A little prayer for the unraveled life

Today – when life pokes holes in my perfect plans, I will reach through the wounds and to the side of the saviour.

Today – when the threads of my sanity unravel, I will let down my hair and kiss his feet.
Today – when all I have seems to wear threadbare, I will stretch out and touch the hem of his garment.
Today – I will shed my patchwork sufficiency and weave all my loose ends into the seamless robe of Christ. 
~lg

Dear Abraham

Dear Abraham,

It’s been awhile, and hard to know how to measure the time, but I think I’ve found a footing in the promised land. And I think I get what you were trying to tell me about the sacrifice. The willing knife let me see the ram. In my own stubbornness, I didn’t want to accept the provision. But by grace I got caught in the thicket, where struggle subsided into submission and I was ready for the altar. I cut the cords and found I didn’t need them. My heart and all my blood stood still, and I knew He was God. 
He and not I, and everything else faded and there was the freedom I had been running so hard to find.
A new longing rises from the stillness, desire refined by the fire and all the brighter for it. It surrounds me like the pillars of old, now blazing, now blanketing, and when I step out of the tent at night I see a million promises beckoning. I think of you and smile. It may be a thousand years or it may be tomorrow, but I know we’ll stargaze together again. 
~lg

morning play

Cats and kids run together across daybreak’s dewy grass, a lively, giggling, pouncing riot of energy. We tumble out of the house, upturned by the urge to stretch and squeal and see just what this day is made of.

The world is here and waiting, fresh for us after a night of puckish plotting, inviting us to a game of hide and seek. “Count to ten, then catch me if you can,” it shouts. We close our eyes and play along, breathe deep, then burst out after the trail of wonder.

Oh, there is a sweetness, a rightness, to begin the day this way.

This is the play that leads to prayer,
wide-eyed,
arms wide open prayer,
childlike,
cartwheels of prayer.

~lg

For All the Good Christian Girls Gone Wrong

We good Christian girls are doomed to live in the messes of our own making, because we know better. Deserving of our doom – yes, this is our self-judgment. And so there is no choice but to buckle down and bear it, to accept our lot, all the while denying our deep suffering for fear the truth will bring us shame.
Better to soldier on than face the shame.
Choices have consequences, and we have no one to blame but ourselves for our imperfect choices. Thus, we bear the responsibility of the imperfect consequences.
We adjust. Expectations, the deep desires of our hearts – all adjusted to fit our present circumstances so we don’t feel the discrepancy. We cannot feel the discrepancy, for then we would feel our failure, and our Father’s disappointment, and there is nothing worse.
If we let ourselves feel the pain, we make sure the pronouncement of our deserving it is quick to follow.
And this, this we turn into our twisted sacrifice, our cross to bear. We have failed – failed ourselves, our family, our God, and the sense of it smolders. It smolders and smothers and we think we are dying to self.
We could not be more wrong.
Self could not be more alive.
We have failed, but not in the way we first thought. We have failed to grasp grace.
This sense that we deserve it? Deserve to lie crippled in these beds we have made because these are the rules? One. big. lie.
Oh, if we are talking about the way the world works, the way human nature works, the way the Law works, we are correct.

Correct, but not right.

For the rightway has been shown by God, and it is not our way.
God is most correct to condemn us. But we good Christian girls get stuck here. And what’s worse, we stay and build our lives here.
God’s rightness was shown in Jesus on the cross, taking full responsibility for every imperfect choice and the consequences thereof, even those made by good Christian girls who tell themselves they should have known better.
And our smoldering heaps of disappointed martyrdom? Just another disguise for self-righteousness. Just another way we try to prove ourselves to God.
So afraid of shame, we forfeit our freedom.
So afraid to hope, we dare not pray.
Our sacrifices are not enough, and never will be. Our silent suffering will never atone for our shortcomings.
Oh, come to the cross and bury your damnation in His death! Throw your failures onto His finished work and be free! Receive freely what you’ve been trying to deserve all along – grace.
There is grace for the good girls who do not feel good enough. We don’t need to feel good enough, but we can be made right. Right here, right now.
All our disappointments, self-doubt, and despair – finished. All our suffocating striving and self-made shackles – finished. All our fear of failure and faithlessness – finished.
Let go and live.
Live out of His love and let fear be cast out.
Live out of His delight and let the desires of your heart come to life again.
Live out of His faithfulness and let faith arise.
Let go of the mess and see yet what God may make of it. Rise out of that bed and walk. Restoration . . . healing . . . hope – no, not what you deserve, but what God desires. This is the gospel, and it is for good Christian girls, too. 

life

Last night I held a baby chick in my hand, one that hatched here in Wheatley River, part silkie. So soft, so fragile, clinging to life by a dropper of sugar water and a heating lamp. It had been too cold yesterday afternoon. The day before was sweltering near 30. But then a shift, a sudden drop, and this little one was overtaken by shivers. I marveled at the delicate intricacy of its emerging feathers, of the warmth of its faltering heart – one of God’s creatures. It died before morning, and our eyes leaked salty water.  
This morning we found the first strawberries down by the chicken coop. We had unearthed the patch quite by surprise, clearing out brush early this spring. Arden brought one in to me, perfectly red, perfectly ripe, as if timed to my breakfast. Fruit in season – what could be sweeter? You can’t buy that life on a shelf.
Today I thinned the carrots and turnips. Too many, too close, and the harvest will be thin and twisted. So I pulled up the tiny roots, already veggies in miniature. I marveled at the faint purple of the turnip roots, the hearty green of suncatcher leaves, the very life of these seed babies. I tossed them in the compost pile. Maybe I’ll eat them next year.
This afternoon I found a chipmunk, dead, in the grass by the old tractor. One of the cats must have got it. I swelled at my cat’s hunting skills while mourning the chipper motion that was halted forever, here on the lawn. I lifted it with the spade and laid its life to gentle rest beneath one of the hedgerow’s rotting logs.
Life – size does not determine its significance. Creation whispers as powerfully as it roars, and I am caught up in its Gloria.

Life – it comes and goes between my fingers, and all I can do is try to catch the joy and cradle the sorrow . . . keep my hands cupped open. 
~lg