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..." :)