Wildfires

In 2003, the B&B Complex wildfire ravaged 90,000 acres of the Deschutes National Forest.  Observers were stunned by the fury of the fire that had a 35,000’ smoke plume, spread rapidly, and created its own weather.

Last August on an idyllic summer day, my husband and I hiked through a portion of the wilderness burned in that fire.  More than a decade later, the land still bears scars of the fire’s devastation.  However, the vestiges of the fire were not what was striking.  Everywhere we looked, new growth exploded through the charred remains.  Wildflowers, huckleberries and blueberries, butterflies and bees met us at every turn.  The forest was buzzing with life.  While the fire had wreaked havoc on the area and evidence of that destruction remained, it also cleared out the underbrush, paving the way for new, vibrant growth.

   

Sometimes we have forest fires in our lives.  For many, 2020 has delivered both symbolic and literal fires, one after another.  In such times, it can be hard to imagine recovering, let alone producing flowers or fruit.  But God uses the forest fires of our lives to burn off the underbrush, refining us, so we can rise from the ashes and bloom, reflecting Him to a hurting world..

An anonymous hymn writer penned, 

“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,

My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply; 

The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design

Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, 

I will not, I will not desert to his foes.

That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, 

I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.”

Do you feel shaken?  A bit whiplashed by the events of the last several months?  Me too.  May you and I find encouragement and hope in the fact that God does not waste these trials, nor does he abandon us to them.  In Deuteronomy 31:6, God instructed Israel how to respond to their enemies.  His admonition also applies to our response to trials:  “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

 

Valley of Deep Darkness

I'm sitting at my laptop just now, scrolling through social media, catching up on emails while I wait for my lunch to heat.  New Zealand pops up on the feed, so I Google because I've been disconnected this morning and apparently missed something big.  And suddenly the sun dims a bit as images of confusion and grief and chaos come up on the screen, and I sit.  Just sit.  Motionless.  A billion thoughts and none at all run through my mind simultaneously.  I want to rewind time, please, although I'm not sure where I would stop.  How about this morning, as I sat in a circle with saints twice my age and sang "'tis so sweet to trust in Jesus ... how I've proved Him o'er and o'er."  Yes, I'll go back and linger there a while.  Appreciating the moments as I should have this morning.  And I will bask in the warmth of grandma hugs and time-tested hymns sung by those who have journeyed long enough to have proven the words.  Any thought beyond those walls will be of the daffodils peeking out of the soil and the scent of spring on the breeze.  Because gut honest, the world outside those walls disappoints me.  Scares me.  Horrifies me.  This is what I have to give my children?  This is what I am launching them into?  Let me gather my babies and run far away to a world where people are kind and loving and honest and humble. 

A quote by one of my heroes comes to mind.  Corrie ten Boom said, "When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't throw away your ticket and jump off.  You sit still and trust the engineer."

And then the irony hits me ... that this very morning in that circle of saints, we looked at the faith of Moses, how he persevered because "he saw Him who is invisible."  And we studied the Valley of Deep Darkness (Ps 23:4) and David's reminder that our Shepherd doesn't abandon us in the valley.  Instead, He leads us through and is glorified by our trust in Him through the confusion, the grief, the chaos.

My phone buzzes and I glance down, notice the verse of the day:  "When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul."  (Ps 94:19)  And I smile at God's timing as the microwave announces lunch is ready. 

Perspective

"I want a window with a view," I whined to my husband as I stared at a windowless wall of my house.  On the other side of that wall, I knew was a glorious sunrise.  It wasn't my finest moment.  I could have moved my lazy self to a different room to watch the day awake.  But my chair was cozy and it was easier to wish for what wasn't.  Later (and after I had come to my senses!), I gazed out the window at the lightening sky and was reminded how foundational perspective is.  See, from that window, I could either focus on the houses and traffic outside, or I could look beyond to the majestic fir trees on the backdrop of a warm morning sky with its gradient of soft yellows and blues.  What would I choose?

The other day I pulled into the parking lot of a nature park.  I had packed my breakfast and was going spend my few spare minutes allowing my soul to refill before the day crowded in, even if it meant doing so from the front seat of my minivan.  My gaze took in the towering trees, the falling leaves indicating winter was on its way, the flitting birds, the outhouse.  Yes, outhouse.  And the matter of perspective came crashing in once again.  There, with a bowl of oatmeal on my lap, I realized that I had a choice.  I could set my vision in one direction and see beauty and glory and God's handiwork.  Or I could turn the other direction and see the toilet.  My circumstances didn't change.  Either way, I was seated in the same position, same minivan, same oatmeal, same to-do list.  The only thing that changed my view was my direction of focus.

What will you focus on today?  I recommend the trees, not the toilet!

Corrie

I was named after Corrie ten Boom.  (Chloe Ferguson being a pen name I assumed to maintain some anonymity, mainly for my kids' sake.)  With age has come increasing awareness of the honor of such a namesake.  How I would love to approach life with Corrie's faith, submission, and strength.  Yet how I shy away from anything closely resembling discomfort, let alone the type of horror that I think ultimately shaped Corrie into who she was.

We've been having repeated conversations around here about the sort of wrapping paper God uses on His gifts.  Both the kids and I need a reminder that regularly, God wraps His packages in all sorts of ugly.  And like walking past a diamond because it's caked in muck and mud, we miss out on incredible blessings if we refuse to press through the messy, sometimes painful wrapping, and look for the gift buried inside.

See, God uses the yuck in our lives to make us into who He needs us to be.  Alan Redpath says, "When God wants to do an impossible task, he takes an impossible person and crushes him."

Corrie would simply be a watchmaker's daughter without her stand of faith that landed her in Ravensbruck ... a horror that opened the door for her to inspire thousands and glorify God's name.

And Joseph would merely be a pesky little brother with a colorful coat, and Esther would be Hadassah the Jewish refugee, and David would be a lowly shepherd, and Moses would be an adopted Egyptian royal and the list goes on.  But because of the trials and tragedies and even horrors that God allowed in each of these Biblical greats' lives, they became infamous men and women, inspiring fellow believers down through the centuries to press on toward the prize.

So where does that leave me?  I still am pain-averse, longing to find the magic ticket that delivers spiritual maturity wrapped in a pretty little comfortable box.  Unfortunately, I see no Biblical promise suggesting such a thing exists.   And so, I too press on, discovering that praise is only a sacrifice when said through tears at the end of oneself, trusting that God will do a magnificent work through the impossible situations in my life.

A lyric from a song on the radio today lingers long after the notes fade.   "The more broke you are, the more the light gets through."    I think Corrie would agree.

When Christmas Seems Cruel

Several times since Thanksgiving I have turned on the Christmas music only to immediately punch it off again, opting for silence over seemingly superficial merriment. Usually, Bing, Nat, and Dean are chums I welcome each December.  This year, however, their cheery voices have at times felt more intrusive and mocking than merry. Because the mess of life doesn't vacation at Christmas.  People still senselessly kill other people, disease tears apart families, and the world aches with longing for a Saviour.

I've seen and spent more tears the last month than seems fair for this time of year ... A friend chokes out a dire prognosis, family quakes with incomprehensible tragedy, elderly eyes puddle as a woman explains she's outlived her loved ones, the news announces another shooting rampage.  And Longfellow's words penned in the thick of loss 150 years ago flit through my mind, and I sigh, identifying.

And in despair I bowed my head.  

"There is no peace on earth," I said.  

"For hate is strong and mocks the song 

of peace on earth, goodwill to men."  

I start to explain to the kids why I don't feel much like decorating, why I'd prefer to pull my blankie over my head, stick my fingers in my ears, and sing "la la la la la".  But even as the words are on my lips I realize that's not fair to them.  They need a reason to celebrate.  We all do.

A. W. Tozer said, "It is doubtful God can use anyone greatly until He has hurt him deeply."  I partly recoil, partly rejoice hearing that.  Afterall, who asks to be crushed, wounded, broken?  But in the truth of Tozer's statement, lies hope.  Hope that at least this pain has a purpose.  That it's not wasted. That beyond my limited understanding and vision, there is a sovereign and loving God who still has all this turmoil under control .... and even more has a great and glorious plan in it all.  The end-story has been written.  And it ends well.

Like a whisper across snow, it occurs to me.  I have more reason to celebrate this year than perhaps any other.  Because 2000 years ago, a wee babe was born in a dank, dark stable descending into our dank, dark, sinful world to shine a light of hope.  And that Light is still shining into our dankest darkest situations, delivering purpose, light ... hope to the pain.  Celebrating Christmas this year may look and feel different.  It may be done with a bittersweet ache, a true sacrifice of praise.  But because of the Christ of Christmas there is reason to celebrate!

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,

God is not dead, nor does He sleep

The wrong shall fail

 The right prevail 

With peace on earth, good-will to men!

Celebrating the Moment

A friend commented today that I hadn't written in a while.  I hadn't realized that it has been nearly a year since my last post.  Gadzukes!  I used to hear my grandparents comment that the older they got, the faster time passed.  I thought it was a quirky quip of my elders.  Now, I'm discovering they were right.

While I have had many periods over the last year of feeling like I had nothing to say, more so, I have realized that I am most inspired in the crisis moments.  God has a tendency to show up greater when I'm floundering and at my whit's end (or more accurately, coming to the end of myself, I can see Him).  I stopped writing in those moments because I didn't want people to think that my life was just one crises after another, that I was some sort of drama queen craving attention.  But perhaps that was wrong.  Perhaps I was silencing my original intention with this blog ... that God would be glorified through the messes in my life.  Maybe I lost sight of that.

This year has been one of learning to be thankful for and in the moment.  Of looking for the gift even in the yuck.  Of floating my way through life like a balloon, unburdened by worries or cares because I have cast them on Him.  I would love to announce that I have learned the lesson, can check that one off my list and move on to the next.  Not so.  Every day presents a battle, some bigger than others, and God seems to offer frequent opportunities to practice the lesson He wants me to learn.

Today, thankfully, I am at peace.  Because I know so well the restlessness of fear and anxiety, peace's presence is so, well, peaceful!  Circumstances may be anything but peaceful with outstanding medical tests, unrest in the east, tragedy in Paris, etc yet I serve a God who offers a peace and rest that we, in our finite minds, cannot comprehend.  How grateful I am for that gift.

So this evening, I will rejoice in the little things ... the gift of song, croakily crooned by a sick boy cuddled on the couch playing Lego Star Wars; rich comforting soup on the stove; a reprieve from the gray drippy skies; coffee with a good friend; the dog at my feet ... and I will give thanks for the rich, abundant life that is mine, only by His grace.

...her floors are sticky and she laughs a lot

It's Friday night, the fireplace is ablaze, and I'm curled on the couch, legs and feet tangled in a blanket with those of a lanky seven year old.  I think a stuffed snowman is cuddled in here somewhere too.  Empty pizza boxes litter the counters, paper plates scatter the floor.  Jammies replaced jeans much before bedtime and the kids and I are settled in to enjoy our end of the week movie night.

It has been a long week of sick kids and late nights, unfinished to-do lists and traitorous hormones.  I have spoken out of turn, given stress the upper hand, forgotten 2 Peter 1:3.  I need this cozy down time as much as the kids.  And so, I have given myself (and thus the rest of the family) a (guilt-free) gift this evening:  the luxury of paper plates, take-out, and each other.  The list of chores can wait until tomorrow (or Monday!).  I am relishing the peace of the undone.

This summer when we were traveling, I ran across a mug with this quip:

"apparently she gave up on being perfect because her floors are sticky and she laughs a lot."  

While witty and cute, it resonated.  How many memories have I soured or missed because I was focused on messes or chores, needing to finish one more task, wanting everything "just so"?

So potential visitors beware ... I am learning the art of dancing on sticky floors.  If you come to my house, you may find dishes in the sink, dog hair on the carpet, and clothes in the laundry baskets ... and laughter in the halls.