Everyone wonders.
Why the stuttering fool.
Cannot get over.
The story of grace.
Smacked in the face.
With the wonder of it.
My lack so desperate.
And His love so beyond.
Figuring out.
And the wonder of creation.
Mysteries so stunning; stupefying even.
Things beyond the naked eye.
Photos revealing the heavens.
Star clusters and galaxies.
And reams of color thrown around
like a madman happy and
exuberant and free.
Creating glory and miraculous.
Beauty pointing.
Like a road sign.
Because every single day.
While distracted with life.
Living daunted. In our own story.
Sometimes shaken.
There is order.
Our world governed. And ruled.
By holy.
Stars in the heavens.
Planets spinning.
Sun coming up. Setting.
Winter turning to spring.
And the tide going out .
Again.
All under. His control.
His creation. His palette. His art.
Glory.
And Grace.
And I lift up my eyes to the hills.
And to the heavens.
And every single time.
Smacked in the face.
With the wonder of it.
I never could have thought it all up.
But He did.
sometimes
I feel like a caged bird
longing for freedom
to fly
expectations falling hard
why I need grace
not to do whatever I want
to live flippant in sin
but only because
my heart so full
of the not
just never enough
and shame
burrowing its head
into my soul
so flawed
and imperfect
and hovering behind a wall
of unsuccessful attempts
and it exhausts
until this vulnerability
catching my breath
and turning me around
to see
Jesus
calming my fears
with His presence
restoring my broken
with His grace
and breaking my heart
with His love
and then
having permission
to be both flawed and loved
freed
to be myself
no longer needing
to fly
A new year. We have celebrated.
And we all. Hoping.
To do better. A clean slate.
Finally arrange ourselves; this one life of ours.
Into something coherent.
Something.
To be proud of.
And so.
We make resolutions.
And stop eating and start cleaning.
Join gyms and organize our spaces.
The self-control god of January.
Rearing it's ugly.
Once again this new year.
But nothing ever changes.
Because. The resolutions.
Riding hard upon our shoulders.
And the self-control.
And sheer determination.
Pulled on hard.
Like a pair of new boots.
Beautiful to look at.
But painful to wear.
But we wear them.
Those damn boots.
For a while.
Thinking we look great.
Feeling proud even.
Until.
Our feet hurt.
And the shoulders ache.
And we yell; from the trying.
And it all falls away. Again.
Our weary souls crumpling in the exhale.
Of one more attempt. One more try.
At being something we can't even.
Articulate.
Because.
We are lousy gods.
And we invent even more.
To bow down to and worship.
And we don't live beautiful.
But in pain.
And no one's kidding anyone.
About it.
And so. This year.
Not pulling on those boots.
Don't have to.
Because. All along.
Shame and the not measuring up.
The race for perfection.
Already won.
Freeing us from the tyranny.
Of self-improvement. Gone awry.
And it is grace transforming.
Unfathomable Love.
And that is the beautiful.
Not our weary attempts.
God.
Filling my empty with His full.
And giving grace where there is lack.
Showing up with exquisite kindness.
And whispering His love in the wind.
And I stand on tiptoe.
Trying to see.
His Presence.
And what I do see.
Mist covering a field at dawn.
The moon full and white.
Catching my breathe; ethereal stillness.
A holy moment. Stumbled upon.
In the early nearly dark.
Sea and sky having no end.
The stretching of blue in all directions.
Earth a canvas filled;
this jaw-dropping vista.
Early autumn on the vineyard.
A snapshot of sunset.
Brush strokes all over the sky.
Back and forth. Capricious tinting.
Reflection of stunning in the water.
For just minutes. Fleeting.
And not really having to stand.
On tiptoe.
So apparent. This.
God writing.
Above the din of broken and fear.
His Presence.
Because.
Too often I forget.
Not just pretty pictures. Grace.
Or happy moments.
Because.
What we call beautiful.
Is really
that indescribable something
of which for a moment
become the messengers.
Pointing.
Suggests CS Lewis.
To something beyond what transfixes.
Temporarily.
Beauty smiles.
But grace transforms.
And it is not about pretty pictures.
And words on a page.
It is about the twenty-four/seven living.
In this fallen world we call home.
The ugly stuff and the breaking stuff.
Because.
There is not a scholar anywhere.
In any field.
Who, being honest.
Cannot help but say
there is something seriously broken.
This life.
And the messengers pointing.
To the stuff beyond a church building.
God redeeming.
In the reality of this hurting world.
The fleeing of genocide. Rwanda.
And the life lived in orphanages.
And the hungry in slums. All over.
Crying out for help.
And here in this country.
The same because.
Brokenness written all over our lives.
And we live desperate.
Sometimes for food.
Or shelter. Or Safety.
And sometimes for love.
And acceptance.
And here's where grace comes in.
It is available.
In this broken place.
Full of beauty fleeting. Pointing.
To Redeemer God.
And relationship with Him.
When and where.
He covers our broken with Himself.
And fills our lives with HIs love.
Undeserved.
And in receiving.
Offering to others.
This grace.
Choosing to help.
And to love and forgive.
Hard stuff.
This.
When we would rather not look.
Or see. Or give grace.
Inconvenient often.
And to those around the world.
Suffering so greatly.
Not leaving it to others.
It's not about a church building.
Or a pretty picture.
Or words on a page.
Capturing beauty through a lens.
Collaging words about grace.
But truth.
Coming first.
Showing up.
Whether I like it or not.
And putting up the mirror.
To my soul. To my futile attempts.
At being something good.
The living well.
And what that mirror tells me.
This truth.
Well. Here it is.
That I am deeply flawed.
Unfixable.
Irreparably damaged.
Beyond repair. It's called sin.
And I don't like it.
But it is the truth.
And this world full of.
Broken. Miserable.
Shocking heartbreak.
Disappointment. Decay.
And we blame God.
For. Well. Everything.
And then. On occasion.
Watching transfixed. Something beautiful.
Stirring my soul. Heart full.
But not for long.
Because the things of life destroy.
And disappointment runs deep.
And I can't fix it.
Because it is I who is broken.
And sin has marred everything good.
And continues to destroy.
And myself.
Clinging to shreds of self-worth.
Hanging on for dear life.
This ride. Life.
Leaving me exhausted. Weary.
In my attempts to be happy.
When all along.
I've been thrown a life line.
Holy God came down to rescue.
And when we see it is our ugly.
Having pierced the flesh.
And He hung. For hours.
And the heavens convulsed.
And the day stood still.
In shock.
The enormity of this rescue.
I hang my head.
For I cannot imagine.
What He suffered. Endured.
On that tree.
This Jesus. Holy God.
Laying aside glory.
So we can live free.
And my deeply flawed covered.
By His sacrifice.
Dying. And then living again.
Spilling grace all over our lives.
And rolling around in it.
Like a cat in the sunshine.
This grace so good.
But never to forget.
The price.
On Monday.
Following Easter.
Somehow the awe of Sunday disappearing.
Into the routine.
The immediate grabbing attention.
But, in the midst of this, a Monday.
Sunday transcribed.
Not just a story; this awe we celebrated.
But Grace.
This story on Sunday and Monday.
And everyday.
Grace.
The awe of Sunday meeting the imperfection of Monday.
I think about it a lot. The bittersweet.
And I'm not talking about the saccharin kind; a movie or a book tying up everything
perfectly in the end and you feeling manipulated for having cried or angry for having watched. Anything Jane Austen maybe the exception.
But the truest form. Of bittersweet.
I experienced yesterday.
Hear me in that it has been a hard season - almost a year - my back stabbing with pain and sidelining me for months. Procedures and therapy and now maybe even the surgery unsuccessful. A day falling hard. Hope diminished. Disappearing even. The view from my window moving swiftly from winter-lingering beauty to stark reality and me catching my breath. Unable to accept more disappointment. Unable to understand the whys. Wanting my life back.
And I knew then and I know now others have worse. But for me, right now, it is taking my breath. For the pain and the fear that it will never go away.
In the anguish, the dishevel, the bitter - not the sweet, a friend offers to bring over lunch. And I caution loudly; probably not a good time. For her that is. But she is resolute and simply undeterred by my warnings of ugly.
Showing up shortly with a large brown paper bag brimming with Chipotle and throwing arms around me. An incredibly sweet moment. And then the food and the telling and the listening beginning to unfold those edges of despair lurking within.
Yes. Sweet.
Oh, she would deny and find funny that of being sweetness. To my bitter.
But she does the hard stuff. Listening to the pain yelping; coming out sideways and backwards and confused. But understanding. It's just pain talking. Helping to push me through to find healing in the connection and in the grace. Helping me upright, regain perspective and birthing me back into hope.
Because life is often bitter. Sometimes these experiences, the hard times, are later described as a gift. But not today. Not when the wound is deep and angry and healing seems far away.
Isn't that what all good stories are made of? The bittersweet?
The telling of a protagonist having to overcome conflict. Struggle always part of story. And we relate and are inspired. The reason stories are life changing. Helping us know how to live.
But when it hits us. In real time. The story looks different.
The bitter making us stronger but almost needing a narrator to get us out of our own story to see the picture better. And our story good too. Just not finished yet. And that adversity - the bittersweet of life teaching if we allow. Within community.
Community. A recurring theme for me. The search for and the sacrifice required worth helping another through adversity. Connection healing me.
This is why I scribble grace. Because I know the answer in this life.
But sometimes I can't find it.
Lives often so fractured when close friends and family move away. And though their story and adventure is to be celebrated and embraced, those left behind must find a new normal. A new friend. A new community. Those things taking time and commitment and transparency within grace.
In order to be known in the ugly and in the real. And loved anyway.
I thought later. How is it that someone can show up and see my messy and not be afraid of me? That I am too much or not enough. All at the same time.
It is a challenge. A discipline even. To come alongside someone else in their hurt. Or to be vulnerable within our own story. To embrace the bittersweet; those things in life we cannot control. Things we would rather not have to endure. But things that usually make us stronger. And relationships deeper as a result.
Because when your heart is really broken - facing a death of any kind. Someone is needed to stand beside us, carry us if only for a moment, and help us remember there is a sweetness to life even within the bitter.
Celebrating the bittersweet and deep friendship and grace that sees us through.
To hope again. On the hard days.
Just because this blog is called scribbling beautiful grace.
Doesn't mean I always do it.
Yes. To the scribbling.
But so often no.
To the grace.
I am a recipient gladly.
Of Grace.
Undeserved favor. Unfathomable love.
From God.
A word costing so much.
But so often.
Taken so lightly.
Because I think I know best.
How the days should look.
The running of things. What I want.
And what He should do.
What about that?
When there's not enough to suit me.
Disappointment running hard and deep.
The constant striving.
To make the happy.
The un-worship of it all crashing down.
Unsettling. Confusing.
The whys bumping into each other.
On a daily basis.
But then.
The God-That-Is
getting my attention.
Again.
And not letting go.
And me.
Having to realign my picture.
Of God. Of Grace.
Unraveling the illusions and the subtle lies.
The putting myself at the center of happy.
And the good life.
Because a relationship.
This grace thing. And He.
Full of glory.
Redefining happy.
I am finding sometimes in the pain.
When our lack outweighs the lies.
The pages turn.
And we see. Really see.
This Giver of Grace.
Worthy of worship.
And trust.
All the time.
In my search.
C.S. Lewis reminding me.
Do I really think
he could be the grandfather
of the universe,
who, when the day is done,
says,
'A good time was had by all'?
Is such a thing even possible on any level?
If we stop to think about it.
The ramifications of such a system.
Would we even want this for our children?
For ourselves?
A benevolent despot. A grandfather figure.
Or One.
Whose divine goodness
and purposes go far beyond our imaginings?
Who suffered the most
to give me Grace.
All the time.
In my lack. In my need.
In the deep dark of the night.
When I am scribbling darkness
without even realizing it.
Having to catch myself. Redirect.
C.S. Lewis says it best.
"A man can no more
diminish God's glory
by refusing to worship Him
than a lunatic
can put out the sun
by scribbling
the word 'darkness'
on the walls
of his cell."
Well.
What about that?
God's glory surrounding and I scribble darkness.
The un-worship.
Lunacy.
Jesus.
What does it mean? The Word. This name.
Sometimes expressing irreverence.
Sometimes engraved on jewelry. On skin.
Sometimes the brunt of media humor.
But for me. This year.
More.
Even more.
Coming from the Advent season into a new year.
Singing still. Emmanuel.
Dragging it into the new year like a favorite worn blanket.
Familiar. Much loved. And calming.
Like a silent night.
Christmas around the table not as full as in years past. And yet.
For our family. Goodness. Just in being together.
The demands of the past year pulling hard on preparedness.
And my heart full.
For what is.
Because life is a struggle. A battleground.
And though I have loved for many years. This Jesus.
I feel at times much like a prodigal son.
And the Father running toward me.
In my pain, my fear, my scattered.
Reminding me.
Again and again.
Grace.
And all that is required of me.
To love back.
This indescribable, unfathomable love.
I too easily forget.
The pain helping me to see.
Emmanuel.
All year.
In the depths of my being.
And all I have to do is whisper.
Jesus.
Know what can make you miserable. Hands down?
Ungrace.
Trying to win someone's approval. A feeling of not measuring up.
Coming from them. Coming from you.
And on the day it crashes. For you.
The ungrace - like shards of glass, broken sharp edges, around your feet.
Crazy scary. Unsettling.
Much to clean up. Carefully.
Because what happens.
Blaming and criticizing and ruminating - and it's in your head.
And it's all about you.
Not measuring up. Not meeting the standard. Failing.
Surely, in the Christian world, not an issue.
For the whole concept of faith is wrapped up in grace.
But do we get it?
The awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping incredible gift.
Grace.
And even for the humanists.
Those embracing man as the answer to life.
Doesn't life come crashing down? A seeking. There must be more.
Why don't we get it?
A chasing. A running after. To fill the empty.
The search for significance.
This lust - so pervasive in post-modern culture.
In the cinema, in the music, in the glossy covers.
Even our homes, our schools, our churches.
Culture everywhere. Striving.
And in the striving, the twisting of our lives into a charade.
The wearing of masks eventually.
Too painful, the real. For failing to meet the standard.
For just plain failing. Even in our own minds.
Falling short. Again and again.
And then failure even to try.
Ungrace.
Nothing more unattractive or painful.
The judgment, the guilt, the shame. Falling victim.
To perfectionism and striving.
Desperately trying to make a life count for something.
George MacDonald put it succinctly.
You need not be a Christian to build houses, feed the hungry, or heal the sick.
There is only one thing the world cannot do.
It cannot offer grace.
What the world needs.
Almost defying description.
So good the Gift.
And in accepting the Gift.
Something happens.
In place of the striving, the chasing after the wind.
In it's place.
A quiet strength with humility.
A joy from forgiveness.
A life of purpose; understanding intrinsic worth.
Restored relationship with God.
With ourselves.
Nothing to prove. Only to accept.
And the ungrace.
When it comes calling.
Something to discard, to run from; a destroyer.
Because no matter who you are or what you believe.
If extended Grace, you are grateful.
A powerful gift.
The only thing the world cannot offer.
Honesty is terrifying.
Why be vulnerable, why take off the mask?
On my list of things that scare.
Covering up. Pretending. A being polite; seeing the ugly but not daring to speak.
And the ugly? Railing against God and wondering the whys. Expecting more and longing for too much. Never enough. Always falling short.
Isn't grace just a nice word for covering up things we would rather not see?
Even on a really good day, is there not at least one deeply disappointing thing?
And others ask, "Really?" Such ingratitude.
Honest, heart-wrenching regret.
Railing gets me nowhere. Masks fail to impress. Striving falls short. Always.
So, why be honest? Why the risk?
Wouldn't that just be beyond the pale - embarrassment, shame; scandal even.
But I am finding nothing else works.
Two roads. Despair or grace.
I choose grace.
Though, having to admit, sometimes painful. Even now. In my brokenness. Not to rule my world, not to have things as I wish. Scrambling constantly after happy. Pulling strings, hitting the right notes, reading the books and engaging the friends. I see myself in the honesty. But I stay on the road.
And through the journey, every day; new mercies and hope for a broken heart.
Aaaah. The striving is diminished and in it's place; rest.
The opportunity to be real and vulnerable and honest. Only achieved through unconditional love by the Giver of grace. Accepting His gift. Nothing to do but accept. And I have to be reminded every day. To stay on the road.
The signposts point to intimacy with God.
The answer.
That's why the worship.
Empty to full. Darkness to light.
Freeing and powerful. The bending of the knee in gratitude.
And then, slowly, over time it occurs to me. To take off the mask. To offer to others what I have received. To be honest. Risking rejection. Authenticity; the only path to genuine bonding.
The honesty not quite so scary.
Freedom to offer vulnerability in relationship because it heals and overcomes the striving and the perfectionism and the not measuring up. Because we can't. That's why the grace and that's why the worship.
Not only to be honest in relationship with others but also with ourselves; okay to have feelings and needs and to be imperfect, to be free to be spontaneous, to make responsible choices; all ingredients of any good relationship. Freedom to fulfill our longings in fully loving and being loved, to pursue whimsy and in helping others get beyond their brokenness. Staying on the road. With God.
Masks hinder.
Taking it off my fear list. More afraid now of wearing it.
Looking for the signposts for whimsy and freedom, celebration and honesty, broken parts getting healed; all funny little names but worth the ride.
I have an affinity for gates.
Tolkien writes, "Still round the corner there may wait, a new road or a secret gate."
And I am intrigued. The mystery. What lies beyond?
Beyond the gate in the book, The Secret Garden, for the children; a creeping awareness that perhaps one should not be there so with stealth and a bit of fear exploring the magnificent beauty that captivates. Risking danger of discovery.
Or through the wardrobe in The Chronicles Of Narnia, where, in a big, old, rambling English house providing shelter for four children during WWII, Lucy, the youngest, pushes aside the old coats and furs to enter an amazing world ruled by the white witch where for over 100 years; deep winter.
I look at the gate. A symbol for entering a garden, a place unknown; a new world.
Embracing a new country as did Peter and Susan and Edmund and Lucy. Taking a risk to walk through that wardrobe or through the gate. Perhaps even a new way of thinking and living and being.
I have been living in winter too long. I am taking a risk. I tug at the gate to enter.
And this is what I am discovering.
The telling that I struggle too. Expectations put on us by ourselves, by others; the difficulty of life rocking our world. And the constant striving. Attempting to make a world that is beautiful and meaningful but somehow always beyond the grasp. The letting go.
The taking off of the mask. Becoming real and vulnerable and transparent. Telling you things that scare me because maybe they scare you too.
Daring to enter a world where God is. To come to understand that what may not be politically correct may be a beautiful place to live because the key to the gate is humility. And by understanding my striving accomplishes nothing except pride or failure or perhaps both.
To celebrate brokenness. Because it leads to the gate where God is.
And there I can become the person God intended. The masks have to go. The striving unnecessary. For pride shuts grace down and grace is my emotional home. The vulnerability, the opportunity to be real, the authenticity; boldly trusting in how God sees us, deeply pleasing if we are in relationship with Him. A place of rest.
And so I never tire of returning home with my gate welcoming; the handle screeching a little as I turn it but always finding grace. Always grace with a God who is so much bigger and better than anything I could have imagined. And it is through the pain that I made the discovery. It is worth the search, the turning of a latch.
J.R.R. Tolkien, renown for his storytelling, understood this truth; redemptive living.
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