A story you won't believe

For a couple of days, we are visiting my in-laws.  When we arrived yesterday, my mother-in-law caught me glancing at a hardback novel placed on a table. "Have you read that book?" she asked.  "It is the most incredible story.  I couldn't put it down."  And pointing to my father-in-law, she said.  "I made him read it too."

"I couldn't even sleep until I finished it," he added.

It is one of our most basic affections to be drawn to stories, those written and those unfolding all around us.  That is how we learn, that is how we grasp the big picture of where we are and who we are, and that is how we come to know God more.

It is not so much in books that we experience those truths, but in realizing that we are each living in a story you won't believe, a story of God's own redeeming.

Incredible stories are God's specialty, a profound narrative from the beginning of time, the chronicles of real people with real problems woven together in God's Word, no glossing over imperfect actions, but the seamless fabric of God's redeeming in the lives of ancient peoples.

And as God intends for me to see, redeeming even my own.

Both writers and voracious readers know the pattern of what is known as "the story arc."  The elements of the story build upon each other, layer upon layer, character by character, the tensions are not arbitrary but intricately designed.  The crisis is not random, but an integral part of the story. Intrigue keeps us turning the pages.

And then ... the redeeming.  All the pieces suddenly come together.  What doesn't belong makes sense after all.  It is all connected, the hand of the master storyteller, the hand of the Author of life itself.

And so, when things seem impossible
   and the pieces don't make sense,
and "how in the world is this going to work out?"

God says, "Ahhhhh, you are just getting to the good part."

One of my favorite memories of our daughters was when they would burst in the door after school with great excitement in their voices, "Oh mom, you wouldn't believe what happened today!"

Live that way
    even in that which you don't understand.

You are in the midst of the most incredible tale,
            a story you wouldn't believe.
It is not that you will somehow make it through,
it is not that things will work out,
           but God is bringing it.

Now to Him
   who by the power at work within us
is able to do
              far more abundantly
than all we ask or even imagine...

                          Ephesians 3. 20

Your story is not over,
      but bursting with profound hope.
There is something deeper going on here.

Watch how God redeems every detail.

Blue skies, big rocks, and the storm in the forecast

 A few weeks ago when one of our daughters was having a particularly difficult time with her job, I told her I would be praying that she would have a nice day at work.

“Mom,” she said kindly.  “I appreciate your encouragement, and I appreciate your prayers, but it is not going to be a great day.  With everything I have on my plate today, it is going to be a rather difficult one.  That is already evident.”

She stopped me in my tracks.

What puny things have I been praying?  Praying for  “a nice day,” when she is in the thick of battle and slogging through the miry bog and squeezed between the proverbial rock and hard place?

 Shame on me.  “Have a nice day?”  Where is God’s strength in that?

 God does not want her to “look on the bright side of life,” and to pretend all is good and easy in the midst of the turbulent storm.  God wants her to know the reality of His Presence when life is tough, to know the strength and peace that only He can give in impossible situations.  He wants her to know that He is her Redeemer, no matter what is happening.  God is sovereign, even in this. He wants her to possess deep roots in Him, no matter the landscape, no matter the drought, no matter the storm.  God is her Rock.  God is her stronghold in the day of trouble.  God is the Almighty God, not a warm fuzzy feeling when the skies are blue and everything is going my way.

Recently I went hiking with friends along a rushing mountain stream.  The path was strewn with huge rocks, the water danced wildly between the boulders, the leaves revealed their true colors against an azure sky.  Our sights were drawn upward to the waterfall ahead and to the boughs of the deep forest reaching high as if in praise of the Creator.  But as we hiked up that stony trail, I began to notice huge trees alongside of us, living trees that were growing out of sheer rock, defying all reason to even be there, let alone thriving in that absurd place.  “You should not even be able to grow there,” I said out loud.  But they do, and they are stronger for it.

We pray for our children to be those luscious green trees that send down their roots by streams of waters.  But I am convicted that we should be praying for a faith that thrives even out of sheer rock, not dependent on favorable conditions, but rooted instead in a God who is there no matter what.  “…so live in Him, rooted and built up in Him and established in the faith… and to grow with a growth that is from God.” (Colossians 2.  6-7, 19)

God’s strength transcends all circumstances.

Though the fig tree do not blossom,

nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

    and there be no herd in the stalls,

yet  I will rejoice in the LORD,

I will joy in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength;

He makes my feet like hinds’ feet,

He makes me tread upon my high places.

                                      Habakkuk 3. 17-19

Pray like that.

Live like that

                 in the high scary places

                 in the miry bog

           even in what seems impossible

with a strength that is not your own.

The refugee crisis, a book of displaced persons, and a granola bar

I turned on the television to catch the news while I was preparing supper.  Pictures of desperate refugees streamed across the screen. 

  

In the face of so much global and local need, an abyss looms in my heart. “What can I do?” I do not have medical training.  I cannot translate.  But this I know, in the words of Oswald Chambers, “Obey God in the thing He shows you, and instantly the next thing is opened up.”

I signed up as a volunteer at a medical clinic in town that cares for the underserved.  Every Monday morning, newly-placed refugees and immigrants arrive for medical examinations and documentation.  Eyesight is checked, blood pressure is taken, and health assessed.

As I crossed the threshold of the clinic that morning, small groups of people had already arrived, conversing around folding tables, their languages blending together like so many voices in a beautiful chorus.  And a grace prevailed in the large crowded room, so palpable I could feel it.

Quite suddenly as I scanned the room, the scene became profoundly familiar, like a series of black and white photographs that I had seen many times before.  I chuckled.

Is this what he saw every day?   Not strangers, but people coming to a new home?

For a minute or two, I saw this room through the eyes of my great grandfather Harvey Snider.  From 1900 until he retired 34 years later, Harvey worked as the night superintendent at Ellis Island, the incredible portal for 12 million people who entered America until it closed in 1954.  

I remembered his old photographs of newly-arriving immigrants in the Great Hall.  From the stories that my father told about him, Harvey knew operable words in 41 different languages.  He knew the power of familiar words in one’s native language to inform, guide and comfort.  

God reminded me that from cover to cover His Word is a book about displaced people.   “Love the sojourner” even before he becomes your neighbor (Leviticus 19.34).  Remember you were a stranger too, the LORD says.  

At the Monday clinic, nametags were already prepared, handed to each one as they came through the door.  Each person was known not by an impersonal government code, or a numbered place in queue like at the bakery, but by one’s own name. These people were not refugees being processed and documented, but individuals who were warmly welcomed and greeted and cared for. 

A different kind of party was going on.

The world sees hospitality as the entertaining of friends.  But the Bible defines it as the love of strangers.  God enables us to respond in a way that is unexpected by the world, not from a sense of obligation or necessity, but out of a gut-wrenching compassion for those around us.   These people before us were not strangers at all, but simply those whom we do not yet know. 

 I passed out white paper bags that morning, containing items like shampoo, toothpaste, soap and granola bars. “I have some gifts for you,” I told one beautiful young Iraqi woman, not realizing how to explain with hand motions the function of dental floss and stumbling over how to describe a Clif Bar to someone whose previous address was a refugee camp. 

I was not even able to engage in conversation with our new friends.  “Welcome,” I wanted to say.  “I’m glad you are here.” 

I do not have even the limited proficiency of my great grandfather in 41 different languages, but ironically enough, that morning we served exactly 41 individuals, and I learned that a smile translates perfectly into every language around me.  

How do I know?  Because they smiled back.

I thought it was over

Two years ago today, I thought my running was over.

I had trained for four months for that Chicago marathon in October 2013, through late spring rains and summer humidity, on long lonely stretches on suburban trails, darting along paths through the Lincoln Park Zoo, and the great delight of running for miles on the breezy shores of Lake Michigan.

One September morning just several weeks before the race, I felt a creaky place in my right foot.  I didn't think anything about it at first.  Aches are part of a runner's life. But as it persisted, I tried doing something different to hold off injury. "Just a few weeks more," I begged my foot.

I changed to a new pair of shoes.  I tried icing my foot after a run.  I took Ibruprophen to reduce inflammation.  I kept running, knowing full well that this could be my last marathon.  The last weeks of any training program involves a "taper," when a runner gradually decreases mileage to be fully charged for a physically challenging event.  About two weeks before the marathon, I didn't just taper, but I completely stopped running to give my now-injured foot every advantage to heal ...and in my mind, to save up anything that was left for the big run.

I knew that I didn't have to run the marathon.  I didn't have to go through with it.  But I decided to show up and run even a token amount.  If my foot hurt even in the first mile, that would be enough.  I would stop at the nearest coffee shop and call Bill to come and get me.

You can read about what happened in that race in Finishing the race set before me posted on October 14, 2013. 

The race was followed by months of rest and physical therapy.  And still, no matter what I did or didn't do, my foot still hurt.  I hobbled.  I hung up my running hat, thankful for that unexpected decade of running that God had given me.

"Time to take up a new hobby," one of our daughters recommended.  "Like knitting."

A lot of life has unfolded since that race two years ago -- new locations for every member of our family, new jobs for most of them, two new grandbabies, and a lot of driving miles.  No more running, but no regrets either.

And something happened along the way.  God healed my foot.

One morning last spring, as I walked in the city park near our house, I ran from one big tree along the path to the next.  The following morning, I tried a little bit further.  No pain, no cramping, no little cringes.  I went out and bought a new pair of running shoes, the absolutely most important first step in any running endeavor. I was not sure what was going to happen after eighteen months of not running.  I ran a bit.  I walked a bit.  Each day, a little further.  Just like I did when I first began running fifteen years ago.

And each day, God brought running back a step at a time.

I am not keeping time any more, or pace, or measuring distance, nor following any kind of training program.  I am just running, some days on the public greenway along the river, some days through the woods at the city park, some days not at all.  Will I ever race again?  I don't know about that.

There is just joy in being able to run again, praying outloud, meditating on Scripture, and thankful for every step God has given me.

As I found in all those years of running, God redeemed every mile with what I learned not about running or myself or life, but about Him.

I will close with what I had posted in this blog right before that last race:


First place or last.  God works something deeper than we can behold.  There are always bigger things to conquer than what appears on the surface.  I don't want to wear a bib number in this race.  I want to bear the name of Jesus.

And in whatever we do,
      in whatever "place" we are,
not just what we run
                   but in how we do it,
we can bring Him glory.


...but this one thing I do,
forgetting what lies behind
and straining forward to what lies ahead,
I press on
    toward the goal
for the prize
of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.

                              Philippians 3. 13-14

My favorite place to live

We moved a lot while our girls were growing up.  Our family was more like a nomadic tribe, transferring to a strange land for a few years and moving on to the next.  A friend once confided to me that I had totally messed up her address book with all our changes of residence.

My husband and I are now in our tenth location.  Many times I thought that surely this move or that would be the last. But God freed me from that myth a few moves ago.  My final destination is heaven. Anything in between, well, is just a rest area on the highway.

Often, people ask me where was my favorite place to dwell.

The center of God's will.

I have realized through many experiences and locations that the center of God's will is not restricted to a certain geographic place, but my relationship with Him.

Years ago and every year between, God has used a particular verse to change my heart and my mindset.

Not that I complain of want,
for I have learned,
in whatever state I am,
               to be content.

                 Philippians 4. 11

I chuckle, because written in the margin now some 32 years and nine moves ago, I had scribbled "even Tennessee."  At the time, I was a young lonely mom from Chicago with a two year old and a newborn in the Deep South in a house surrounded by cotton fields.  It was our first major move.  And I felt like a stranger in a foreign land.

But little did I know, not just the hardships yet to come, but the extreme joys, the deepening of our lives in Christ, over all those many moves and all those new places.  God taught me quite literally "in whatever state I am," to learn His secret of contentment.

Because whether it was Tennessee or Illinois or Ohio or Kansas or Iowa, I could dwell in Him.  He has strategically appointed me in that exact house, that particular block, that specific neighborhood, that city for deeper purposes than I will ever know for His glory.

And through the years with each bend in the road and huge changes, God brought me to observe that I have seen too much to question God in this.

The amusing part of "even Tennessee" is that is the state where we moved again last year.

Contentment is not a secret joy,
      nor dependent on circumstances.
It is a learned state of heart
    that not just prevails over circumstances
but flourishes in them.

God's deliverance may not be in plucking you out of a difficult spot in life, but engraving His joy into your heart in whatever state you are.

When I look back
on all those places now,
    there is not one
    that I would have wanted to miss.