dear rory,
beauty.
that word brings so many images into my mind. ladybugs, mountains, gandalf’s horse shadowfax, the grand canyon, the color blue, a feathered arrow, queen esther, sparkling eyes, crystal chandeliers, natalie portman, chocolate (don’t look at me like that… it’s beautiful… in a way), caves full of diamonds, peaceful streams, long dark hair, gold lockets, old barns, and weeping willows are just a few.
what exactly is beauty?
according to the oxford dictionary, beauty is “a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight”.
in other words, beauty is something that you see on the outside. it is appealing and charming and much sought after.
but wait a minute. is that really all beauty is?
I have a confession: I often get caught up with outward beauty. I want to know what the latest style is, where that person got her scarf, how that lady did her make-up, when I can get my next hair-cut, why I can’t be as beautiful as that person over there, and, in fact, is it really too much to just ask to be the most beautiful person in the world?
however, over the past few years, God has been trying to teach me what true beauty is. He is patient with me and gives me little reminders time and time again.
for instance:
I remember a few years ago, while my family and I were on vacation, we went to a church service at a place called the Tabernacle. it was the children’s night to get up on stage and perform the Bible verses and songs they had been learning in Sunday School.
the third grade group climbed (some of them trudging… looking extremely uncomfortable in their church clothes…. probably wishing they had never been born… inwardly shaking their fists at their parents for making them do this) up onto the stage. you could immediately pick out which kids were the “cool” ones. they were the children who were doing their best not to stick to the program. the ones who were trying to trip the kid next to them. the ones who had their hands in their pockets with their heads thrown back proudly as if to say, “I am not associated with these other losers.”
I watched from my seat as the children lined up. parents darted up the aisles to snap a picture of their precious angels and some of the little girls waved and smiled and twirled their pig-tails. most of the boys just looked uncomfortable. and most of the teachers looked frazzled.
the music started, and the children began to sing the song they had been practicing at Sunday school. only three-quarters of the group were half-heartedly doing the hand motions, a few bold ones decided to go for the more attention-grabbing “everyone look how obnoxious I am” style of exaggerating every movement and over-annunciating every word, and the rest of them refused to sing or do any hand motions at all.
I had seen this kind of service hundreds of times. it was more like a show than church. a show that I could fall asleep while watching.
but as I settled back into the pew, I noticed one child in particular. it was a little boy. he was sitting in a wheel chair and tubes were attached to different parts of him. (I didn’t look too closely to see what those tubes were attached to because I get queasy with tubes and needles and blood and bandages and… well, for the sake of time, let’s just say I get queasy around a lot of things.) I noticed his arms were hanging somewhat limply and his head kind of rolled from side to side. his eyes were big, and his face was shaped a little differently from everyone else’s. obviously, he had some sort of physical disability, and it appeared that he may have had a mental one as well.
I pitied him. he wasn’t what one would consider beautiful. in fact, the world would despise him. he was weak and broken and ugly. he sat there unable to take care of himself. unable and incapable of doing so many things.
but he was capable of singing. or trying to sing.
and so he sang.
and his arm that still functioned relatively well swayed with the music and laboriously did every hand motion it could. the other arm lay uselessly on the wheel chair, but I could see that his hand was flinching as if trying to join the other.
he kept singing and dancing throughout the entire song. easily at first. working harder to keep up his energy by the end.
this child wasn’t looking at the other children to see if they thought he was cool. he wasn’t wishing he had worn his other shirt. he wasn’t hoping the song would hurry up and end so that he could go do whatever he wanted. this child was praising God. and he was using every ounce of strength he had to do it.
as tears filled my eyes watching him, I couldn’t help but imagine that God was looking down on this child and asking me quietly, “isn’t he beautiful?”
and I couldn’t help but think that he was.
when I think of that boy now, I remember that “charm is deceitful and beauty is vain” [Prov. 31:30]. I remember that outward beauty is not everything.
guess what? people grow old, their hair falls out, their teeth decay, fashions change, mountains crumble, ladybugs get stuck between the screen and the window pane and shrivel up, chocolate goes bad, weeping willows get cut down, “the grass will wither and the flower will fade away“ [James 1:11], etc.
a heart that loves the Lord and wants to follow Him always, a heart that only cares what He will think, a heart that wants to know Him better, a heart that is anxious to please Him and not “aesthetic senses”, a heart that is willing to praise Him with all the strength it can muster… now that is a beautiful thing.
I still enjoy outwardly beautiful things. God created us to enjoy them. but something I am learning, is that God often creates beautiful things out of what man would deem unbeautiful. out of hearts. out of sinners. out of dust. out of that child in the wheel chair.
God is so good.
love,
muffin
27.8.11
18.8.11
thoughts from the gym
dear muffin,
today I went to the gym & worked out. this happens about as often as the cubs win the world series.
my trackrecord is almost as painful as theirs, too.
however, I got to wear my brother's basketball shorts [because I don't have a pair-- case in point], which made me feel hardcore & slightly ridiculous.
the guy who walked around the track kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking. either it was because I looked like a buff underarmor commercial... or else because he was amused by the girl in XL basketball shorts struggling with a 10lb weight. [I'm going with the former.]
there's something about working out; something invigorating. it makes me feel vibrantly healthy & alive. but alongside the adrenaline rush, there's the sweating part. and the huffing&puffing part. and the turn-pink-in-the-face part. I think I would work out a lot more if it wasn't for those other parts.
but that's obvious. right?
Paul told us to work out, too. to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling.
haha! you say. that is exegetically incorrect. an improper use of the text. hermeneutical homicide. and let's not even get started about cultural context.
and you're right of course. but I can't help but notice similarities.
dear God: teach me to be kind-- right now, please. and while we're at it, I wouldn't mind being buff. but don't ask me to go to the gym; I don't want to sweat. and You can't possibly expect me to never say unkind things; that would be too hard. I don't like turning pink-in-the-face.
***
Working out has two phases: there's the sprint, & there's the long-haul. the sprint is a piece of cake: you sit down at the machine, or place your foot on the track line, or slip into the pool. those first few strokes are effortless. you feel your blood begin to pump; your heartrate picks up. it feels good. you tell yourself that this time, it's gonna be a good workout. this time, you won't fail.
aaand then reality hits. a few minutes into the workout, your temples are pounding, pain is cramping your muscles, and even your toes are sweating inside your socks. as if to add insult to injury your cheeks have turned blazing pink & each breath can be heard halfway across the gym. suddenly, maintaining that avowed pace becomes a lot harder... and a waterbreak begins to sound really great. you deserve a waterbreak, right? you've tried so hard. given so much effort.
My awareness of sanctification goes in spurts, too. a sermon or article or conversation will convict me, and I recognize a problem in my life. I confess it & throw myself headlong into purging the weakness. I vow that this time, I'm gonna change. this time, I won't fail.
and then reality hits. I begin to tread water. slip on the track. allow that unkind word to fly. I see the pain on my sister's face & know I've messed up again.
but I tried so hard. can't I just have a break? some applause for the effort?
It would be nice if sanctification was more like getting a pedicure. lean back, sip your latte, & watch it happen.
But the fact is, it's not. it's more like a workout: a long, sweaty, uncomfortable workout. we are being purged by fire & refined as silver. and the most uncomfortable part is that sudden crystalline realization that you can't do it.
it's true. we can't. but thankfully, it doesn't matter, because He who calls us is faithful, and He will do it. it's still not a sanctification pedicure: the creator delights in the faithful toil of his creation.
but we are assured of victory in the end.
***
when I got home from the gym, I had a blister from the rowing machine. it felt good.
I lay on the floor, and my dog came over and licked my ear. that felt good too. but nothing felt so good as the tall glass of cold water. I took one sip and then didn't stop until the glass was empty.
***
we will fall. as citizens of humanity & runners in this race, we will never stop falling. but He promises to be our Strength and see us to the finish line.
and once that finish line has been crossed, He promises us a waterbreak like none on earth.
your fellow runner,
-rory
today I went to the gym & worked out. this happens about as often as the cubs win the world series.
my trackrecord is almost as painful as theirs, too.
however, I got to wear my brother's basketball shorts [because I don't have a pair-- case in point], which made me feel hardcore & slightly ridiculous.
the guy who walked around the track kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking. either it was because I looked like a buff underarmor commercial... or else because he was amused by the girl in XL basketball shorts struggling with a 10lb weight. [I'm going with the former.]
there's something about working out; something invigorating. it makes me feel vibrantly healthy & alive. but alongside the adrenaline rush, there's the sweating part. and the huffing&puffing part. and the turn-pink-in-the-face part. I think I would work out a lot more if it wasn't for those other parts.
but that's obvious. right?
Paul told us to work out, too. to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling.
haha! you say. that is exegetically incorrect. an improper use of the text. hermeneutical homicide. and let's not even get started about cultural context.
and you're right of course. but I can't help but notice similarities.
dear God: teach me to be kind-- right now, please. and while we're at it, I wouldn't mind being buff. but don't ask me to go to the gym; I don't want to sweat. and You can't possibly expect me to never say unkind things; that would be too hard. I don't like turning pink-in-the-face.
***
Working out has two phases: there's the sprint, & there's the long-haul. the sprint is a piece of cake: you sit down at the machine, or place your foot on the track line, or slip into the pool. those first few strokes are effortless. you feel your blood begin to pump; your heartrate picks up. it feels good. you tell yourself that this time, it's gonna be a good workout. this time, you won't fail.
aaand then reality hits. a few minutes into the workout, your temples are pounding, pain is cramping your muscles, and even your toes are sweating inside your socks. as if to add insult to injury your cheeks have turned blazing pink & each breath can be heard halfway across the gym. suddenly, maintaining that avowed pace becomes a lot harder... and a waterbreak begins to sound really great. you deserve a waterbreak, right? you've tried so hard. given so much effort.
My awareness of sanctification goes in spurts, too. a sermon or article or conversation will convict me, and I recognize a problem in my life. I confess it & throw myself headlong into purging the weakness. I vow that this time, I'm gonna change. this time, I won't fail.
and then reality hits. I begin to tread water. slip on the track. allow that unkind word to fly. I see the pain on my sister's face & know I've messed up again.
but I tried so hard. can't I just have a break? some applause for the effort?
It would be nice if sanctification was more like getting a pedicure. lean back, sip your latte, & watch it happen.
But the fact is, it's not. it's more like a workout: a long, sweaty, uncomfortable workout. we are being purged by fire & refined as silver. and the most uncomfortable part is that sudden crystalline realization that you can't do it.
it's true. we can't. but thankfully, it doesn't matter, because He who calls us is faithful, and He will do it. it's still not a sanctification pedicure: the creator delights in the faithful toil of his creation.
but we are assured of victory in the end.
***
when I got home from the gym, I had a blister from the rowing machine. it felt good.
I lay on the floor, and my dog came over and licked my ear. that felt good too. but nothing felt so good as the tall glass of cold water. I took one sip and then didn't stop until the glass was empty.
***
we will fall. as citizens of humanity & runners in this race, we will never stop falling. but He promises to be our Strength and see us to the finish line.
and once that finish line has been crossed, He promises us a waterbreak like none on earth.
your fellow runner,
-rory
13.8.11
strength and sorrow
dearest rory,
today I lost a sibling.
I don’t know what gender it was. I hadn’t ever met him/her. I had only known of his/her existence for twelve days.
twelve short amazing days.
in those twelve days, I had grown to love this sibling. I had imagined what this sibling would be like. I had picked out my favorite girl's names and boy's names. I had tried to picture life with another sticky, smiley, sunny person running around the house. I had told my friends this good news. they were excited to meet this sibling. I was excited to meet my sibling.
I had written out that I loved this sibling up on the blackboard in the kitchen. I had written it along with the names of the rest of my family members.
I don’t think I can bear to ever clean that blackboard again. but then, I can’t bear to look at it either.
why? why would God take this baby away from us? why would He raise our hopes only to tear them down again?
I asked Him these questions. I yelled these questions at Him.
somehow I don’t think He minded me yelling. somehow, I think He looked at me and cried with me. I felt Him reach out and hold me in His arms. He told me to cry. He told me He was right there and that He wouldn’t let me go.
the night before we found out that the baby was lost to us, I had picked up my dad’s Bible. it fell open to the book of Job. for a moment, I considered turning to one of the books I liked better. psalms, proverbs, ephesians, or philippians sounded nice.
but I started reading the first chapter of Job. and then the second. in two short chapters, Job had lost his possessions, his wealth, and his ten children. he didn’t know why. he didn’t know why God would allow him to culminate such riches and blessings only to take them away.
he was desperately sad. he was desperately confused as to why this had happened to him.
his wife told him to curse God and die.
Job didn’t listen to his wife. he looked at the destruction around him and said, “the Lord gives. the Lord takes away. blessed be the name of the Lord.”
that verse jumped out at me. it screamed at me. I think God was yelling it at me. and I heard. and the next day, I clutched my Bible and reread those verses with a broken heart.
the Lord gives and the Lord takes away.
why? why would God take this baby away from us? why would He raise our hopes only to tear them down again?
I don’t know. I only know that He has a purpose for everything.
and even when I don’t understand those purposes… blessed be the name of the Lord.
love you so much,
muffin
p.s. [thank you to everyone who has/is/and will be praying.]
p.p.s. love this song:
today I lost a sibling.
I don’t know what gender it was. I hadn’t ever met him/her. I had only known of his/her existence for twelve days.
twelve short amazing days.
in those twelve days, I had grown to love this sibling. I had imagined what this sibling would be like. I had picked out my favorite girl's names and boy's names. I had tried to picture life with another sticky, smiley, sunny person running around the house. I had told my friends this good news. they were excited to meet this sibling. I was excited to meet my sibling.
I had written out that I loved this sibling up on the blackboard in the kitchen. I had written it along with the names of the rest of my family members.
I don’t think I can bear to ever clean that blackboard again. but then, I can’t bear to look at it either.
why? why would God take this baby away from us? why would He raise our hopes only to tear them down again?
I asked Him these questions. I yelled these questions at Him.
somehow I don’t think He minded me yelling. somehow, I think He looked at me and cried with me. I felt Him reach out and hold me in His arms. He told me to cry. He told me He was right there and that He wouldn’t let me go.
the night before we found out that the baby was lost to us, I had picked up my dad’s Bible. it fell open to the book of Job. for a moment, I considered turning to one of the books I liked better. psalms, proverbs, ephesians, or philippians sounded nice.
but I started reading the first chapter of Job. and then the second. in two short chapters, Job had lost his possessions, his wealth, and his ten children. he didn’t know why. he didn’t know why God would allow him to culminate such riches and blessings only to take them away.
he was desperately sad. he was desperately confused as to why this had happened to him.
his wife told him to curse God and die.
Job didn’t listen to his wife. he looked at the destruction around him and said, “the Lord gives. the Lord takes away. blessed be the name of the Lord.”
that verse jumped out at me. it screamed at me. I think God was yelling it at me. and I heard. and the next day, I clutched my Bible and reread those verses with a broken heart.
the Lord gives and the Lord takes away.
why? why would God take this baby away from us? why would He raise our hopes only to tear them down again?
I don’t know. I only know that He has a purpose for everything.
and even when I don’t understand those purposes… blessed be the name of the Lord.
love you so much,
muffin
p.s. [thank you to everyone who has/is/and will be praying.]
p.p.s. love this song:
11.8.11
goats & silver platters
dear muffin,
I have a confession to make.
I do not enjoy reading my Bible every day.
[now you can gasp in horror at what a terrible Christian I am.]
I've always envied the authors, bloggers, etc. who seem to love nothing more than grabbing a chai latte, settling into an overstuffed sofa, and poring over scripture for hours at a time. they always seem to discover some deep truth or application to their lives, no matter what passage they're reading. they come out refreshed & invigorated, thrilled to read through the Bible.
that's never been me.
let's be clear. I do love the Bible, in a very real way [perhaps we'll call it the Textbook Way]. there is true confidence in knowing that the answers to all of life's questions can be found between those leather covers. I love learning the practical applications from my father & pastor. I love how well everything, from relationships to politics, can work when God's simple commandments are followed by faithful hearts. I truly desire to become more like Christ in all that I do.
but when it comes to the Practical Way, waking up early each day and slogging my way through the book of Numbers... the enthusiasm fizzles.
I read it. I wrinkle up my forehead & try to feel interested in how many bulls, rams, & lambs were sacrificed. I look for life application as I plow my way through the offering of Ahira the son of Enan (who brought a silver platter, a silver bowl, a gold pan, a young bull, a ram, a male lamb in its first year, a kid of the goats, two oxen, five rams, five male goats, and five more male lambs in their first year)... but it's hard to stay focused. especially when his offering happens to be the exact same as those of Pagiel the son of Ocran, Abidan the son of Gideoni, Ahiezer the son of Ammishaddai, Gamaliel the son of Pedahzur, Elishama the son of Ammihud, Eliasaph the son of Deuel, Shelumiel the son of Zurishaddai, Elizur the son of Shedeur, Eliab the son of Helon, Nethanel the son of Zuar, and Nahshon the son of Amminadab.
or take the "burdens of the Lord against ______" (fill-in-the-blank with your favorite ancient pagan nation.) after ten minutes of brimstones and crashing cedars of lebanon, I glaze over.
frankly, it all starts to sound the same. I lose interest. it becomes a chore, to be completed as quickly as possible.
so I sigh, disentangle myself from the couch, and start my day. and the next morning, I don't feel particularly enthusiastic about picking up my Bible and continuing. "oh...i'll do it later." without effort, I find that time begins to lapse between bible readings: days pass before I "find time" to flip to Numbers again and plow my way through the next couple of chapters.
I don't want it to be this way. I wish I loved my morning Bible reading. sometimes I do; when I happen to be reading Esther, or a familiar psalm, or a passage that jumps off the page and applies itself to my life. but all too often, as I sit down to read my Bible, I suddenly remember that mom asked me to wash the dishes, or that I need to clean my room, or that I haven't practiced harp all week. and these things seem to take precedence over my reading.
don't bother telling me that I've got it upsidedown&backwards: I know it. reading my Bible isn't about being entertained. it doesn't matter if I come away feeling warm and fuzzy. the Author included each & every verse deliberately, and even the "boring" parts are valuable for instruction and reproof.
but still my readings remained hit-or-miss, dependent on my mood & busy schedule.
recently I read an article by Tessa Hershberger, from the e-magazine setapartgirl. [a purposeful intimacy: http://setapartgirl.com/home.html]
I encourage you to read it; she puts everything much better than I ever could.
but in a nutshell, she likened our time spent with the Lord to the time we spend with friends. for example, in order to spend time with you, I call you up & we plan a date. we don't say, "maybe we'll show up some time tomorrow, if we feel like it & you have something interesting to say, and I can't think of anything better to do;" we both commit to a specific time. we put aside our schedules for an hour or two and concentrate on each other. we don't text while talking (well, not usually ;), we don't bring our homework, we don't grab the newspaper lying on the table. when we sit down together, we both know that the time is just for the two of us.
"If we simply spend time with God when something opens up in our schedules, 'when the mood strikes,' or when we're after some kind of quick emotional fix, our relationship with Him will be little more than a selfish and half-hearted acquaintance." ::Tessa Hershberger
it suddenly dawned on me that I give more time & effort in getting to know my friends than I do my Creator. my time with the Lord needs to be purposeful, just like the time I spend with you. and even if I don't *enjoy* my reading... that doesn't make it any less of a priority.
so.
the long and short of it: I'm determined to read my Bible every day. rain or shine. I know, this seems obvious... but I've been slacking. stopping to think about it, however, I realize that nothing can be more important than putting aside distractions and spending dedicated time with the Lord.
for my life right now, it's not practical to say "I will always read my Bible at 8:00 sharp." but I can start with the first step. whether it's several chapters during breakfast or a few quick verses before a nursing exam, I want to set apart time for His Word each day.
no, that's not quite right: I don't want to.
I need to.
even if it means reading about goats and silver platters.
your humbled friend,
rory
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)