do you complain to God that He answers none of man’s words? For God does speak: now one way, now another, though man may not perceive it…” And he goes on to give examples of some of those ways that God speaks.)
That’s the thing. We all long to be heard. How much more must God long to be heard? And how much more joy must He receive when we are willing to listen to Him? For God certainly could speak to us in anger, especially if our hearts are proud or stubborn. But far more often, through the beauty of what He creates and the revelation of His word, the things He wants to tell us are good and are softly spoken. They are not always happy, because sometimes His good promises mean our admonishment or correction. But they are always good because His promises are always for our good. And many of them will bring us happiness, if we will allow Him to be heard and we will listen to what He says.
Are we worried? Let us focus on the good promises of God. Are we confused? Let us listen for the wisdom of God. Are we sad? Let us hear the whisper of God. Are we stuck? Let us be prodded by the passion of God.
But, above all, let us have ears, hearts, and souls that invite God to be heard.
In this month’s series on being heard, I would like to draw from my own thoughts and those I have heard other writers share, giving us a chance to be heard by the world. So to all of the readers of every genre out there, and to all of the people who have a writing loved one in their life: an open letter.
Dear Reader,
I am an ever-turning brain that never completely shuts down (unless I can manage a deep, exhausted sleep). This is my amazing place of procreation. And it is my torture chamber. I wish I could turn it off at will. And I wish I could make it produce at other speeds sometimes. This brain does what it will irrespective of life circumstances–and sometimes in response to them. If I need to reschedule an appointment with you or I don’t respond to you, or I dash madly from the room while scribbling on a notepad or speaking nonsensical statements into a voice recorder, I have not lost my mind. I have simply had an idea I can’t let my mind lose.
I am an introvert. Even though I have learned to set aside my shyness for the sake of society’s expectations, I would really rather be by myself at least 89.4% of the time. (And if I have to communicate with someone, I would much rather write out my message.) This is in part due to the aforementioned brain. A chunk of my energy must be reserved for keeping up with it and all of its ideas as I absorb the details flying at me from a dozen directions, almost constantly thinking of how I can capture those details in accurate and beautiful words. And when I do dare to share any of my ideas, whether or not related to my writing, I am terribly afraid they will be rejected or mocked because…
I am an extremely sensitive soul. A creative person cannot create without feeling, experiencing, dreaming, absorbing, noticing, sensing, and embracing. This is how writers, artists, musicians, and other such types create works that captivate, move, transport, and inspire: we open our souls to see, hear, and feel all we possibly can, and then we translate what we sense into words, angles, colors, and notes. But no matter how much the world may force us to thicken our skin, we can never truly deaden this sensitivity…not if we want to be real and keep doing what we were born to do in the world.
I am a word-womb for children yet unborn, children I am protective of because, just like human children, they are an extension of myself, and they are at once imperfect, wonderful, fragile, and heavenly. And when I reveal them to the world, the results can be encouraging, affirming, non-acknowledging, constructively critical…or brutal. That’s the hardest part–holding my breath as the blanket is pulled back and the moments tick by. Will my created child be kissed, ignored, photoshopped, or bashed on the head? It shouldn’t matter. Because I live and breathe to create, no matter what. But it does matter. Because I share my creations to share my joy, to entertain and uplift and teach and change. And because the created work is so often somehow incomplete without another soul to receive the gift in it. The gift I was destined to share. The gift someone in the world needs today or tomorrow or a year from now, at just the right moment in their life.
I am a gratitude storehouse. Each time another person gives me a kind or edifying word, it helps me keep creating what’s good. Each time a venue gives me a chance to extend my introverted self and share about my creations, it boosts my confidence that what I have to offer the world is indeed worthwhile. Each time a friend offers me space to feel safe and speak from my deepest heart, it keeps me open to expressing the goodness God puts there. And each time you give me a chance, dear reader, by actually reading what I have written–and even recommending it to others–that is an echoing gift that means more than this wordsmith can say.
Thank you, now, for reading this, for understanding me a little more deeply. And thank you for seeing past the above quirks, even embracing them as you embrace me through my writing, whether or not we have ever met.
