On Returning

You know - it's been a long time since I wrote here.

Seems to be the mantra of the on-again, off-again blogger, eh?

I know that there are people who followed this sucker back when I was trying hard to put something out into the blogosphere weekly.  There was a time I tried for daily but that was so unrealistic even I laughed at myself.

I recently found out that the title "Redefined Juliet" has been grabbed up by a theatrical ensemble trying to redefine who gets to play the role of Juliet for the masses.  When something like that happens I never know if I should be flattered or offended or a little bit of both.

It's not like I own it.  I just thought of it first.

But then again, there's nothing super new under the sun, and Shakespeare's play has been around for centuries, so the likelihood remains I'm not actually the first at anything - even this.

My life has changed so much since I last wrote here I don't even feel like I belong.

From a self-defined Christian who absolutely believed in the fires of hell I've moved into a space where I absolutely don't believe a loving God could send anyone to eternal torment.  I mean anyone.  That God loves unconditionally.  Eternally.  Forever.  I realize in some circles this makes me a heretic.  That's okay, because I'm a bit queer myself and most of my closest friends are gay.  I don't know what I really think about monogamy anymore in a world made with so much Love.  I live in a place that is finally accepting me and my art and exactly who I am is almost mainstream.  I've had a lot of hard discussions with a lot of wonderful people.  I've cried in front of people who are super close to me and people who are close to strangers.  I've read a lot.  I've done a lot of traveling alone.  I've gone to a lot of dive bars.  I've made a lot of art that not a lot of people see. 

But what is this space about, if not about the constant cycle of redefinition?  Of being Oneself?  Of connecting with the Eternal.  Nothing, eh?  Nothing at all.

Right now I'm reading Amanda Palmer's book: The Art of Asking.  It's great.  And inspiring. 

I've been inspired by a lot of things lately.  Burlesque shows and teaching artists and vaudeville and 1970's punk rock.  I got a mohawk on a whim at a fundraiser for my favorite theatre company.  My nails have been black for two weeks and it's pretty freaking great.  I feel like...  things are actually starting to make sense for me as a human.  And the things that don't make sense really shouldn't. 

I'm directing for actual money.

Tonight I'm going to my second acting class since 2001. 

Sometimes I'm the teacher.  Sometimes the student. 

I'm allowed to still be learning.

I've brushed off my old piano books and I'm playing.  Actually playing again.  Classical music mostly, but trying desperately to figure out other ways to play.

I don't know why I feel the need to write this out into the Universe for you.

I continue to believe that God is Good.  I continue to be a follower of Jesus. 

I continue to be frustrated when people don't understand how that could be true for someone who thinks abortion is sometimes necessary and gay love is real love and black fingernail polish and Dungeons and Dragons are things with which our children should be allowed to play. 

Sometimes I feel like I don't know what anything means.  And you know what?  That's okay.  That's okay.

I never finished my series on the Sermon on the Mount and the Beattitudes.  I suppose at some point I will come back to it, as the whole things is still so dear to my heart.  But for now...  expect some changes if I ever choose to write again.  Expect some change.

On "Shopping Cart 'Ditchers'..."

A friend of mine recently posted this blog by Matt Walsh. I usually really enjoy his stuff. He makes me laugh, he makes me cry, he is an excellent writer and one that I generally agree with while he is able to put into words things I have not always been able to. Today, however, I had to write a response because I want people to understand where he gets it wrong.

A few months ago, I would have read his blog like the majority of his readers, laughed, felt a little bad for Matt, agreed with him, and then posted some comment about how people who don't put their shopping carts back are lazy jerks.  Or I would have re-posted with a snicker.

That was before my experience in the Kroger parking lot near Danville, KY.

The fam and I were bringing our groceries back to the car and loading them into the back.  An elderly woman had just pulled in to a spot near us (we were about thirty feet from a cart corral), on the store side.  At about the same time, another elderly woman was unloading her groceries into the car across from Elderly Woman #1.

 EW#1:  Can I use your cart?

EW#2:  If you can wait 'til I'm finished.  I need it to hold on to so I can keep myself up.  She chuckles a little at her own situation.

EW#1:  Chuckles back, knowingly.  That's why I asked to use your cart!  I need it too!

They both laugh.  EW#1 pulls a walker from the back seat while simultaneously holding on to the car door.  She walks over to a cart that someone left in the middle of the parking lot - just near the cart return, but closer to a handicapped space.  She grabs the card with one hand and put the walker inside.  Then, she pushes the cart back to her car, unloads the walker, and grips the cart tightly, holding herself steady.  She closes the car door.  EW#2 is still unloading her groceries, keeping one hand on the cart at all times.  It is a slow process, but a meaningful one: she is still able to do this independently.  

EW#1:  You have a good day now!

EW#2:  She waves at her new acquaintance.  You too!

EW#1 walks into the store with her cart.  EW#2 finishes unloading her groceries and closes the car's back door.  She pushes the cart up to the driver's seat and opens the door.  She looks around furtively.  It is obvious that she knows she should return the cart rather than leaving it here next to the parking space, but she also knows she can't get back to her car without it.  She looks at the cart, then back to the corral, then at the cart.  Finally, she leaves the cart where it is and gets into her car, closes the door, and drives away.

I watched all of this with a kind of awe.  I never thought about how difficult it must be for an elderly person or for a person with any sort of physical handicap to return a cart to the corral.

I know that there are likely people who just leave their carts in the middle of the parking lot out of laziness or foolishness or the fact that they are super late getting home...  There are also people who honestly can't put the cart away, but need it to get their groceries and to get inside the doors of the store.

In the future, perhaps instead of complaining about the ridiculousness of someone else's actions - someone whose situation we don't know and can't know - perhaps those of us who are able-bodied and have a little time could help out with the parking lot situation.

If you see a cart someone has left mid-parking lot (and honestly, there aren't usually very many), take a few extra seconds out of your day and return it to the corral for them.  They might be sick, in labor, elderly... they could have left that cart for any myriad of reasons.  In my travels I have found that for the most part, everyone is doing the very best they can with what they have at the time.  So try seeing the situation a different way, and maybe you could keep damage from happening to someone's car like what happened to Matt's.  Or maybe you'll just make someone's day.

For more on this topic, check out Rob Bell's NOOMA:Store.  (I'd post it here, but it's not free)

How Mary Gets the Shaft.

Mary.

The Mother of Jesus.

I grew up Protestant and I always thought all of my Catholic friends were incredibly odd for praying to the Holy Mother.  And I had a lot of Catholic friends.  In sixth grade at my middle school they used to let the Catholic kids out early for CCD.  Out of a class of twenty-five, there were only two of us who didn't qualify for early release.

I used to feel left out... but I was told by those around me that Catholics had issues, and I should be glad not to be one of them.

Now this isn't going to be some post to bash all the Catholics in my life.  Quite the contrary, so stay with me.

The Protestant circles explained that Catholics pray to statues, especially statues of Mary.  That they have saints for things.  That they don't feel they can go to God directly with their prayers.

I have since learned that this is nonsense.  Catholics have statues, but they don't pray to them, they just appreciate them as artistic symbols.  Catholics do pray to saints, but they ask saints to pray for them, because we believe as Christians that those of us who are believers have eternal life, right?  So it's just the same as asking Mom to pray for us, or a close friend, or our pastor.  And Mary.

If you're going to ask someone to pray for you, what better choice could there possibly be than Mary?  Who could be closer to YHWH than the woman He chose to bear His Son?

All that being said...I don't ask Mary to pray for me.  I don't pray to Mary.  But I wanted to write this post about how I've felt about Mary for the last few years, and how I feel about her at this particular season of the year especially.

Mary is the Mother of Jesus - but I can't help picturing her before all that, and comparing that young girl to me at the very same age.

Mary was about thirteen when all of this went down.

When I was thirteen I was in eighth grade.  I got my period at a reading team competition (yes, I am a nerd, and I admit this proudly - I was the team captain).  I wore enormous dorky glasses.  I was incredibly unpopular.  I could name zero boys who were interested.  I had not yet figured out that half a bottle of hairspray in my bangs was unattractive.  I was a ridiculous mess of a person.  I contemplated suicide.  I looked in the mirror and saw a girl that I felt no one else would ever see - the girl behind the glasses and the retainer and the hair spray and the poor attempts at just about everything.

I can't imagine someone telling me I was going to have a baby.  I probably would have gone and drowned myself somewhere.  I would have been utterly rejected by everyone around me.  I would have been kicked out of my house.  I would have lost everything - and there is no way, even in my wildest fantasies, that I would believe any boy would want me now.

And so I think on Mary - who was "of age" to marry since she's had her first cycle and all, and who was betrothed to Joseph, and I think about that angel's visit and what it must have meant to her and for her and how she is possibly the bravest person on the face of the planet.  And how she only got stronger.

Motherhood takes it's toll.  It brings us back to earth.  It slays us with Reality.  It rips out our guts and our hearts and it is beautiful and difficult and more than I could ever describe.

How Mary must have felt as her Child grew.  And how she Knew.

There are things about our children that as moms we don't know.

We don't know who our children will be.

We don't know how they will grow or if they will be more like us or their fathers or if they will get a "good job" or go to college or skip it altogether or fall in love with the "right" person or if we will outlive them.

Outliving them is a thing we dare not think.  Outliving them is not an option.  Outliving them is the worst pain we can dream.  The worst pain we can dare to imagine.

And yet...  Mary knew.

Mary knew that she would raise this child to die.  Mary knew that she would have to go through that pain - pain to bring the Messiah into the world.  Pain while he left it.

What were her hopes?  What did she dare to dream?

Mary who loved The Son of God more than any of us can understand.  His Mother.

I can picture her standing at the foot of the cross.  She wraps her shawl tighter around her face.  The tears fall freely and she does not wipe them away.  She knew the day would come but this...this is more than she could ever bear or ever hope to understand.  Her husband is dead.  The sky is dark.  There is a streak of lightening.

I hope that I will never have to stand where Mary stood: watching my child die before my eyes.  Watching him suffer and shake and bleed.  I pray in the depths of my soul for those women who have to experience this very heart-wrenching thing.

But I expect they also ought to know they are in good company.

So I can't really blame Catholicism.  I can't blame women for wanting this particular shoulder to cry on.  These arms to hold them.  This ear to whisper their deepest fears and their hardest prayers - because, Ladies, she's been there.

She held out her arms when He was learning to walk and she kissed His bruises and scrapes and she encouraged and scolded and sat Him on her lap when he cried...

She was the real thing.  A Real Mom.

And so our scriptures gloss over Mary.

And so we don't talk about her much because of the fear of worshiping her as a goddess (which she isn't).  And we shun those who pray prayers to her and we looked askance at a rosary and we scoff at the Gnostic gospels...

But should we?  Should we give Mary the shaft in our theology?  Should we gloss over and push aside and forget Who She Was as we struggle to embrace our own identities as women and mothers?

I say no, Ladies.  I say.  No.

You are better than this.

This Sunday our pastor talked about encounters with God.  Specifically, he talked about Paul's encounter, and how everyone's encounter is different, because we are all different, and how no one's encounter is invalid, just specially catered to them.

I don't remember a lot of God Moments from my childhood.  I remember feeling happy.  I remember understanding Jesus Loves Me and feeling the joy of singing corporate songs under the stars at summer camp.  But my first Encounter was when I was fourteen years old at a revival preached by Ken Abraham at my dad's church.

I'm a pastor's kid (PK), for those of you who didn't know.  I had few experiences with preaching that didn't come from my father's mouth.  Revivals were always interesting because we had a guest speaker, and it changed things up a bit.

I don't remember what Ken Abraham talked about that night.

I remember that I had asked my boyfriend to come to church with me to hear him speak, but he didn't show up.  He told me on the phone that night that he came and stood in the back, but was too afraid to come and sit with me up front, but I knew even then that he lied.

There was an altar call at the service and I went up for it.

I hadn't ever done anything like that before.

It wasn't anything that Ken said.  It was more like I didn't have a choice.

There was this feeling inside of me - this pounding feeling - that wouldn't let up until I went up there to the altar.  And so I went.

I was overcome with emotion.

I had seen this happen to a lot of teenagers in my past.

Usually it meant they were "getting saved".

I'm sure that's what most people thought was happening to me that night.

It wasn't.

I can't really recall a time I wasn't "saved".  I had always been a Believer.  This was something else.

It was a time in my life of which I am not proud.

It was my first boyfriend and I had allowed a lot of things to happen that I felt shame about.  I had fought with my parents about their rules and I had disobeyed my inner voice because I felt like giving in to the pressure to continue physically was the thing to do to keep the boyfriend.  I thought I was "in love" with him.  It was the first time I had really dated anyone.  I was naive and clueless and so. young.  I didn't want to give in when he asked me to do things - but I didn't know how to say no.

I thought I was being a "good girlfriend".

But that night...  something washed over me.

It wasn't shame.

It was... love.

I felt so loved in those moments at the altar.

Up to that moment I had felt so dirty and shameful and tired and misunderstood and helpless and when I knelt there I felt accepted and important and beautiful and LOVED.

I didn't know how to tell anyone about what happened to me that night.  I didn't understand it myself.  It was this emotional roller coaster of crazy.  I didn't "get saved".  I just encountered God.

LOL - just.

I have always remembered that night as a night when I changed the way I approached my faith.

April 15, 1995

No longer was it the Faith of my Parents.  It became my faith.  My own relationship with The Almighty.

At the time I chalked it up to "getting saved" because that made the most sense to me.

On Sunday, sitting in the service I realized that it was much more than praying "the sinner's prayer" and making some sort of public and tear-filled declaration.  I was emotional because in all of my shame and confusion The Creator of the Cosmos bent down and said, "You are better than this."

No one else had said that to me.

I had been called dirty and shameful.  I had been made fun of and pushed down in the hallway.  I had friends telling me to "give ________ something to remember [me] by" in my yearbook.  I had been forced to write sexually explicit love notes and say embarrassing things on the telephone.  I had been turned down for slow dances by my own date because a more popular girl was prettier and available and I had thrown away my dignity for a chance to be liked.

Everyone else looked at me and saw the ugliness of my shame.  The ugliness of my mistakes.  The ugliness of what I was becoming slowly.

But Jesus...

Jesus looked at me and saw through all of that dirty and grime and sludge and said, "You are better than this."

I still tear up thinking about it.

There was nothing about getting what I deserved.

There was nothing about how I would be punished and how I should feel all this shame. 

There was empathy.

There was recognition of the person beneath all that muck.

"You are better than this" acknowledges the beauty that remains.  The potential for growth.  The unconditional love that only Jesus can perfectly show.

I couldn't put it into words when I was fourteen.

It was just blind emotion - so pure that all I could do was sink to my knees and cry.

Looking back, the words are clear.

You are better than this.

You were made for more.

I didn't stop doing those things that made me feel shame right then.

In fact, it took a lot of pain and a lot of shame and a lot of years to really get a handle on my sexuality and my thoughts about purity and it's something I struggle with to this day, but I know one thing when those struggles rear their heads.

I am better.

I was made for better things.

You were made for better things.

You are better than this.

Pieces of Truth.

My husband and I run an inspirational website for passionate creators: artists in all disciplines called Patchwork Veracity.  We chose that title because we believe that Truth can be found all around us.  From the most unexpected sources.  And often, for creative types, in their work.  This whole idea has also led us to believe that Truth leads to More Questions - and so... art that evokes questions is the art that is most excellent, and really, in my opinion, the closest to God.

I see God as the Ultimate Creator.  The Master of the Great Academy of Earth.  He creates more and more for us - ways to see him, ways to connect to him - more evidence to collect in solving the Great Mystery of Who He Is.  We see the stars - we want to know how far away they are, of what they are made, if we can touch them, if anyone else is out there... and on into infinity.  We see a tree and we wonder if we could climb it, how it gets it's food, how it can help us, what we can build with it...  Endless possibility.  Endless questioning.  Endless sensory experience and wonder out there for the taking.

There are many things that have been deemed "unChristian" or "Anti-Christian".  Things like yoga, marijuana, The Tao, The Moon Cycles, The Celebration of the Seasons...  I grew up thinking I needed to stay far from these things.  Thinking they were dangerous.  Meditation?  You'd better be talking while you're praying because in all that silence something might come up from Satan!  Yoga?  Chanting???  That's only for Pagans.  Solstice Celebration?  Stick with Christmas and forget about that evil summer festival.

But the older I become...  The more I see of the world...  the more I read and grow and pray and connect... the more I realize - these things I've been told to steer clear of...  these are ways the people are trying to answer the question of Who God Is.  These are ways that we understand Him.  The Seasons have been put into place so that the Story of Resurrection is ingrained in our hearts - the growing things bloom and blossom and thrive...and then they die...  only to come back to life in the spring!  Cycles of living and dying - the seed giving way to the plant, the caterpillar giving way to the butterfly - All of Creation sings of The Story of Christ!  And so why shouldn't I celebrate the Solstice with Thanksgiving and laughter?  The acknowledgement of the Gift from God to aid us in understanding his magnificent plan?

I practice yoga.  I ADMIT IT!  And it is amazing for my back, for my mood, for my LIFE.  Namaste - the acknowledgement of a Divine Spirit living in you...  that's JESUS!  We believe that we HAVE a divine spirit living in us as Christians!  How touching to say Namaste to another in greeting, in farewell, in well-wishing when we see Christ manifest in them!  The Ohm?  There is POWER in the unification of tone, of voice.  There is true connection with something bigger than ourselves and saying that it ISN'T The God of the Universe is selling everyone short!

I know that not everyone will agree with me - but I urge ALL of you to really take a look at the things you've written off.  Might they be connections you've been missing?  Claim it.  Embrace it.  Sew it into your growing patchwork of truth.

On Romance.

This morning I chatted with my mom on the phone about Brave and my previous entry regarding it.

It was interesting that she asked me "Don't you think there should be any romance at all in life?"

And she got that from my Brave post, so I figured I should clarify my thoughts on the issue.

I absolutely think there should be romance in life.

I also think that romance can come from two sources.

1.  God

2.  A partner.

I think a lot of women miss out on the God part of romance - not realizing that it's a possible thing, or thinking it's a totally weird thing.

God made us women.  He understands that our hearts want... and NEED to be romanced.  And he is in the business of winning our hearts.  Look around you at this beautiful creation.  See it as a gift from a lover, and be in AWE of what God will do for you.

For Quality Time - He is constantly and unconditionally available.
For Physical Touch - He can provide a powerful presence when you will present him with your time - when you will show up to meet with him.
For Acts of Service - he meets your needs.  He sends rain to water your garden.  He answers our most intimate prayers.
For Words of Affirmation he provides the scriptures with all of his promises.
For Gifts - look around you at this beautiful creation.  Note when a flock of birds flies overhead or a dolphin leaps from the ocean and you feel it is just for YOU.  That's because it IS.

There are no accidents.

I believe that God is wild.  A warrior.  A king.  And tender - a shepherd of sheep.  He helps the ewe to birth the lamb.  He understands us because he made us.  No one could understand us better - and isn't that what we long for?


As for the partner.

Bottom line.

Not every woman wishes for a partner.

There are women who are gifted with singleness and thank God for those women!  Those who are able to devote their lives to serving Him!  To embarking on great adventures across the world or across their town.  The women who have nothing to hold them back from hiking the Appalachian Trail solo or with a friend.  Who can go to the movies whenever they want.  Who can spend extra time at the office if it's something they love.  Who can go to the bathroom without a child pounding down the door.  Bless those women!

For those of us who DO wish for a partner - who are constantly planning our wedding from the time we reach the age of four.  Those of us who cannot fathom a life alone.  Those who long most to be mothers and have families...  We ought to be romanced like crazy by the person with whom we choose to spend our lives.

A life partner is not something to be taken lightly, however.  It's not about a handsome prince who you barely know kissing you and waking you up and wedding bells ringing instantly.  A life partner is someone with whom you will share this great adventure of life.

A life partner is someone who should understand what it means to be there for you no matter what.  A life partner, according to Scripture, should love us as Christ loves the Church.  And Christ loves the church fiercely.  He romances her back to him when she feels like straying.  He laid down his life for her.

If the person you're considering spending your life with isn't ready to lay down his life for you, then you need to re-think your choice.

That's why I like Brave.

Merida doesn't say she never wants to be married.  She said she isn't ready.

That's not the same thing.

AND - having the wisdom to know you aren't ready might be the highest wisdom you can have when faced with these decisions.

Merida's father says that he wants the person who marries his daughter to "win her heart" - and that is exactly what romance means.

For more on God's romancing, see the book of Hosea and pick up a copy of the book, Captivating.

Why Did Jesus Do That?

The past few nights I’ve been reading The Gospel of Mark.  I try to read a little of The Bible before bed, because I think it’s good for my subconscious to be reflecting  the passages on which I’ve been focusing while I’m asleep.  Call me crazy, but I’m a huge proponent of “sleep studying” and such (you know, you read the chapter, then  you just go to sleep and hope your brain processes it into useful knowledge and you ace the test the next day without ACTUAL studying). 

Okay, so maybe it isn’t always the best method…

But anyway…

I was reading in The Gospel of Mark and I came across the passage where the disciples are in their boat rowing and a big storm blows up.  They’re having a hard time rowing, and Jesus walks out to them on the water.

This is one of the stories with which I thought I was very familiar.  It’s always been one of my favorites.

I especially like it when they talk amongst themselves and say, “Who is this man, that even the wind and the seas obey him?”  That is quite possibly my favorite verse in the entire Bible. 

So I’m reading along, and all is well, until I come to the part of the passage in the New Living Translation where it says, “…he intended to go past them, but when  they saw him walking on the water, they cried out in terror, thinking he was a ghost.”

Hold up!

“he intended to go PAST them”???

Let me review the entire passage with you, so you can get a feel for where I’m coming from:

⁴⁵ Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and head across the lake to Bethsaida, while he sent the people home. ⁴⁶ After telling everyone good-bye, he went up into the hills by himself to pray.

 ⁴⁷ Late that night, the disciples were in their boat in the middle of the lake, and Jesus was alone on land. ⁴⁸ He saw that they were in serious trouble, rowing hard and struggling against the wind and waves. About three o’clock in the morning^[a] Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. He intended to go past them, ⁴⁹ but when they saw him walking on the water, they cried out in terror, thinking he was a ghost.

I read it several times, and each time the part where it says “he intended to go past them” jumped out at me.
“He saw that they were in serious trouble, rowing hard and struggling against the wind and waves.”
Seriously?  He SAW that they were struggling, working hard, fighting for their lives, and he intended to go. past. them.

What kind of a Savior is it who sees his friends struggling and keeps on walking?  I mean, walking on the water is cool and all, but really?  I, for one, would be pretty pissed off that he walked on past.
I’ve been pondering this passage for about fifteen hours now, letting it wash around in my brain.  I’ve slept on it, I’ve clambered through it.  I’ve wondered about it.  Why didn’t Jesus go to them immediately?  Why did he want to go past them?  Did he want to get to the shore on the other side before them?  Was he trying to prove some point that they hadn’t yet grasped?

Later on in the chapter, Mark explains that the disciples hearts were hardened, and they were unable to see Jesus for who he truly was, even after the Feeding of the 5,000.

I thought maybe he was just strolling along on the water, chillin’ with His Father, and he just happened to be close to the boat and they just happened to see him, but c’mon, Jesus does things with intention.  He meant for the disciples to see him walking on the water.

He walked close to the boat on purpose.

Before this, he sent them off in the boat alone.  He told them he would take care of sending the crowds home (immediately following the Feeding of the 5,000) and they should go on without him.  Apparently they didn’t see anything at all strange about him sending them across the lake without him, I guess they figured he’d hitch a ride with someone else? 

After they go on their merry way and the crowds disperse, Jesus goes off alone to pray.  I noticed he does this just before and/or after something really big happens.  He gets refueled and charged up by communing with The Father, and then heads into the fray once more. 

I wonder what that conversation must have been like, after He made fives loaves and two fish into dinner for 5,000 people (probably more like 15,000, considering the 5K was just a count of the men in the crowd) and his best friends still didn’t get that he was God.  They didn’t get that he was The Messiah.  They just didn’t see it.  How could they be so blind?  Didn’t they see how much power he was given?  That he had complete control over EVERYTHING?

And then I thought about this story, right after the Feeding…, where he walks out past the boat and disciples don’t recognize him: they think it’s a ghost.  They cry out in terror.  He intended to go past them.

What was he trying to say by walking past them?  By leaving them alone in that boat on the stormy water? 

We know what happens.  He calms them down and says “Hey, it’s me, don’t freak out.” And then he calms the sea. 

It’s my impression that Jesus always has high hopes for the disciples.  I am certain that he hoped they would  know it was him walking on the water and now assume that because he was defying the laws of physics he was a ghost.  He probably felt like – hey, I just made food appear out of nothing, this isn’t really all that hard, considering I’ve already proved that those natural laws mean nothing to me…

Maybe Jesus hoped they would know – Hey, it’s Jesus!  Everything is so fine!  We’re all worried they we aren’t going to come out of this alive, but he’s going RIGHT PAST US.  It’s obvious that he is going to meet us on the other side – that we’re going to BE OKAY.

Maybe he was hoping that they would trust.  That he wouldn’t have to calm the storm for them to understand that he could calm the storm.  Maybe he hoped that the loaves and fishes was enough, and they would see that as long as they were with Jesus they were okay.  Nothing could stand in the way of them getting to where they needed to go. 

I think about that in my life.

I want Jesus to fix things.  I want him to calm the storm.

I don’t even recognize him when he’s walking right beside me.

Everything feels out of control and scary.  I feel like I have to fix everything because that’s the only way I can make it out of every situation intact.  Even when I can’t control the things around me, I try.

I row the boat harder.  I fight against the waves.  I focus so hard on the scary, horrible things around me that I see those who are trying to help me as terrifying figures who are trying to take more control.  Like the lifeguard who almost drowns because the victim is so terrified that he grabs onto the guard and pulls her down with him. 

We grasp at everything, we see ghosts, shadows…  we forget that we serve a Savior who controls EVERYTHING. 

Jesus CAN calm the storm, but doesn’t it mean more if we trust him through it?

Why are we struggling with the oars when Jesus confidently walks across the water to the other side?  Why are we fearing for our lives when Jesus is waiting on the shore, ready to greet us with a smile and an embrace? 

Recently I was in a complete tizzy about something that I absolutely couldn’t control.

The actions of the people around me were making me so angry.  I felt like no one was doing what they should be doing.  I felt like I had to fix it.  There had to be a way that I could make things work – make them better…  I fought.  I was stressed.  My heart raced.  My shoulders were raised and tense.  I spat venom at the people around me who loved me.  I had a panick attack and had to take medicine to calm me down…  all over something over which I had no control.  Ultimately, it would work itself out one way or another and there was NOTHING I could do about it either way. 

How much more peace I would have if I could remember that our lives are not about the storms.  Our lives are about the guy on the other side.  God has complete, ultimate, and total control.  He doesn’t even have to think about it.  Natural laws mean nothing to him.  He walks across the water.  He divides the loaves and fishes until there is more than enough. 

All I can do when the storm comes is row my little boat.  I don’t think I should give up and stop rowing, but I do think I should stop fighting against the waves.  Stop fighting against the seemingly overpowering sea of worry and doubt and trust that the God of the Universe is confident He will see me on the other side.