Tag Archives: life

Death and a Promise {My March Garden and Predestination}

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It is early March and the garden is a graveyard.

Stripped leafless, raspberry canes stand as skeleton sentinels over the raised beds that appear in the gray March morning as bleached-cedar crypts.

It is a deserted graveyard of  last summer’s folly and autumn’s frosted nights. Leaves lay clung to one another in a dappled, moulded pile on wet earth; and stems, once green founts of nourishment, poke the air in haphazard directions.

It all looks an architectural experiment gone awry, a verdant dystopia of what once was and what I’m left with is slime and detritus and memories.

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But I breathe in chilled air laced with the scents of earthy decomposition and I breathe out again and say,

It is all death and a promise.

That is the gardener’s life: to accept the seasons and the life and loss that they bring with a trowel in hand and hope in heart.

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That is the life I choose. But before that, it was the life that chose me.

Before I gardened, before I carried babies in the womb and heart and arms, before I pledged lifelong love to my sweetheart, before I knew any sort of loss or living, before I came to be, the death and the promise claimed me. The story it tells and the future I hold with trembling fingers because of it is the mystery, the resolution, the revelation and the life.

In a few lines of a letter written to a church in the city of Ephesus, Paul runs a broad highlighter through the eons of time and answers mankind’s united questions: Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going?

“Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes.” (Ephesians 1:4)

Even before he made the world. While darkness enveloped the solar system we call home and the breath of heaven had not yet inspired life by hovering and moving and undulating power over the darkness there was this: God loved us.

God loved us.

Before he created a twinkle or a drop or a seed.

Who? you may ask, because people are always categorizing, drawing lines in sand and making rules and structures and buildings to include and exclude.

Us.

Jesus whispered the truth to the old Pharisee: it is not the will of the Father that any man should perish.

He loved us and chose us all. Us all!

And then he made a garden.

He started the magnificent ball rolling, the seasons and the seed and the harvest. He started the miracle of microbes and  decomposition….before the fall and fruit and eyes-wide-open sinners hid behind trees and pointed blaming fingers.

Death has really been a part of the plan all along.

I believe this to be true because I know my nature, our collective nature, that prevents us from knowing the rich, luxurious gift of breath and life and work and all that comes with the experience of being human until we comprehend utter and complete loss. That is why the serpent slithered and spoke slippery-sweet words of doubt and that is why the fruit was plucked and taken and it’s juice sucked in through innocent lips. Because they were lips that knew not the abundant gift of death and subsequent life, the whole of grace.

The death holds a promise, “he chose us to be holy and without fault in his eyes.”

Set apart. Holy.

We are set apart for a purpose grand and vital, to no longer bear the marks of failure and fault and blame and regret.

Like fresh wildflowers scooped into a glass to brighten a corner, our purpose is simply to be, to please him. And I believe, and you may disagree, that this “set apart-ness” is based upon our being created in his image–we are different from every other living thing in that we are not only proof of a complex design, but we possess unique qualities and emotions that no other animal has.

God delighted in foreknowing every single one of us. That alone qualifies us with great purpose.

God knows, loves and has chosen you!

///

Friend, won’t you walk with me through the next few verses in Ephesians chapter one? Unwrap with me the simple yet magnificent mystery of God’s plan for you.

Let’s not get caught in the mire of the predestination debate, but lets shoot straight on to the real point of Ephesians 1: God thought of each and every one of us, in the immense knowledge of his divine mind, he knew our DNA, our unique features. He also knew the inevitable decisions we would each make to live outside of his plan. If it hadn’t started with Adam, it would have with one of his descendants.

We are human, made in his image, but also created to be in relationship with and dependent upon our Creator, God. He is passionate about people, all people throughout all time and circumstance on this earth. He will bring everyone under the authority of Jesus Christ. What that means exactly, we don’t really know. But we can look at the nature of God, his attributes of mercy, love, justice, holiness, faithfulness and we can trust that since God is big enough to dream up each person from the beginning of time, he will do what is best and merciful and just in the end.

Read with me the passage in Ephesians over these next few days. Let the wonderment of his perfect plan embrace you. Engage in it. Choose to see yourself and others as God does: loved, chosen, holy, purposeful, delightful.

Alyssa

Ephesians 1:3-11 (NLT)

3 All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms because we are united with Christ. 4 Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes.

5 God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.

6 So we praise God for the glorious grace he has poured out on us who belong to his dear Son. 7 He is so rich in kindness and grace that he purchased our freedom with the blood of his Son and forgave our sins. 8 He has showered his kindness on us, along with all wisdom and understanding.

9 God has now revealed to us his mysterious plan regarding Christ, a plan to fulfill his own good pleasure. 10 And this is the plan: At the right time he will bring everything together under the authority of Christ—everything in heaven and on earth. 11 Furthermore, because we are united with Christ, we have received an inheritance from God,  for he chose us in advance, and he makes everything work out according to his plan.

linked up with Emily and at Leaving a Legacy

 

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Let Them Eat Love {a communion of grace}

IMG_4321I  sift flour into a bowl.

With my hands I mix the butter until it disappears into the flour silk-smooth.

I pat and push the mixture and press the heart cutter deep into the soft layers of dough.

I make heart biscuits for the beloved souls that gather around my table. Heart shaped food.  A silly demonstration of the pulse of my heart: how can I convince them how much I love them?

So I feed them love. I feed them heart-shaped cookies and dough and meatloaf, even. I want them to taste it, savor it, digest the love in it not just the fun or the flavors of a holiday.

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This is my offering. This is my communion table.

Do you know? I ask, do you know how deeply loved you are? 

I write lists. 

Lists of reasons they are special. Amazing. Funny things, dear things, memories that we share. A list for each one, written in pink permanent ink in my own hand – not typed or purchased or computer generated. My thoughts, my love, my handwriting. And the lists, love-lists on strips of paper fill burlap hearts.

I stitch hearts of rough burlap and cotton thread.

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Needle in hand, simple stitches in the familiar shape – a dotted line of love. And the truth of their loveliness, tucked inside and stitched and buttoned up is a gift of intention. In order to reveal the lists, the love lists I’ve made for each one of them, they must break open the heart and take the truth out with their own hands, read aloud and hear and speak the truths:

You’re my firstborn.

You make me feel loved.

You are creative, full of possibility.

You use your gifts to make others happy.

You always help.

The naming continues. There are more reasons than there is room in the hearts. Stuffing all that beauty and truth into small hearts is too miniature a message of the love that spills from my eyes even as I write and stitch and stuff and button.

They are symbols, all.

The love feast and the hearts stitched and broken, the food and memories shared. They are quiet, constructed, sculpted symbols and I, an artist wresting truth from lifeless stone, desperate to draw out the value of the people I live with. I can’t say the whole of all I feel, all I believe and know about them–I fear the words would hurt as they came out of me. I am too small to hold it all, too inept to phrase it all. So I set out the symbols on the table, the bread, the drink, the sweets shaped of hearts and sprinkled with sugar, and I pray in my always breaking heart, breaking from fulness:

Let them eat love. Your love, Jesus. Let them be filled and rounded and satisfied. Let them look into my eyes, each other’s eyes and see Your face, Your love, Your feast of grace ever before them. Make these symbols a holy feast, a sacred joy, a gift.

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Linked up with Lisa Jo and with Emily and Laura

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A New Person in Christ {Second Chance Blessings}

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I am a new person in Christ – Ephesians 2:15

The Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime. -Psalm 40:11

Simple truths robe this Monday morning and the ties that wrap round me begin with “I am a new person in Christ” and “My  Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime”. There is always enough of God’s lovingkindness to envelope me and tie me in snug.

Winterlight flickers tender through gray February clouds. Coffee steams in mugs the color of earth and robin’s eggs. Coffee’s distinctive scent is undetectable until the cherry pits are roasted, heat applied and the seeds crack and brown and the richness is wooed from the fibers of the seed. And it’s scent is a comfort.

And my friend sits opposite of me, our faces both bare of makeup, hair undone, and we visit in the comfort of morning light and coffee scent. Our legs drawn up, we curl on cushions like cats not ready to tackle the to-do lists of the day.

And we are not young anymore. Our kids aren’t at the breast or scampering around our feet or drinking juice from a sippy cup. They are at school, and work and college. And we are in a new-ish place.

But we have felt the heat of years and miscommunication and hurt feelings, yet, we smile at each other with the knowing that this re-newed friendship is a precious thing. A gift wooed from grace and hearts forgiving and sorry and stilled. And we know now that the season of separation was a growing season. A time we needed to feel the blade of pruning and the stretch of sending roots ever deeper.

And I know now that the dying season is not what it seems. Though the loss is palpable and the emotions raw, the yielding of one life always leads to a new life.

A better life.

A Christ-life of renewing newness drawn fresh into cleaned-up hearts by the continuing lovingkindness of God.

That lovingkindness encircles us like robe ribbons and the trails of steam from coffee invites us to be new-old-friends-again.

The lessons we learned are the smoothest of pearls, whose depth of tone are created by pain. And these are the most treasured. These lessons that we share bear the holiness of the name YHWH, the name breathed but not spoken, because it is too holy, too sacred. But they are present in the smiles in our eyes, they speak of the knowing that we can be, today, new in Christ, that we are in the daylight of his kindness.

And it shines on a Monday morning, fresh as February strong as the brew in our cups.

***

Friend,

Might I encourage you in this: don’t give up on the lost people, the hopeless situation, the relationship that might be strangled by the past and doubtful of a future.

We look to a Creator-God. Since we see the perpetuation of creation in the seasons, the giving up of seed, the dying of leaf of flower, the sprouting of new life and the promise of new fruit, let us not deny its power in our lives. God will create new in you, in your loved ones, in your future. You will see. Let him do his work. Become holy in the sacredness of his creation in your hearts. There will be the dawn and full light of his lovingkindness, drawing you to him in fresh life. It may not be what you planned, this is true, but it will be blessed in ways you never dreamed possible.

Blessings,

Alyssa

Counting gifts:

- teacups washed and brilliant in morning sun

-coffee brewed, ready for me

- a morning free

- a sister healing

- a friends new and old and the grace to bend

…thank you.






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The Utmost Degree {A Lesson in Really Loving}

We recently commemorated Memorial Day as a nation.

To some, this was a day of deep mourning and celebration of lives given in service through the United States Armed Forces. To others, this was a free, paid vacation day. Many of us barbecued and relaxed, reveling in the freedom we’ve received through the investment of our military personnel.

Memorial day is the day we remember those who gave to the utmost degree that ultimate sacrifice of loyalty — up to the very end.

But honestly, it means the most to those who lived life with these people: family, friends, soldiers in arms, children and spouses. To them, Memorial Day is like a shining gem resting in the palm of everyday workaday life.

The very crux of Christianity is Jesus’ sacrificial death on the cross for the punishment of our sins. The most significant human act of Jesus Christ, scripture tells us, is his sacrificial death on the cross. The most significant, supernatural and deific act was his resurrection from the dead. Death, we understand. Resurrection confounds us – we must take this by faith – for no human, no prophet, no leader has lain dead three days in a hole in the mountainside or a stone crypt and emerged whole and living. Except Jesus.

So we focus on the death, on the sacrifice of innocence. We see Jesus’ willingness to step into a corrupt human system of justice that punishes the innocent for the sake of mob control and to enable power-hungry leaders to maintain their stay in office.

The most memorable moments of every life are those first and last hours. We gasp in gentle awe of the newborn whose life is fresh, whose delivery is a miracle. Even after billions of births on this planet, we coo and cajole the little beans and count perfect, tiny toes and fingers. Neonatal units work tirelessly to sustain the fragile breaths of premature babies and those wonderful souls born with malformed organs – such is our surging celebratory love for the beginning of life.

by tamakisono, via flickr.com

In corollary, we strive for the dignified passing of human lives. We honor their existence, forgive their social debts, implore upon them how valuable they are while we have a chance to speak loving words. Every society has applied ceremony and honor to the dying.

Much of Jesus’ life was lived privately. We know much about his birth and his death, but other than his ministry years, we are left to guess as to what his life on earth looked and felt like for 33 years. But as every one of us knows, much can be learned about a person from the circumstances of his birth and his death.

Jesus’ final hours were recorded in detail in the book of John. John wrote from the perspective of a loving friend, loyal disciple and transformed heart. He alone appeared with the women at Calgary to honor his Messiah’s death on the cross.

Chapter 13 of the book of John opens onto this scene: a private room, a simply prepared Passover meal, a gathering of a new kind of family. Close followers of Jesus joined as a family to celebrate the old, Hebrew tradition of memorializing God’s deliverance of his chosen people from their captors in Egypt.

John opens with these lines:

It was just before the Passover Feast. Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love. (vs 1,NIV)

Any student of the New Testament knows that Jesus taught through parables, signs and miracles, through question and answer sessions and by example. During these last moments, every word and action was especially intentional.

When I nearly died in the summer of 2011, I hadn’t the time to impress upon my family and friends the truths I so wanted them to know. I had no foreknowledge of the accident. I didn’t know that our assailant had just left a bar inebriated and impaired. I didn’t even know we were in danger.

All I could do in those few minutes with my children in the van while we awaited rescue was try to lead, to breathe even, by example. I couldn’t panic, for this would translate into fear and bely my faith in a sovereign God. I could barely speak, but I asked the kids to pray, told Bella to call my sister, while my husband and I led them in waiting. I would be lying if I wrote here that I wasn’t afraid, that I wasn’t physically in shock, every cell of my body affected by the trauma. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel totally helpless.

Later, after I’d been promoted from intensive care to the trauma ward, I pondered on those final moments (as I have many times since) up to when I blacked out in the helicopter. Near-death experiences tend to make one extremely aware of her own mortality. I felt certain that most of my loved ones knew just how much I cared for them. I had made difficult choices and learned a lot about forgiveness in order to ascertain better relationships with my siblings. I had written letters of appreciation to my parents and my husband. My kids, in spite of all my mom errors, knew for certain how I loved them.

There were only two people that I could think of that I hadn’t had the opportunity to reconcile with before that August night. It bothered me, I admit, to have those broken friendships dangling at the end of my lifeline. I took the opportunity, as soon as it arose, to clear the air or show kindness.

When I read John 13-17, I see Jesus as a deliberate, loving friend who desired to be as honest, as loving, as exemplary as possible before a very difficult end that involved betrayal, arrest, isolation, beating and being nailed to a cross.

How did he do this? How did he maintain even a modicum of grace or strength while facing this end? How did Jesus extend mercy to Judas, knowing full well about the betrayal in his heart? How did he keep leading and loving in the dark eve of his capture?

1. He was prepared by the knowledge of his coming death.

Many of us think we want to know the future, thinking it would be easier to face armed with foreknowledge. However, when we look back on trials we’ve survived, I believe we would be polarized by our fear of what lay before us. In Psalm 119 we are reminded that God’s word is a light for our footpath and a lamp to light our steps, to reassure us that not knowing is actually better for us (think flashlight). But, God’s word also tells us that every man is appointed unto death (Hebrews 9:27).

We know our inevitable future as humans. This doesn’t have to be the universal downer that it’s become: death is our ticket to life eternal with Christ. Not a bad exchange! But I think the lesson here is this:

be who you need to be,

say what needs to be said,

love who needs loving,

give what is yours to give,

do what is before you to do because you never know when the end is coming.

Don’t let your perceived invincibility keep you from living big, loving lavishly, forgiving gushingly, hugging happily and getting things right with your God and your neighbor!

Philippians 3:13-14 exhorts:

Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

If the time was come for you to leave the world, how would you live your last hours? Who would you be with and what would you say? Go do that now!

2. He was prepared by the certainty of his destiny.

We are often lost in the living here on planet earth. So caught up are we in the day to day of work and projects, bill paying, sports events, due dates and car repairs that we lose sight of the reward and the reason for this life.

We are destined for eternity — with or without Christ. Metaphysics aside, there is a future and what you believe now directly affects how that future plays out.

Jesus’ strength was rooted in the relationship he had with the Father. Sure, his was unique as he was the “only begotten Son” (John 3:16), but Christian, yours is unique, too. Take responsibility to seek out the truth of why you are here and where you are going. Jesus later told the disciples that they were one with him and the Father (John 14:20): “I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.” In his gracious prayer for us future believers in John 17:20-21, Jesus says, “My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me.”

Do you question your destiny because of the quality of your here and now? Are you uncertain? Listen to what John says about us in 1 John 3:1, 2b: “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called the children of God! And that is what we are!… When he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.”

3. He was motivated by love to give love to the utmost degree.

“Having loved his own, he now showed them the full extent of his love”, says John 13:1 in the New International Version. Other versions say he loved them to the very end. This denotes, Vines Expository Dictionary says, that he loved to the utmost degree.

He gave it all. He never let up, even in those difficult final hours. He gave and gave and gave of himself to his friends, his family until that moment when he cried out, “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!” (Luke 23:46), until the moment there wasn’t anything left of him to give.

There are lots of motivators out there, like loyalty or power or compassion, but nothing motivates loving like love. Agape love, the Greek word for God’s love, isn’t just perfect and unconditional, but active. God’s agape is always moving towards us and before us and around us. It’s his active love that impels us to love like Jesus. If we actively love each other well, then everyone will know we belong to Jesus!

This is love, to give to the utmost degree.

As we consider our mortality and our eternality, we can look to Jesus’ example. His intentional words and actions during his final hours hold rich, transformative lessons in loving. When we know to whom we belong and we know we can love like he did: extravagant, active, love up to the very end.

“I press on toward the goal to twin the prize for which God has call me heavenward in Christ Jesus. Only let us live up to what we have already attained.” {Philippians 3:14, 16}

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May{Be} Happy Is the Only Choice

I fill fajitas and listen to my kids recount the day.

'Fajitas' photo (c) 2010, Ginny - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
Z tried some guacamole and declares it “not bad” and my youngest daughter thought she might like sour cream on her fajita. Turns out she doesn’t.

The scrape and clatter and chatter around the table makes a melody of filial ease. We talk about summer plans and when dad might get home tonight and if Bella’s getting home in time to eat.  We talk about school. Z’s in high school health and learning a barge-full of facts about substance abuse and mental illness.

We pour tea from the pitcher across crackling chunks of ice and someone asks, “Is that how big a pitcher of beer is?”

“Yep”, I say through a chip loaded with salsa.

And I notice there’s a certain kind of silence — momentary, not long at all, where all three kids at the table with me look at the pitcher and consider.

A button on the time machine of their collective brains was pressed and suddenly memory, not health class, becomes the subject of the day.

“How many of those did he drink before he got in his car?” Z asks.

“Does it really make you stumble and trip when you walk?” asks the younger daughter.

“That is a lot of beer!” states my first-grade son.

And the conversation moves from today to nine months ago. Although it was horrific, the crash and the shock and injury, we feel blessed and bound in the fact that we all six were together. Each one of us was in the van that night, zooming past scuttling night creatures and black pines toward home when the drunk driver sped onto the highway into our van.

And this evening, over fajitas and refried beans, each one shared a bit of personal perspective on the event. I think we always will do this, talk over what happened, what we each remember, how we felt at different moments during those minutes we waited for rescue to find us on Highway 395.

“I wanted to pray, but I couldn’t talk. So Bella had to,” says Nikko.

“I think you were in shock,” diagnoses Z.

“Yeah, but my chest hurt and I couldn’t talk.”

“Me too,” I agree, “I’m so glad that Bella and Z could pray. But you know what? God can hear the prayers in your heart, the ones you can’t make words for. He heard your heart wanting to pray.”

“And he answered.”

“Yes, he did,” I agree.

“When I’m nine, you’ll be all better, right?” asks Nikko, the first grader, age seven-and-one-half.

“I hope so,” I laugh, “that’s my goal.”

“I’m glad you didn’t die, mom.”

“Me too,” says the youngest daughter.

“Our lives would look so different today,” says Z, trying to wrap his head around the idea of being suddenly motherless instead of miraculously blessed with survival.

If we’d set stemware on the table I would have raised my glass in a toast to these kids of mine. Instead I say, “I’m glad we can talk about this together. I want you to know you can choose to be happy even if you lose someone. After the deep sadness is all soaked up by your soul, you can still–even in loss–find happy and live happy. If you ever lose me, I want you to be happy even in the missing me, and if I lose you I’ll try to do the same.”

“I like choosing happy!” says the Nikko boy, his seven year old smile full of mismatched teeth lights up the room, “What else is there? To be mad or sad all the time? Happy is better.”

I think of the scars that run abstract lines on my leg. The long one on my chest that reminds me daily that I’m not able to save myself.

I think of kissing my husband goodbye in the mornings, his face scratchy and clean. I think of hearing the school bus and knowing I’ll see two kids heading home, backpacks flopping on the floor and a chorus of birdsong beauty saying, “Hi mom! How was your day?”

I think of watching Bella dance at the barre and me, flooding with tears because I am here to see her point and tendue and pirouette. I think of talking about having a girlfriend with Z, the awkward tenderness in our conversation as I see him become a man before my eyes.

I think of the people, family and friends, who helped hold us together and feed us; I think of the prayers in concert that upheld us.

I think of my body that will never really be the same, even when Nikko boy is nine-years-old, and of my family forever changed on a summer night.

I think of all the things that could be, all the things I could be and I, too choose happy.

Happy is better. 

***

“Happy are those who remain faithful under trials, because when they succeed in passing such a test, they will receive as their reward the life which God has promised to those who love him.” {James 1:12}

linking here:

and here:

Beholding Glory

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