Hey Church: What Are We Doing?

God is so patient.

When I think about this season the planet is in-- this historic, incredible, too-big-to-comprehend season-- I am filled with conflicting emotions and ideas. Our Creator is perfectly loving and wise in all His ways, and He is absolutely aware and active in this place, and it's an honor to be alive right now: I was chosen, you were chosen, to be part of this crazy chapter in the life of the planet. He built us with exactly what we need for this season. He knows. 

But there's also that nagging fear of Covid19, of the difficulties facing our students (especially the little ones) and their families, and the sadness that comes with isolation in a society that loves big events, big meetings, dinner parties, game night, and communal everything.

But right now it's 1:18 on a Sunday morning. I can't sleep. I'm thinking about the church.

And when I say "the church" I don't mean the particular church that I go to, necessarily-- I'm thinking of the Church world-wide.

I'm thinking of this thing I keep hearing my favorite teachers saying: be careful about what you put into your mind. Be careful about how much information you are absorbing from the world right now. Be careful where you spend your time meditating. Bill Johnson said it a couple of weeks ago: "If you have more input from mainstream media than from the Spirit of God, your discouragement is self-inflicted." The bible says in Philippians 4, 

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things."

Another version says, "meditate on these things."

It's not that it's wrong to have information. I don't think He has called us all to flee to the mountains and never acknowledge the world around us-- there are important, critical, amazing things happening right now that we must be awake for and aware of. No, it's important to know about things that are happening.

But the question is, and I'm asking the question of myself, how much time are we spending meditating on those things and not pulling ourselves and those concerns into His presence?

Because just knowing stuff and diving deep into anxiety is doing no one any good. 

So here's where my mind is at now 1:27: what in the world is the church doing?

And I don't mean, "Why in the world is the church not meeting in her buildings?"

In point of fact, don't tell anyone, but I don't care one thing (at the moment) about going back into buildings if it's just more of the same. World wide: what are we doing?

Here's a question to ask ourselves-- all of us: five year olds, teenagers, youth pastors, elders, bishops, clergy of all collars-- how have we spent the last few months?

It's like the Lord took His finger and pressed PAUSE on the planet, told us to hunker down and be still and just wait for further instructions. But God is the perfect Father/teacher/manager/architect/director/bestfriend/everything: He's always doing more than one thing and not one moment is wasted. So what do we do with months stuck in the house?

Perfect opportunity to get close to God. Perfect opportunity to pursue Him in ways we haven't done since we were brand new to the faith. Perfect opportunity to get serious about holiness.

There is big talk of churches (specifically, one big one out in California) who have chosen to go back to meeting in their spaces. They are loudly defying the government, crying foul against an "oppressive regime" (air quotes around my own interpretation) that is threatening to steal our rights, make being a Christian illegal, etc. I haven't heard anyone use the "how to boil a frog" metaphor yet but it would be a good one (you're welcome to it if you need that argument).

I don't mean to appear to be one of those people that some will say isn't paying attention while the world is burning down around me. I'm aware that there is insanity playing out in both the seen and unseen worlds.

But I would sincerely ask this question of my brothers and sisters-- and I'm not being sarcastic or argumentative-- what have we been doing since March 13?

Did we start strong, aware, having communion every day/once a week as families? Did we pick up our abandoned bible studies or commentaries (I keep promising myself that I'm going to read Watchman Nee's Spiritual Authority one day...), start journals, intend to host socially-distanced neighborhood bible studies? And then, as the sense of crisis abated, or maybe we just got acclimated, we lightened up? As we started seeing toilet paper and hand sanitizer return to our grocery shelves, did the bubble of panic ... subside?

Here's what I'm asking: I want to know what you and I are DOING.

The bible says that the Lord is coming back for a bride who has made herself ready. One of my mentors, Jackie Sheppard, said something to me about this during one of our marathon kitchen table conversations many years ago. She reminded me that in a wedding, the bride is responsible for getting herself ready, not the groom. He takes care of groom stuff. She asked me if I've ever seen a groom coming into the bridal chamber before a wedding. He's not supposed to-- she makes herself ready.

The bride's responsibility is to make herself ready.

The Church is the bride-- and you and I are part of that. It's not the responsibility of Certain People in the church to make us all ready-- it's each one of us, individually.

Maybe my thoughts are jumbled up here-- let me try to land this plane:

While we are arguing about what the government is or is not trying to do to The Church, there are millions of souls crying out for hope. While we are typing angry missives on Facebook, Twitter, blogs (doh!), or recording conspiracy videos for YouTube or wherever, there are people who are looking for one morsel of freaking hope to cling to. 

And we are hogging it all. Hoarding it. We have shelves of hope in our homes-- we have fourteen versions of the bible scattered throughout our houses, countless unfinished Bible study workbooks, and access to more excellent teaching across the globe via livestreams than we have time to watch, and we are determined to make a stand and meet in our buildings and turn on the lights and sing the same worship songs and rally the troops from the pulpits to defy the godless governors who are attempting to convert our nation to agnosticism but for what purpose?

Tell me, Church, where is the cry for personal holiness? Where is the movement to confront and demolish strongholds in our lives, in our families, and in our communities? Where is the movement that must start with every individual believer that will show forth the fruit of fearless humility and zeal for the Lord Himself? Where is the rallying cry to confront racism in our hearts; pornography that is trying to steal our men; and unbelief that quenches any sense of authenticity and power in our worship? How are we, the Bride, pursuing holiness as a Body to make ourselves ready for our Bridegroom?

As it is, we have done the thing we have always said that we hate: we have erected country clubs in our neighborhoods. We have pulpits filled with men and women who are not even certain that they believe in God anymore because they have been so abused and so defeated by parishioners who are mean and critical and easily offended. We have churches with beautiful sanctuaries and facilities but who have lost sight of the mission: Jesus Christ and Him crucified. We tolerate all kinds of sin in our congregations and because we fear men more than we fear God, we are sitting in pews next to brothers and sisters who are drowning, silently crying out for a lifeline, for someone to reach through their veil of shame and cry FREEDOM with our own testimony (Rev 12:11). 

Instead, we look away and [sort of] play nice.

We would rather gossip about someone's sin than to get into the pit and pull them out of it.

Having a form of godliness but denying its power (2 Timothy 3).

Instead of focusing the bright beam of our anger and frustration on the sin in our own lives and the constant attack of the accuser of the brethren, we are on the war path to sit in pews. To get back to...whatever it is we were doing in March. Why?

Understand, I love corporate worship. The bible says that we must not neglect the gathering of the brethren. I am aware of the huge gift it is to be a believer who lives in a nation with religious freedom.

But that's just it, Church: we are free to practice our faith. The government that is telling you-- rightly or wrongly, who knows?-- to stay home on Sundays is not telling you that you cannot be a believer. They are not confiscating our bibles. They are not forbidding us to have house church or worship together in our living rooms or yards. 

But are we?

Are we having Zoom bible studies? Are we interceding on the walls of our cities? Are we pursuing God while we have unprecedented access to time alone? 

Church, we are fighting the wrong fight. Our fight is not against flesh and blood. Our battle is not with presidents, governors, mayors or each other. 

We have been called to prepare ourselves for the Bridegroom. He has called us to walk in holiness. We've been called to tell the good news of what He has done for us and make disciples. He has given us everything we need-- heck, He even tells us in John and 1 John (2:27) that the Holy Spirit Himself is able to teach us everything we need to know. 

So there it is. 

It's 2am now and I still have so many thoughts in my head, but this one persists: seek God while He may be found (Isaiah 55). He doesn't live in our brick buildings with steeples on them. I'm sure He likes them, but He says that He has taken up residence in us (Ephesians 3:17). How are we maintaining these temples? What sins are we allowing to live in the holy place that is our hearts? Why are we so concerned with proving points and asserting rights while we continue to entertain or just ignore habitual sins in our personal lives that render us powerless?

This is what is eternal. 

God, I am so grateful for your patience. I am so undone with gratitude for your patience with me. Thank you that there is not one political figure or any person in authority of any kind who intimidates you. Thank you that you are full of shalom. I thank You for holding back what I deserve and pouring out mercy instead because Jesus took all of what I deserve with His perfect life. 

Help all of us, Lord, It's so hard to see through the smoke on this planet. Help us see what You are doing, and help us to train our sights on the proper enemy: everything that would separate us from You. Help us to cultivate kindness and walk in humility and abolish everything in our own lives that causes us shame and makes us walk away from You.

Help us to see the perfect Father that You are. 

Help us to trust You. 

Help us to make ourselves ready for You.

We cry out to You for a cure to this virus-- we want what we had: freedom. But God, help us not to waste this time while we wait. God, help us to lift our vision higher-- to not be so earthbound that we get lost in planet skirmishes that block the lost from seeing and finding You. The fact that You haven't revealed a cure for the virus tells me that the other work isn't done. Thank you for what feels like an extension on the assignment. I trust Your sovereignty. 

And I can't wait to raise my voice in song to You with other believers. It's all I ever want to do. But help us not to miss what you are doing while we wait.

"I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.

Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think. Glory to him in the church and in Christ Jesus through all generations forever and ever! Amen" (Ephesians 3)

The Voice in the Tunnel

It's that month.

It's the spring.

It's the time of year when things are blooming and being born and being renewed and my heart always seems to go down into the basement of my memories, shuffles around for the emotions that are kept in a bag down there, and drags it up the stairs to the kitchen table. I rifle through my thoughts about loss and life and the rest of the story, and it always comes back to

Renewal.

Regeneration.

Rebirth.

Re. Re. Re. "Again" or "back" or "once more."

This year's spring is one of the most beautiful I can ever remember.

Don and I were talking about it the other day when we were driving out to my childhood friend's farm. We were wondering, is it always this gorgeous and we just miss it because we're so busy with distractions? Because we're stuck in our classrooms and come home at the end of the day and collapse on the couch in exhaustion? Because SPRING normally means testing and stress and students seem to lose their minds in the spring?

But this year, we are on a forced stop.

And he would be getting ready to turn eleven.

So, what do I want to tell you?

I want to tell you that life really does go on after loss and disappointment. I'm the voice at the other end of the tunnel from you, yelling "HEY!! There are people laughing at old episodes of Seinfeld down here!" but you can't really hear me clearly because you're weeping. I know you're weeping.

It's okay that you're weeping. You need to weep.

I'm the voice at the other end of the loss of a baby to stillbirth and then to miscarriage and then to miscarriage and then to just aging out of the system, yelling, "HEY!!! There are people who can hold people's babies and go to baby showers and talk about their pregnancy experiences down here with very little wincing!" but it's hard for you to hear because you still can't even walk into the nursery that you curated for that warm, squeaking bundle of all your hopes that won't ever sleep there.

I'm the voice at the other end of the tunnel that is writing down on a slip of paper and sending it like an airplane down the tunnel to you, with letters written in all caps and highlighted "Hang on tight to your husband! Don't let this death cause you to kill each other! You're both hurting-- it just looks different on him! Hold him close! Give him space! Take a walk! Never, ever blame each other! Let go of your guilt!!" and maybe you can read this note if you squeeze your eyes against the tears that seem to mostly want to get you when you're all alone at 3:22 in the morning.

I was talking to Caroline the other day, mentioning how this is the month that we spend time planting flowers in honor of baby Benjamin, except that I was distracted with the sheer number of people who had decided to break quarantine to go to Lowe's (look, I just wanted a fern!), so I told her, "Yeah, so I need to think about what big thing I want to plant for what's-his-name this year," and then we were both really quiet for a second...and then I burst out laughing.

He's so real still. So real that I could refer to him so casually, like he was just another person in my world.

Because he is.

He is not here-- he is some other where. But he is there.

It was another sign of healing. Like a tiny green sprig suddenly growing from the bark of a plant you thought was a goner.

And I will plant another hydrangea in the spot where the one I planted for him died because that's what plants do sometimes and it doesn't mean anything at all, it just means that the planet works and soil is real and some plants need more sun than others. The living or dying of my yard plants that all seem to shout his name does not mean that it was my fault that he died or that I would have been a terrible mother to him.

It's just that that type of hydrangea needed way more sun than it was getting on that side of the house.

I am the voice at the other end of the tunnel who knows that you can't hear me clearly, so let me just sing to you and maybe it'll encourage you that, even though you can't make out the words, you know that it's a song.

There's a song.

You can hum until you can sing.

He is worthy of it all.
He knows your every pain.
He knows why He created you.
You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.
Your arms ache, and He knows.
But He comes with healing in His wings.
He is the God who sees you.
He is El Roi.
He is worthy of it all.
He sees you.

You'll make it to this end of the tunnel. You will. There are so many sisters down here waiting-- we'll sing you through. You'll make it.

Weeding

In the South, and I can only speak to the South because I'm a Southerner, there are so many things we love to have in our yards, but at the top of the list:

Hydrangeas
Azaleas
Jasmine
Gardenias
Magnolia trees
Cherry blossoms...

There are loads more, but these are what I'm thinking about today.

So, there is a little patch beside our back patio, which is made of 100 year old bricks from one of our chimneys (that sounded so fancy!) that Don designed and its gorgeous. Anyway, in this patch are gardenia bushes. Two varieties. They're beauties.

But I've let the weeds grow up and of course, this is the time to weed, so I shocked Don and told him I wanted to do it today. I got my little garden gloves he bought for me and went out there and started pulling.

And pulling.

And pulling.

These weeds-- you know these weeds-- are kind of sticky and incredibly stringy. They're weak as anything, but they get crazy long.

And I realized today that they're killing these bushes.

These regal, gorgeous bushes. Strong branches, survived several winters, are never hardly fertilized, and these puny little ugly weeds have been choking them to death.

As I started pulling, I realized that they were wrapping around the bases of the bushes and those lower branches were looking poor.

No one planted these weeds. They blew in, opportunists, looking for any place they could settle in and leach nutrients and shade from something stronger. They'll never produce any fruit that is beneficial and they'll continue to grow until they've completely taken the life from the gardenias.

Unless they're stopped

Jesus, talking about the Pharisees, said, "Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be pulled up by the roots...." (Matt 15)

Something Don and I have been praying for the last couple of years is that every thing that has not been planted by the Lord would be uprooted.

Back to the weeds-- it's not going to be enough, my way of pulling these weeds up. I'm not digging deep enough. There are root systems under the dirt that have been established bc of my neglect. For now, I have given the branches freedom to soak up nourishment and sunlight, but the work in that area must go deeper.

I wonder.

I don't want to waste this season. There is nothing, not one thing, that God cannot redeem and pull around to see victory. Not death, not loss, nothing.

I know what I speak of.

So, pray with me that this will be a season of uprooting the weeds that have taken root in the church. The vines of error and carnality that have begun to grow up with the gardenias and choke the life out of them.

Enough Sunlight

So many things change all the time. So much change happening around me.

Apparently, my personality type craves change, and I guess that's true in some ways-- I'm in a calling where my clientele change every nine months and I have some freedom about the way I do things and the materials I work with-- but there are some things I like to stay the same.

One of those things, for me, is my classroom.

I love my classroom.

I love the way the sun pours through the windows in the mornings-- I know it's done battle for me on days when sadness would want to wrestle me to the ground.

I love the sound of the band practicing outside my window in the fall-- I love to watch the kids playing in the yard before they get on the buses. It reminds me. It reminds me that these big boys and girls who swagger down the hallway and puff their chests out when being told to be quiet are really children still, and that expression leaks out of them still at the end of a day where they have been confined to cold, hard spaces. It reminds me that they are not widgets. I love to hear them scream with laughter.

I love the old brown chalkboard that Don and I found behind the ratty old whiteboard that had been drilled over it for who knows how many years? It's perfectly chocolate brown with no blemishes...except this one area where now-graduated students have left their marks-- my name in Mandarin or in fancy script, or a "your favorite student" note, or a joke. I have a graduation gown hung over that area in my room-- to protect the message, but also to serve as a reminder to students that this gown is what they're working for. That day that they walk across the stage-- that's the first of many finish lines.

I love the old school (literally) wooden closet at the front of the room. It's crammed full of things I might need one day: a small fan, a box of construction paper, a couple of my old winter coats, an old Agnes Scott sweatshirt, an umbrella, and boxes of just...things. Taped inside my door is a poster that I made a bunch of my students sign, many years ago that says, "When I die, I want the people I did group projects with to lower me into my grave so they can let me down one last time."

I love the solid wood cabinets and shelves, pulled from the pile of old cabinets and shelves at a school being remodeled in Decatur by my old department head, Dr. Jackson. I love that they were rescued by her and how heavy they are and how real they are. They have gone with me to three classrooms at HHS. Solid old school (again, literally) furniture.

I love my furniture. I love the flexibility I have with the stools and chairs and the design of the tables. I love that my students get to sit on padded seats when they get to my room. I love that they can sit on four different types of chairs.

But mostly, it's this sunlight pouring through the windows.

I just walked in to the room, back from a meeting, earlier this morning  and I thought to myself, I hope my classroom doesn't get moved next year. Being in this space has lifted my soul when so many things have threatened my peace over the last few years.

And do you know what that God of mine whispered to my heart as soon as I though it?

"Don't you think I can fill any space you're in with enough sunlight to fill your heart?"

Sigh. He is so good.

Eternally Undefeated

He is eternally undefeated.

Sunday afternoon, I lit a bunch of candles, made a pot of good (locally roasted) coffee, and sat in the living room with some of my friends. We bundled up in quilts because my beautiful old house always seems to be cold in the living room, but it's always cozy.

As is always the case with these dear ones, we immediately dove into conversation about the center of the universe.

Is there any conversation worth more? Is there any idea more noble? Can our words be spilled on anything more noble? 

Once, when I was a struggling teenager who had a perpetual smile for the world but was grieving hard all the time at home, in front of my family (as so many teenagers are wont to do), my mom passed me this note (on the second row on the left hand side of the church at Rockdale Baptist):

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. Philippians 4:8

We will fix our eyes on these things.

Our God is eternally undefeated.

There is no foe who poses a problem for the God who created leaves. The King who is the mastermind behind wind. The One who understands why the ostrich lays her eggs to warm in the sand (Job 39). The Master who tells the waves where to stop. There is simply no foe to match Him.

And yet, we worry.

But when you sit in a quiet living room with other Jesus lovers, there's this thing that begins to happen. You begin to brag on the Lord. You lean in close to hear each other recount the good things He is doing in each other's lives and in each other's realms of influence. You rejoice at victories and hold on through trials and sit back, blown away, with personal victories. 

Here's what we recounted:

--Near death, but God didn't let it happen.
--The tabernacle of David
--God isn't new
--Leaders who fall, but God redeems
--Humility
--Brazil (come on! God is always showing off in Brazil!)
--My cat 
--Gardening
--Hope
--Worship

...and more...

Here's why I'm writing this: Get some friends who will sit and talk with you about the things of God. And listen to them. We have a body that is filled up with lonely people, and I am noticing among my students that the loneliest among them seem to be the ones more consumed with talking about themselves than about listening to the people around them. Find people who want to sit and study His word together; who want to talk about what He is doing


At that time, those who feared the LORD spoke to one another, and the LORD listened and heard them. So a scroll of remembrance was written before Him regarding those who feared the LORD and honored His name. “They will be Mine,” says the LORD of Hosts, “on the day when I prepare My treasured possession. And I will spare them as a man spares his own son who serves him.…Malachi 3:16-17

Oh, I want Him to eavesdrop on my conversations and write down what I say so He can remember it! Send us friends like that, Lord! Make us a friend like that!

More

Here,
I’ll use the paint you
Handed me and
I’ll use the canvas
You taught me
To cut
And staple.

Here, I’ll
Use the rake you
Handed me
And
I’ll drag it
Along earth
And flesh.

Here, I’ll use
The book you
Opened to me
And I’ll
Knock against
Thoughts and ideas,
Ancient.

But you
Can’t see me from where
You sit now,
Can you?
I sat in your
Basement
And
Toiled in your
Orchard
And
Groped through your
Stacks,

But I had the answer
In me
All along.
And you, who
Proudly boast
So many languages cannot
Hear
The words I already had.

There.
Is.
More.
You earthbound fighter,
You planet-hugging hoper—
You cannot see.
There.
Is.
More

created

you still think
you created
yourself.
you still believe
you have no
Father.
who kicked
the first ripple in
the ocean?
who tossed
the first seed across
the soil?
your origin
has a face.
is not empty.
hasn't forgotten.
sees.

shs
2/2/18

#hesees #believers

Things to Do at Three in the Morning

I remember  that there was this moment in the emergency room, sitting beside him, holding his shaking hand in mine, a little more than two weeks ago now, when I thought to myself-- just for a second, and not really even a formal thought-- that maybe I could handle him dying if I could just remember the last time I got really mad at him.

It was just a second.

And I realized that I have never been that mad at him.

Frustrated, irritated, hurt-- regular married-for-longer-than-twenty-minutes stuff-- but never enough of any of that to be okay with him being gone.

And so for two weeks, I've had trouble sleeping. Because what if his blood sugar drops too low in the night? What if I'm not awake to notice that his sleeping has gotten shallow or that his breathing is irregular? What if I'm not awake to notice that his coloring is all wrong or his hands are cold? What if...

I mean, while I'm at it, what if the front door is open? What if there's an earthquake? What if we get robbed? I am a superb player of the game of What If.

So, I have to work on not driving him crazy. I want to ask him all day long what his blood sugar is. Somehow, I have graduated from being an English Lit teacher to being a doctor. I have only a growing clue about the science of blood and sugar and carbohydrates and insulin, but I'm looking for his numbers to be between this and that, always haunted by stories of worst case scenarios.

So here's where I am learning: faith.

I've always kind of had this image in my mind of ever-increasing levels of understanding as we grow. I see it like this: life is a progression of rooms attached to each other by doorways. I see myself walking through each room, passing furniture and art and a big rug across the floor. As I walk through the room, some things are sharp and in focus, while other objects are fuzzy and darker. At the other side of the room, I put my hand on the door knob, open it, and pass into a room just like the one before...only this time, more of the objects come into focus. That grey box in the room before has become a file cabinet. The big brown thing in the corner is a lounge chair. And with each room, I see more and understand more.

I feel like two weeks ago I walked into a new room.

I walked into it as I sat by my husband's side in ICU and waited for his personality to come back. I knew I was in a new room because all the stuff I've ever done to cope up until now wasn't working. I felt like I was standing at a train station in Stockholm-- I kind of knew the direction I needed to travel in, and I sort of recognized some of the names, but I was depending on the kindness of strangers to help me work out the coins for the turnstile to get in.

There's a lot of silence in this new room. I think when I get scared I just hold myself very, very still as deeply as I can, and I wait for the danger to pass. I remember flying between Denver and Montrose, Colorado-- it was my first time flying and the plane was really small (a 12-seater). I was terrified. You could feel all the turbulence, every bump, the whole way. I was pretty much certain that I had just given my life back to the Lord in time to actually meet Him face to face. But there was this older lady next to me and she was so much more afraid than I was. I was twenty years old and really good at hiding my emotions, so I looked over at her and asked her how she was doing. She was about to cry. I reached across the narrow aisle and held her hand-- she had on grey mittens-- and asked her about her family. Talking to her and listening to her like I was bold took the sting out of my own fear.

But this time, I have been a mess.

I told a friend of mine, the day after we got home from the hospital, that if he had died, I wasn't certain that I wouldn't have just walked into traffic.

Where in the world did that come from?

The first night in ICU, before he was acting right again, I pulled out my ipad and just queued up a bunch of Bethel sermons and hit play. We both rested finally. In and out of sleep, I would wake up to hear Johnson's familiar voice speaking truth over us like a blanket, and I felt the closeness of the Lord and could feel Don's warm skin under my fingers, and I knew that the nurses knew what they were doing, and I could rest.

But as a big picture, outside the safety of the ICU, trusting Him with my husband is a whole new room. Trusting Him like this. When the fear is real, based on real things happening-- but here's what He is reminding me:

He has never changed.

He is the same God who sat with me in another room in that very same hospital-- on the literal other side of the elevators, on that same floor-- and held me when the unthinkable happened and I lost Ben all those almost ten years ago.

The room I'm in is different this time-- I can't compare the two situations at all-- but He has never changed. He is fully as faithful and trustworthy and full of help and hope as He was then. He is literally every bit as good and perfect as He was every moment of every one of those days He brought us through.

But I am different and the place He wants to take me is different. He has new things He wants to bring into focus for me and new mysteries about who He is that He wants to reveal.

This life on earth is 100% about Him. Everything else is extra. He is the beginning and the end. He is the assignment. This time here is on His mission. And He will never leave or forsake us. 

I've rambled here, but I want to encourage: if you are in a new place, in need of a new level of trust, do not despair!! Don't give up. And don't FORGET what you already know about how to cope with fear: worship. Somehow, in all of the enduring of those days in the hospital, I forgot that the key is worship. My friend messaged to remind me: "I'm sure you are doing this already, but I wanted to remind you to worship." How did I forget? How did I forget that lifting His name is the only way to get my eyes off the water? How did I forget that there is power in the name of Jesus? 

If you are in a new room, think of new wine skins and think of manna, new every day. The measure of faith I have walked in suddenly isn't enough. He's taking me to a deeper place. The milk that has satisfied my soul is not enough-- He is drawing me to the greater meat of His word. Ever increasing understanding of who He is is the only thing that will satisfy this new ache for understanding that is in my heart.

And there is PLENTY of that. 

So what do I do when fear grabs me by the throat at 3am? I'm headed for the rock of my salvation. I'm headed for His word. I'm headed for worship. No more getting pushed around by fear and powerlessness. 

God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love and a sound mind. 2 Timothy 1:7

Him

The poet doesn't tell you
That it's a husband.

Instead she tells you
That he's a porter,
Carrying in groceries
And furniture
And her dreams.

She tells you
that he cares for the flowers
And nurtures them
And waters them
And watches to make sure they
Don't get scorched
And they get rain
And wind
And pretty pots.

She doesn't tell you that
Sometimes she feels like
One of his flowers.

The poet doesn't tell you
that he's a husband.
Instead, she tells you
That he's a woodworker.
That he carves beauty
Out of planks of wood
And looks for
Imperfections
As marks of character
And distinction
And showcases them
And centers them
And prays as he works
That others will see
What he sees.

She doesn't tell you
That sometimes
She feels like
A plank of wood
in his hands.

The poet doesn't tell you
That he's a husband.

No, he's a storyteller
Who can pull the most
Interesting part of the story
From the rubble of details
And make you see
The meaning in just the
Best few words
And make you see the joy in
What someone else thought
Uninteresting.

She doesn't tell you
That sometimes
she feels like a story he is telling,
And that he sees all
The best parts
And understands the
Importance of the worst ones
And he weaves her together
Into a riddle that
Finally makes sense.

The poet doesn't tell you
That he is strong
And kind
And that
She's been blossoming
Under his care
For these many years.

She just lives it
With him.

El Roi: The God Who Sees Me

So he sleeps finally. I reach over and wake him bc I can't hear him hiccuping, which means I can't hear him breathing. He's always been a quiet sleeper but tonight I need him to snore, to make a sound, something so I can hear the breath in his lungs.

There's no one to call in times like these. You could call, text, message a thousand people, but no one has what you need: the solution. No one has the perfect mixture of words, the just-so inflections, the right tone. There is not one person on earth-- not my mother, not the doctor, not a friend, who I can call to lift this burden sitting on my chest.

Only You. And I can't hear You over the desperate flapping of my wings.

But I know you are El Roi-- the One who sees me.

I drove around crying this morning. I need a word from you. A sign that you see me, hear us. That you haven't forgotten that you assigned us to this outpost. That we haven't been abandoned out here. That you see that Don can't breathe because of these hiccups. That you hear our cries for relief.

What is the perfect prayer? The right combination of words, the correct tone, the magical compilation of things to get You to hear me? My theology tells me that this isn't about sin, but then I think...is there some uncontested thing causing an infection way deep down and this spark of rot is what is hurting him? I'll repent of anything. We work to stay current before the Lord, but have we missed something? The other night, he told me that he lay awake and confessed every single thing he had ever done wrong as he struggled to stop the constant spasms of his diaphragm.

We both know that this isn't how it works, but when you don't know where or why something came, you're left with vain imaginations. Battle.

So I know I probably won't sleep tonight. I'll sit here and listen for him to take the next breath past the hiccup. Tomorrow I can sleep, when he has the medicine that might help stop this, but whose reputation is sketchy. I can sleep while he sits up, trying to maintain this amazing attitude he has. Being nice even when he feels terrible. Not crying even though I know he wants to.

Oh God, won't you hear our cry?

So here is where I rest: His word.

But may all who seek you rejoice and be glad in you; may those who long for your saving help always say, "The LORD is great!" But as for me, I am poor and needy; come quickly to me, O God. You are my help and my deliverer; LORD, do not delay.
Psalm 70

I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all of my fears. Psalm 34

In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From His temple He heard my voice and my cry to Him reached His ears.
Psalm 18

When I am afraid, I put my trust in You. Psalm 56:3

God has not given us a spirit of fear but of power and love and a sound mind.
2 Timothy 1

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High.
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.


Psalm 46

Lord, You have never failed us yet. I thank you in advance for the healing that is on its way.

And I know you hear. You are El Roi, the God who sees me.

Everyday Champions

Here is what I tell them:

When you have walked a difficult way, you gain an authority that belies your youth. If you are sixteen years old and you know what it means to resist constant fear, abuse, negativity, and the seemingly constant pronouncement of failure over your world, you have authority to speak. Every time you look at yourself in the mirror and choose to live again, you gain authority. When you have walked a difficult way, you learn secrets. You learn where to walk on the path. You learn where the safe places are; you learn how to recover when you slip; you learn how to light a flare and hold it high above your head as a beacon of hope for others; you learn where the places to rest are-- and the people who need to know will recognize the light in you and begin to seek you out. You.

You might not have fancy words. You might not have profound sayings. But there is a quiet confidence that comes with survival.

You. The champion who saw the beautiful battle, bella...bellum, and stepped into the campos to be the campio. They will sit and listen and watch.

So now I see a room full of champions.

They are writing. Some of them never write, but today when I asked them to tell me about the champion living inside of them, they began to write. When I told them not to worry about their spelling or grammar (shock! horror!), they hunched over and held their pencils awkwardly and began to write. They squirmed and twisted their bodies around as they leaned their skinny, growing torsos across their notebooks to protect their privacy, and they wrote.

They are writing because they hear the sound of their own drumbeat in their own veins. Their struggle, their personal war, is violent and private and they are covered with bruises and scars from frostbite and sunburn and they're winded, but daily they return to the field of play. The field of battle. 

How do I help them to believe it?

How do I help them grow in strength, tenacity, and grit? Oh, God, how do I teach them to not give up?

And in the stillness, while they are at work untangling the strings attached to each of their thoughts, I hear with clarity from the One who has taken up residence in my soul: Live it out before them. Light the flares. Listen to their stories. Show them the snares in the path. Be their champion. 

So I tell them:

Keep writing.

Words Matter

If you know me, you know that the open dictionary in front of me means that I’m in heaven.

There’s this thing about words…

I imagine myself, O-Captain-ing in front of a group of mesmerized young scholars, waxing eloquent in a completely non-ironic way about the importance of words. It’s a great speech.

“Words matter, kids.”
They nod appreciatively. Some lean forward in their seats. But there’s that one kid— you know, the tough one who has to be convinced, but at the end of our story he has learned a tough lesson and dedicates all of his novels and screenplays to me as an adult. Oh, and there’s always an homage to me buried somewhere in every book or film. Whole graduate level film classes write papers about this mysterious unlocker of the key to words. I become an archetype that upends that stiff from Dead Poets Society.

But I digress.

Words.

When crafting a lecture (don’t worry, old schoolers— some of us still lecture!), I talk to myself a lot. Silently, I think about what I want to say and I’ll sort of pretend that I’m arguing about it— because that’s sort of how I’ve always been. Man, ask my parents and many of my early mentors. Some of you can relate. Anyway, in my mind there’s always a voice that wants to challenge the point that I am making, so I will argue back and forth with that voice.

Words matter!

No they don’t! You’re just saying that because you’re an English teacher.

I mean, fair point that this is my trade, but they do matter.

Prove it.

If I were to tell you to shut up —[I imagine that the whole class erupts about that time that one teacher at Davis or Lorraine or Pine Street told the whole class to shut up]— why would you be so mad?

Because it’s rude! My momma spanked me when I said that when I was little (good for her!). Because if we can’t say it, y’all can’t say it.

[At this point, I would probably teach them that old playground saying: Shut don’t go up, prices do. Take my advice and shut up, too. It would kill.]

Let’s talk about what it means. [I go to the white board— are you still with me?— and write the phrase across it: SHUT UP.]

Break it down.

What does “shut” mean? Why do we add “up” to the ends of some imperative sentences?

After a little while of doing this, we decide that maybe it isn’t the words we use so much as it is the connotation of the words we use. If I tell you to shut the window because it’s raining, you probably won’t be offended. If I tell you to shut your stupid mouth because you’re getting on my nerves, I’m probably doing to hear from your mom later.

Ah, there’s another word: stupid. This is a good one. I might have them look it up in the dictionary— the actual, real dictionary on their desk. We’ll talk about the Latin and what the word really means and how it came to be something insulting when it came from a word having to do with being stupefied— having been stunned or shock by something as in pain or grief.

You can see how a room of 28 scholars could have some very interesting conversations around just a couple of words.

Words matter, and now I’ve proven that I can make you call your mom over calling you “stupid” even though this afternoon I will walk behind you and your friends and hear you casually use some of the worst language ever and no one will think one thing about it.

Which leads to another point: who you are matters. Words used by one person might not have the same impact used by someone else. If your teacher or your mom tells you that you’re stupid, it might have the power to injure you in a way that one of your peers might not have. Maybe.

And the same can be true with the impact of positive words.

If I tell you that you are beautiful, will it matter to you?

Words matter.

In August of 1993, my friend Lynnelle was one of the teachers the Lord sent into my life to help me through the ridiculousness that was my early 20’s. Sitting over tea, she took me to 2nd Corinthians 2:14

But thanks be to God who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of Him.

Triumphal procession.

What do you think of when you read or hear those words? I’ll tell you what I thought of immediately— the ticker tape parade that was thrown for the Braves right after they won the World Series. I think of victorious gladiators. I think of a newly crowned king or queen. I think of the softball team at our high school and the send-off we give them every year when they load up the buses to head to the state championship game— the students line the side walk as the girls lean out of the windows and wave, everyone yelling wildly, the police escort running blue lights in front of the buses and after.

Who proceeds in triumph? Champions. People who are on their way to becoming champions. Heroes. Victors. Contenders.

Take a moment to think about that.

Paul, who was an evangelist who saw some serious difficulty in the mission field, praised God for always leading him in triumph. He was in a lifelong parade of triumph, “spreading everywhere the aroma of Christ”!

The triumph here is over death and damnation. It’s over despair and depression and worthlessness. He is talking about the triumph of Christ over the grave. Victory. Jesus Christ, the champion— the fighter who has overcome all battles. And I follow Him, blanketed in the folds of His robes, part of the train, as both the conquered and the conquering— one of His champions in this life. Overcoming because of the power of His Spirit in and on my life.

When I began to picture myself as one walking in triumphal procession, way back in my 20’s, something in me changed forever. I’m one of those people who believes we were all created for glory— some of us will say yes and some of us will not, but we were all created to walk in triumph. Sadly, I think the church has misrepresented much of what it means to know the Creator of the Universe, but that’s not a conversation for this place— anyway, we were made for glory. To grow in our understanding of who He is and who we were created to be every single day until the last time we close our eyes on this gorgeous blue planet and open them in the face of the Artist responsible for all of this beauty.

I believe that His intention has always been that we walk around in triumph, even when things seem dark. I believe that He has created a planet full of champions, and some of us know and some of us don’t.

I believe some of us have believed the lies of some words and have hung them over the doorways to our hearts, have adopted them: loser, sick, stupid, failure, alone, greedy, insecure, ugly, etc. We sit on the sidelines and watch the parade going by, sometimes even resenting the joy we see in others.

Words matter. This year, I want to understand more of what it means to be a champion, and also what it means to champion others. I want to understand what it means to use words as a weapon against what attacks and oppresses us.

Let’s go forth and conquer, champions.

Season of Change!

“By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did I sac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” (Hebrews 11:8)

By faith.

He set off and had no idea where he was going.

Let’s pause and think about that for a second: Abraham was called to a place that he would later receive as his inheritance, but he didn’t know where he was going.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he picked up all his stuff (“all the possessions he had accumulated”) and set out. Left his home; left what he knew.

What do we do when we’re faced with change? Lately, I’ve been reading a book called The Sacred Enneagram (it’s good— get it), and I’ve been thinking (I mean, really thinking) about the fact that we are all wired up uniquely. I mean, it’s ridiculous how we’re all made up of the same stuff (blood, etc.), but each one of us is this complicated ball of yarn and fabric, totally unique in our responses and theories and coping mechanisms. Just thinking about how different you and I are reinforces my belief in a Perfect Creator who put all of this stuff together, and it also humbles me— when I think about how different my response to pain is from my husband’s, this thought immediately comes to mind: “Who are you to judge someone else’s servant? To their own master servants stand or fall” (Romans 14:4). You and I are so different, how could we ever judge each other? I have no idea how you were designed to work— and even if I know, who am I to say if it’s right or wrong? 

(It’s more complicated than that, I know, but you know what I mean)

So today, I’m looking at changes. Change happens all the time. Things break and get replaced. Rules and laws get amended. Politicians get elected and fired. Friends move. People pass on to glory before we do.

For me, I like change. I like new opportunities and a different view— change helps me think of new things; a change in perspective literally inspires a change in perspective for me. I grew up rearranging my bedroom when I got in trouble; Virginia Redding at Pine Street used to let me stay inside and rearrange her classroom when I felt overwhelmed (I didn’t know that about myself, but she did).

But here’s the wrench, what stresses me out: not knowing what to expect. I like change, but I like to know what the change is going to look like. I like to rearrange and reevaluate and repaint and reorganize. I like to meet new people and learn new things, but I like to know what the layout of the airplane is or what side of the hotel my room is on or where my table is going to be at a conference. I like change, but I like to know that I can escape if I need to. I like to know that I can hide if I need to. 

Basically, I guess I like to be in control of the change happening around me.

Here’s where a smiley face emoji would go.

So today, this is what I’m talking to myself about: where is the good in the change happening all around us in our community? Because there is so much good to be had. Not good because you’re glad people are retiring or getting promoted or getting married or widowed or divorced, but good because it’s good to rotate the crops and take a bath and change light bulbs and oil filters and diapers and house colors and outfits.

And when it’s organizational change, we step up and welcome the new people. For the folks in our county, we’ve said goodbye to so many dear friends in the last four or five years, but here is what I hear from the people who are wiping their hands and looking up and down the hallway at new signs over doors and new rules regarding parking lots: when do the kids get here? What new tradition are we going to try to start or carry on this year? We’ll make sure there are people who still remember when Evelyn and Ginger didn’t go outside for the fire drill that time, and we’ll laugh at seniors who still can’t find the door to the basement (do not ask us, guys— everyone is lying to you. They will never, ever tell you). 

And we will help our new principals, assistant principals, teachers, coaches, and students to be as successful as they can be. Because we love this town. Because we love Rockdale. Because we love these students. Because we know that, in a family, an individual’s success is the whole family’s success. But mostly, because we know that there is gold buried in this place. There is gold in each person-- the children and the grown-ups— who has been called to share space with us this year. 

You might not know it, so I’ll just tell you: there are treasures in Rockdale county, and if you’re here it’s because He believes you’ve got some of what it takes to help us call forth this gold. There is a calling on this third smallest county in the state. There is something special about this place. 

God has not moved. He has not changed His mind or His address. He has not changed your assignment. Every kid walking into each of our classrooms deserves to get what He called us to give. And I need to let go of sentimentality and fear and embrace this new season and the victories that are before us. And if I need to wear a name tag bigger than a name badge all year to make sure that we get to know each other like family, I’ll do it. My job is to help the newbies WIN. My job is to help my new principal WIN— to succeed in outrageous ways. I want to inspire our new superintendent to be so grateful to have arrived in this county that he actually cries at night before he goes to sleep. 

We are being called out upon the water, Rockdale county teachers, parents, business owners, students, administrators, baristas, ministers, lawyers, judges, secretaries, landscapers, builders, coaches. We have been given charge of future versions of ourselves. They need our whole hearts.

We are being called UP to greatness. Let’s resist the fear of change and embrace the possibility of greatness. We have been given the honor to call forth the gold in the children in our community. Let’s not be distracted from that tremendous calling. Let’s lock arms and call it forth.

New Season: Writing & Editing

Hi all!

The summer of writing has begun! Thank you for your notes and TRAFFIC! I will update you here periodically, but for now all past content is being edited! Please email me with any questions!

Sam

first, they gotta have a vision

So, everybody's talking about school lately.

I almost hashtagged school.

#school

And I verbed a noun. Hashtagged.

I've been thinking about school and thinking  about my students and about their parents, and about all of my nieces, and the children of my friends, and I wonder how you guys let them walk up and down stairs without worrying about them, much less actually let them get on big yellow buses in the morning to spend whole days out of your sight.

I'm serious-- there was a period of days a while back when I would lie in bed at night and pray for my nieces and I kept having this recurring image of them walking carefully down the stairs in their homes (whatever happened to ranch homes, Nathan and Lucy, and Diane and Duke?? You guys couldn't get sprawling compounds somewhere?). I prayed for those girls about those steps for days.

Anyway, school.

I've been thinking, as teachers do, about how to help my students become more successful. But the way I'm thinking about their success has more to do with how to help THEM become more successful rather than how successful *I* do as a teacher. Always, there are things I can do to improve my practice, but part of this season's improvement on my part is figuring out how to help them improve their part. Maybe it springs from my teacher's heart as a believer, but I don't think it helps my students to tell them everything. I think that the things they will remember the longest and the purest are the things that they discover  on their own.

Like page numbers.

I kid you not-- I need to ask my old English teachers, but these guys refuse to look up chapters in a book. They also tend to want someone to call out dictionary pages. If someone asks, "Swaney, what page is this story on?" I will tell them without fail to look it up. Well, unless I'm in a hurry. Okay, sometimes I tell them the page number, but you know what I'm saying.

So they're here and they look at us with these eyes and they trust us. Man, it levels me when I think of all of the unmerited trust these guys have for us when they first meet us-- first day of school and they don't even know me, but they look at me with hands folded and eyes open and listening for where I want them to write their names and the date and do I want them to write the name of the assignment? Trust. I'm the expert. I could tell them virtually anything and they give me the benefit of the doubt.

Like, once I told my kids that back in the day, we used to have stationary bikes in ISS (in school suspension) and if you were sent to ISS you had to take a shift on the bike. I told them that this was how we powered the school until they (who is "they"??) finally hooked us into  the grid from Atlanta.

Anyway, I've been thinking  about how to help them become more proactive. They come equipped with brains to learn. They are born with them and they show up in my classroom with them. They are hard-wired for it. Learning makes  you feel good. There are all kinds of factors (learning disabilities, etc.) that get in the way sometimes, but their brains still respond to learning in a positive way-- it's science, I tell them.

Sometimes, we have to get past the quarterback in their minds that stands at the door and threatens to throat punch any new attempts at information. This guy stands on their noses and yells back at them "YOU CAN'T DO THIS!!! IT HURTS!!!! IT'S HARD!!!! LET'S EAT ICE CREAM!!!"

That same guy plays on a couple of teams in my own brain, too.

So here's where I'm at-- there's a verse that says, "Where there is no vision, the people perish" (Proverbs 29: 17). Without a purpose, without a direction (a vision-- a plan), people aren't sure which direction to start walking, or which book to read first, or which choice to make in regard to...almost anything.

And now we're talking about purpose.

Telling a student that he'll be glad he has a diploma one day isn't inspiring. Even discussing his game plan for [insert name of Ivy League school here] doesn't present enough of a sense of "YAHOOOOO" to really make anyone work consistently for their goal.

Purpose "is closely linked to ‘flow’ - the state of intense absorption in which we forget our surroundings and ourselves. If you have a strong sense of purpose, you’re likely to experience flow more frequently. And as Mihaly Czikszentmihalyi has shown, flow is a powerful source of well-being. The more flow we experience, the happier we feel" (Psychology Today).

So, today is March 20 and I have been thinking about the brain and happiness and purpose and vision and flow in an intentional way for about six months now.

And suddenly, because of school shootings (another this morning in Maryland), the world is starting to notice that our students are unhappy. And scared. And lonely. And being mean as crud to each other. Welcome to what teachers and parents and students already know.

For me, I think I'm on the brink of finding a solution. And it has everything to do with the way the Creator made our brains.

First, they gotta have vision.