Beauty is a Cross

I have to admit it; I Googled it more than once.

Did she have the baby, yet, I wondered? 

And was it a boy or a girl? 

And what was she wearing when she made her first appearance, precious, tiny baby-soul in arms, her husband dotingly beside her? 

I read an article in passing-- something about how she plans to regain her figure as soon as possible after having the baby, what she uses to prevent stretch marks, how she styles her hair so flawlessly, has such keen fashion sense... 

We can become caught up in things like this-- lives of famous people, lives of "beautiful" people, because they intrigue us, because they seem somehow "other" than us, because we just can't envision ourselves without swollen ankles  a few hours after delivering a baby, because maybe we gained just a few too many pounds, because maybe we're genetically prone to stretchmarks even if we didn't... 

And all of these things have been swirling in my mind, in between the taking care and the nurturing and the loving my two babies-- a two-and-a-half-year-old and an 11-month-old--

And I have to confess-- that I marveled a moment and thought, "How does she look so "together" right after having a baby?" 

Soon after, this thought came, too-- all of that, all of the perfection and the smooth hair and the flawless skin and the straight teeth and the attentive husband  gives an appearance of beauty--

But real beauty goes deeper, goes beyond-- all of these external things that fascinate us and that hold our attention for a moment. 

What is real beauty?

And immediately the image of the 21 men in orange suits came into my mind... the image of them kneeling on the beach, each one's lives taken for the sake of the cross of Jesus. 

Real beauty is a cross. 

And real beauty is taking up His cross daily, no matter the cost to ourselves. 

Real beauty is serving; real beauty is sacrificing and laying aside our own interests for the interests of others. 

Real beauty isn't about being in the spotlight, but in the shadows, pointing to Christ, decreasing that He may become more. 

Real beauty is worn hands from serving and washing dishes and washing clothing and washing babies-- the heavy, humbling work of love.

Real beauty is worn knees from praying and pleading and surrendering before the throne of grace. 

And real beauty isn't perfume and makeup and tailored clothing and toned arms and tanned legs. 

Real beauty is the nail-scarred hands of Jesus, taking our sin upon His shoulders.

Real beauty isn't a crown of gold, but a crown of thorns--a crown of surrender, of suffering, of dying--so that others may live. 

Real beauty is the missionary who has given his life to become "lost" in the eyes of this world, to be found by disease, hardship, pain and sacrifice. To suffer the loss of all things in order to gain what cannot be lost. 

Real beauty is pain that is transformed to glory by the grace of Christ.

Real beauty is Kara Tippetts and her long struggle to finally be made whole on the arms of Jesus.

Real beauty is suffering that is transformed into thankfulness, the joy that is hushed and bold and real and unshakable.

Real beauty is a cross. 

Real beauty is Jesus. 

We look at the things of this world, the things of this life, 

And we marvel at their sparkle and their shine and their glow.

These things will fade, leave us wanting, grasping at something that slips through our fingers, even though we lace them tightly together. 

We can't hold on to youth, or wealth, or fame, or strength. 

They fade.

It's when we relinquish all of these things into the loving, nail-scarred hands of Jesus that we gain life. 

Through death that we live.

Through suffering that we are sanctified.

We embrace Christ.

And in embracing, find real Beauty and live. 

You might find me on these link-ups:

Strangers and Pilgrims on Earth, Inspire Me Monday, The Modest Mom, What Joy is Mine, SDG Gathering, A Mama's Story, Mom's the Word, Rich Faith Rising, Time Warp Wife, Cornerstone Confessions, Mom's Morning Coffee, Motivate and Rejuvenate Mondays, So Much at Home, Raising Homemakers, Hope in Every Season, A Wise Woman Builds Her Home, Woman to Woman Ministries, Whole-Hearted Home, Testimony Tuesday, Tell His Story, A Soft Gentle Voice, My Daily Walk in His Grace, Women With Intention Wednesdays, Messy Marriage, The Charm of Home, Graced Simplicity, Theology Thursdays, Children Are A Blessing, Mittenstate Sheep and Wool, Imparting Grace, Preparedness Mama, A Look at the Book, Essential Thing Devotions, Thought Provoking Thursday, Every Day Jesus, Count My Blessings, Christian Mommy Blogger, Renewed Daily, Soul Survival, Good Morning Mondays, The Weekend Brew, Blessing Counters Link Party, The HomeAcre Hop, Mommy Moments Link Up, Grace and Truth Linkup, Faith Filled Friday, Saturday Soiree Blog Party, Tell It To Me Tuesdays, SHINE Blog Hop, Faith and  Fellowship Blog Hop, Motivate and Rejuvenate Monday Link-Up, A Little R&R Wednesdays. TGI Saturdays Blog Hop. Totally Terrific Tuesday

Mercy and a Yellow Warbler

Lacey spring air painted the deck with a thin sheet of frost. The hushed anticipation of renewal was checked by a last thrust of winter’s fading power. The trees swollen with life waited backstage for their coming glory-crowning and the sky held the promise of blue skies and long days coming.

My husband discovered her in the morning. The tiny warbler, like a slip of sunlight on our back porch, lying motionless, lying flightless and afraid. She must have been overzealous, excited by the prospect of sweet new days, of plentiful food, of warm warbler chicks with chirping cries and beating hearts.

Full of spring-life, she flew against the reflecting glass of the window, and she fell. There on the deck, my husband found her cold body, her tiny cold body with the shadow of a heartbeat, the faint whisper of a dying hope in the season of life. I looked at her and the sorrow came over my heart like a veil.

I had to go. I couldn’t stay, and she was dying. Before I left, I said to my husband--remembered something that I had read in a Birding magazine—Rub her body gently with your finger to coax her back to life; the bird may only be stunned, even though she gives the appearance of dying. She may only have had the wind knocked out and needs to be kept warm and regain her strength—

So I asked him to try it and left, doubting that it would work, that revival was a possibility, that the little yellow warbler would taste the sweet air again and feel the delight of spring on her wings.

Thoughts flew through my mind as I drove—if she didn’t improve, we could bring her to the Wildlife Rehabilitation facility in Peace, RI; maybe they could help her-maybe they could do something. What could I do but try and throw a feeble, hopeful suggestion over my shoulder?

So he stayed there with the little warbler and I left. And I hoped as I drove and I prayed . . .

I knew a woman stunned, fallen like the yellow warbler. Her breath knocked from her through the crash of sharp providence, she fell, wounded and unable to pick herself up.

Sometimes tragedy is like that. Sometimes it knocks the wind from us and leaves us so shaken that we cannot pick ourselves up. Sometimes we sit like Job in the dust, speechless and crushed, scraping our wounds with the broken pottery of the well-meaning words of our friends and bleeding the sorrow of the enemies' pompous jeering triumph.

Sometimes we cannot pick ourselves up. Sometimes there are too many broken pieces and the confusion overwhelms and the eyes cannot see for the teardrops that cloud them.

And sometimes God calls us to be a Hur or an Aaron to some precious child of His who cannot lift their arms, who cannot find the words to pray. There are Adoniram Judsons among us who are standing sentry at some lonely grave for months and months and they cannot wrench themselves from the jungle of their sorrow. They cannot lift themselves from the despair, from the dying; they have had their breath knocked out.

It is so easy, like Job’s friends, to cast a judgement on the downcast, to offer a quick-fix, to empty blame upon a bleeding heart when no immediate answer can be found for the reason behind their suffering.

Does there have to be a reason that we can fold our eager fingers around? How did Job’s friends know that there was a contest in the heavenlies raging around a small, faithful servant of God named Job? How can we fully know as finite humans what purpose is in the mind of God in our sufferings? How can we grasp Omnipotence and Divine Wisdom?

We cannot . . . but we can trust Him for His purpose in what He allows and ordains. And we can know that He will protect and preserve those who are His, those He shelters in His great Father-hand of love and truth and awesome justice.

Who knows how long Job suffered . . . Would the church today condemn him for sitting in the dust? Are we sometimes so impatient with our fellow brothers and sisters that we leave them on the frosty deck, thinking that if it is God’s will they will revive and fly? Do we leave them to the “will of the Lord,” or do we lift them up and stimulate their faith, with sensitivity, compassion and patience? Do we help the blood to flow through their numb, lifeless limbs again, or are we frustrated when it seems like they are taking too long to “snap out of it?”

Do we pick them up, as Jesus reached out His hand to Peter in the raging waves? Peter’s faith had failed . . . and yet, the hand of Jesus, and the gentle rebuke of grace offered in love. Would He allow one of His to slip through the angry waves to utter ruin?

I love the way that Isaac Newton took lonely, depressed, suicidal William Cowper under his wing. What patience, what grace this great man of faith offered through the Holy Comforter. Is God calling one of us to be that kind of support to another of His own? To offer ourselves, to pour ourselves out for another child of God? Isaac Newton did it continually, even opening his home to Cowper as a refuge and encouraging the depressed poet laureate of England to write hymns of glory to the Father of all Comfort.

And we sing them today.

My husband called.

The warbler lived . . . sat up in his hand and eventually took wing to the sky.

Through the patience of waiting . . . and the mercy of God.

You might find me on these link-ups:

Strangers and Pilgrims on Earth, The Modest Mom, What Joy is Mine, Yes They Are All Ours, Missional Call, A Mama's Story, Mom's the Word, Rich Faith Rising, Time Warp Wife, Cornerstone Confessions, Mom's Morning Coffee, So Much at Home, Raising Homemakers, Hope in Every Season, A Wise Woman Builds Her Home, Woman to Woman Ministries, Whole-Hearted Home, A Soft Gentle Voice, My Daily Walk in His Grace, Messy Marriage, My Teacher's Name is Mama, The Charm of Home, Graced Simplicity, Children Are A Blessing, Mittenstate Sheep and Wool, Imparting Grace, Preparedness Mama, A Look at the Book, Essential Thing Devotions, Count My Blessings, Beauty Observed, Christian Mommy Blogger, Renewed Daily, Soul Survival, Good Morning Mondays, The HomeAcre Hop, Mommy Moments Link Up, Grace and Truth Linkup, Faith Filled Friday, Saturday Soiree Blog Party, Tell It To Me Tuesdays, SHINE Blog Hop, Motivate and Rejuvenate Monday Link-Up, A Little R&R Wednesdays. TGI Saturdays Blog Hop, Totally Terrific Tuesday

In Our Pain + A Giveaway for Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts

(In connection with this post, I'm hosting a giveaway for a new copy of Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, a memoir-style book about understanding the grace of God in our pain and brokenness. If you already own a copy but would like to give one to someone else as a gift, please still feel free to enter the giveaway... It is a wonderful book, even for hurting unbelievers. Read to the end of this post to find/enter the giveaway.)


You might find me on these link-ups:

Strangers and Pilgrims on Earth, The Modest Mom, What Joy is Mine, Yes They Are All Ours, Missional Call, A Mama's Story, Mom's the Word, Rich Faith Rising, Time Warp Wife, Cornerstone Confessions, Mom's Morning Coffee, So Much at Home, Raising Homemakers, Hope in Every Season, A Wise Woman Builds Her Home, Woman to Woman Ministries, Whole-Hearted Home, A Soft Gentle Voice, My Daily Walk in His Grace, Messy Marriage, My Teacher's Name is Mama, The Charm of Home, Graced Simplicity, Children Are A Blessing, Mittenstate Sheep and Wool, Imparting Grace, Preparedness Mama, A Look at the Book, Essential Thing Devotions, Count My Blessings, Beauty Observed, Christian Mommy Blogger, Renewed Daily, Soul Survival

Neither life nor death shall ever

From the Lord His children sever;

Unto them His grace He showeth,

And their sorrows all He knoweth.

- Karolina W. Sandell-Berg

It all began a few months ago. The eye-watering, the pain; waking me from my sleep at night. 

I was already getting up a few times with my newborn and sometimes with my almost-2-year-old. 

So I hardly noticed the interruption in my sleep. 

It was an annoyance, but I just brushed it aside and attributed it to allergies and sleeplessness. 

But then it began to worsen. 

The pain would linger, so severe at times that I would rock back and forth to deal with it.

And then, just try to go back to sleep. 

It began happening during the daytime, too, until one Sunday morning - I was trying to get everyone ready for church - it just wouldn't go away. 

I tried to make it through that day and the next, but the pain became so severe, that I couldn't function. 

My Mom and my sister had to help with my little ones -

My eye swelled grotesquely and reddened, and when the pain finally became excruciating and unbearable, I called my husband at work to take me to the walk-in emergency center. 

They immediately sent me to another part of the building to see an eye specialist-

My sinuses were also affected and I couldn't stop my nose and eyes from leaking continually with cold-like symptoms. 

I was a mess. And there was nothing that I could do about it. 

The diagnosis was a severe case of "recurrent corneal erosion," and I was relieved at finally knowing what was wrong and being given medication to treat it. 

I joked about how I could to some small degree sympathize with the Apostle Paul with his supposed eye troubles - but the pain was not a joke. 

And I sat that night in my room, my nose leaking, my eye burning and watering, my little ones there with me. My daughter, almost 2, climbed up into the desk chair with one of her books that we read before she goes to sleep. 

As I sat on the floor in severe pain with my 5-month-old, I heard my daughter suddenly begin to recite one of the poems from memory that was in her book -

I hear no voice, 

I feel no touch

I see no glory bright...

And I knew that the next words of the poem followed:

But yet I know 

That God is near 

In darkness as in light-

At that moment, I knew the Lord's nearness to me in my pain - only a light affliction in comparison to what my Savior had suffered-

For the past few days before that, it had been difficult to even think - to take care of my babies - and even my tears were painful -

But the Lord knelt down to me there, in my suffering - in the suffering that He had allowed -  to draw me to Himself - so that I could relate in some small way to the sufferings that He had borne for me. 

That night was the most difficult - The doctor had said that it would take from 12-24 hours for me to have some relief from the pain.

I spent a sleepless night in agony, the dripping from my sinuses making me sick and giving me a terrible headache on top of the extreme pain in my eye. 

But I knew that He was with me...

And I made it through, by His grace. 

Made it to the morning.

And the next day there was some improvement; the severity of the pain faded. 

And His grace washed over me. 

C.S. Lewis says -

"Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." 

And He knows our sorrows and gives us a measure of what we are able to bear, by His grace. 

He walks with us through them, even when we cannot see Him for the pain. 

Because He is near. 

And because, as the rest of the poem in my daughter's book reads, 

The Father for His little child

Both day and night doth care. 

Giveaway

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Brokenness, Life, and a Tree

O Love, that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

 --George Matheson



There are so many stones in the brook that you cannot count them. Yet in every ten you cannot find more than one or two that are useable. There was no room in David’s pouch for stones which had not been polished smooth. The process of attrition was essential. In the same way those believers who have not yet experienced trials and afflictions, and who have not yet been disciplined by God, are still not ready for his use. What I am anxious to know is whether I myself am qualified to be a ‘smooth stone’ in the hand of my God.

--Wang Ming-Dao (persecuted Chinese pastor)

God uses broken things.

Broken people, broken things.

Soil that's been tilled broken, the clods pounded hard by the hoe.

Olives broken, crushed, for the oil that flows free and nourishing.

Broken bread to feed the hungry--

He uses broken things.

And so many times He breaks a heart before He heals it.

He crushes before He restores--

"For though the Lord causes grief, yet He will show compassion . .  though His hand wounds, it will yet make whole . . . "

Don't be afraid of being broken.

And I wept today because someone I love was broken . . . shattered. Lost every earthly thing of value and every support swept away like a breath punched out of their lungs.

God reaches down to broken things. He puts tears in bottles and remembers the agony of our sorrows.

And we have to be broken before God can use us, whether through our own decisions of surrender  or through the seemingly hard strokes of the Master's rod.

We must be broken . . .

Every ounce of self-reliance stripped away, every shred of pride pressed into the dust.

We must be broken.

George Matheson, Scottish minister and author of the beautiful hymn, "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go," broken by blindness and the loss of his fiancé.

Corrie Ten Boom, joyful, Spirit-filled author and speaker, broken by the iron grip of the Nazi death camp.

John Bunyan, who took up his pen and wrote the great classic, Pilgrim's Progress, broken by prison and the fear of never seeing his dear, blind daughter Mary again.

Adoniram Judson, Baptist missionary and great worker for the Lord Jesus, broken by his wife's early death, broken by debilitating depression and prison.

The Apostle Paul, broken by affliction, pain, a constant thorn . . .

My Auntie, broken in years past by the cancer that drew her to Jesus . . .

Broken lives, restored; lives that reflect the glory of the Father of the broken.

Severe mercies, that cut away whatever we're leaning on--

Because when every support is taken away, we either fall utterly, or we fall on Jesus.

Walking in the woods with my sister this week along a new trail, we saw a tree.

A lovely, great tree, lying still on the quiet floor of the forest. Its leafy branches sweeping over the path.

A fallen tree, once-great -- now broken.

Quietness all-around, and the tree spread its arching branches over the expanse of the path, making a bridge over the shady pathway

And she said, "How beautiful."

Because this broken thing became a thing of grace and loveliness, a place of shade and a home for birds and animals, a silent witness to the strength and peace of brokenness.

And over the years it will nourish the ground, its wood splintering off, rotting away, giving life from its death.

There is grace through brokenness.

And the Beautiful One, the high and lofty One Whose name is Holy, Who inhabits eternity gave life on a tree fallen, a tree dead, the instrument of torture and crucifixion and suffering and death.

His death on that tree birthed life -- free and rich and new and eternal.

Life out of brokenness, grace out of suffering.

And the Love that was broken on that tree holds us in our brokenness.

Holds us to Himself--

And pours His life into our broken-dying.

O Cross, that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

You might find me on these link-ups:

Strangers and Pilgrims on Earth, Inspire Me Monday, The Modest Mom, What Joy is Mine, SDG Gathering, A Mama's Story, Mom's the Word, Rich Faith Rising, Time Warp Wife, Cornerstone Confessions, Mom's Morning Coffee, Motivate and Rejuvenate Mondays, So Much at Home, Raising Homemakers, Hope in Every Season, A Wise Woman Builds Her Home, Woman to Woman Ministries, Whole-Hearted Home, Testimony Tuesday, Tell His Story, A Soft Gentle Voice, My Daily Walk in His Grace, Women With Intention Wednesdays, Messy Marriage, The Charm of Home, Graced Simplicity, Theology Thursdays, Children Are A Blessing, Mittenstate Sheep and Wool, Imparting Grace, Preparedness Mama, A Look at the Book, Essential Thing Devotions, Thought Provoking Thursday, Every Day Jesus, Count My Blessings, Christian Mommy Blogger, Renewed Daily, Soul Survival, Good Morning Mondays, The Weekend Brew, Blessing Counters Link Party, The HomeAcre Hop, Mommy Moments Link Up, Grace and Truth Linkup, Faith Filled Friday, Saturday Soiree Blog Party, Tell It To Me Tuesdays, SHINE Blog Hop, Faith and  Fellowship Blog Hop, Motivate and Rejuvenate Monday Link-Up, A Little R&R Wednesdays. TGI Saturdays Blog Hop. Totally Terrific Tuesday, RaRaLinkup

Restored

Suffering breaks upon my soul-

The rain of the leprosy of affliction.

It eats away my flesh, my joy-

The pride of life is gone

Flitting away, like a moth in the wind--

O Lord, restore my joy again

Unite my soul to You in suffering

That I may see

This momentary affliction

As a light weight,

A prelude to dawn, to glory—

O Lord,

Fix my eyes upon Your sweetness,

The light of Your brightness

The radiance from Your scepter in the sky

Heal the wound of my leprosy-

My bitterness

My spirit complaining against Your ways

And let my sinful, pallid flesh

Be restored

In Your joy

By Your Spirit

Through Your hope

For Your glory

Evermore.