Lord, You have always given bread for the coming day; and though I am poor, tonight I believe.
Lord, You have always given strength for the coming day; and though I am weak, tonight I believe.
Lord, You have always given peace for the coming day; and though of anxious heart, tonight I believe.
Lord, You have always kept me safe in trials; and now, tried as I am, tonight I believe.
Lord, You have always marked the road for the coming day; and though it may be hidden, tonight I believe.
Lord, You have always lightened this darkness of mine; and though the night is here, tonight I believe.
Lord, You have always spoken when time was ripe; and though you be silent now, tonight I believe.

 

I married into a dog.  Named Moses.  On many occasions we like each other.  Others we don’t. 

Moses and I walk most mornings.  His German rottweiler breed lends my Irish human one the look of various lethal weapons.  Few know he’s little more than a slobbery teddy bear who usually just wants to cuddle.  Nevertheless, the script of our daily walks typically looks about the same. 

• Abbie exits back door. 
• Moses jumps rambunctiously on Abbie, zealous to run a marathon.
• Abbie gets frustrated.
• Abbie says in loud voice, “Calm down, you idiot!!” (or “big talker,” “pill,” “*$&*,” depending on how bad my attitude is that morning).  In twenty minutes you’ll be begging for mercy.”
• Moses continues jumping rambunctiously.
• Abbie and Moses walk. 
• Approximately nine minutes later, Moses poops in wealthy person’s driveway.
• Abbie gets mad.
• Eighteen minutes later Moses starts lagging behind.
• Abbie condescendingly looks in Moses’ tired eyes, “You never learn…”
• Moses pants heavily.
• Abbie drags Moses home.

 

As I made fun of Moses on our morning walk today, it dawned on me that as much of an idiot as he seems at times his issues really aren’t that far from mine. 

No matter how many people told me otherwise, somewhere in me, beyond what I would typically voice, I thought (/hoped) having a husband would fix things.

In some ways I was right. 

Literally speaking, I live with a handyman, so things do, in fact, get fixed more than they used to.  And living with my best friend has been of the most meaningful gifts I’ve known. 

But in more ways I wasn't.

I thought it would fix my insecurities.  I thought having a man tell me I was pretty every day would make me feel pretty every day.  Not so much.  Certainly some days it does—the mirror and I do okay and I can celebrate other girls’ bodies, or beauty, or what have you.  But others days it doesn’t.  Picking grey hairs from my slowly aging head this morning and frustrated by how I looked, I stopped myself, remembering that no matter how many silver strands I pull, or how often Micah affirms my worth, if I’m not affirmed in divine worth, as God’s daughter, my security and identity are based-on and living for a lie.

If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate. If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps, but I don't love, I'm nothing. If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.

Trying to get a tragedy off my heart this morning.  

Friends Ryan and Alyssa are on staff at a church in Sunland, California. Leaving the parking lot after youth group Tuesday, a girl haphazardly hit reverse instead of drive, slamming through a fence and dropping 11.5 feet head-on into the cement ravine.  She’ll be let off life-support this morning, after her sister returns from a trip in London and has time enough to say goodbye. 

But it’s not working.

I tried praying, talking to a friend, reading, walking our dog—all to no avail.  I tried praying again—same story.  Relief remains distant.  Release from thinking through times when I’ve hit the wrong petal, and panicked, or was in R instead of D, but somehow didn’t reap fatality.

A number of friends are in the midst of a weighty week.  It is to you I lend this prayer:

To the one attending a funeral,

To the one embarking on a first date,

To the one preparing for a final exam,

To the one processing childhood heartbreak,

To the one graduating,

To the one struggling for money,

To the one seized by back pain,

To the one scared of dying,

To the one about to give birth,

The the one moving,

To the one recovering from a mistake,

To the one in the grips of a divorce,

To the one awaiting her wedding day,

To the one in jail,

To the one going on vacation,

To the one awakened by addictive lusts,

To the one who is angry and alone,

To the one exhausted by trying,

To the one enlivened by a new job,

To the one striving to be an artist,

To the one studying to be a doctor,

To the one learning to sit with Jesus,

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I’m passionate about eating disorders, because eating disorders have been passionate about me.  They’ve written themselves into my story, beginning about the age of nine.  Triggers could be tagged on “life as a competitive gymnast, cross-country runner, or collegiate tennis player,” or maybe pressure-filled social enclaves, a diet-driven community, perfectionist personality, or learned patterns of my parents, or…  But deep-down—deep beneath any trigger, was a desire to be Loved. 

Whether exercise-related, or to that of being overweight, underweight, overeater, undereater, or simply addicted to a specific weight, or weight’s ideal, food and body addictions attracting our culture today remain utterly mind-boggling—obsessively desperate and destructive.

If Easter really happened, I may rest,                                                                                                                allowed to loose my hands from the outcomes of this day,                                                                            flying freely from an identity beyond my own.                                                                                                   Hope of Glory now resides within,                                                                                                                     the wings of Christ, from which I can do nothing without.

I wonder what it felt like?
I wonder what he felt like?

And why him?  Weren't other people on the road?

How did they choose him?  Did they yell at him, or beat him - did he fight back?  How much force did agreement take?  How did Jesus respond?

What did agreeing feel like?  Did he know the cause at hand?  Or the effect of his decision?  Did he even know who Jesus was?

What does it mean that Sovereignty allows crosses?
Allows us to carry crosses?
Chooses us to carry crosses?
And sometimes forces us to?