I Believe in Christmas

Who knew? I mean, really, who totally saw this coming??

A virgin married to a simple carpenter.
A nondescript town full of tired travelers . . . who were also pretty fed up with their government.
A stable.
A manger of straw.

Who really expected that?

I suppose Mary and Joseph, devout Jews, had read the ancient predictions of the prophets:
He would be born of a virgin.
He would be born in Bethlehem.
They may have understood in their hearts the magnitude of this Holy Night.

The magi seemed to have an inkling that something momentous was at hand. Their studies of astronomy led them to follow the strange star.

The shepherds on the Bethlehem hillside, tending their flock of sacrificial Passover sheep, were astounded . . . perhaps terrified . . . by the appearance of angels in the night sky. But they willingly obeyed the heavenly command to visit the stable. And they bowed in reverence before their tiny, swaddled king.

Even King Herod believed that a royal birth occurred. He killed thousands of Hebrew infants and toddlers to try to prevent this King from taking His throne.

I guess mankind should have completely expected the humble entrance of their Messiah King. 20-20 hindsight makes it clear that all the signs were there. Ancient prophecies were perfectly fulfilled. Supernatural signs announced His advent. The gates of hell mobilized to prevent His reign.

But I am thinking that not much has changed in more than 2,000 years. God still comes quietly and humbly and, often, secretly. He still places His presence in the hands of every-day people. He still performs miracles and signs and wonders that pretty much go unacknowledged and unappreciated. And the gates of hell still mobilize to prevent His reign in the lives and hearts of mankind.

And we, somehow, still often manage to miss it.

Or misunderstand it.
Or twist it to fit our own agendas and our own satisfaction and our own benefit.
Or ignore it all together.
Or even join the forces of hell to extinguish its light on the earth.

My hope and my prayer this Christmas Eve, is that you . . . that we . . . will not miss Him this year.

May we see Him . . .
even if His coming it is very humble . . .
even if He contradicts our preconceived ideas . . .
even if He interrupts our well-intentioned plans . . .
even if He costs us dearly . . .
even if His benefits don’t seem lofty and grand enough . . .
even if the gates of hell are aligned in battle against Him.

May we live this next year in awe of our Messiah’s intimacy instead of boasting of His favor.
And may be become more like Him in every way.

Even if that means our lives are hidden in Him.
Even if that means we will carry a cross.

"If anyone wishes to come after Me,

 he must deny himself,

and take up his cross and follow Me.

 For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it;

but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.

For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world

and forfeits his soul?

Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?"
Matthew 16:24-26

Belief is not an intellectual act; belief is a moral act whereby I deliberately commit myself.

—My Utmost For His Highest Oswald Chambers

I believe in Christmas.

Do you?

Surprises Instead of Agendas

If I was writing a Christmas List this year, I would put Surprises at the top of my list. I love a really good surprise. The kind that stops you in your tracks . . . leaves you speechless . . . standing in the middle of suspended reality for an unbelievable moment.



I find it interesting and very satisfying, however, that real surprises are nothing like the ones depicted in all of the popular holiday movies. Don’t get me wrong, I love watching holiday movies. I plan to sit in front of our stone fireplace tonight . . . wrapped in my favorite blanket . . . in the company of my husband of 27 years . . . cuddling three small, fluffy poodles . . . sipping hot apple cider . . . and watch a couple of heart-warming Christmas movies. But real-life surprises are so much better than movie ones. Mostly because they are real.


Agendas, I believe, are the evil Archenemy of surprises. Agendas are too predictable. Too explainable and planned. They crowd out serendipity and leave no room for pure, unexpected amazement. They lurk secretly in the dark recesses of our psyche, adding their own twist to everything we do. Agendas insist they are right. They are cocky and overly assertive. They crave conformity. They demand control. Agendas feed off of the praises and discipleship of devoted underlings. And they can be very, very vengeful if they are threatened.


I am not saying that I have no schedules or lists of chores in my life. I live on a farm and we run a family business. There are always things that need to be done and lists of chores that need to be checked off. I am also not saying that I have no dreams or hopes in my life. There are still lots of things I want to learn. Places I would love to visit. Things I would love to do.


I am just saying that I don’t like the lurking menace of agendas. They tend to set up secret idolatries in our hearts that completely squelch the fresh, surprising, unexpected Life of God.


When you have an agenda . . .
a pet belief
or a particularly beloved revelation
or a self-proclaimed system
or a well-orchestrated plan . . .
it inevitably shrinks God.

The agenda requires God to fit a special set of rules. He must comply with certain expectations and He must work within a circumscribed set of parameters. Agendas interpret Biblical Truth in “special” ways that enslave God’s Word to man’s direction and will. Eventually, agendas enslave people too.

I don’t like things that make God small.
God is bigger.
And God is more.
He is bigger than any agenda and more than any religious system.


I want to live an agenda-less life.


I want to wake up every morning and know that my God is so vast that I will never plump beyond the depths of His love nor ascend past the heights of His faithfulness.


I want to look into a manger and see a King.

I want to look at a crown and see a servant.

I want to kneel in submission with a heart that soars on wings of freedom.

I want to succumb to the awe and reverence of a life that has nothing to prove and heaven to gain.

I want to rejoice in the surprise and celebration that comes from simple, daily fellowship with the God that is more than I can ever fully grasp.


Without an agenda, I can be an empty vessel.
Fashioned by the Master Potter.
Filled by the overflowing of a Father’s Heart.
Poured out by the compassionate ministry of nail-scarred Hands.


An agenda-less life is a surprised life.


Perhaps that’s what God had in mind when He sent His son . . . King of Kings and Lord of Lords . . . to be born in the small town of Bethlehem. To a virgin. Into the family of a simple carpenter. Cradled in a bed of straw. Among stable animals. Beneath a brilliant, starry night. Worshipped by shepherds and non-Hebrew magi.


The Treasure of eternity swaddled in commonness.


Surprise indeed.

Concerning Chickens and God and Bold Adventures

Chickens love bananas. At least MY chickens do. And how did I gain this precious pearl of wisdom? I got it in a moment of inspiration in my kitchen. Then I walked up to the barn and fed them a banana. And they loved it!



Kirkhaven chickens love bananas so much that they will run across the meadow when they see me coming. Have you ever seen a chicken run? It is either hilarious or endearing or a scientific anomaly, depending upon your perspective. Neck stuck waaay out front to enhance the forward motion . . . feet pedaling frantically behind for traction . . . wings poised for flutter-flapping if extra momentum is needed. And if I call them with my patented “chicken call” . . . chick-CHICK-eeeeees (short pause) COME ON . . . they burst into supersonic scurry. It makes me laugh. Every time.


I feel quite sure that if I Googled “chicken treats,” bananas would top the list. Of course, other keepers of farm fowl might surely express other opinions about the chicken palate. And there would probably be some old farmer who would insist that chickens don’t even need treats. But I could, without a doubt, copy and paste some kind of “chickens love bananas” quote from a totally respected source into any intellectual essay I would write about chicken living.


I can state that chickens love bananas with complete confidence. And I can be assured that I am right because others agree with me. And my own life experiences totally back up such a truth. Chickens love bananas. Yours should too. All good farmers feed their chickens bananas.


THIS, my friends, is how heretical teachings creep into the Christian community.


First there is the moment of inspiration . . . revelation.
Then comes the experiential confirmation.
Next the “truth” is sealed with corroborating evidence such as the opinions and experiences of others.
And finally, people are subtly lulled into revelation discipleship by morphing it into a moral imperative.


It happens so very easily. People are looking for inspiration. People are drawn to a supportive, loving community where they can find like-mindedness and like-heartedness. And in a world where tragedy is all too common, people need leaders who are strong and have answers and are passionate.


That’s how cults are born. And that’s how well-meaning churches can get off on a religious tangent. And that’s how precious believers can become confused about Christian living.


The other day I asked my husband, “Exactly what did Jesus purchase for believers at the cross? What does salvation mean for us on a day-to-day basis, here on earth, before the “going to heaven” thing?” This wasn’t a flippant question. I was not looking for a pat answer.


My husband paused for a minute. He knew where the question had come from. A dear friend of ours had just lost their daughter to cancer . . . after years of praying for her healing. Another friend of ours had a daughter who had recently attempted suicide . . . a precious, sweet child who loved the Lord and served Him wholeheartedly. Our own household has been broken and torn from estranged relationships with family members who reject us.


He could have given me an easy answer:
God purchased our freedom from demonic oppression
or our forgiveness of sins
or our health of body, soul, and spirit
or the prosperity to meet all of our physical and financial needs
or the ability to receive revelations into the glories of His grace
or all of the above.


But my husband didn’t say any of that.


He simply said, “God purchased me. All of me. The good and the bad. I belong to Him now. Whatever He wants in my life . . . whatever that looks like . . . that’s what I want. ‘Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.’ “ (scripture reference: Romans 12:1-2)


No need to start a new movement.
No need to revive an old one.
No need for any deeper revelation.
God bought me.
Now I am His.
His Biblical Truth is my truth.


This is servitude in its richest definition and exaltation in its realest form.

To live in
and with
and by
the mercies and grace and lovingkindness and supernatural enablement
of God.


It is a life that is both unfathomable and utterly simple.
It is a life that can only be pursued by faith as it is completely upheld by God Himself.
It is a life that requires the courage and the tenacity of a bold adventurer . . . and the humility and obedience of a faithful bond-slave.


All God.
And all of me.


I know that when I walk up to the barn this afternoon to bring my chickens their banana treat, they will come running. Would your chickens do the same?? I truly have no idea.


Forget about the bananas.
And the revelations of men.

What really matters is this:
Who owns you?
At what price have you been bought?

I love You, O LORD, my strength.

The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer,

My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge;

My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

I call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised,

And I am saved from my enemies.

Psalm 18:1-3

Beautiful Savior indeed.

Thanksgiving

The most amazing thing about Thanksgiving is that I enjoy it so much. I love the cooking. I love the eating. I love the fellowship of family and friends. And I love the “giving of thanks” that is at the center of it all. Thanksgiving is a lovely celebration. There is something about this year, however, that is really special. I felt it again last night as I left the house to “put the chickens to bed.”

I enjoy my jaunts to the chicken coop each evening. And now that the days are shorter, it is fully dark by the time I walk up to the barn. Last night was gorgeous. The waning full moon, rising above Kirkhaven’s grassy brae, threw random moon-beams across the wet gravel under my feet. A slight breeze ruffled crispy leaves on the maple trees beside my country driveway. Just a hint of wispy fog drifted through the treetops across the ridge. A twinkly, bronze star Betelgeuse, hanging low in the eastern horizon, announced the arrival of my favorite constellation: Orion the Hunter.

It was chilly outside, but not really cold. I was wearing my favorite pink flannel pajamas and wondered if I should have worn a jacket.

The joy that began trickling into my heart as I walked up the hill to the barn was unexplainable. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular.  My day had been fairly unremarkable.

I began to smile. I hummed a favorite hymn.  My steps were light . . . unencumbered.  I stood underneath autumn’s huge night sky and marveled at its tranquility. I thought about going back to the house to get my husband . . . or phone my son . . . or text my daughter-in-law . . . and encourage them to join me outside. It’s probably dorky, but I have done it before. I just hate for others to miss such beauty. But instead, I raised my hands into the cool night air and exclaimed:

“Ohmygosh! Who can I share this with?”

I heard an answer, believe it or not. The question was meant to be rhetorical, but the answer I received was quietly emphatic. A clear, familiar voice spoke softly in the depths of my startled heart:


“Me. Share it with Me.”


All thoughts and emotions settled into an awe-struck stillness as my small East Tennessee farm became a moon-lit sanctuary. I had been invited to share an astoundingly beautiful nighttime walk with the King of the Universe. I hadn't brought a flashlight, so we walked by the light of a million twinkling stars.  Words are not sufficient to describe the wonder I felt.

This year Thanksgiving and Christmas come to Kirkhaven with much celebration. There will be gratitude and joy. There will be decorations all over the house, warm fires at the hearth, and deliciously aromatic goodies baking in the oven. There will be parties and family and friends. We at Kirkhaven are so very, very blessed.

But this year there is something different. There is a fresh breeze of freedom and fellowship here. I am astounded by the calming presence of the Lord Himself. Like He actually wants to walk with us through our rolling meadows and wooded trails. As if He delights to join us in our simple farming chores . . . feeding the chickens . . . tilling the garden soil. It is impossible to feel alone here because He is so very present.

I am becoming more and more convinced, however, that a person cannot experience the rich filling of the presence of God until there is an emptying to make room for Him. If you are full of your own agenda and your own opinions and your own wisdom and your own religiosity and your own well-constructed-well-insulated community of yea-saying friends and family and colleagues . . . then you are full. And a full vessel has no need.

But an empty vessel is very needy. It has such poignant elegance. Unembellished. Unpretentious. It claims ownership of nothing. It is simply waiting. To be filled. To be poured out. And helpless to do neither . . . fully dependent upon the Master’s Hands for everything.

Life doesn’t need fanfare to be exciting. You don’t need religious credentials to experience real encounters with God. And prayers don’t have to be perfectly uttered to be heard.

But you must be empty to be filled.

May the Lord be your treasured guest and ever-present companion this holiday season.

I wait for the Lord, my soul does wait,

And in His Word do I hope.

Psalm 130:5

Not Be Silent

Sometimes silence is tragic:

Not saying, “I love you.”

Not saying, “I am sorry.”

Not saying, “I miss you.”

Not saying, “My door is always open and my heart is always waiting.”

Sometimes saying nothing opens such a deep chasm of emptiness

that even the brightest light of hope

wanes dimmer and dimmer

until the silence becomes

nothing but darkness

itself.

But the Lord

is gracious:

ALWAYS

gracious.

And the silence

that holds loneliness and sorrow

and fear

can

be

broken

by

a

single

word

of

love

.

Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me;
O Lord, be my helper.
You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
You have loosed my sackcloth and girded me with gladness,
That my soul may sing praise to You and not be silent.
O Lord my God,
I will give thanks to You forever.
Psalms 30:10-12

A dear friend gave these flowers to me.

Thank you, Tracy.

Breath

He knew.

He has always known

That we would need Him.

He knew that we would be lost and vulnerable and helpless

And that we would need a Shepherd . . .

The LORD is my shepherd,

I shall not want.

He knew that we would get weary from the struggle

And emptied by the pain . . .

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

He leads me beside quiet waters.

He restores my soul;

He knew that we would become confused

And tend to wander away . . .



He guides me in the paths of righteousness

For His name's sake.

He knew that our way would sometimes grow dark

And threaten to extinguish all hope and life . . .

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I fear no evil, for You are with me;

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

So He prepared the oil ahead of time . . .

You have anointed my head with oil;

My cup overflows.

This is why we believe.

In the midst of it all . . .

Surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me

all the days of my life,

This is why we find True Life

In the journey of our life

In Him . . .

And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Psalms 23:1-6

The Lord is my Shepherd,

I shall not want.

And I am still breathing.

Can you hear it?

“Be Still, My Soul.”

Poem by Catharina von Schlegel (1697-?), Germany
Translated into English by Jane Borthwick (1813-1897), Scotland
Music by Jean Sibelius, Finland in 1899
cello played by Steven Sharp Nelson

Be still, my soul;
the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul;
thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul,
though dearest friends depart
And all is darkened in the vale of tears;
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears.
Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul;
the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; when change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Beautiful, beautiful.

These words were originally written in Germany during a time of Christian revival. The Spirit of God was invading the pharisaical religions of that day with a simpler, more compelling Gospel of Jesus Christ. The Holy Spirit was emphasizing the need for a heart-kind of faith . . . where people really cared about other people and God was really the Lord. And God was boldly addressing particular strongholds within the church community:

• Egotism of church leaders
• Idolatrous attachments to particular doctrines and systems of worship
• Persecution of those who desired freedom of faith and would not be controlled by established practices and rulers

There was a new hunger for purity in the Body of Christ during this revival. Not the kind of purity that made one person better than another person, but the kind of purity that made all people fall to their knees at the feet on the only Pure One . . . truly desiring to become more like Him. People began to re-examine their ethics, their devotion, their charity, and their own motives. The Lord challenged His people to give up their strident loyalty toward particular people or particular doctrines or particular churches in exchange for a heartfelt empathy and real acceptance of simple, honest Christian discipleship.

So if God was doing such a beautiful work of revival in His people, then why are the words in this hymn so full of consolation? If something great was happening, why was there such a need to “be still” and be assured?

People needed to hear these words because this was not a rain-down-from-above and make-everyone-dancing-happy kind of revival. This wasn’t the kind of revival where you could fall to the ground weeping during a church service and then walk out of the church door laughing about “such an awesome meeting.” This revival was gut-wrenching. It happened in the hearts of believers . . . not within the prescribed walls of a particular church building. It was a call to the type of life change that impacted not only individuals, but also revolutionized families, communities, and even countries.

And being still . . . still to the very core of their souls . . . was the first step.

Did you rush through the reading of this song’s lyrics so you could quickly scan to “the point” of my essay? I urge you to read the lyrics slowly and thoughtfully. Or get your hymnal out and play it on the piano. Or download it onto your ipod.

Dear reader, I hear this beautiful hymn calling to me through the corridors of revivals past. I can feel its lyrics beginning to pluck my heartstrings with slow, determined strokes. I can sense its melody soaking into deep, dusty crevices of my soul. And with this hymn of hope and consolation, I can hear the voice of the Lord calling . . .

America needs a revival like this.

We need a revolution of heart and soul and spirit.

We need God.

I know that such a revival also comes with great cost. All heavenly treasures are very costly indeed.

But I believe it is time.

Time to be still.

Time to know that God is really God.

Time to grasp our shovels and dig up the deep, ancient wells of Truth in God’s Holy Word.

Time for repentance to pave a way for restoration.

Americans . . . friends . . . brothers and sisters in Christ . . . can you hear this song too?

Will you sing it along with me?

I will be praying for you.

Will you pray for me?

Be still, and know that I am God;

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth.

The LORD Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Selah

Psalm 46:10-11

Spending Time

Sometimes I just like to walk up to the barn and sit with the chickens for a while. It is so quiet and calming and real. I usually refill their water dispensers with cool, fresh water. Often, I bring them a treat (my chickens love bananas). Then I just find some place to sit . . . and watch . . . and pray.

We have an old fold-up chair in the barn. There are also some left-over cinder blocks near the wood pile. And I keep a couple of 5-gallon buckets next to the chicken’s feed bin. Any of these make good seats for sitting with the chickens and watching summer go by. And for praying.

I sit with my chickens because I have them.

And because I have the time to just sit.

And because I enjoy it.

I pray because fellowshipping with the Lord is my pouring-out time . . . that fills me back up so I can live some more . . . and live more fully.

I just sit.

I look up at the clouds.

I wonder if it’s going to rain.

I listen to the bluebird in a nearby maple tree.

I pray for the people that are imprinted on my heart.

I am sure that it looks like I am doing nothing.

But I am truly not wasting time.

Really, I’m not.

I am, however, spending it.

Extravagently.

I have spent many, many years of my life doing things that absolutely must be done . . . and not really having enough time to do them all. Usually, they were things that I immensely enjoyed . . . raising 4 children, teaching school, helping my husband with his work, homemaking. Sometimes they were things that were not especially enjoyable.  But running-pell-mell through jam-packed days like a wildly screaming rollercoaster fanatic isn’t the way my middle-aged time is spent any more.

I don’t live life any less passionately than I did 20 or 30 years ago. Or with any less joy.

But I have stepped down from the rollercoaster now . . .

I amble more, instead of rushing . . .

I think more and scream less . . .

I definitely avoid dramatic dips in altitude . . .

And if I have my hands high in the air, 

it is to wave to friends . . .

or to feel the rain . . .

or to worship the Lord beneath a twinkling, starlit sky.

So I have decided to share some pictures of the chickens I sit with and the sky that I contemplate and the gravel road that I meander up and down on these long, hot summer days.

This is Eli, my rooster, enjoying the dappled shade of his favorite locust tree.

Here is Eli crowing . . . so loudly and with such complete abandon that he has to gasp for his next breath after such an effort.

Here are a couple of Eli’s girls. This particular patch of wood’s-edge foliage often has a rabbit napping in it. When chickens and rabbit meet, much flurry and scurry and squawking always occurs. However, the rabbit will probably be in that same place tomorrow. And the chickens will be surprised again. I love predictabilities.

Here are some pictures of Eli’s plumage. My Australorp chickens are officially black, but their shiny, soft feathers reflect iridescent greens and blues and purples in the sunlight. I think it’s beautiful.

This is the skyline I see as I look across the field.

 

This is the barn's gravel driveway I stroll up when I am finished sitting.

And this is my walkway back home on a summer afternoon.

 

Autumn will be here soon enough. The weather will grow cooler, the days will grow shorter, and the chickens will be free-ranging less in the shady places. But even in the nippy fall air, I will still be sitting and watching and praying.

I will watch soaring hawks float high above the bronze-and-golden maples that line our gravel road. I will listen to crispy breezes as they sweep through swishing leaves in the woods behind the barn. And I will pray as the huge, orange harvest moon rises early over Kirkhaven’s quieted eastern hillside.

I will watch.

I will listen.

I will pray.

But I won’t be wasting time.

Truly I won't.

I will be spending it.

Extravagently.

Because when you are in the company of the Lord of the Universe, every moment is precious indeed.

The LORD is my strength and song,

And He has become my salvation;

This is my God, and I will praise Him;

My father's God, and I will extol Him.

Exodus 15:2

Ordinary Miracles

When was the last time you felt icy-cold, pure well water pouring over your bare feet on a sweltering summer afternoon? If it hasn’t been in the last few days . . . or at least in the last year . . . then you need to come to Kirkhaven. Our well is finally finished, the pump is installed, the pipes are all connected, and water is flowing! It is amazing to think that this precious gift of clean, sweet water has been there . . . 760 feet below the wildflower-strewn meadows of my home . . . waiting for us to reach down and draw it up from its limestone depths.

The water is clear . . . as a finely-polished crystal.
Cold . . . as an April mountain stream.
Fresh . . . as a morning autumn rain.
Abundant . . . as a triple-portion harvest just before Jubilee year.


And all we have to do is open a valve or simply lift a handle.


Don’t let anyone tell you, however, that getting water from a well like this is cheap or easy or quick. But don’t let them tell you it is foolish or irrelevant or impossible either.

When I look at our well, I see God's faithfulness wrought through generous, skillful, hardworking hands. I am grateful for the knowledge and the equipment of well drillers, excavators, and electricians. I admire the tenacity of those who worked in 90+ degrees with 90+ humidity to glue pipes together and install hydrants and valves. I remember the vision that initiated the project, the hope that gave it breath, the faith that sustained it, and the persistence that brought it to full fruition.

And now this precious gift from the Lord . . . this hard-won victory . . . this well water becomes a simple part of routine life at Kirkhaven. Irrigating our flowers and our green lawn. Watering the berries, fruits, melons, vegetables, herbs, and apple orchard. Cleaning off the patio and maintaining the swimming pool. Washing our cars. Filling our bass pond. Providing the chickens with clean, chlorine-free drinking water.


Isn’t it amazing
that the real miracles of God’s goodness and grace are both
so very costly . . . and so very free . . .
so very astounding . . . and so very common . . .
so lavishly enjoyed . . . and so industriously employed . . .
altogether unearned . . . yet requiring such faith and diligence?


And hidden.
Usually hidden.
Hidden beneath red clay and gray limestone.
Or simply hidden in the quiet routine of life on a small ridge-top farm.


It is easy, sometimes, to feel besieged by the hardships and sorrows of life. Things can be so difficult and people can be so very hurtful. But it is important to recognize the miracles. And to laugh and rejoice every time they grace our commonplace lives.


Perhaps it is the ordinary things that are the real miracles anyway.


What could be more ordinary . . .
and more miraculously life-giving . . .
than water?

The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

He leads me beside quiet waters.

He restores my soul;

He guides me in the paths of righteousness

For His name's sake.

Psalm 23:1-3

. . . the first flow of water down the pipes into the bass pond . . .

my new yard art beside the garden . . .

gushing with icy-cold well water!

Summer Thunderstorm

I love a good thunderstorm.

huge, summer raindrops

pelting against my cloud-darkened windows

thunder crashing onto the ridge

and reverberating across Smoky Mountain foothills

random lightening

crackling across a shrouded, gray skyline

whooshing leaves

fluttering on bending trees

Then I love the shushed calmness that settles on Kirkhaven

when the storm passes.

Everything is drippy

and soggy

and wet.

 

A fresh scent of summer optimism hangs in the humid air.

And occasionally a translucent rainbow arcs across McNally ridge

as the sun breaks through dissipating clouds.

Sometimes fears loom menacingly at the edges of my thoughts.

Sometimes days are hectic and far too overscheduled.

Sometimes life is hard and heart-breakingly sad.

But sometimes the perfect rainstorm happens.

And I am refreshed.

And renewed.

And very, very grateful

for solitary moments

with an intimately personal God

in the midst of a raging storm

that ends with such

quiet

perfect

peace.

The steadfast of mind You will keep in perfect peace,
Because he trusts in You.
Trust in the LORD forever,
For in GOD the LORD, we have an everlasting Rock.
Isaiah 26:3-4

Words From the Heart

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

And renew a steadfast spirit within me.

Psalms 51:10

Heart dilemmas are some of the most difficult kinds of dilemmas. I have been thinking and praying about "heart issues" this summer as I tend my vegetables, herbs, and sunflowers in my ridge-top garden.  I think the popular advice, “Follow your heart,” is a bit insensitive and even a little trite. It isn’t so easy to follow your heart. And it may not even be a good thing to do so.

What if your heart is torn between two strikingly different but equally compelling decisions?
Or what if your heart is too confused to make any sense out of a tangled jumble of options?
Or what if your heart is too broken to find the strength to even make the effort to choose?
Or what if . . . and this is the scariest thing of all . . . what if your heart is so deceived or mistaken that following it will lead to destruction and sorrow?

I am reading a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Bonhoeffer; Pastor, Prophet, Martyr, Spy by Eric Metaxas. It is a heart-wrenching, inspiring portrait of a courageous man on the road to martyrdom. Bonheoffer was a man who was faced with making “choices of the heart” in Nazi Germany . . . and all of the choices were difficult ones.

Let me warn you before you read any farther . . . I am beating the drum of history. This is where my mind and my heart have been musing, lately. So this is what I have to share. No pensive musings or whimsical perspectives are rolling from my pen right now. Why? Because I see such parallels in Bonhoeffer’s world and our world today. And because I believe that the hearts of God’s people need to be stirred anew to hear the voice of His callings . . . . . .

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a man of deep heart struggles. As a loyal, patriotic German, Bonhoeffer’s heart told him to be faithful to his country . . . shouldn’t he fight to prevent its destruction by the Allied forces in World War II? As a disciple of Jesus Christ, his heart discerned heinously evil intent in Hitler’s maniacal reign . . . who could justify soldiering beneath such a man? As a responsible citizen, his heart told him that unbridled tyranny must be resisted . . . could sedition and treason ever be morally right? As a respected professor and pastor, his heart told him that public politics could bring grave consequences to people he loved . . . should he live a lie as a double spy so that truth might ultimately triumph?

A lot of “good people” joined the Nazi regime. They followed their heart. There was lots of passion. Lots of well-intentioned loyalty. There was patriotism and many, many grand, stirring speeches. But a few people saw the evil there.

Deitrich Bonhoeffer, in his moral and spiritual anguish, made a courageous decision. He decided to follow God’s heart. Not his own heart . . . God’s heart. He knew that God’s heart was a heart of grace. But he also knew that God’s grace had cost Him everything . . . and that following this Heart of Grace would likely be very costly indeed.

Dietrich became part of the underground movement to save the lives of Jews. He wrote a devotional book on Psalms when “Jewish” Old Testament writings were outlawed. He “patriotically” joined the Abwehr (German military intelligence), then secretly acted as a double-agent spy to assist the Allies in their efforts to defeat Hitler. He plotted with a group of men planning to overthrow the Nazi regime and was complicit in a plan to kill Hitler. And he continued to love and pastor and serve the church of God until he was ultimately martyred.

From reading Bonhoeffer’s own letters and writings, it is clear that these decisions were very difficult for him. He was often confused in His journey of obedience to the Heart of God. Many times he was alone and afraid. He was misunderstood and he was maligned. The war against tyranny and injustice in his beloved Germany became . . . for him . . . a spiritual war against evil. It was a war he never relished, and one he sometimes despaired of. But it was a war he did not shirk waging.

Sometimes, all that is necessary for evil to prevail is for deception to be ruthlessly beguiling and for people to be willingly naive. It can happen so easily when we are passionately following our hearts. The church of the Lord Jesus Christ allows such deception to gain credence and power when she becomes obsessively occupied with the “benefits” of grace . . . neglecting an honest relationship with the Lord, customizing the Truth of His Word to fit their preferred creeds, and shirking the responsibilities of so great a salvation.

For those who have been patient enough to read this far, I leave you with some quotes from someone much wiser than I. These are excerpts from Bonhoeffer’s book, The Cost of Discipleship. See if you can hear the ring of truth in these passages . . . and see if you sense, as I do, a timeless call from God’s Heart to His church today . . .

Cheap grace is the deadly enemy of our Church. We are fighting today for costly grace. Cheap grace means grace sold on the market like cheapjacks’ wares. The sacraments, the forgiveness of sin, and the consolations of religion are thrown away at cut prices. Grace is represented as the Church’s inexhaustible treasury, from which she showers blessings with generous hands, without asking questions or fixing limits. Grace without price; grace without cost! The essence of grace, we suppose, is that the account has been paid in advance; and, because it has been paid, everything can be had for nothing. Since the cost was infinite, the possibilities of using and spending it are infinite...

Cheap grace means grace as a doctrine, a principle, a system. It means forgiveness of sins proclaimed as a general truth, the love of God taught as the Christian “conception” of God. An intellectual assent to that idea is held to be of itself sufficient to secure remission of sins. The Church which holds the correct doctrine of grace has, it is supposed, ipso facto a part in that grace. In such a Church the world finds a cheap covering for its sins; no contrition is required, still less any real desire to be delivered from sin. Cheap grace therefore amounts to a denial of the living Word of God, in fact, a denial of the Incarnation of the Word of God ...

Cheap grace means the justification of sin without the justification of the sinner. Grace alone does everything, they say, and so everything can remain as it was before. “All for sin could not atone.” . . . Well, then, let the Christian live like the rest of the world, let him model himself on the world’s standards in every sphere of life, and not presumptuously aspire to live a different life under grace from his old life under sin.... Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves.

Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate...

Costly grace is the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man’ will gladly go and sell all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble, it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows him.

Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.

Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son: “ye were bought at a price,” and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon his Son too dear a price to pay for our life, but delivered him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God.

Costly grace is the sanctuary of God; it has to be protected from the world, and not thrown to the dogs. It is therefore the living word, the Word of God, which He speaks as it pleases Him. Costly grace confronts us as a gracious call to follow Jesus. It comes as a word of forgiveness to the broken spirit and the contrite heart. Grace is costly because it compels a man to submit to the yoke of Christ and follow him; it is grace because Jesus says: “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Blackberry Jam

I love making jam! I think my favorite kind is blackberry jam. I love traipsing through the Kirkhaven woods looking for berry patches. I love filling my “repurposed” plastic ice-cream buckets with the juicy jewels I find. And I love the art and the craft of turning this summer bounty into rich, sweet, yummy jam. I don’t even mind the purple stains left on my hands (and sometimes my shirts) from the whole, earthy process.

I like bringing people with me sometimes when I go berry picking, but everyone isn’t always as keen on blackberry harvesting as I am. It is a hot, prickly, tedious job that puts you in close contact with bugs, thorns, ticks, and . . . occasionally . . . a blacksnake sunning himself in the meadow.

By the way . . . I always try to convince my companions that the blacksnake is a good thing. He eats the vermin that might otherwise overrun my farm. Kind of like our faithful Kirkhaven pest control. They don’t usually buy my reasoning, however.

As my bucket slowly fills . . . one-juicy-berry-at-a-time . . . . I have a luxurious amount of time to think, dream, pray, and hum myself through a peaceful Kirkhaven morning or early evening. I am treated to the joyous melodies of chirping songbirds if I go picking in the morning. Crickets, cicadas, and croaking frogs peacefully accompany my evening forays. Whatever the time of day, the predictably hot, humid Tennessee air usually makes the whole affair a complete energy sapper that climaxes with a fairly long . . . quite steep . . . walk back uphill to the house. However, orange-mint iced tea and a refreshing dip in the pool easily remedies any berry-picking fatigue.

For me, a gallon bucket heaping with these dark purple treasures is a treat well worth the effort. Blackberry jam for my breakfast toast. Blackberry syrup for my ice-cream or waffles. Blackberry cobbler for a summer evening dessert. Blackberry bread and blackberry muffins. Blackberries to enjoy and to share with those I love.

Actually, I am eating some toast slathered with blackberry jam as I write this blog.

Yuuummmm.

With peanutbutter. Double yum!

Here are pictures of my canning shelf in the kitchen after an afternoon of making jam. The hanging brown bags are for drying herbs from my garden. The blue pot has my small pruning shears and my herb scissors in it. A handful of crushed limestone in the bottom of the pot (harvested from our well-digging project) always reminds me of the Lord’s faithfulness . . . and keeps the cutting blades dry. The books contain my favorite recipes, canning instructions, and gardening tips. The basket beside the shelf holds my gardening gloves (I know I should use them, but I hardly do), my Lowe’s pocket apron (really handy), bug spray (keeps ticks away while in the woods), and my handy-dandy folding stool for weeding.

You should come join me some time. Picking blackberries and making jam are peaceful, rich, soul-satisfying kinds of endeavors. And you never know whom the Lord will bring to share the bounty of your harvest.

That is one of the sweetest things about my little East Tennessee farm. We never know who will come to share with us. We do, however, know that it will be very good.

Because the Lord is Good.
So very Good.

O taste and see that the LORD is good;
How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!
Psalms 34:8