Let Nothing Be Between Us

What I hate...and I rarely use that word, because it is so burdensome, is watching a family disintegrate because they have squared off against each other.  I have seen it happen in all kinds of settings; in counseling, at funerals, even weddings.  It's so disheartening to watch.  It usually begins with something small.  Something hardly worth mentioning.  A pin-prick.  Then it grows.  Fear and selfishness push it along until the pain blossoms into a rage, a wall or a weapon.

I am not concerned about anything that would challenge us from outside the family.   We were given  more than enough to stand that test.  Like the woman in the city square, the stones were gathered in a circle at her feet, but none of them touched her.  And she rose from that place; whole and without condemnation, embraced by the love extended by the head of her new family.

I sometimes wonder though.  Once He restored her and brought her into the family, was the rest of the household able to see her as Jesus did, or was their memory too long and their love too shallow to handle it.  We give up on each other so quickly.  If God's house ever goes empty, this will be the reason why.  It won't have anything to do with the world.  It will have to do with fear and selfishness that hides out in the family.

We can't allow for that.  We just can't.  I don't know who, or how, but I'm certain I have wronged someone.  I can say that it wasn't intentional, but I know that doesn't help.  I wish they could tell me about it and that we could work it out.  I am certain we can, if we can only both lay down our fear and selfishness.  In the midst of the wind and the flame described in Acts 2, we were given the most unifying power the world has ever known, the Spirit of God.  How can we keep hold of the hurt that separates when we have access to such a power to heal?

Years ago, I jotted down some thoughts that still remind me that his plan has always been that wherever we go as a family, that we would go  together....you and me...lets never forget it.

The Church...in the beginning

At first, just His voice in the wind above the darkness,

         and somehow,

                 even then I was on His mind,

                                            and so were you.

There we were, names on the lips  of a voice from heaven.

A joyous potential, unveiled in the reflection of forever hopeful eyes.

As we have grown, we are drawn back to that voice in the wind.

It was our hands that ignorantly constructed

                                       the framework of our own forgiveness from the tree

His word spoke into existence so long ago.

                              Yet, isn’t that how it has always been?

The one who we cannot see,

      has gone before our every triumph and tragedy,

                                                               building corridors,

                                                                               and windows

that guide the broken and spilled pieces of who we are back to Him.

Yesterday,

I thought that I heard him again;

calling me back toward that quiet place

and in that same sentence

He was telling me to take your hand as well,

so that we might come together. 

I could not find you, but I will continue the search.

For there is something about you holding His hand

and me holding His hand

                  and our hands together,

that was a part of that plan in the long ago.

There have been times when I couldn’t find you

             and you couldn’t find me

                            and even times when we rested alone

in uneasy places where we couldn’t find Him,

                                                                    either of us.

But His voice above that darkness too, has led me back to Him and also back to you.

And we both know that our paths

will never be so far apart that I can’t see you over there....

no matter how tall the grass grows between us.

Where Do I Live?

They left last week; the grand-babies.

Going back to live near the other grandparents.  I have told myself it is good.  We need to share.  

But, I know there will be so many moments like this one that I will miss...

We were getting ready to go for a chilly walk along the rocky coastline at Saltwater State Park.  Her arms were entwined behind her back.  She twisted at the waist, back and forth and smiled at me.

"I'm ready to go Papa."

I sized her up.  
Sox and shoes on.  
Jacket too. 
She was ready.

I looked down at her shoes again and thought back to what seemed only a few weeks ago, and said, 
"You get your shoes on the right feet all the time now don't you!?"

She nodded and smiled again, and then said, "Remember, you told me that time at the beach that the toes always point in.  So, now I got it and I won't pinch my feet anymore."

"Yep," I said with an affirmative nod.
Then, I put my hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the doorway, and we left the house.

There have been many times that the lesson didn't stick.
There were many approaches.
Gentle.
Urgent.
Diplomatic.
Reasonable.
Bargaining.
Joking.
Fear-tactics.
Prodding.
Near-begging.
Warning.
Contemplative.
Comparative.
I've tried them all.

The hard part is that the recipe for successful teaching seldom repeats.  At least not with this one.  She will look into my eyes and I into hers and I will think there is a connection that will produce understanding...and change.
But it's not always so.  There is a flicker in the eye, followed by a head-tilt, then busy hands or feet or both and I know that my lecture fell on deaf ears.
AND I love her.
AND she loves me.
AND... she does whatever she wants.

It's easy to be an upset Papa when that happens; to be grumpy, but it's no fun.  Especially, when the sun is shining and our shoes are on and the outdoors is calling us toward adventure.  So, what do I do with the frustration that comes when my wisdom gets treated like a branch of broccoli on her dinner plate, and is pushed to the side in favor of....well...anything else?

Instead of trying to answer this question I have been drawn to another.
What does Christ do when I have responded to his wisdom in the same fashion?
I wonder how often he has used all of the methods listed above:  Gentle words, urgent words, words of warning, words of reason....and still I have chosen my own way above his.  Why?

I think it has do to with where I live...

I'm not talking about geography.  I'm talking about my heart.
There are words we use in the church, but only sometimes.
And we speak them with our head bowed usually.
Surrender. 
          Consecration.  
                             Repentance.  
                                             Submission.
                                                               Contrition.
They relate to our ability first to hear and second to yield to the voice of Christ in us.
They relate to our ability to "stay clay" in his hands; moldable to whatever shape he is wanting to fashion us into.
The truth is that sometimes, I struggle against, instead of yielding unto that work.  There is something in me that wants to be done with that process; wants for the work of repentance to be completed.
The actions of my will at that point are: 
                                           debate...defense...reaction...posturing.
The actions of my will when I'm living in repentance, are:
                                                         listening... open... responding...learning.

The Message bible translates Paul's words in Romans 12:1 like this:  So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. 

For me, this is it.  Where will I live?  I want to live in repentance.  In some ways, it requires far less and yet produces far more.  It's peace and it's power.  It's grace that sustains.  One day at a time.  One conversation at a time.
                                      So let it be done in me.  :)

Learning to let the right voice tell us who We REALLY Are

     Years ago, in the first church I pastored, we had one of those number boards that hung at the rear of the sanctuary. Usually the ushers would post the total attendance right after the morning offering. Shortly after accepting the invitation to pastor that church, it was announced with great fanfare, across our district, that there would be an attendance competition, and the winner stood to receive a new fax machine!  We didn’t even own a computer and it was the 90’s for heaven’s sake. I was determined that we would win this fax machine and show everyone that we had joined the technological age.

     On one particular Sunday, during the height of this attendance drive, the ushers had put the number up on the board earlier than usual. To me, it looked to be a bigger crowd than the figure that was posted. Yet my estimate came from my seat on the platform. So I decided that I should walk down the side of the sanctuary, like I had a message for the ushers and get back to the platform before the offertory was finished, doing a quick count, from front to back as I walked.  I was doing pretty good, counting and shaking hands as I went, but about two-thirds of the way down the aisle I failed to take into account the low height of one of the stained wooden beams that supported the beautiful natural wood ceiling in our sanctuary. Either I was too tall, or the ceiling was to low. I’m not sure which is the case, but one thing I know for certain, a six-inch, micro-lam cross beam doesn’t give much when it comes into direct contact with a human head. Whack! I smacked the side of my head into the beam. About six or eight of the people in the pew witnessed the alarming event and immediately began to laugh.

     Needless to say, I lost count in the collision, and so discontinued the effort. After the offertory I told the congregation what had happened and they all laughed with me (or at me, I’m not sure which). I have never attempted to recount a total again. Although, admittedly it is still an occasional temptation. In fact, that week I moved the board to a place where I couldn’t even see it. I wish I could have burned it. As long as that silly thing was around I gave it more value than I should have. 

This lesson became even clearer to me through the near-tragic testimony of a good friend...

     The boat cut smoothly across the clear, blue water of Anderson Reservoir, up above I-84 and in between Boise and Twin Falls, Idaho. The motor purred, near silently and our spin bait was drawn several lengths behind the boat as we trolled for kokanee salmon. We had already caught a handful, and they swam anxiously in the live-catch hold inside the boat. The sun was beginning to set as we made one last, long pass across the near side of the lake, now becoming shrouded in shadows that were creeping toward the east-side of the canyon walls.

     My fishing friend broke the silence, “It was right up there,” he said, pointing to an area on the bluffs above.

     “I just pulled the truck over and pulled out my shotgun.”

     I listened intently, my eyes on his figure silhouetted against the opposite side of the boat.

    “I would have pulled the trigger, except I kept thinking about what would happen to my wife and kids.”

     The boat continued ahead, cutting a rippled “V” in the crystalline water. In the following moments my friend explained to me about how the criticism and wrongful condemnation of the community, in particular people who he counted as supporters had brought him to this state of confusion. My friend is a big man, a former college football linebacker, once even a prospect for the NFL. It’s hard to believe that mere words could break someone like that,...and yet they almost had; completely. I cannot comment on the right or wrong of all that happened in respect to his situation, however, I can with certainty say that it was the opinion of others that wounded my friend’s heart to the point that this quiet, mountain of a man was ready to take his own life.

     I know that too often, too many of us listen too much to what others have to say about who we are. Now, without question, I believe that we need to have some in our lives who we remain accountable to. The problem comes when we begin to base the success or failure of our life on the response we get from others. Whether it’s the attendance figures at our church, the won-loss record of our team, making or not making the cheerleading squad, winning or not winning the class election. The list goes on and on.

My creator knit me together in my mother’s womb and all His works are wonderful...(Psalm 139:14)

 He is the only one I want to allow to have an opinion regarding the success or failure of my life’s endeavors. My hunch is that if I commit each day to Him, one at a time, doing my best to live within His call for my life, that when the day is done, His usual comment to me, regardless of the score, will be, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant!”

A Stolen Christmas

     We had become three.
     A family.
     Our first daughter was born on December 4th.
     On December 24th we piled all that we planned to share with Rhonda's family for Christmas into the 1969 VW Squareback and headed South, down Interstate-5.
     Rhonda had spent weeks creating special homemade ornaments for her parents and her sister's family.  They were made of baked clay, intricately hand-painted and then varnished. She had put wire loops into the top of each, and tied ribbon to the loops so that they could hang from trees.  There were snowmen, Santa, Mrs. Claus, reindeer, candy canes and other incredibly and wonderfully made symbols of the season that my mind can no longer take hold of.  My wife is a very talented woman.  This collection of pieces was a labor of love for her family as well as a money-saving device for us during this "first-as-a-family-we-don't-have-much-money" sort of Christmas celebration.
     We had managed a single gift for each of the family members, in the weeks before Christmas, but nothing elaborate or costly.   Everything was wrapped, bowed, then gently and precisely-positioned into the back of the VW.
      Our daughter was nestled into her brand new carseat.  We had no idea how she would handle the 8-9 hour drive, but within the first hour after leaving home, her head fell forward against a padded support and she was out.  Our little car rambled on into the cold December night.
     Through Olympia and then Centralia.
     Past Portland and Corvallis.
     We were making really good time.
     Not a stir from the baby.
     As we drew close to Southern Oregon a fog descended onto the roadway until it enveloped the landscape ahead.  We had to drop our speed from 60 to 45.  From 45 to 30.  We had planned to arrive around 8pm.  The lights were on at a gas station in Grant's Pass so we pulled over, grabbed a snack and waited to see if the fog would lift a bit.  It didn't.  So, we got back into the car and drove.
     At one point we discussed that we should have called Rhonda's folks at the gas station, but we hadn't.
     It was 1986.
     A cellphone call wasn't an option.

     Instead of the fog moving away, it got thicker.  Most people had the sense to get off the road.  There was nearly no traffic on the highway.  The fog became so heavy I couldn't see the painted lines on the road before me.  I slowed the car to 20 mph, and then even slower.  It sounds crazy, but in order to stay in the lane, for a while, I opened the driver-side door and looked down to my left; just trying to keep the car to the right of the white, dotted line.  It got so bad, I decided to pull over to the shoulder of the freeway for a moment to discuss our options.  We talked about the possibility of staying right there until Christmas morning, but decided against it.   We edged back onto the road, and plugged along at 5-10 mph for what seemed like a long, long time.
      Finally, we saw a glow, amidst the haze in front of us, and in a little bit, road markers telling us of the coming exits into the city of Medford.  A big sigh of relief.  A few moments later and we had arrived at our destination.  It was close to midnight.  We were so tired, we just grabbed a few necessities, including our newborn baby and scrambled into the in-laws house, greeted the family that was there and were soon in bed and asleep.
     The next morning; Christmas day, with the smell of pancakes, bacon and coffee in the air, I trudged out to the VW to get all the packages that were left there the night before.  My wife's nephew, Seth, was bouncing along beside me excitedly, knowing that there was a present inside the hatchback for him.
     "Uncle Ev," he said, "Where are the presents!?"
     I had walked directly around to the driver's side of car, remembering something I needed to gather from the front seat area.
     "They are right there in the back," I replied.
     He was standing on the bumper, his two, little hands cupped together in a circle and peering between them through the rear window.
     "Where Uncle Ev?  I don't see them."
     "Just a second Seth.  They're right there.  I will help you with them after I find something else I left up front last night."
     "But I don't see them Uncle Ev.  Where are they?"
     "Right there in the back....just hold on okay?"
     "Okay."
     I closed the door to the driver's seat, walked past the frost-covered windows to the back of the car, lifted the hatch and reached in to grab all those carefully wrapped gifts that had traveled with us from Enumclaw, WA to Medford, OR.  Only....there was nothing to grab.  Everything was gone.  I looked at the empty space for second, and rubbed my eyes like it was a mirage, closed the back and walked Seth into the house.
     I asked if anyone had gone out to the car to bring our stuff inside already.
     A chorus of negative responses.
     My heart sank as I shared with the rest of the family, the reality of what had taken place during the dark of Christmas Eve-night.  Everything but the baby's carseat had been removed from our car.  All of the presents and ornaments were gone.  Even my wife's winter jacket, which I had bought for her the Christmas before, when we lived in Chicago.
     I have never tried before now to write this story down.  Some years it comes to mind for Rhonda or I, but we don't really spend much time discussing it.  Not because it is too painful to recount.  The truth is, it has become more of story about faithfulness than tragedy.  I remember the pain of the moment only slightly.  I hurt most for my wife who had put her heart into the special-made gifts that she had prepared.  The rest of the stuff was replaceable.  Those items were not.
     For a while I held out hope that somewhere, somehow the police might stumble upon some hand-made ornaments cast aside in alley-way in the city and call us to come pick them up.  They did not.  So, mostly the whole event has drifted away into the abyss of past memory, supplanted in time by all the Christmases where we received abundantly more than what we have needed or deserved.
     We are contented.
     We have been taken care of.
     That was 31 years ago.
     The year that Christmas was stolen, but not really.  
     The holiday was wrapped in the joy of the journey that God had brought us through to get to that day.  Not just the drive through the night, but the longer journey of our lives.
     Once, we were two young people in college.
     Then we were dating.
     Then we were engaged.
     Then we were married.
     Then we were a family.
     There was lots to think on and be thankful for.
     The pancakes, bacon and coffee of Christmas morning still tasted oh so good in spite of the rough beginning.
     And today I am convinced that no one can steal from you, anything that you have freely let go of already.  
     He is faithful.
     He is trustworthy.
     In Him we find completeness and wholeness.
                                                                   In Him we lack no good gift. 
 

 
   


   
   

   

Today Is Enough

For ten seconds maybe, I just stopped and looked at the tree, bending in front of me.
My hand was on the door handle to the truck, but I didn't pull.  I watched the wind tug sideways at the branches, like it was stretching out a bungie cord; the pine cones dangling there like Christmas lights strewn along the edges of a roofline.

I noticed that the wind was warm.  I held on for another few seconds and saw the blue sky calicoed by gray and white clouds that were rushing to the North.  For what felt like a camera flash, the sun appeared and was gone.  Then, the wind dropped off and the tree branches were released from their strain against it.

It wasn't anything huge to see, but there was a tiny gasp of peace that was released into my heart.  I don't know why I stopped and looked, but it helped me.  It warmed me.  It reset me.  As I climbed into the driver's seat, I became aware that I was smiling.

It was just a moment.  But in that moment I saw beauty in the world.  I felt it.  It was reassuring.

As I was driving away, I wondered how many moments like this do I miss?  The needs of what's next always seem to be stealing the heart from what's right now.  I've come to believe that there's only one person who can make a choice to reverse that trend in my life, and that person looks a lot like me.

I have been given a direction.

Jesus spoke about daily bread. (Matthew 6:11) This is the only time he uses this adjective in all of the gospel story...daily...But that was the kind of bread we were to ask for.  Sustenance for twenty-four hours.  As if that were enough to focus on.  Now, I know that our calendars are full, and I'm familiar with the fail to plan, then plan to fail concept.  I live by it.  Yet, I believe that once the plans are made for our tomorrows we need to commit to being fully engaged in our todays and what they may hold.  Somehow, we need to move away from the rush of busyness in order to encounter the peace and purpose of our moments today.

I want to hear Him speak to me on this day, in these moments, in accordance with His timing, not mine.  I want to be effective in sharing His presence with those I meet, out of the overflow of my heart, not the hurriedness of my agenda.  

We're told that our worry can't add a single hour to our life. (Matthew 6:25-34) Jesus also points out in that same passage that tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day...every rising of the sun and going down of the same will be enough for us to commit our focus to.

A favorite writer of mine, Bob Benson, put it this way,
     Today may be our lifetime.  Today is what we have. We must not waste its time or its moments in the anticipation of tomorrow.  I know there are values and necessities of preparation for the tasks and demands of a lifetime.  I certainly believe in making plans for educating our children, for weddings, for retirement, and all the other issues that will confront us.  But none of these are places where we will begin to live.  We live now, today, and Jesus is saying, "Pray for this moment.  This is the one."

I don't think that there is any more to add.  I am convicted.  I have no further argument.

Teach me Jesus, how to receive this life in the 24 hour parcels you have given me.  Renewed, refreshed and ready for what comes with each rising sun.

Wish We Could Hear the Music

   As I continue to grow up, I am learning that there is a voice that calls to us in our confused and rebellious wanderings, more often than we imagine... I am not talking about "the lost",  I'm talking about myself.

     When we moved to Africa, I was not prepared for many things that are native to the continent. Two days after our arrival, the sky opened up and dropped water down upon us in a volume that I was unfamiliar with. I watched, as the dirt and rock driveway to the compound we lived in became a river. I had seen a lot of rain come to a country before, having grown up in the area around Seattle, Washington. Yet, the rain came here so heavy and so fast. The lush greenery of Nairobi, stays that way, because of rains like this. 
     The Jacaranda trees burst out in their amazing vibrant, violet blossoms because of this deluge, coming periodically between days of 80-degree sunshine. 
      The Flame Tree also owes its beauty to the consistent rains of the equatorial city.  I can remember reading as a child, (having yet to witness this personally) about open prairies that become miles of lakefront when the rainy season sweeps through the plains of the Serengeti not far away. To loosely quote one of my favorite teachers; Bob Benson, 

  Water always seems to know where it’s supposed to be going…Why don’t we?  
     
     It has been directed by God’s hand since the beginning of time.  It falls from the heavens and returns to the heavens.  In between, it flows to lakes, streams or oceans.  Whether it is running down my driveway in Nairobi to bring life to the vines growing in my backyard or into the Rift Valley to give life to the herds of Wildebeest, it flows toward it’s purposed end. There is no indecision or misunderstanding. As I said, it is as though it had been choreographed, following the notes written in a concerto...
                                                
                                                      I wish we could hear the music.

     When Tim called and asked me to visit his friend Kenny, I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into.

    “He’s talkin’ real weird lately,” Tim said. “He keeps sayin’ how he wants to go see his Grandma again.”

    “What’s so weird about that?” I asked.

    “His Grandma is dead,” Tim said.

    “Oh. I’ll try to get over to see him this week.”

    The classic-structured Victorian home that Kenny lived in looked sad. Once it had been a major stop on the social calendar of the small town I grew up in. It was a huge rambling three story home, with bay-windows on the lower story and Cape Cod style dormers all around up top. Now in disrepair, the paint peeling off in large sections and the evidence of hard-living teenagers strewn throughout the grounds it just looked…weary. 
   I walked up to the doorway of the lower floor’s rear entrance, which had been made into an apartment that five young adults had rented. Kenny was one of those five. The door stood open before me, so I just walked straight into the living area. Pizza boxes with only a couple crusts remaining inside, sat open on the couch. Tennis shoes, record albums, T-shirts, dirty plates, silverware, bras and other various items were tossed around the room like fall leaves on the front lawn. I was looking around the space, trying to add up the whole scene in my mind when Kenny walked in from the kitchen to meet me.

    He was dressed ragged and was unshaven. His wavy hair hung down to his shoulders. He smiled broadly as he entered and offered a handshake of welcome. He had no idea who I was. After some brief introductions, we began to talk about things spiritual. He was very open about his life and the struggles he was having. He had brought with him some Dinty Moore stew that he opened with a can opener while we talked. Then he grabbed a spoon from between two of the cushions on the couch and began to eat. I watched him with curiosity as he ate and spoke. Suddenly, “mid-chew”, he stopped.

    “Oh…I’m sorry. Are you hungry? I didn’t even ask if you wanted some. Here, have a bite.”

    He held the spoon out toward me.

    “That’s okay,” I managed casually, 
    “I just had some lunch at home,” which was the truth, but it also was not the reason I passed on Dinty Moore that day.
    What I remember most about our encounter, other than what has already been described, is the sense I had in my heart, that Kenny was not hearing me. A soft, separateness hovered over us. It was impenetrable and non-threatening at the same time. I didn’t have to fear for his animosity toward me, no matter how close I cut with my questions. In fact it was the lack of response that bothered me the most. He looked me straight in the eye as we talked, and his eyes feigned sincerity when I asked him to call me if he had any need to talk with someone and he nodded back, but there was a glaze overtop everything he said. When I left and got into my car, I put my hands on the wheel and shook my head then took one last look at the old house. I noticed a yellow shutter that hung at an angle high above, on an attic window, because the hinge had come loose. For some reason it seemed to capsulize all I had just witnessed. Then I then drove away.
      Two days later, Tim called me and told me that Kenny had taken his life….
                                                                                       
                                                      I wish He could have heard the music.

    A while ago I was watching a documentary on the gang problem in L.A. The interviewer was speaking with a couple young ladies about their involvement in the whole mess. Having lived in Chicago for some time, I had a general understanding of the emotional attachment that they were speaking about. Then they discussed an incident that actually happened while the reporter was piecing together the story. In a retaliatory shooting a young mother and her child were accidentally caught in the crossfire; the mother was wounded and her three-year-old boy was killed. The interviewer asked one of the girls about her reaction to what happened.

     “No reaction,” she said.

     “Nothing!?” the man asked incredulously.

     “It’s just part of living here,” she said. “You know that it could happen any time to anybody.”

    “And it makes no difference to you that it was a three year-old baby that was killed?…An innocent child?”

    The young lady just shook her head. 
   And that’s when I saw it. It was that same look that I saw in Kenny’s eyes a dozen years earlier. My heart skipped a beat. A sickness filled my soul, and I dropped my head, there alone in my living room, I wanted to shout out loud….Why can’t she hear the music?

    It was a short time after the television program that I just mentioned, on a Saturday evening. I was busily working on the final touches for the Sunday sermon when I heard the music. Now it wasn’t the first time I had heard, but it was this time that stopped me in my busy preparation mode and brought to me the idea that I am now trying to communicate. I had put on a pair of headphones and was listening to a CD as I was writing. It was the first time I had used the headphones, but not the first time that I had listened to the CD that was playing. As it played, I noticed that I was hearing with wonderful clarity, different rhythms and even instrumentation that my ears had never been privy to in the past, even though I had heard the songs being played many times before. The Lord caught me by the scruff of the neck and shook me a bit. It was clear as what I was hearing through the headphones. If you only knew how often I try to speak to you; try to help you hear things that are unique and special and you miss it….

     Just then His Spirit drew my attention to my two daughters who were seated at the kitchen table. They had earlier complained that the dinner that day had not satisfied. So my wife had prepared a rare, late-night delight for them. Top Ramen and grape soda. Life doesn’t get much better than this on a Saturday night for two kids who have just gotten a reprieve from “bedtime.” My youngest was missing the two front teeth on her uppers and so she was slurping those long noodles through the gap there, like a fire-truck reeling in hose. The resulting overspray from the soup was splashing onto her sister’s eating area, but instead of being frustrated, the oldest just reared back her head and laughed. There they were, in their nightgowns, slippers, and robes. Huge, purple grape-soda moustaches were on their upper lips, as they roared with laughter. I sat in silence, barely containing myself. They didn’t even know that I was watching. It was only a moment and then the noodles were gone and they were off to bed. 
     After they had gone, I thanked the Lord for that moment that he had brought me and for the moment in which I heard the music of joy that He wanted to play for me. My belief is that He is always playing music for us. Many times it has a different melody or rhythm than what we would expect to hear,  but it is always there. If we could just open up, take the time to listen, it would change so much about us. In some situations maybe even restore life where it has been lost, like water rushing to fill an empty lake bed in Africa, or perhaps it could breathe meaning back into lives colored gray with apathy….if we could just hear the music.

You Have Been So Lost To Me

   
Rhonda walked into the field offices and greeted Margaret Njuki with a hug.
                                                              The embrace was without inhibition; it was kind and sincere.
We had been out of Nairobi for a considerable time and so had Margaret,
                     but the two women had developed such a close relationship during our time in Kenya...that they were as sisters to each other.

I watched from a short distance as the two women held each other, near tears, for quite some time.  Then as they separated, still holding hands, Margaret said the words that have stayed in both Rhonda's heart and mine, for nearly twenty years now,
                                                            "You have been so lost to me."

Thomas sat on the carpet with his back to the bed.  I was across from him, with my back to the wall.  He lives in an apartment with three others from South Sudan.  Each has their own bedroom.
He was very somber.  His eyes fell to the floor while he told me the events of the past week.  Typically, his eyes danced with light when we talk, but today...sadness.  There is much violence these days in his homeland.  His adopted brother, John, whom he had helped get through school, helped get a nursing degree, was dead.

A week ago, Thomas was fishing in Alaska.
That's how he makes a living.
That's how he has supported his family in Africa.
That's how he pays his portion of the rent for the apartment in Kent.
That's where he was when he last heard from his brother.
Now he's sending some money home to help with a funeral.
His forehead was against the palm of his hand as he wondered aloud ...
                                                                        how will John's wife and children survive? 

Later that day we prayed together with a handful of others gathered for bible study in another apartment.  In that prayer I believe that there was at least a small bit of release from the pain of being disconnected from his family.

My daughter and her husband arrived at SeaTac airport after a year away teaching ESL courses in Korea.  There were lots of hugs, some tears, (BTW - There is a 15 minute "watching and waiting" video posted to our Facebook page that preserves the moment) but mostly just a lot of joy
                                  as they returned to us after such a long separation.

You have been so lost to me.
This phrase reminds me of all the reunions and disunions of my life.  We were made to live in vital relationship with each other.  Not just with those that we have decided we are "in like" with.

AND Not just with our immediate family.  (Which is not always as easy as it sounds either)  :)

Jesus made an odd request of The Father in the middle of his prayer in John 17:20-22.  He said,

     "My prayer is.....that they may be one as we are one..."

This is odd because we can't really process it at all.
The Father, Son and Spirit live in perfect connected relationship all the time.
There is no setting in which one of them becomes lost to the other.
And somehow Jesus believed that type of relationship was possible for us too.  (heavy sigh)

Death would not separate.
Distance would not separate.
Politics would not separate.
Culture would not separate.
Race would not separate.
Emotional baggage would not separate.

Jesus just thought that with His Spirit in us we could somehow pull this off.

When I consider the possibilities that surround this thought, I am filled with hope.
When I consider the forces in play that work against this I am grieved.

I have decided that by His strength, and whenever He tells me to,  I will extend a hand.
I am asking anyone else so moved these days, to join me.

Some of the disconnect we experience here, we have no control over.  My friend Thomas has had to work through that recently.  It will be hard.  Yet, I know, that Thomas knows, that between he and his brother John,
                                           one day there will be a reunion!

It is the disconnect that we choose that concerns me the most.

First off there is the disunion from our maker that needs to be sorted out.... can we hear him call out to us, with a broad smile on his face, eyes bright with joy as we walk toward him and receive all the benefits of the relationship that He intended to have with us all along?
                                             
And then a fresh breath of release fills our soul that enables us to take the next step.
I have been wronged.
We have all been wronged.
I have wronged others.  There's no way to escape these truths.
Additionally, I am constantly working through stereotypes that separate.  We all are.

Still, I am looking forward to the many moments ahead when I can surround someone with that hope and acceptance that Christ has given me and repeat those same words that He has spoken to me many times, the same words that Margaret spoke to Rhonda without calculating their impact, words that reveal the longing and joy that is part of the reunion...
Mending that which was broken.
Weaving together that which was unraveled.
Shouting out loud because I have been missing a relationship that has left me incomplete up to now...

                              You have been so lost to me!