Of Dragons and Gauntlets

He walked in with an orange bearded dragon on his shoulder. The college-student stood at the coffee shop counter, ordering a pastry and a drink, and his lizard perched beside him.

Minutes later as he prepared to leave, two women in yoga pants and headbands approached him, their phones out.

"Is he real? Can we take a picture with you?"

I stood up, grabbing my phone too and idling closer.

The blonde-haired student assured us the reptile was real and handed him over to the woman in fleece.

"Oh? Me to hold him?" she asked shyly, "Will he bite?"

Persuaded, she let him place the two foot-long orange spiked lizard in her hands, the tail trailing up to her elbow.

He was a therapy lizard named Ivan, we learned. "He was brown when I got him, and only an inch and a half long."

We exclaimed at the change, staring at the jeweled orange bearded dragon on the woman's arm. "He's my emotional support animal," the man explained. "I chose him because colleges will let me keep him in the dorms."

"Can I pet him?" I asked.

He agreed readily and I stroked the small dragon's dry back, long tail, and spiny sides. "Hi baby, you're beautiful," I crooned to the bearded lizard.

"Many people choose soft and cuddly for emotional support animals, but I like his rough back," the young man said, retrieving him from the turquoise woman, gently detangling a curved rear toe-nail from her sleeve and stroking the dragon's back.

We listened and gushed, loving this chance to learn and experience. Thanking him, the women left and I did too. The young man was gracious, friendly, generous with his time and story. Pausing to balance the dragon, pastry and drink, he grabbed his keys and walked out the door.

"What a nice young man," the navy shirted woman told her companion as she pulled out her green wooden chair again, beside her laptop.

I agreed silently, sitting at my own nearby table, and pulling out Bible and pen.

And I love how his brave transparency calls us to courageous conversations too. Turning pages to my next passage in the Bible, I see it -- how God continues the conversation.

"O Lord, I call to you; come quickly to me. Hear my voice when I call to you...
Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; 
Keep watch over the door of my lips. 
Let not my heart be drawn to what is evil, to take part in wicked deeds..." (Psalm 141:1,3-4a)

The verses continue, talking of the traps and bad choices we can fall into, and I remember bold words from an earlier lesson in Genesis 4. In Genesis chapter 4:6-7, God speaks it bluntly, throwing the gauntlet down before Cain. "Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it."

I don't know the traps around you, but I know our God. He is whispering them to you even now, and to me too.

I think of the dragon owner's brave transparency and write bold words in my journal, examining these verses, talking to God, and listening long. I love that our God whispers back in the lull after the heavy truth hits.  "...For it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose" (Philippians 2:13).

And we can sense it: what God is warning us about, what he is pointing to, and the choice is before us. I love that he gives us the will -- the motivation, the desire to obey. What a loving, humble, gentle God he is!

I choose You, God. I choose your face and your warnings. I choose to move away, to side-step the traps, to keep watch over my lips, mouth, eyes, actions, and life.

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One Fraction of a Moment is All We Get to Decide...

And you can say what you want, but it all comes down to one split second....

One fraction of a moment is all you get to decide. Speak or not? Respond harshly or not? Rise up defensively or seek reconciliation? Click or don't click?

Photo: David Melchor Diaz, Creative Commons, cc license

Despite our values, our faith, our hard-fought-for beliefs, it can all boil down to one split second. Do I obey God here or not?

This week our house has been a hill of skirmishes. Battles bloodied, hearts gashed, words tearing.

In between the beautiful and warm moments have been the heart-aching, sharp-tongued ones too. How can our hearts and mouths encompass so much emotion?

In several relationships, we've been scrambling up hills, muddy-kneed, chiseled-hearted to fight anew for us, for each other. Each inch of victory is chosen, prayed for, and battled towards with deliberately-soft hearts, humble spirits, and apologies-in-hand. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"Can we start over?"

And lost ground is gained one word at a time. 

It all comes down to a split second. One fraction of a moment is all we get to decide.

Do I obey here or not?

After several days of choosing wrongly, this afternoon when the moment came, I paused, weighed my options, wavered, and then obeyed.

Joy came. I walked away, turned on rocking music, and the joy of obedience crashed in hard.


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How a Singing Surgeon Shapes my Marriage

Guitar chords squeak slightly as musician Chris Tomlin sings. Sips of creamy hot coffee slide smoothly down, warming a Minnesota January.

We have been craving worship these days, my man and I. Clicking through praise songs on Youtube like addicts in rehab, desperate, hungry.

Worship seems to be both the mirror and the balm. Words that speak of God's greatness mirror my own junk back to me, flashing light into my dark corners where I need the Healer to step in with scalpel and precision. After painstaking cuts, balm is needed... and applied.

Seven weeks of intense focus on our marriage, seven weeks of choosing to invest anew and to build an even more vibrant marriage. Seven weeks of taking introspective looks at the areas God needs to fix and build in us. Seven weeks of cuddling on the couch, frequent texts, whispered midnight talks in the dark, intentional dates of sushi and read-aloud books, and fierce hugs.

Dr. Willard Harley, well-known counselor and author, recommends couples spend fifteen hours a week in undivided attention with each other, and even simplifies the requirement with at least one hour of undivided attention a day, preferably more.

Wanting to continually strengthen our marriage, Mark and I are striving for this in 2013, carving time out of work, family, ministry, and homeschooling. Our teens roll their eyes or smile softly when they see us smooching in the kitchen, or hiding away from the world more often now, but we grin, text more, and see the results.

Join us this 2013? Take the one-hour-a-day challenge with us.

Start first with standing honestly before your God (and then your spouse), asking the Surgeon to perform surgery in your life, your heart, your mind. Then confess, apologize, and move forward  in gentle humility. It won't be easy or fun, but it is worth it.

Don't forget frequent doses of worship, as mirror and balm.

Sorry for my delay in posting this week, friends. My words have been fewer this season, but I am glad to have you here. God is a gentle, healing Surgeon. 

Linking with Emily. 


Photo credits

In the Mornings After...

Mary's night had stretched long. Contractions crested and subsided with increasing regularity. Firelight flickered on rough-hewn rock walls and wooden stalls. Pain washed in waves, until wet heat whooshed from within her and the pressure lifted. A writhing baby- her baby!- reflected light against wet skin, lifted to be seen and placed gently in her arms. All else faded away as she snuggled him close, kissed his face, and stared into her engaged man's eyes. Whimpering, her closed-eye newborn rooted hungrily for food, and then fell into happy rhythmic breathing.

A sudden commotion outside woke them. Voices, sheep bleating and a hard knock at their door erased further sleep. Cold air rushed into the cave, casting wavy shadows against the rock and inciting the animals to mew and bleat anew. Disheveled herdsmen strode into the stable, smelling of camp fires and the night. Seeing the baby's swaddling cloths in the feed-trough sent them into hurried conversations amongst themselves. Turning to Mary and Joseph, their words tumbled and spilled. Stories of an angel, of thousands of angels, of lightning shows, and singing in multi-part harmony. News of international significance, of God coming as a baby.

In the afterglow of worship, sleep came easily. But as cold blue dawn cracked the horizon, what did partnering with God on a cosmic adventure look like in the morning light? In a dark stable, with the swollen afterbirth still laying on rusty blood-encrusted hay in the corner, partnering with God probably looked surprisingly mundane in the morning light.

What does my obedience and partnering with God look like on cold blue mornings? What does partnering with God look like once worship's afterglow has passed?

She pulled her baby close, smiled up at her man, and felt her chest filling, surging, with heavy sustenance. Baring, opening herself, she gave, nourished, filled another. The post-labor contractions started again, smaller than yesterday, but painful enough to cause her toes to flex in purposed response.

Smiling and closing her eyes, she probably grabbed for His words, the promises her God had whispered to her in dreams and from angels. Words that spoke of who he was, and of what he was doing in the world. The great I am, God with us, Emmanuel. Humming in lilting Middle Eastern tones, she continued into quiet song. Worship can be done any time, any where.

What does partnering with God in cosmic adventures look like in the morning light? Grab his words, slide into song, and nourish the thirsty around you.

Photo credit to Charlie Dwyer. 

Whispers

Decades ago in a church, a brown-haired, only slightly-known matriarch whispered warnings in a hallway. Warnings whispered into young twenty-something ears. They went unheeded and life changed. Unfolded, dramatic and different; but still… good. God, in gentle kindness, wrought beauty.

                                                       -------------------------------

In a second season of my life, the Creator leaned low and uttered warnings. Woven into ancient Persian script, and traced across Bible study pages minted years earlier, he talked to me. 

He waited. 

Leaning low again, he mouthed words through a bearded pastor at a podium, and from bouncy youth speakers at camp. 

He waited. 

Then, for my own good, he jumped into action. 

                                                        -----------------------------

Obedience, often so easy –usually so easy!-- comes harder some days. My Abba asks the first time, reminds gently a second, and then has to step in as a consistency-loving-Dad must do. 

Eyes downcast, quiet, I listen, reap the circumstances he had been trying to save me from, and wait silently for time to pass. Tenderly, gently, he cups my chin, pulling eyes up. 

He speaks of unfathomable love, of deep forgiveness and faithfulness, of a wooing Creator’s heart that chases after and loves unchangingly.

Settle with me into this place, friend. A place of being chased after by God, and pursued. 

Linking with Imperfect Prose, and Scribing the Journey. 

Photo credit.

He Spoke Huskily

Photo credit to Keith M

This morning, we woke to celebrate eighteen years together, eighteen years of saying I do. 

Babysitter teen children watched the youngest as my man and I strolled by rose gardens, tinkling fountains, and clanking sailboats in mirrored city skyline lakes. He unfolded paper thin. 

“I woke up thinking these words this morning,” he spoke huskily. “They flowed easily, and I teared up remembering.” 

20 years ago I met you, and thought you were interesting, Jennifer from St. Cloud.

20 years ago I spent hours talking with you, getting to know you more, learning who you were.

20 years ago I would wait to see you, hoping you would come to a common place where we would meet.

20 years ago I looked into your eyes and you into mine, playing a game, involving our hearts.

20 years ago we started dating, searching to know if this was the one, enjoying a started commitment.

20 years ago we kissed, our hearts started to meld, our future started to be realized.

18 years ago we kissed again, on a bridge, over a waterfall, ring on hand, joy in our smiles.

18 years ago our future seemed to change, we wondered what was next, we were together and God was good.

18 years ago our life moving so fast, we cried once on the floor, we held each other, God held us too.

17 years ago we had John, then Morgan, now Daniel, family together.

0 years ago I remembered what was, we kissed, our lives together, we wondered about the future, it was good.

18 years from now…..   I Love you.

My throat filled and eyes blurred as I leaned close, kissing him beside the fountain, ignoring the tourists nearby. 

It hasn't been an easy road to get here. We have worked hard, apologized often, and needed God's power for softened hearts and gentle grace. 

This week even, I argued with God in the shower. I argued with him in the kitchen, slicing knife through tomatoes oozing red. Washing pasta spirals and cutting sultry basil strips, I talked with God. In the silence, a Voice whispered, massaging my heart.

A turned off heart was not allowed.

 

I obeyed.

Choices shape our lives. They shape mine. 

Choose your promises. Choose gentleness and grace. Choose to turn and invest again, anew. I chose my marriage that morning, grimping toes on bare linoleum. 

Gritty grace conversations and leaning-into hugs followed, but it started in my heart first. I chose my husband. In humble tones, we talked this week, apologizing, choosing gentle grace, loving anew.

Thank you, God, for your patience with me; for perseverance, and your extravagant grace. 

Linking with Imperfect Prose...