Above and Beyond

Not too long ago, the beloved holiday called "Christmas" bore a bit of a bite for the Gentry family.  Sure we loved Christmas and enjoyed family time together, but seeing children so excited in the holiday season often only reminded us that our own prayers for children were going unanswered.  Though married for 15 years, and with no reasonable explanation, my brother and sister-in-law struggled through the unbearable pain of infertility.  Three years ago, as I read the story of Mary, the mother of Jesus, I came across a verse that rang true in my own soul:

"Blessed is she that believed, 

for there shall be a performance of those things 

spoken to her of the Lord."  

I read this verse and thought of my sister-in-law, Trudi, suffering through years of infertility.  I thought of the desires of my own heart that seemed to have been shelved by the very God who promised to fulfill them.  I thought of friends and family struggling through their own questions, seasons of waiting and wondering, "Where is God in the midst of this?"  

We all have our questions; those unanswered 'problems' so it seems, when we wonder if God has forgotten us.  "Has God forgotten to be faithful?" David wrote.  Even the great psalmist walked these roads.    

Tonight I sat through a candelight service, just as I have every other Christmas Eve these past 31 years.  But tonight, something about this, "God with us" Child moved me on a deeper level than ever before, because tonight, I sang "Silent Night" and "O Holy Night" holding a candle with my miracle neice Emma, now 2 1/2 years old.  I watched her hold a candle high and heard her finish the song with a soft whisper: "I love You, Jesus."  After 15 years of praying and waiting, God gave us Emma and that verse sang again in my soul at her birth: 

"Blessed is she that believed,

 for there shall be a performance of those things 

spoken to her of the Lord."

As if that weren't enough, tonight that verse hit a new note, when I didn't only see my sweet Emma beside me in her momma Trudi's arms.  Towering beside me, tall and strong, stood my big brother (the Batman), holding 4 month old Everett, who had just dozed off to sleep as we began to sing, "Silent Night."  Tough Todd and little sister Tara exchanged a glance and a whimpered lip, followed by a silent "Uh huh huh huhhhh..." realizing the precious moment that had just graced us.  In Emma and Evvie tonight, I understood a little bit better what the phrase "above and beyond" means - this gracious, generous God of ours is not only able, but LOVES to give "above and beyond all we could ever ask or imagine."

We were happy with Emma.  We were ELATED with Emma.  After so many years of waiting and wondering, what a miracle she is.  Then the Lord surprised us - oh, He is full of surprises - and He gifted us with this beautiful baby boy named Everett Cash, and somehow through the faces, noises and personalities of these two little children, all of our eyes are turned back upon Jesus.  Through them, we look full into HIS wonderful face, and all these earthly things really do grow strangely dim in the light - the LIGHT - of His glory and grace.  He is so full of grace.

This Christmas, I rest in the grace, the goodness and the greatness of my God, my Friend, my Savior, my Love who has set His heart on me, and I am setting my heart - all over again, as if for the first time - on Him... on HIM.  Grateful for His good gifts, my heart is set back upon the Giver, who knows and cares deeply for me - and for you.

Whatever your question, concern or unknown this holiday season, He is with you and is for you.  He is your Ally and not your enemy.  Seeking Him and His kingdom first, you will find His goodness in this land of the living... and maybe (undoubtedly) a few surprises along the way.  In the meantime, just turn your eyes upon Jesus.  

By His grace, may it be said of you, too: Blessed are you that believed, for there shall be a performance of those things spoken to you of the Lord... in HIS time.  

Remember, "He makes all things beautiful in HIS time..." 

ALL things.

Believing...

TG

Just Friends

I barely knew what hit me.  I was sitting in church with some of my favorite guys and girls, young interns in a discipleship and leadership academy here in Swaziland.  An elderly white preacher from the states stood before us speaking on the love of God.  “The Love of God...”  One of my favorite topics.  The preacher began to share the idea that one manifestation of love is giving, and we reflected on verses like John 3:16 as some vocally affirmed the thought with “Amens.”  The white preacher from the states then went on to explain that we cannot really understand this concept (you know, how “God so loved that He gave...”) until we are put in a position of neediness; when we are the ones who have nothing, and yet we find that in great love and grace, someone who has more than us gives to us what we could never give to them in return.  

I should have seen it coming.  I should have seen it, but I didn’t.  So when the white preacher from the states asked all of the non-Swazis in the crowd to stand - I SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT COMING.  In a moment of awkward obedience, the white preacher from the states asked every missionary and visiting guest to stand to their feet, and then the white preacher from the states asked all of the Swazis (aka, the black people) in the audience to applaud what was basically a sea of white people who he was apparently now using as a visual to drive home his point: God loved so much that He gave... 

Just like we, the white people, loved you poor black Swazis so much that we gave?  

We came to you, we sacrificed to serve you, because we love you.  

So now, Swazis... applaud us?  

Applaud the white people from the states that loved you so much that they gave... ?

I was mortified.  As soon as I heard the word “applaud,” I shot back down to my seat and nestled as close to my Swazi friends as possible.  I hoped they knew that I didn’t feel this way about them or even myself.  I didn’t feel that I was better than them, or that they were soooo blessed that I came to them.  I hoped they understood that I understand: I am not the Messiah.  “What are you doing?!?” I thought.  “The last thing I came here to do is to separate myself from these people.”  Well-intentioned or not, this was one of the most degrading, humiliating, missing-the-point moments I’ve ever experienced in church.  

That night I wondered if my Swazi friends were as irritated as I was at this man’s incredibly poor choice of illustration.  Maybe I was feeling offended for them when they didn’t even take offense themselves.  I could only hope that the moment quickly came and went without taking root in their hearts.  As I lay in bed that night, I thought about what was making me so angry.  I realized that somewhere along the way, I grew very, very weary of applause.  I can’t say I am so holy or pure hearted that I don’t sometimes feel that lure for ovations and praise.  I do.  But beneath it all, something inside of me burns to still the applause, pull down the curtains and hide behind that very love of God.  I don’t want to be seen or noticed or applauded.  I don’t need to be applauded.  I need to be like Jesus.  Applause insinuates that I’ve done something extraordinary, something note-worthy.  But things that are natural; things that are obvious don’t gain applause.  And loving like Jesus should be natural; it should be obvious, not a great surprise, and certainly not applause-worthy.  In fact, it’s something more like cross-worthy.  

Still, I wondered more and more, why was I so heated over this stand-ovation for the sea of whites and their “great gift of love?”  I soon remembered a passage of Scripture that had recently struck me in a profound way.  It was sandwiched in one of those “I can probably just skip this part” sections.  1 Chronicles 27 details a list of the leaders of the tribes of Israel, saying things like, these people were over the herds, and these people were over the oil and the vineyards; these people were over the donkeys and these people were stewards over the King’s property.  It goes on to say in verses 32-34:

“Jonathan, David’s uncle, was a counselor, being a man of understanding and a scribe.  He and Jehiel the son of Hachmoni attended the King’s sons.  Ahithophel was the King’s counselor, and Husha the Archite was the King’s friend.  Ahithophel was succeeded by Jehoida the son of Benaiah, and Abiathar.  Joab was commander of the King’s army.”

How important is friendship?  So important that as Scripture lists the names and duties of those most important to the work and health of the King, they make sure not to fail to mention the one who was simply the King’s friend.  Placed purposefully between the mention of the King’s counselor and the commander of the King’s army, we find the quiet, humble statement: “...and Husha the Archite was the King’s friend.”

I can hear the important others asking Husha now: “What are you over?”  And Husha responds, “What am I over?  I am the king’s friend.  I am not over anything; I am beside.”

For the past 9 years of ministry, I have been “over” a lot of things and a lot of people.  It has been good, beautiful, redemptive, and I have loved the privilege of those days.  But returning to southern Africa this year, I felt a subtle urge not to be over anyone, but simply to be beside.  As I prepared for this trip, I asked the Lord to lead me wherever He saw most fit; all I hoped was that He let me build genuine relationships with people, walking and growing together one day at a time.  After three months in Swaziland, I couldn’t be more thankful to look around me and discover: the Lord brought me here, not to be a counselor or a commander, but to be a friend.  

And I don’t need any applause for that.

Let's talk about you...

When serving others, check the status of your own heart.  Knowingly or unknowingly, are you serving from an attitude of superiority?  If you were to get really honest with yourself, do you somehow feel that you are doing people a favor by loving them?  Let us never forget the greatest favor that was done for us.  The Father so loved that He gave His only Son to come and be Emmanuel to us - God is with us.  God is beside us.  He gave us, forever, a Friend.  Wherever God has placed you today, ask Him to reveal how you might serve beside like Jesus.  Beware, though: applause runs short under the weight of this cross, and rightfully so.  After all, it’s only natural...

There is great value in this ministry of friendship; this gift of “beside.”  Isn’t it lovely that when Jesus came to us in the flesh, He said, “I do not now call you servants, but I call you friends.”*  He, too, embraced the calling that stands beside. 

Now Jesus, make us friends like You...

*John 15:15

They Come Through Pain

This past week I sat with a dear Swazi friend who has captured my heart.  When I think of Nelly, I envision this beautiful, strong African woman with glowing eyes and a determined heart.  She is passionate and persevering.  She is convicting and compassionate.  She is, in a word, fierce.  Fiercely brave, fiercely devoted, fiercely alive.  

She is alive...

Fully

ALIVE.

Nelly is 37 years old with two daughters, 16 and 21.  She leads discipleship programs for children suffering from poverty, neglect, hunger, abuse and illness.  As we sit together, she tells me of the 11 year old boy that she can’t get off her mind.  He is HIV positive, has lost both his parents, and his grandmother who is now responsible for him is an alcoholic.  As Nelly attempts to take the young boy in for HIV care, the grandmother refuses: she doesn’t want anyone to know her grandson has HIV.  Instead, he will suffer and grow more sick, but at least no one will know... no one will know there is HIV in this house.  Nelly tells me of this young boy, and I know deep within that she is determined to save him.  She knows that God loves him and can rescue him, and she will find a way to be a part of that plan.  Nelly will see to it: this boy will not die; he will live.

Nelly knows that God loves and restores those with HIV, because Nelly is HIV positive.  In a nation where (conservatively) over 40% of the people are infected with HIV, still, no one talks about it.  You are HIV positive?  Keep it to yourself.  In the face of countless cultural misgivings, Nelly shares her wounds bravely, proud of the God who has redeemed her.  She tells her story openly; she loves the broken, and she reveals an image of a God who is with us in suffering, who is mighty to save in even the worst of things.

Yesterday Nelly told me how she loves the Word of God.  She told me that when she feels like she is going to die; when the enemy taunts her, the Word of God is a lifeline that brings salvation again.  

He whispers, “You’re going to die.  You will be alone and no one will ever want to marry you with HIV.  Your life is over.  You are going to die.”  

She whispers back, “Izwi lakho likuphila... Your Word is LIFE.”

Nelly writes beautiful worship songs.  One day I asked her, “How do the songs come for you?  Is it easy or difficult for you when you are writing songs?  What is your process?”

Her response:

“The songs come when I am in pain.”

And that was all: the songs come when I am in pain.  Maybe those songs are God’s gift to her; maybe they are her gift to Him.  Maybe when the enemy hisses whispers, “You’re going to die...” a song rises within as a sort of sword and shield that sings, “I will not die, I will live; and I will tell of the works of the Lord...  I will not die, I will live.”

I often envy people who have the gift of songwriting.  As much as I long to write and sing my own songs, they just don’t seem to come.  Sometimes I wish I was like those who, it seems, write so easily.  The next time I envy the gift of another, I will remember my beautiful friend Nelly who just happens to have HIV.  I will remember how she told me, “The songs come when I am in pain.”  I will ask the Lord to make me more like her, because she is so much like HIM.  I will ask him for a courage like hers, a bravery to persevere through pain toward the prize of His presence.  I will remember that HIS Word is life; that no matter what comes, “I will not die, I will live; I will tell of the works of the Lord and sing of His wonders.”

Izwi lakho likuphila...

Dirty Feet

I’ve been in Swaziland for a month now, and as usual, one of my favorite Swazi past-times is hanging out at Children’s Cup Care Points.  I absolutely LOVE hanging out with these kids.  Although we rarely understand each other, it usually doesn’t take long before there is a mass of sweet children - some shy, some playful - crowded onto my lap, tugging at my shirt and laying claim to a space on my arm.  I realize this is mostly just because I’m white, but I’m ok with that :)

I love how they investigate my hands and count my fingers, comparing our similarities and differences.  

I love how their little fingers slowly sneak their way into my hair, making tiny braids and terrible pony tails, and violently pushing my bangs to the side (ok, I get it, you don’t like the bangs :)

I love how they look wearing my sunglasses - and the little diva dances that follow.  

I especially love how there is always that one child who unknowingly puts the sunglasses on upside down, and everyone giggles while I say, “Oh, no no no, not like that!  Like this!”

I love how one boy can sit for 20 minutes pushing the same button over and over again on my watch, waiting for something amazing to happen.  

I love how that one super-shy little girl blushes when I finally catch her gaze and we share a smile.

I love the way they search my face; the way their dark brown eyes seem to read me inside and out.

I love coming home at night and finding their dirt on my clothes...  I LOVE IT.

So when I was at a Care Point a few weeks back, it broke my heart as one very playful little girl grew quite defensive toward the other kids in an effort to protect my “cleanliness.”  I was wearing hot pink nail polish, and she loved it on my toes.  After a while, any time someone would bump me and get dirt on my jeans or feet, she would holler something in SeSwati, then rush over, kneel at my feet and begin cleaning them off.  

Here is this beautiful little girl; there are holes in her shirt and she herself is caked in dirt, and she is bending down over and over again to wipe off my feet.  

“No, it’s ok,” I tried to tell her the first time.  But she wouldn’t listen (she really loved that pink nail polish).  I began to feel embarrassed, even a little angry, but not at her.  Who taught her this, I thought?  Who or what has made this sweet little girl think that she deserves to be dirty, but I deserve to be clean?  The gap between us felt much too wide.

Finally, after the 5th time of foot-cleaning, I caught her attention and she looked me in the eye: “It’s ok.  I don’t mind getting dirty.  It’s ok.”  I smiled, and she understood.  No more scurrying in to brush off my neat feet.  She leaned into me affectionately, then rushed off to play, and sweetly the Word whispered in my heart:

“How lovely are the feet of those who bring good news.”

Sometimes that very loveliness is found in the dirt caked beneath the feet that bear His good news.  Tonight I am reminded of the beautiful feet of Jesus, caked in the dirt and the dust of our land, our blood pouring out from the nail that we drove in Him, and I hear Him saying: 

“It’s ok.  I don’t mind getting dirty.  It’s ok.”  

Then He smiles, and I understand.  I lean into Him affectionately, then I rush off to play.  He has come to redeem my life from this dirt, and I am learning to let Him.  I am so, so thankful for His dirty feet, and tonight as I lay down to rest, the prayer of my heart is this: that when I enter into eternity, some observant angel or saint will take one look at my feet and say: 

“Oh, how she walked like Jesus.”

To be like Jesus; to be like Jesus.  All I ask is to be like Him...

Just Beginning

A few weeks ago, I sat in a room full of tools (actual tools, not the people kind) and had a heart-to-heart with an incredible woman who has become a sort of mother-in-faith to me.  As I've been preparing to leave my position with Teen Challenge, go jobless and head off to southern Africa, these talks have become increasingly precious to me.  When walking through a hefty period of transition, things can be both exciting and overwhelming.  All the while, this little spiritual powerhouse continues to breathe truth into my shaky soul every time we meet.  

Here she sits, 30-some-odd-years my senior.  We're sitting in this room full of tools and machinery through which she serves, doing the dirty jobs no one else wants to do day in and day out.  She works with her hands, but she lives from her heart.  She fixes a sink and mentors the girl living in that room while she tampers with pipes and drains.  She tells us when we are wrong and when we are right; she inspires us to turn our eyes upon Jesus in the mundane and in the magnificent.  She opens the Word of God to us humbly yet powerfully and we want to be more like her.  Then she says things like, "Oh no, I'm just the maintenance lady."  And I think, "Oh, you are so much more than 'just' the maintenance lady." 

I am full of gratitude for the women of faith and prayer that God has placed in my life.  As this friend and I talked that day, she ended our conversation by saying something I will never forget.  This woman who I so admire, who I pray I might have even a measure of her humility, faith and love, tells me:

"I think I am just beginning to find God's call in my life..."

Just beginning?  

Wait, you're like, 60-something, AND you've been serving God like a superhero for years now.  Just beginning?  

Yup...just beginning.

This is how it is with Him: beginnings...always new beginnings.  Beginnings that arise out of other beginnings, one creative move of God after another in a soul wholly surrendered to His love and His ways.  My dad used to say, "You will never come to the end of God."  I'm inspired tonight by the example of this mother-in-faith to me, who is living proof of this truth - you will never come to the end of God.  He is always working.

So this afternoon, I found my way back to a quiet room for some precious time alone with one of my favorite 60-something-year-old friends who is "just beginning" to find God's call in her life.  We talked about Jesus and how we love Him and desire Him; we talked about how He is drawing us nearer to His heart.  Once again she spoke truth and life into me; she challenged me and, in many ways, dared me to BE what I believe.  Then she prayed for me and we said, "Amen."  

And I walked away believing it too: "I am just beginning to know God's call in my life."  

Just Beginning,

Tara

His and Hers

I haven't written for about 6 weeks.  Somewhat intentional, somewhat unintentional, I've steered away from the public writing scene for a bit.  As I'm heading off to Africa next week, I'm certain there will be increased frequent writings and ramblings again, processing thoughts and experiences and sharing them with you.  But a while back, I sat down to write some things that were on my heart, and I felt the Lord whisper:

Tara, sometimes I want to talk to you just to talk to you, not so you can tweet about it. 

I reluctantly put my screen down, leaned back and thought for a moment.  

"I'm sorry," I whispered.  "Talk to me."

He's right.  In so many ways, I have allowed our conversations and experiences together to become material to share with others.  I know He's not asking me to never write or never share, but He's leaning up against me and nudging: 

Don't forget: I want you for you.  Not for the good you do or the significance you seek.  I like you, Tara.  And I want you for you.

So we've been quiet for a while.  Sometimes it's like that fire Jeremiah talked about - shut up in my bones.  Hard to contain.  I want to tell someone about it.  I want to get in long talks with a human being about the mysteries, beauties and complexities of this God I so love.  But sometimes I let those human beings take His place, and I end up talking way more about Him than I do to Him.  

I need to... I WANT to... talk to Him more.

I like singing in church.  I love leading worship anywhere, anytime.  But it is absolutely my favorite to sing when no one is listening but Jesus.  There are things that should get to be just His sometimes.  Things that we do because just HE will see us, just HE will hear us, just HE will know who we are and what we have done and how we have loved.

As I finish reading a Thomas Merton classic this week, I'm challenged by the idea of spiritual privacy. I champion the cause for authenticity and vulnerability in the Church (and society in general).  But in some ways, that leaning toward authenticity has moved me to think I should share pretty much anything and everything with everyone, all in the name of authenticity and vulnerability and joining in the grand conversation of the human race.  But maybe in that tension between authenticity and hypocrisy, there is a sweet value to be found in spiritual privacy - in allowing some things in our lives to belong to just Jesus:  

Things we say only to Him.  

Glances we give only to Him.  

Smiles that are "our smile."  

Thoughts and movements of our hearts and souls that we do not have to share with everyone else in order to be affirmed or applauded, but that we let just be... 

Just be His.

So today I am living in the "I am my Beloved's and He is mine."  I'm staying alert to those moments that clearly read: "His and Hers."  Sometimes I'll share them, and sometimes I won't.  I hope you will do the same.

Now... to be His.

*If you are wondering, yes, I realize the irony of writing a blog about spiritual privacy all the while sharing private spiritual moments :)  

T-to-the-Africa... Yes, AGAIN :)

Go ahead and say, "I told you so."  Yup, I'm headed back to Africa.  On September 1st, I will be leaving Indianapolis to spend three months in Swaziland.  As excited as I am to have this extended time in Africa, this decision has required a greater leap of faith than many others in my life thus far.  For one, going to Swaziland in the fall means I will be missing most of football season.  This a tragedy I'm not quite ready to talk about yet.  Beyond missing Colts games, leaping toward Africa means letting go of other "beautiful things" I love dearly here in Indy.  I'm not entirely sure what my life will look like when I return in late November, but there are glimpses; there are "leadings" in new directions, and as frightening as it can be to leap without a net in place, I'm provoked to believe that God Himself is the net, and so I leap.

This post will surely be followed up over the next few months with answers to questions like, "But what are you going to do when you get back?" and "What about TC?" and "What about pursuing your masters degree?"  These have answers - some of them I know; some of them I don't know (yet).  For now, I'd like to keep the talk on Africa.  So let's stop at just one question: "Why Africa...again?"

When I was a very little girl, Ethiopia was in the midst of a famine.  I didn't understand much about this at the time, but thanks to Sally Struthers commercials, I was inundated with images of starving children on a regular basis in those early years.  At 5 years old, I didn't know much, but I knew one thing: life is not supposed to be like this.  I was moved for them, and although I had no personal ability to change their situation, every time prayer requests were taken at church, school, home or elsewhere, I would pray "for the starving children in Ethiopia and Africa" (yes, that exact phrase).

So why am I going back to Africa again?  Because I want to be that little girl who is moved by suffering that really doesn't have to be her problem.  I never want to stop being her.  I could ignore it, but I don't want to.  I could hide in the borders of my own country and my own comfort, but I don't want to.  I want to be disturbed by the things that disturb the heart of God.  I want to be moved by the things that move the heart of God.  And sometimes that means stepping outside of yourself to see the world He so loves, that He gives... Himself.  If I want to be like Jesus, then my love must mean giving myself away, too.  

When I go to Africa I feel pretty useless.  I'm not a doctor, a nurse, an educator, or a brilliant business mind.  I don't know how to help make these problems resolve, and I certainly don't know how to take proper care of a person suffering from malnutrition or disease.  All I know how to do is to talk, to play, to laugh and to love.  That's all I got.  But I think it does me good to be in a place where I'm not so important.  It does me good to understand that I'm not the Messiah.  I'm not the answer.  I'm not the solution.  In Africa or in America, I'm just a girl, hopefully turning eyes upon Jesus, reminding those in despair that there is more than this.

So why Swaziland?  Well for one, Swaziland has the highest HIV/AIDs rate in the world, leaving the country with an average life expectancy of 46 years old.  Do I have HIV?  No.  Is it my problem that a bunch of people I don't know who live on the other side of the world have HIV?  No.  Could I ignore it and go on with my life just fine?  Unfortunately, yeah, I think I could - but I don't want to.  For the rest of my life, I want God to continue messing with my idea of normal, crashing the walls of every kingdom I try to build for myself, and wrecking my heart with the magnificence of His love.  So for three months, this will be my prayer - ruin me like You, Jesus.  Ruin me like You.

You can expect a ridiculous amount of blog posts, photographs and the like from September 1st through November 22nd...and probably a bit after.  Thanks to all my friends and family who have been so supportive through this season, always challenging me to follow Jesus wherever and however He may lead.  Looking forward to sharing more of this journey with you...

- TG 

The Details:

In Swaziland, I'll be loving on and ministering to children and youth through partnerships with Mission of Mercy and Children's Cup.  In addition, one of my dearest friends is a doctor with HIV/AIDs patients in Mbabane.  Through her connections with the hospital in Mbabane, I will be focusing much of my time working with the hospital social workers, shadowing HIV counselors and volunteering with Swazi children who also happen to be HIV patients.  If the majority of my time is spent reading to kids with HIV, I will be a very happy girl.  

Flipping Tables

Tonight in Addictions class we talked about identity, belief and the idea of what is normal.  We questioned the idea that what is "normal" is always good.  Just because something is normal, does that make it good?  And how does that normal thing shape who I am, what I believe and how I behave?  

When Jesus showed up on the scene, He flipped the tables on all that was considered "normal."  He said things like, "You heard this, but I'm telling you that..." or "You thought that, but I'm telling you this..."  He didn't eliminate all of the old ideas - He illuminated them.  He brought them to light.  He made sense of them.  He said things and did things that revealed a much bigger picture with much brighter colors, colors the world had not yet seen.  

God seems to enjoy tampering with my normal.  Sometimes I find myself banging on His chest, pleading with Him to just leave me alone.  To be perfectly honest, I had a moment just this past week when I snapped at Him in prayer: "Seriously, does everything in my life have to be about You?  Can't anything just be mine... just be normal?"  Whoa... ugly, Tara.  Real ugly...and probably a little stupid.  

I'm so thankful that when I'm banging on His chest, pleading with Him to leave me alone, He doesn't.  This is God's mercy - that He doesn't listen to everything I say; that I am not the boss of Him.  That He doesn't get offended or wounded and wander away, whimpering, "Why doesn't she love me anymore?"  He knows I love Him - and He knows I love me more sometimes, too....  We're working on it.  

But I love Him more every time He doesn't let go.  I love Him more every time He tampers with my normal.  Every time He "makes everything have to be about Him all the time."  Yes, somehow, I love Him a little bit more.  There's grace in this.  There is grace in this God who relentlessly, meticulously sneaks Himself into every picture and every painting hanging on the walls of my life.  He makes Himself the point of everything because He actually is the point of everything, so when I find Him everywhere, in all things and at all times, well... it's because that is the normal that is good - always.

This is how He does it.  This is how He makes all things beautiful: He places Himself in them.  And this is what He is doing with my life.  All of a sudden, I could not be more happy to be "normal."

Here we go, flipping tables...

The Voice

This post is a long overdue follow-up to "Surrender," a blog I wrote in January.  The story - the surrender - continues.  I have hesitated to share this since January, as this was an incredibly personal moment for me and Jesus.  But this is one important piece of an ongoing story (more to come), so here goes.  You might think I'm crazy after this... I'm ok with that :)

Strange things happen in my sleep.  

There was the night that I had a dream about Johnny Knoxville telling me how he feels like he's "too far gone" for God's grace to ever reach him, then I woke up to realize I was literally praying for Johnny Knoxville - out loud - in my sleep.  

There was the night that I saw a huge spider webbing his way down the ceiling onto my bed.  I screamed, threw off my covers, ran into the living room and started shaking out my clothes, then calmly got back in bed and went straight to sleep.  It was the next morning when I remembered this occurrence and realized I dreamed the whole thing... except for the screaming, throwing, running and shaking.  That was the night I discovered that dreams of spiders (apparently) induce fits of sleep walking for me.

There was the night of the Indiana earthquake (true story) a few years back.  While it woke me up, and I understood this was odd for Indiana, I felt at peace, so, sleepily, I rolled over in my bed and mumbled to Jesus, "Ok, just wake me up if I should move."  He didn't, so I didn't.  That was one good night's sleep.

I have some weird dreams and some crazy night drama, and I'm not gonna lie - it's kinda fun.  But no dream, no earthquake, no spider and not even Johnny Knoxville himself will ever compare to the night of the Voice.

Earlier this year, I was struggling about God's direction for my life.  I kept begging Him to "just tell me what to do."  I kept saying things like, "Do you want me to go to Africa?  If you want me to go to Africa, I'll go to Africa.  If you want me to stay here and love these girls in rehab for the rest of my life, I'll do it, with all of me.  If you want me to stay close to home and take care of my grandparents through this season of suffering, I'll do it - painfully and gladly, I'll do it.  If you want me to write, I'll write.  If you want me to speak, I'll speak.  If you want me to sing, I'll sing.  Just tell me what You want me to do."  

After all my nagging, though, Jesus wasn't budging.  There was this sense that He was just not in the talking mood, and maybe by asking all these questions about "doing," I was missing the point.  

Then it happened.  I had been begging God to speak to me, and unexpectedly, finally, He did.  As I slept sound that night, I was awoken by a clear, familiar voice.  Loudly, but gently, it whispered, "Tara..."

The Voice was so real that I woke with a frightened gasp out of a sound sleep.  I thought someone was in my room; I thought I'd look to my right to see one of the girls had gotten in somehow, that there was some crisis or emergency and they had come to wake me up.  When I looked to my right, though, no one was there.  Still, I heard it, and I knew that I heard it.  I was so convinced that I got out of my bed and looked in other parts of my room to see if someone was there... but I found no one.  

I found no one, but I heard Him, and He said my name.  I thought maybe God was waking me up because something was going on with one of the girls (wouldn't be the first time).  So I went out, checked all their rooms and made sure everyone / everything was ok; all was well.  Assured that the girls were fine, I returned to my bed, staring around my room expecting to see Jesus appear at any moment... but He didn't.  There was no image, no revelation; there was just the Voice.  My heart was racing in anticipation; I desperately wanted to know what He had to say.  He got me all woken up and worked up, and then... nothing.  

A Voice whispered my name, and then it was silent.

All I could do that night was sit up in my bed, waiting for Jesus to speak.  I heard Him - I knew I heard Him - and I wanted to hear Him again.  Still, He left me with nothing but my name: "Tara..."  

After all my nagging and pleading, there was this sense in that one whisper, that what God is calling me to is more a "Who" than a "What."  I felt Him calling me back to His heart, in a deeper, more intimate way, and as I fell back to sleep that night, the impression He left on my heart was simply this:

Surrender.  

This "surrender" is turning out to mean a lot of unsettling things for me.  Life itself is about to change drastically.  The things I love the most are being beckoned to Moriah (Genesis 22), and with joy and tears, I am laying them down.  I'm finding that the point is not so much what I will be doing; how significant it is, how special or rewarding, or even how powerful the impact for God's kingdom.  The point is the surrendered life, that "way of being" in the world where my heart is settled in the love of Jesus, wherever we are, whatever we're doing, however He leads.  

There was something redemptive in hearing my name that night.  From any other voice, it might just be another word among many; from Him, it is life itself.  It is the word He used to call me to "being" again; to tell me He still knows me, He still likes me, He still wants to be with me more than to do with me.  

When that is "surrender," it is not so difficult after all.

For you... 

No need to comment; just think.  I know we don't all have these "I heard God audibly say..." moments very often (if at all).  This was one incredibly rare occurrence for me.  But what about you?  Is there some way in which God is whispering your name, luring you back to His heart?  What would it look for you to respond to His whisper?

Losing It

I’ve been watching the Lord of the Rings films again.  I pretty much mentally read through the entire Bible through these stories.  Oh, if we’d just let Jesus have His voice, the places we’d find Him; they’re endless.  But that’s another topic for another day.  So I’m watching The Two Towers and I come across the scene when the Ents (giant talking trees for the LOTR illiterate) are gathering to decide whether or not they will join in the war to save mankind.  Like the characters Merry and Pippen, I too grow anxious awaiting their response.  As TreeBeard slowly gasps and trudges out one long word at a time, I want to scream at the television, “Hurry up!  People are dying!  Hurry uuuuup!”

Then I’m quieted by Treebeard’s wisdom.  He disarms my frustration with a few elderly insights.  He is right in many ways.  He is sensible and experienced.  There are perspectives he has to share with these younger lads, and they do well to heed these truths.  For a moment, I admire Treebeard and feel he is justified for taking his time.  Good, wise Treebeard.  His heart is in the right place.  Maybe we’re supposed to be more like him.

But my admiration is quickly refueled into fury when the very wisdom and truth Treebeard has shared become his excuse for not helping others in need.  It’s not his war to fight.  These humans have brought this trouble on themselves.  The Trees are peaceable and pious and if the humans want to go ahead and kill each other, then let them.  The Trees will enjoy their peace and watch the world go to ruin.

I watch and my heart begins to hum verses about Trees of Righteousness, planted as oaks, the people of God.  These Ents believe they can watch the world go to ruin and still enjoy their peace, because it’s not their problem.  Except that it is their problem.  Unknowingly, many of their own have already fallen prey to this shadow of darkness.  Finally, after seeing their own lost and destroyed, they join in the fight.  Now it matters, because it’s affecting them.

But what about when it didn’t?

I recall another individual who could have laid back in comfort and watched the world go to ruin.  He watched a woman and a man take a piece of fruit, eat it, and slowly begin to die.  He could have said, “Not my problem.”  He could have mocked, “You got yourself into this mess.  You get yourself out.”  But there was no mockery and there was no hiding away in safety.  

There was searching through a garden and calling out, “Where are you?”  

There was stepping into the chaos and making a way to start over again.

There was the sending of a Son, who wasn’t afraid to fight and to love.

God could have easily looked at the mess of man and laughed, “Sorry ‘boutcha.”  Instead, He proved His love for us, in that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”  Love compelled Christ to abandon His comfort and join in our fight.

When we can be satisfied to stay hidden in the forest with the other Christian trees and watch the world go to ruin, we have become nothing like Jesus.  If, in fact, we can enjoy our snow-globe sanctuaries where only the saints can sit and the people are perfect, Jesus might not really want to hang out with us anymore.  

“Away from Me," Jesus said, "because I was in prison, and you did not come to Me.  

I was naked and you did not clothe Me.  I was hungry and you did not feed Me.  

As much as you did not do it for the least of these, you did not do it for Me.” 

Do you see the fate of these kinds of “trees”?  They are away from Jesus.  Far, far away from Him.  These are people who thought they were doing it right, they just weren’t living like Christ.  How sad for them.  How sad for their world.  

I know, you have your own problems.  So do I.  So did Jesus.  But if we wait for all of our questions to be answered and our suffering relieved before we step out to fight for someone else, we’ll never make one single move.  Because some of these things, they’re just not going to resolve.  Some people aren’t going to change.  Some wounds will be a thorn in your flesh your entire life.  But you will never find a greater healing than giving what you need to someone else.   

Is there a unique way in which God is calling you to join Him in redeeming a broken world?  

If God were free to create new life through you, what might that look like?  

If your own wounds were no longer a reason you "can't..." what would you be doing with your time and energy?

"If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it.  
But if you give up your life for My sake, you will find it."

(Matthew 16:25)

Tell Me My Story

In my first semester of college, I took a class on evangelism.  One of our early assignments was to write out our testimonies and share them with the class.  I cannot begin to tell you how difficult this was for me.  At the time, I had not been through anything incredibly tragic in life.  I had suffered some very harsh and painful realities of the Church as a pastor’s daughter, but outside of that, I pretty much enjoyed a Brady Bunch life.  At 18 years old, I had never tried drugs, drank alcohol, smoked a cigarette, been abused, been sexually promiscuous, cut myself, survived a car crash, stood up on a cafeteria table and witnessed at my school or led people on a crashing plane through the sinner’s prayer.  I was just...ordinary.  There was nothing stellar to share; nothing exciting, nothing that said, “Wow!  She’s amazing!  Look at what God has done!”  I was just... me.  

I remember sitting in my dorm room one night, staring at a blank computer screen, feeling like an idiot that I could not think of one thing to share in my testimony.  I had loved God my whole life, and when it was my turn to stand up and say, “This is who Jesus is to me,” all I could think of was the cool stories I had heard about who He was to everyone else.  Instead of appreciating all that Jesus had been to me for 18 years, I started comparing myself to other people.  The truth is, by comparing myself, I wasn’t devaluing me, I was devaluing Him.  I was the clay screaming at the Potter, “Why did You make me like this?”

God taught me a lot as I did that homework assignment.  I remember a very specific moment when finally, frustrated, I dropped my hands, sighed, leaned back and said,

“Help me.  I need You to tell me my story.”  

That night I asked God to tell me my story, and He did.  I had grown so accustomed to a life with Jesus that I had never imagined what my life would be without Him.  He reminded me of my family history; that my grandpa and uncle had both been abusive alcoholics.  He reminded me that my dad was on the road to alcoholism as well; that he and my mom were separated with divorce papers in hand long before I was born.  He reminded me of how He saved their marriage, restored our family and blessed me with a loving, happy home.  He reminded me of the many times we moved in ministry, but He was still with me.  He reminded me of the extreme poverty and suffering I had witnessed around the U.S. and in other countries, only to discover that He was present in those places too.  He reminded me of the disillusionment I had experienced in church; how He taught me to love and forgive in the face of disappointment and betrayal.  He reminded me that despite highs or lows, I love Him.  I enjoy Him.  I want Him.  That life apart from Him holds nothing for me. He reminded me that this is my story - our story - and that His name is embedded on every page.  

What started out as one of the most agonizing assignments I’ve ever had, became a marked moment in my life.  What I didn’t know then was that my story was about to get incredibly interesting, more interesting than I would like, but whether boring or thrilling, Jesus was with me, and that was really the point all along.  It was through that assignment that I was challenged at a young age to beware comparisons that tempt me to reflect the image of other people rather than the image of God.  I was moved to find Him in my own story in some way, at every turn, because undeniably, He is there, still with me...always, still with me.

That night, I asked God to tell me my story, and He did...and He has been ever since.  

Every day it's as if He wakes me up with the stroke of a pen and a whisper: "What shall we write about today?"  

And that is the story of why I love to write.

"My history...is a celebration of His faithfulness." - Brennan Manning

"Everybody Hurts...Sometimes"

At City Com we've been talking about pain in a series called, "Everybody Hurts...Sometimes."  For me, these talks are nothing new and by no means uncomfortable.  While others may be squirming in their seats, wishing we could talk about something lighter and happier, this is my comfort zone.  It's easy for me to talk about pain - I am swimming in it every day.  Surrounded by people aching to recover from abuse, addiction, and hopelessness, somewhere along the way this became easy for me.  I love being "here" with people, walking in the valley of the shadow of death, together moving slowly onward, one day at a time, toward the light.

On Sunday, Nathan talked about embracing pain, not rushing through it, and being ok with walking slowly together through the wounds of life.  I often explain this to the girls as, "Making peace with the process."  What I'm realizing this morning is that I'm really good at "making peace with the process" for everyone else, but not so much for me.  Where I would tell the girls that it's ok that they don't have it all together today, that they don't have to be perfect all the time, that they are allowed to fumble awkwardly through to restoration, I instead expect that for some reason, that's not ok for me.  I've got to get it together - and quick.

I'm sitting here asking Jesus what's my problem this morning - why I can be so patient with everyone else and so impatient with myself - and He begins pressing old wounds.  "Seriously?"  I ask.  "Do we really have to go there?"  He reminds me of all the ways I'm afraid I'll be hurt again, all the times I did believe, but was disappointed; all the times I stood in faith on a mountain, and felt like God had stood me up.  I know I don't want to heap this frustration on Him, so instead I heap it on me.   "Get it together, Tara..."

I guess as I'm processing this message this week, I'm finding that some of my fears are bigger than I had thought.  I am afraid that as long as I have been getting up and trying again (again and again and again), I just keep finding out that I'm still walking with that stinking limp.  Maybe Jesus likes it this way... my fear is that people don't.  I am finding that my fears are not so God-oriented as they are people-oriented.  I know that He sits in the dark with me.  I know the many lows we've risen from, and I know that He is present with me in peace and in pain.  I'm not always sure this will be true of the people in my life, though... and that scares me.  It makes me want to put a pretty face on, shove best foot forward, and make sure people won't go away.  And I could do that... or, I could just be authentically me.

I could let the limp be.  

I could stop feeling like I have to give an explanation for it every time someone doesn't seem to understand.

I could believe this is part of His beauty and grace in me - this broken and mended girl, who, though frightened, still believes, hopes, and trusts - or at least, chooses to trust, even when I don't feel it.

I could be ok with the fact that there are people who just won't 'get it,' and they don't have to.

I could hear the voice of Jesus whispering tenderly, "Courage, dear one," every time I want to hide again.

Today I'm resting sweetly in that "Courage, dear one," because today I do want to hide again.  Today I want to sneak quietly back into that shell of mine and find safety from all opportunities for vulnerability and risk.  But I was not born with a shell, and I will not live in one either.  If I will be hidden, I will be hidden in Christ.  Here I am safe; here I am strong.  In my weakness, He is perfect.  I'm not...He is.  

And maybe a little bit more for today:

...I'm sitting here thinking now of the friends I like to refer to as my "Drinking Buddies," those people in my life who have sat in the ash heap with me, who have drank through life's highs and lows with me, patiently and faithfully.  I'm thinking of the many times they have told me the truth, talked me down from the ledge, dared me to live, and reminded me who I am.  I'm thinking of those many moments when my "awkward" kicks in, and they don't run away; when walls shoot up out of nowhere like lightning on a sunny day, and yet, they still remain.  They are not afraid of the walls, they are not intimidated by my random acts of quietness - they just let it be.  When we need to talk, we talk.  When we need to cry, we cry.  When we need to laugh... Brittany J. tries to teach me how to dance :)  

Community can be a place where we are wounded, for sure.  It can also be a place where we are wounded together.  Where we heal together.  Where we limp together and we laugh together.  Where we lift our eyes to the always-real possibility of redemption together.  

For a girl who has become much too acquainted with independence, I'm gravitating more and more toward this "togetherness."  Though fear loves to lurk around relationships, it has not cornered the market.  If fear is eliminated in love, then to overcome fear is to love gratuitously.  I'm challenged today to be generous in love - regardless of return, regardless of vulnerability, regardless of consequence.  This is truly what Christ has done...is doing...for me.  

He Finally Went Out to the Ball Game

One of my favorite sounds in the world is the reminiscent fuzz of major league baseball on AM radio.  When I was a little girl, I loved spending weekends with my grandparents at their house just outside of Detroit.  My grandpa loves sports, and back then he was especially fond of two things: the Detroit Tigers on T.V. and the Detroit Tigers on the radio.  Grandpa's not much of a talker, so whenever he would pick me up or drive me home after a stay at their house, we'd travel quietly for the 30 minute car ride, listening to nothing but major league baseball.

When Grandpa didn't talk much, it was as if those baseball announcers became our voice.  He was the quiet, "only speak if you have something to say" type, and I was the littlest granddaughter who felt shy because, well, Grandpa never really had much to say.  Over time, though, we bonded through baseball radio.  When we didn't know how to talk to each other, they talked for us, leaving us with the sound of home runs, foul balls, strikes and "You're out!s" - all of these for me, the sound of contentment - the hum of everything being right in the world, just as it should be.

But today all is not right in the world, nowhere near all it should be.  My grandparents are in their 80s now, and Grandma has slipped into Alzheimer's disease.  After years of trying to keep them in their own home, Grandpa decided it would be best for Grandma to get proper care in an assisted living home - so he moved there, too.  Ironically, Grandma seems to be ok these days - though she doesn't remember, she still laughs and sings and plays with the innocence of a child.  For Grandpa, it's different.  He does remember, and for him, remembering means loss.

For the last two years, I have tried to no avail to get my grandpa to let himself live again, but he doesn't seem to want to.  We sit together and watch baseball, golf, basketball, football (SO ok with me), but I know there is more for him than this.  I know that, although life will never be what it once was, there is still more for him - more to be enjoyed, adventured, and loved.  People invite him to do things with them constantly, only to receive a rough, short, "No" in reply.  Last summer, I asked my grandpa to go to a baseball game with me.  I thought, surely, he'd love to go to a baseball game.  But no.  I was rejected by my own grandfather.  There is always some excuse, some reason that he can't or won't let himself enjoy life anymore.  

In many subtle ways, as sad as it sounds, I can relate to my grandpa's fears.  This past week especially I found myself caught up once again in a whirlwind of fear at letting go, moving forward, stepping out, and trying again.  Sometimes I don't want to try again.  I don't want to start all over again.  I don't want to reach out and start from scratch.  Sometimes, I just want to feel safe, comfortable, held, constant.  

Sometimes, I don't really want to go out to the ballgame either.  

A few days ago, my mom told me something that single-handedly restored my courage to chin-up, forge ahead, embrace the risk and believe enough to dream.  She accomplished this in one sentence:

"Grandpa went to the baseball game last week."

"WHAT?"

"Grandpa went to the baseball game last week."

And, tears.

In one sentence, I had two images flash into my mind:  the first, my grandpa sitting in the stands at Victory Field, letting himself love an old love again.  The second, a little boy getting on a school bus.  I have no idea how that second image snuck its way in, but it was as if in Grandpa finally being willing to go to the ballgame with some new friends, he allowed himself to be a child again.  Like a kindergartener boarding the bus for his first day of school, in childlike innocence and faith, he let himself try again - he let himself live again - he let himself start again, at 84.

"Oh," Mom added.  "And he's going to Conner Prairie next week."

"That is so stinking precious." (me)

I know that life is full of pain and fear for Grandpa these days.  I know that all he loves the most seems to be slipping away, and yet this week, one of the most stubborn men I've ever known finally caved and let himself try again.  I couldn't be more proud of him, and I find myself today wanting to be more like him.  

So I'm throwing my backpack on, I'm boarding the bus, and I'm taking my seat at that ballgame.  Heart trembling, hands shaking, mind wondering what is to come, I'm embracing the risk, hugging the uncertainty and telling it a big, fat "Thank you," for reminding me there is still more than this.  Whether this all ends up in a strike-out or home-run, we will have lived, and lived well.  

"Buy me some peanuts and Cracker-Jack, I don't care if I never come back..." :)