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Like Mama Packs Your Bags

My wife, Kelly, woke me up around 5:30 Christmas morning. She turned on my bedside lamp and sets down a strong, black cup of coffee. I grunt, “It’s too early.”
I used to be a morning person. In college, a classmate nicknamed me “Early Riser.” As my health has deteriorated over the years, however, I’m no longer a morning person. I’m not a night owl, either. Each morning I awake with pain, muscle fatigue, and mental fog. It usually dissipates to a manageable level by late morning. I then have about 6 good hours in me for the day.  I believe God will heal me one day. Until then, I praise Him for coffee.

I sit up and begin watching my wife scurry around. She’s busy getting dressed, fixing her hair, and packing her bag. She cleaned our house, unloaded the dishwasher, and packed our boys’ suitcase the night before.

We’ll leave town as soon as the boys each open their one present from Santa. I finish sipping my coffee in about 40 minutes and slowly get out of bed. But I move at a snail’s pace.
For some reason I’ll never understand, my wife believes a 32-year-old man should pack his own suitcase. She’s already packed for 3 people. What’s one more suitcase? So… I pack my suitcase and set it by the garage door.

Our boys awake at 7:00. They each have a gift from Santa in front of the fireplace. My wife shopped online and in stores until she found the perfect gift for each of them.

Kelly makes trips in and out of the cold garage to pack up our minivan [correction–her minivan– I also now drive a minivan, but we won’t talk about that].

She packs everything you could imagine: toys for our 1-year-old, our 4-year-old’s new bicycle, his helmet, a new wagon from my parents, snacks, entertainment for the car ride, new Christmas toys, older standby toys, toys to play inside, toys to play outside, pillows, medicine if either boy gets sick, warm-weather clothes, cold weather clothes, jackets, hats, mittens, spare shoes just if one pair gets wet, stuffed animals, sound machines, baby monitors, spare pacifiers, baby soap, toothbrushes, children’s toothpaste, hair combs, sippy cups for milk, sippy cups for water. You name it, Mama packed it.

All the while, I sit at the table with our boys to make sure they both eat their breakfast. What would this family do without me? 😉

Closed. Kind of?

Almost a year ago, our church officially closed. We entered into this weird transitional time. The 501c3 still exists and owns the facility, but the public “face” of the church closed. Our new church, Renovation Community, meets each week and organizes a massive summer day camp and feeding program. But our “public church” won’t officially launch until fall 2018. Our leadership team meets with a “church planting” coach to help us plan out our new church.

We had a planning meeting Saturday, December 2. At one point, our treasurer shared some financial details with me. Massive facility expenses (utilities from an old inefficient building, property insurance, large repairs, etc) and my salary have forced us to spend more than we receive for several months. We were quickly eating away at our savings. Renting our facilities to multiple other groups definitely helps with the expenses, but we charge all of those groups very little rent. We want to bless them with a low rent that they can’t get anywhere else. Should we raise everyone’s rent? That would help us. But would it hurt the other congregations?

Ending One Journey

Two days after seeing that financial data, I had a phone call with my boss from another job. In October 2010 Kelly and I began working with a Christian non-profit that places teams in apartment communities. We no longer live in an apartment, but I’ve supervised other teams for several years.

I haven’t been a good supervisor. I just haven’t had time to work a second job. But my gracious boss kept paying me $500 each month even though I couldn’t keep up with the work.

In recent months, however, organization has grown in other markets. We’ve launched in multiple new cities. It was finally time to reallocate my salary towards hiring a supervisor for this new growth. My salary would end December 31.  In 2018 my family would lose $6,000, before taxes, this job had provided. My 7+ year journey with this great non-profit was ending.

What should we do? Should I ask our church for a pay raise? A raise would help our family. But how would that loss of budget money hurt our church‘s ability to help others? Should I find another job? Income from a second job might help our family’s budget, but how might it hinder me in performing church and family responsibilities?

My auto-immune disorders prevent me from overworking like other 32-year-old men might; I soon end up sick in bed (maybe that’s a blessing). So taking on a second job probably won’t end well for me.

Since our large house, internet, and utilities are provided by the church, our expenses are much lower than the average family’s. And, if you’ve read my Facebook wall, you’ve seen countless stories of surprise financial gifts from others. I also receive a monthly housing allowance, and get some unique tax breaks as clergy. It’s not like we live as paupers. But our taxable wages are still below the federal poverty line for a family our size. So a $6,000 annual loss of income still felt a little scary. Still, we were trusting God to provide. We didn’t tell anyone, but we definitely talked to God about it.

To top it off, we’d just paid cash for a new minivan. We’d been saving for 2 years. God gave us a miraculous deal but, still…that chunk of cash was now gone.

Gifts

Five days after hearing I’d lose my second job, I was speaking at another church. An adult Sunday school class church had scheduled me to speak at their class Christmas party. I shared how God had worked in our church and in my heart (A few days later, I turned this message into a blog post – 15-passenger sanctuary). For weeks, the class had collected a love offering for us. They presented us with a $400 check.

A week later, I opened a small box – hidden away among some other items – it was a $2,000 check from family members.

A few days later, a church member stopped by the Parsonage (the house on church property) where we live to deliver $100. And couple we haven’t seen in over a year also dropped by to deliver a Christmas card with $100.

Almost every day in December, we also received Christmas cards from sweet friends around the country. Many cards included surprise checks to our family. $25. $50. $100. $200. $250. On Christmas Eve, our dear church family surprised us with a $400 Christmas bonus.

To Great-Grandmother’s House We Go

We back out of the garage at 8:30 Christmas morning and begin our 5 hour drive to see family. I finally wake up after a couple of hours of driving. As we get ready for bed that night, Kelly found a small card in her purse. Kelly unknowingly received it almost two weeks earlier, when a friend hid it away inside another gift. As Kelly opened the card, she found a $3,000 check to our family. These same dear friends surprised us with a $2,000 check two years ago.

The following day I receive a message on social media from people who have known me since birth. They asked for Renovation Community’s mailing address. Their letter arrived in the mail December 29. I opened it to find a $400 check for my family and a $14,000.00 check for our church. Another $19.00, and their donation would have equaled my entire taxable church salary in 2017!

On December 4, we learned I was losing a job that paid me $6,000.

By December 29, God had miraculously replaced (and surpassed) that income through surprise gifts from generous friends.

In 25 days, we received $6,500.00

God provides like Mama packs your bags.

You didn’t see her pack it. But when you suddenly need it along the journey, it’s there.

Our 4-year-old son paid no attention to what Mama packed in his suitcase. As our one-year-old grows, he won’t care either. The boys continued their evening and following morning as little boys and girls should on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. They played with new toys, excitedly prepared cookies and milk for Santa’s arrival, took baths, put on pajamas, went to sleep, and woke up the next morning reveling in the magic of Christmas morning. Well, at least our 4-year-old reveled in the magic. Our 1-year-old reveled in torn wrapping paper and cardboard boxes.

They gave no consideration to what Mama packed. No doubt entered their minds about whether Mama would remember to pack their necessities. They weren’t hovering over Mama while she packed, coaching her on all the important items. In fact, our 4-year-old only cares about a few unnecessary items…

“Don’t forget the wagon Meemom and GDad gave us!” “Don’t forget my new bicycle with training wheels!”

Ours boys didn’t make a backup plan, in case we arrived at our destination only to find out Mama failed to bring their favorite stuffed animal, or toothbrush. They didn’t waste mental energy on where to buy a jacket, in case Mama forgot to pack theirs. Surely, this is what it means to have faith like a child

In Matthew 7 Jesus uses a rabbinic teaching method. It’s the “if this (is true), then how much more is that true” statement. We read him use this type of statement a few times in the Gospels.

In Matthew 7 the teaching makes an analogy with earthly parents and our Heavenly Father. If earthly mothers and fathers “know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

It was unusually cold once we arrived in Houston.

What did our 4-year-old do when he wanted his jacket?

“Mama, where’s my jacket?”

What about when he wanted to ride his new bike?”

“Can you please get my new bike from the van?”

What about when he’s thirsty and wants his favorite cup?

“Mama, can I please have my drink?”

Once we reached our destination, our oldest son knew Mama had packed whatever he needed. He didn’t watch her pack all these items because he knew Mama wouldn’t forget them. He has faith in Mama.

Packing for Eternity

When our GPS said we were 15 minutes away from great-grandma’s house, my wife began some more packing. She’s especially brilliant at it. Over and over, she packs kindness and gratitude into our 4-year-old’s heart.

My wife understands that the Heart, like any other suitcase tidily packed by human hands, doesn’t stay tidy for long. The items are soon strewn around the floor with dirty clothes heaped in a pile. So, too, the kindness and gratitude she carefully packs in our son’s heart must regularly be tidied, re-folded, and packed again.

“Now, a lot of people worked really hard to buy you Christmas presents. So what are you going to say when you open your presents?”

“What if you open a present that someone else already gave you? Are you going to say, ‘I already have that!’?”

“Why do we give presents at Christmas, anyway?”

Diaper cream, jackets, socks, and toys. Yes, we need all these items along the journey. But Mama understands what she packs into our sons’ hearts holds eternal significance.

For weeks this blog post’s title kept floating in my head. The lens through which I view my journey with God is now tinted with new color from this phrase… God truly provides for your life, “like Mama packs your bags.”

Trusting God to Provide

No matter how much Life surprises me with unexpected “weather,” God packed a warm jacket. I need only ask him for it.

Am I hungry? He’s packed food to nourish my body but also has bread from Heaven to nourish my soul.

Do I want to play? He lovingly provides toys with which I can play under his safe supervision, toys that bring no regret or harm to me, or anyone else. And how often I’m concerned with my new toys while He’s trying to pack eternal truths deep in my heart. But that’s a post for another day.

Do I need something that costs money? He is able to pay.

Am I sick? My Heavenly Father packed just the thing to bring healing. Even if the medicine is bitter going down, he would never administer anything that doesn’t ultimately bring wholeness and Life.

Am I sick with sin, with a sinful heart turned in on itself, selfishly thinking of my own desires before anything else? He packed the remedy to that problem 2000 years ago when he bore my sins on the cross. “And by his wounds, I have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24). That, friends, is Good News.

Now, off to buy Mama a coffee.

15-passenger Sanctuary

Worship Without Service…Isn’t.

I spend two hours most Friday nights in a sanctuary. It seats 15.

November 2017

It’s nearing midnight as I drive down the highway at 70 mph (okay…75 mph). The driver’s side window motor on the church van broke month’s ago. We’re finally trying to fix it. Wires and hardware from inside the door are visible next to my leg after removing the door panel. A wood 2×4 sits wedged vertically inside the door panel, preventing the van window from slamming to the bottom. But I mis-measured. The window has a 1-inch crack in the top, so loud wind is blowing inside. The smell of delicious home-cooked Indian curry still clings to our clothing. My ears fill with sounds of English and various dialects from India. On my right sits a soft-spoken young Indian man, curious about all-things-American. I concentrate on understanding simultaneously understanding his accent without being able to read his lips, my eyes directed on the highway.
At 11:30, we drop off the last Indian college student and drive 30 minutes back home to Southwest Fort Worth. We pull into the parking lot. My Indian friend and pastor opens his car door to drive home. It’s cold outside. I reach for my house keys to quietly slip inside, wherever my wife and little boys are sound asleep.

Summer 2013
I’m driving to our church building on a Saturday morning. We don’t yet live in the parsonage house on church property. We’re in apartments a mile away, working for an apartment ministry that plans resident activities. On my short commute, I pass a park and see Indian men playing cricket in the field. They play every Saturday and the occasional Sunday. At least, I think they’re Indian. But they could be Pakistani. I guess I should find out.
(A year ago, I planned to walk my dog at the park when I knew the men would be playing. As I pass by, I yelled out what must have sounded like an extremely strange question, “Are y’all Indian or Pakistani?” Indian).
I see many Indians in our neighborhood. I see the Indian women taking strolls in their saris, traditional Indian clothing made with abundant amounts of colorful fabric. I pass them in the grocery store. Occasionally, I see them walking slowly with a deer-in-the-headlights look and assume they must have recently moved to the United States. And we even serve them food during events in our apartment clubhouse. With our Indian apartment neighbors, we’re privileged learn their stories. Most traveled here on short-term contracts with their companies. They’re happy to take unfamiliar assignments in the United States, because it looks good on their resumes when they travel back home to India.
Whenever I see them, I smile warmly and then offer up a short silent prayer: “Lord, give me a pastor who can help me tell these dear people about Jesus.”

Summer 2017
God answered my prayer for an Indian pastor. I’m driving our church’s 15-passenger van. But it’s lately been a 2-5 passenger van. The bench seats sat in our gym much of the summer. We removed them and transformed our van into a furniture delivery vehicle.

Our Indian pastor and his family arrive from Kansas City in a couple of days. With the help of summer interns, we’ve moved furniture countless times. We’ve filled the van with donated items from homes and storage units, purchased used furniture from storage lockers, thrift stores, and Craigslist. The interns and I load it in the van, and then carry it upstairs in our gym, where a few rooms sit filled with household items. Children from our summer day camp and feeding program ask why we’re carrying mattresses into the gym.

I spent hours hunting for a rental house for the family. Two days before they arrive from Kansas City, we fill their new home with furniture.

Fall 2017
I’ve introduced our Indian pastor, Premal, to a contact I have with Baptist Student Ministries at a university where an estimated 4,000 Indian students attend. Premal’s entire family begins making the 30-minute drive to the BSM’s weekly International Student night. God gives them great favor. They play ping-pong, eat pizza, and meet invite Indian.
In October Premal began their weekly Friday night meals in their home. Which brings me back to this cold November night…

Each week, we make the 30 minute drive to pick up a van-full of Indian students and drive 30 minutes back to southwest Fort Worth. We then spend hours eating authentic Indian food, a real treat for these young people so far from home. We close our time as we began it, with prayer. About half the students are Christian. The either half either claim Hinduism or no faith at all. Premal has carefully planned these fellowships. The opening and closing prayers to Jesus make clear his family follows Jesus; the casual intervening time makes clear the family will not force their faith upon their guests.

My status during these weekly visits ranges between “honored guest” and, my preferred status of, “silent observer.” This time was not created for me. Non-English conversations swirl around me. Smells from recipes which originated thousands of miles away fill the air. The customs are Indian, not American. The goal is to make the Indian students feel at home, not me. This is as it should be. I’m simply the van driver.
And as I drive, I worship.
Sometimes I worship when I walk into a building intended for Christian gatherings, such as a church building. Such times are vital to the Christian faith.

And I enjoy the times I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I worship through song. The emotions that spill out through my tear ducts as I sing praise to God remind me of the One who created my emotions. Why shouldn’t I express love to him with the very emotions He created?
Other times, however, I’m invited into worship in thoroughly non-churchy environments…such as an unattractive 15-passenger van with a broken window, missing a door panel…while I’m chauffeuring college students who don’t own vehicles.

I drove a school bus while college and grad school. And my training kicks in when I drive the van. I drive with a laser-focus on the road and cars around me. I dedicate all my mental effort to safely transporting a van full of people on a busy interstate. In other words, it’s a rather emotionless time. Tears never well up in my eyes. I have no wish to raise my hands in worship. I don’t get ‘Holy Spirit goosebumps.’ I can’t say I’ve ever “felt” God’s presence in the same way I’ve “felt” it during a worship service. There’s never any worship music playing on the radio. And, yet, I know God is present. I know I’m in a sanctuary. I’m worshiping Jesus.

Friday, I started volunteering at an elementary school. I helped two first graders, quite behind in Reading, work on alphabet recognition and simple sight words, like ball, cat, and dog.

Minutes before I meet with my first students, I’m in a 10-minute meeting with the school principal. When I shake her hand to leave, I’ve agreed to find more volunteers, start a School Dads program, and adopt a family of 6 children who need Christmas presents.

A first-grade teacher gave me two packs of flash cards. In two 30-minute segments, I tutored a child in the school library. Both children fidgeted non-stop in the sturdy oak chairs. It’s as though the little girl’s legs were a wind-up toy. Her feet cover every imaginable inch of territory, other than directly on the floor beneath her chair.

My second student was a 6-year old boy with a speech impediment. I assumed we’d breeze through the alphabet flash cards and move on to the sight words. He recognized about half of the alphabet.

Our oldest son has known his entire alphabet since he was 3. I suddenly realized how humbling it is to volunteer my time helping others learn a concept that is entirely fundamental for me.
For one hour, I got a taste of Jesus’ entire life. Jesus came to be our Teacher. The entire human race couldn’t understand the Fundamentals their Creator laid out for us long ago.
God-In-Flesh came to teach us the ‘Remedial Humanity.’

Long ago, we should have learned such fundamental concepts as “God is Love,” “love your neighbor as yourself,” and “it’s better to give than to receive.” Even a people group who walked with God for centuries, the Jews, needed to re-learn basic concepts about the God they worship.
The night before Jesus died, Philip, one of his disciples asks Jesus to show him the Father. But Jesus replies, “Don’t you know me, Philip, even after I have been among you such a long time? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.”

It’s as though Jesus’ entire life was a living flash card with the word “God the Father” below it.

But Philip doesn’t make the connection.
Jesus of Nazareth, the very embodiment of God, came to earth to serve. In fact, he says this very thing: “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve” (Matthew 20:28).
On the same night of Jesus’ famous last supper, he washed his disciples’ feet. Few tasks were as humbling in ancient times as washing sandal-clad feet that may have just waded outside through animal or human waste.

And then, in John 13:14, Jesus spoke these words: “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher (emphasis, mine), have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.”

While leaving the elementary school Friday morning, I passed a Nativity display in someone’s front yard. Mary, Joseph, and the Shepherds gathered around baby Jesus.
I remembered the angelic heavenly host who first sang in earshot of those Shepherds, “Glory to God in the Highest.”

It’s Christmas, so let us continue loudly singing our praises to God. When we sing the majestic Christmas hymns, we follow in the footsteps (or wing flaps) of those angels.
And let’s reenact the great Nativity scenes. Let’s exchange gifts, remembering those first Wise Men who understood it is better to give than receive. Let us raise our hands in worship. Let us shout and weep with joy at the forgiveness Christ provides.
But, let’s remember it is our “God in the Highest” who chose to act as lowly Foot Washer…and commanded us to do the same.
Let us also remember our worship is incomplete if we do not obey Jesus’ command to serve one another.

Yes, ‘imitation’ really is the ‘best form of flattery.’ And, when it comes to Jesus, it’s also the best form of worship.
When I spend hours driving a beat up church van to pick up lonely Indian college students who don’t know Jesus, I am worshiping the Newborn King, who came to seek and save the lost and commanded us to make disciples of “all nations” and not just “my nation.”

And when I, a white man, spend time teaching little Black boys and girls how to read, I am worshiping Jesus (my teacher), by following his example of lovingly interacting with all people, not just his own race.

When I serve others with no expectation of being served myself, I am worshiping Jesus. When I visit someone sick and lonely in the hospital or nursing home, just to be with them, I’m following the example of Immanuel, “God with Us.” When I serve the least of these, I am serving–worshiping– Jesus.
When you understand that ‘Service to others’ is ‘Obedience to Christ,’ then the simplest acts become opportunities for worship.

A deck of flash cards becomes your hymnal. A library chair becomes your pew. Your steering wheel becomes an instrument for praise. And a church van becomes your sanctuary.

Brothers and Sisters,
This Christmas season, and all our lives, let us worship not only through song, but through service in the name of Christ.

For Fleas and Floods, I’m Thankful.

Sunday, 6:46pm – One of the congregations that uses uses our church’s building Sunday evenings calls me. The main building is flooding. It’s bad. Real bad.

I text our youth director. He’s over in the gym with a few teens from our neighborhood. He walks to the building to help. I walk over a few minutes later, after I’ve helped my wife with our nightly bedtime/bathtime routine.

I walk in to see about an inch of standing water in a hallway. Our youth director, two members from our church, and the man who first alerted me to the water all working. They’re using shop-vacs and mops. It’s bad but could be worse. And then I open doors to our sanctuary.

It’s worse. Much worse.

Throughout the facility, an area larger than my entire house is now wet.

Over an inch of water stands at the base of our sanctuary platform.

I send out some texts and phone calls to our church members and leaders from the church that rents our sanctuary. Within 30 minutes, our associate pastor and a deacon from another church are working with us.

The deacon had made a phone call on his way over. A man in their church owns a company with carpet extractors. The man arrives an hour later to deliver two commercial carpet extractors and then leaves to pick up more equipment.

First, we focus on our sanctuary. We must work fast to dry carpets around the wood pews. Replacing drywall is cheaper than replacing 16-foot pews.

We’re a motley crew of carpet cleaners, using a commercial carpet extractor, a home carpet cleaner, and two shop-vacs. Our associate pastor is working barefoot in the inch-deep water.

Eventually, our youth director and associate pastor leave for home. They both have other jobs to pay the bills. We mainly pay them with appreciation!

By around 11pm, it’s just me and the two men from the church that rents our sanctuary.

The powerful shop-vac I’m using starts hurting my ears. Our equipment is loud. We have to off our machines to hear each other talk.

I’ve already been in here 4 hours. I’m bent over on my knees with a vacuum hose pressed tightly against the carpet. My body is always in pain, but my knees, back, and hands especially begin to ache.

I put in my headphones to quiet the noise. I continue listening to the newest audiobook I’ve borrowed from the library. I read The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom a few years ago, but I wanted to read it again.

I’ve just heard Ten Boom’s account of 80 women jammed into a small freight car and transported to Ravensbrück concentration camp. Many women panicked in the claustrophobic space and fainted, “although in the tight-wedged crowd, they remained upright.”

I hear her explain how sitting required coordination with the entire group. All at once, each woman sat down with their legs outstretched around the woman in front of them, like a bobsled team.

The train made a slow trip from Holland into Germany over several days. A foul stench filled the smothering boxcar as the trapped women had to urinate and defecate where they sat.

And then, with my knees on the hard floor, I hear Betsy Ten Boom’s words of thankfulness. Betsy was Corrie’s sister.  They were both arrested for helping hide Jews in Holland and placed in the same prison and concentration camp. Always a frail woman, Betsy quickly developed a high fever on the train.

“Do you know what I am thankful for?” Betsy’s gentle voice startled me in that squirming madhouse. “I’m thankful that father is in Heaven today.”

The sisters’ elderly father had also been arrested by Nazi SS, but died only a few days into his imprisonment.

My body is sore but I continue extracting water, encouraged by Betsy’s attitude of gratitude. A little water is nothing.

Extract. Dump the water. Extract. Dump the water.

About 30 minutes later I hear Corrie describe their medical inspections, which occurred every Friday. The doctors only look down each woman’s throat, examine their teeth, and then check between each finger. Yet the malnourished women must strip naked for each inspection:

“We trooped again down the long, cold corridor and picked up the X-marked dresses at the door. But it was one of these mornings while we were waiting, shivering in the corridor that yet another page in the Bible lept into life for me: “He hung naked on the cross.”

I had not known. I had not thought. The paintings, the carved crucifixes showed, at the least, a scrap of cloth. But this, I suddenly knew, was the respect and reverence of the artist. But oh, at the time (itself on that other Friday morning) there had been no reverence, no more than I saw in the faces around us now.

I leaned toward Betsy, ahead of me in line. Her shoulder blades stood out sharp and thin beneath her blue mottled skin. “Betsy, they took His clothes too.” Ahead of me, I heard a little gasp. “Oh Corrie, and I never thanked him.”

A few minutes later, I hear Betsy’s most famous expression of gratitude recorded in The Hiding Place. Corrie describes their entrance into their barracks. She recounts straw beds that are “soiled and rancid,” an overflowing toilet, a horrible stench, and wooden platforms for sleeping stacked so tightly together that women could not sit up without hitting the platform above them:

Suddenly I sat up, striking my head on the cross slats above. Something had pinched my leg. “Fleas!” I cried. “Betsy, the place is swarming with them!” We scrambled across the intervening platforms, head low to avoid another bump, dropped down to the aisle, and edged our way to a patch of light. “Here. And here another one!” I wailed. “Betsy, how can we live in such a place.”

“Show us. Show us how.” It was said so matter-of-factly, it took me a second to realize she was praying. More and more, the distinction between prayer and the rest of life seemed to be vanishing for Betsy. “Corrie,” she said excitedly, “He’s given us the answer before we asked, as He always does! In the Bible this morning…where was it? Read that part again.”

[Read The Hiding Place to learn the miraculous way God kept their Bible from being confiscated upon first entering Ravensbrück.]

I glanced down the long dim aisle to make sure no guard was in sight, then drew the Bible from its pouch. “It was in 1 Thessalonians,” I said. We were on our third complete reading of the New Testament since leaving Scheveningen [their first prison in Holland]. In the feeble light I turned the pages. “Here it is. ‘Comfort the frightened. Help the weak. Be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all.’ “

It seemed written expressly to Ravensbrück.

“Go on. That wasn’t all.”

“Oh, yes – ‘to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances. For this is the will of God in Christ Jesus.’ “

“That’s it, Corrie! That’s His answer…’Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks.”

I stared at her, then around me at the dark foul-aired room.

“Such as?” I said.

“Such as being assigned here together.”

I bit my lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus.”

“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”

I looked down at the Bible. “Yes, thank you, dear Lord, that there was no inspection as we entered here. Thank you for all the women here in this room who will meet You in these pages.”

“Yes.” Said Betsy. “Thank you for the very crowding here, since we’re packed so close that many more will hear.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Corrie?” She prodded.

“Oh, alright…Thank you for the jammed, cramped, stuffed, packed, suffocating crowds.”

“Thank you,” Betsy went on serenely “for the fleas…”

“The fleas!!” This was too much. “Betsy! There’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”

“Give thanks for all circumstances,” she quoted. “It doesn’t say ‘for pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”

And so, we stood between piers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas, but this time I was sure Betsy was wrong.”

I continue working. The work is monotonous. I’m exhausted. I keep listening.

If you’re familiar with the story, you’ll know the women later learn the reasons Nazi guards never enter their barracks… the fleas. This particular barracks was notorious among the guards for its severe flea infestation. No guard ever wanted to enter, for fear of getting fleas on themselves.

But Betsy and Corrie could keep their contraband Bible, hold Bible studies multiple times each day, and even sing worship songs, all without fear of inspection, confiscation, or punishment.

Yes, Betsy Ten Boom. I agree with you.

Thank you, Lord, for the fleas. For many years I have remembered this story. It has reminded me to thank God for all circumstances. It has reminded me our loving God may use even our most severe trials inconveniences as an unknown gift of grace to us.

I finish the audiobook that night and finally succumb to my weak body. I go home at 2:30am. I’m 32 and feel embarrassed to leave 55-year-old and 70-year-old coworkers to continue working.  As I walk in the dark early morning the few feet to my back door, I thank God for all my circumstances.

Thank you for a church that meets in our main building Sunday evenings. Without them, no one would have caught this flood until Monday morning.

That church’s pastor and leaders were away on a mission trip. But thank you, God, that you gave me the idea to share my cell number with the man in charge that night. You saved us precious time when that man immediately called my cell upon seeing the flooding.

Thank you, Lord, for three church members on the property who could immediately start working.

Thank you for our volunteer associate pastor, (a young man who accidentally entered our building two years ago when he meant to visit a different church!), who immediately drove to help upon receiving my text.

Thank you, God, for the two men from Abundant Life (the large African-American congregation that uses our building’s main sanctuary) and the men who came to help. And thank you for the commercial carpet extraction equipment they brought.

Thank you that our church, a historically ‘white’ church, have such a beautiful relationship with two Black churches that use our building.

Thank you for multiple churches and a funeral home who rent this building, allowing our congregation to keep the building when we, otherwise, would have had to sell it just to pay the bills.

Thank you for the simple ways you help us practice racial reconciliation, such as working next to these men, as we share this space.

Thank you for fibromyalgia. It daily reminds me my strength to endure comes from you.

Thank you for a frail and weak body. It reminds me I, alone, can’t save this building. It truly keeps me humble when men old enough to be my father and grandfather can work longer than me.

Thank you for the chance to serve you as I clean a building used by your Church.

Thank you, Lord, for the fleas. And thank you for this flood.

A Cross In Our Front Yard…With Your Name On It

My son wants to build a cross in our front yard…with your name on it.

I’m the chief story reader in our home. Our 4-year old son has developed an elaborate bedtime story routine. Each night, I’m required to read from a children’s devotional book and three different children’s storybook Bibles. After reading, I must also sing three songs before kissing him goodnight: Jesus Loves Me, Silent Night, and Jingle Bell Rock. I have no clue how those last two became nightly requirements.

One Bible (The Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones) must always be read last. And he always requests the “Jesus dying on the cross” story. The illustrations are beautiful. One page depicts Jesus hanging on the cross with a sign above him (the sign described in the Gospel of John 19:19-21). As we read the story again the other night, our 4-year-old interrupted me:

“Daddy, I want to build a cross in our front yard.”

“A cross?”

“Yeah, I want to build a cross and put a sign on it.”

“A sign? What would you put on the sign”

“People would come by and put their names on it and then I’ll erase their names.”

“Why would you erase their names?”

“For more people to come by and put their names on the sign.”

“And then what would you do?”

“And then I’ll erase their names so other people can put their names on it.”

As I gazed into that little boy’s eyes, I had an Emperor’s New Clothes moment. My son has no clue how powerful is words are, but I do.

While only 4-years old, he already understands the Cross has a message for us today; it’s not merely a historical artifact. 

Our children’s Bible pictures Jesus on a cross, with a sign hanging above him but… 

Without being taught, he concludes the sign on the cross should really have your name on it…and my name. 

He’s reasoned, ‘if that Cross has a connection with any one person, the connection is to us, not Jesus.’

How true, son. How true. One day our little boy will grow out of Bibles filled with pictures and large text. And he will eventually read the conversation between two men who died on crosses next to Jesus:

“And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong” (Luke 23:41).

I think of words from the Bible, Isaiah 53:4-6:

Surely he has borne our infirmities
    and carried our diseases;
yet we accounted him stricken,
    struck down by God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions,
    crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the punishment that made us whole,
    and by his bruises we are healed.
All we like sheep have gone astray;
    we have all turned to our own way,
and the Lord has laid on him
    the iniquity of us all.

Our son’s sign idea reminds me about the “Deep Magic” in C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. One day, we’ll read this book together and come to that famous dialogue between the Witch and Aslan:

“You know that every traitor belongs to me as my lawful prey and that for every treachery I have a right to kill…. And so that human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property… unless I have blood as the Law says all Narnia will be overturned and perish in fire and water.”

Last, our son understands the Cross is for public viewing…as public as a front yard next to a busy road.

Sadly, we use our front yard as much as most suburban families, which is… not at all. We spend all outdoor play time the back yard. The back yard is peaceful. The back yard is safe. The back yard is fenced-in so neither children, nor dog, can escape. And the backyard is private. 

Our front yard, however, is none of those things. Several neighbors do not have cars. A bus stop and a Dollar General are both a few hundred feet from our front door. Put all those things together and what do you have? You have people cutting through our front yard at all hours of the day. Multiple homeless pass by each week. Two busy roads intersect at our house, bringing several hundred cars by our front yard each day. And a Goodwill donation drop-off site across from our garage cause 100+ people to stop, unload their unwanted belongings, and get back in their cars. Our front yard is not private. 

This little redhead’s father has spent years keeping his faith private…discreet. I’m most outspoken when preaching before other Christians, or typing before a computer screen. But our sweet boy only knows one way to express his faith–publicly, before all the world. Is this why Jesus praises the faith of children?

During the average week, our 4-year old might spend 2 minutes in our front yard. Yet he doesn’t want this cross in the back yard where we spend our time. He wants it in the front yard, where everyone else can see it, see their name on it, and then see their name erased.

“I, I am the One who erases all your sins, for my sake;
    I will not remember your sins (Isaiah 43:25 NCV).

Yes, it probably makes more sense to see our names on that cross, than to see Jesus’ name up there- the only person who “knew no sin.” But the historical reality is that Jesus’ name was on that cross. It’s as if our names are erased from that cross because his name is there instead. Or, to use the Apostle Paul’s words, “one died for all, and therefore all died.” And that, my friends, is Good News.

I’ll never pressure our boys to choose the same profession as their Dad. But I’m already wondering if our 4-year old might follow in my footsteps. If I may borrow a message from this 4-year old preacher,

I pray you see your name on that cross, hanging above where traitors died. But I also pray you see your name erased, by the One who gladly “erases all your sins.” And I pray you also want to ‘go public’ with Christ’s Cross. 

O Lamb of God, for sinners slain,
I plead with thee, my suit to gain, —
I plead what thou hast done:
Didst thou not die the death for me?
Jesus, remember Calvary,
And break my heart of stone.

Take the dear purchase of thy blood,
My Friend and Advocate with God,
My Ransom and my Peace,
Surety, who all my debt hast paid,
For all my sins atonement made,
The Lord my Righteousness.

O let thy Spirit shed abroad
The love, the perfect love of God,
In this cold heart of mine!
O might he now descend, and rest,
And dwell forever in my breast,
And make it all divine!

O Lamb of God, For Sinners Slain— Charles Wesley, 1749

Frailty From My Father

I woke up Tuesday feeling like I had the flu, which is why I had to walk the dog.

No, I didn’t actually have the flu. If I had, I would have stayed in bed longer than noon. I’ve been diagnosed with three auto-immune disorders. Tuesday’s illness was just another Fibromyalgia flare-up: flu-like symptoms (without the fever), extreme body aches, deep bone pain, muscle weakness, mental fog, debilitating fatigue. These flare-ups come often when the weather gets cold. [In fact, I typed most of this two days later as I lay in bed from another mild flare-up].

In my case, only two things help a Fibromyalgia flare-up: Rest and Exercise. I don’t know why exercise helps. But that’s with most things about Fibromyalgia.

I’d already been resting since noon. That’s why it was time for me now to walk our dog, Bear. Everything in me wants to get back in bed. But I will myself to go.

We drive to the park. Our 100 pound chocolate Lab begins excitedly whimpering like a baby as we pull into the parking lot. I put on Bear’s leash, put my headphones in, and start the newest audiobook I downloaded from the library…The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence.

In 1640 Nicolas Herman joined a Discalced Carmelite monastery in Paris. “Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection,” as he became known, was a humble monk who is most famous for learning to pray at all times, regardless of situation. He spent most of his years in the monastery as a cook, where he learned to “practice the presence of God” while preparing a meal or washing dishes.

People recognized this godly man’s spiritual discernment. They began learning from him in-person and through written letters to and from him. The Practice of the Presence of God is mainly a compilation of letters Lawrence wrote to others. Shortly after Lawrence’s death, his letters were compiled and published in 1692. For centuries, this little book has influenced Protestants and Catholics. As I read about the book’s history, I often saw that both John Wesley and A.W. Tozer recommended this book to others. Read a short Wikipedia bio on Brother Lawrence here.

I checked the temperature before we left home for the park. It was 56 degrees and a little windy. But this wooded area next to the Trinity River is often several degrees lower than the official temperature.

The cold makes Bear frisky; it makes my bones ache. Cold weather is always hard on my body. The audiobook plays in my ears. The fall air feels wet. The trees are turning all around us. Many of their leaves already lay on the ground. Various shades of green, red, yellow, and brown squish beneath my feet.

Before I awoke that morning, my body’s pain sneaked into my subconscious brain. I had just finished running a marathon on uneven terrain. My feet and legs were throbbing. Then I woke up.

Nope. No marathon. Just a night sleeping in a soft bed…and pain…pain from a ‘hidden’ illness without any known cause or cure.

Centuries-old wisdom from a lowly cook and dishwasher, letters written to those seeking spiritual counsel, speaks into my ears for several minutes as I force my tired legs to move. I begin listening where I stopped the day before. I listen to the Eighth Letter. The Ninth Letter. The Tenth Letter. And then I hear these words :

“Eleventh Letter: I do not pray that you may be delivered from your pains; but I pray earnestly that God gives you strength and patience to bear them as long as He pleases. Comfort yourself with Him who holds you fastened to the cross. He will loose you when He thinks fit. Happy are those who suffer with Him. Accustom yourself to suffer in that manner, and seek from Him the strength to endure as much, and as long, as He judges necessary for you.
Worldly people do not comprehend these truths. It is not surprising though, since they suffer like what they are and not like Christians. They see sickness as a pain against nature and not as a favor from God. Seeing it only in that light, they find nothing in it but grief and distress. But those who consider sickness as coming from the hand of God, out of His mercy and as the means He uses for their salvation, commonly find sweetness and consolation in it.
I pray that you see that God is often nearer to us and present within us in sickness than in health. Do not rely completely on another physician because He reserves your cure to Himself. Put all your trust in God. You will soon find the effects in your recovery, which we often delay by putting greater faith in medicine than in God. Whatever remedies you use, they will succeed only so far as He permits. When pains come from God, only He can ultimately cure them. He often sends sickness to the body to cure diseases of the soul. Comfort yourself with the Sovereign Physician of both soul and body.

Twelfth Letter: If we were well accustomed to the practice of the presence of God, bodily discomforts would be greatly alleviated. God often permits us to suffer a little to purify our souls and oblige us to stay close to Him.
Take courage. Offer Him your pain and pray to Him for strength to endure them. Above all, get in the habit of often thinking of God, and forget Him the least you can. Adore Him in your infirmities. Offer yourself to Him from time to time. And, in the height of your sufferings, humbly and affectionately beseech Him (as a child his father) to make you conformable to His holy will. I shall endeavor to assist you with my poor prayers.”

I rewind and listen to these words again. Then I rewind again. I meditate on these words. I’m still meditating on these words.

How do I view my illness? Do I “find nothing in it but grief and distress?”  Or do I “find sweetness and consolation in it?”

I reflect on Lawrence’s prayer “I pray that you see that God is often nearer to us and present within us in sickness than in health.” I picture my wife when our little boys are sick, as she holds them in her arms. Our busy 4 and 1-year old boys have no time for snuggling with momma…until they are sick. In sickness, she is happy to hold them against her chest. And they are happy to be held.

When did I become ‘too big’ to be held during sickness? Have I unknowingly done the same with God? I remember how John 13:23 reads in some older translations: “There was reclining on Jesus’ breast one of His disciples, whom Jesus loved” (NAS).

Does God allow (send?) some illnesses? Does he long for us to climb into his arms, resting our head (and “all our cares”) on his chest?

I remember when our 4-year old was younger, mixing up his pronouns as he learns. When he wanted us to hold him, he’d stretch up his arms and say, “hold you.”

I think of our 1-year-old. When he sees me as I walk through the door, he crawls over, gets up on his knees and raises his arms up toward me.

I think of God’s people in the Old Testament. Even in the midst of pain, famine, suffering, and siege, Israel and Judah still did not turn to the arms of God. Am I so different? How often have I relied “completely on another physician,” or medicine, or Internet tip, or more sleep, and gave no thought to relying on God during my pain?

Lawrence’s words gave me new perspective on my illnesses. I will “offer Him my pain.” I will “adore Him in my infirmities.” As I use science, medicine, and exercise to seek healing, I will remember “they will succeed only so far as He permits.” When I am sick, I will climb into God’s lap, let Him wrap mighty arms around me, and consider this frailty from my Father.