The score board reads 4-3. Two outs. Bottom of the 9th. Bases are loaded.

Everyone knows pitchers can’t hit.

In spite of groans and whispers from the bleachers, the pitcher-turned-slugger steps up to the plate, glances at Dad for a little encouragement. He slides the tip of his bat across home, digs his cleats into the dirt. The sun glares too bright, pierces pupils. But he spots the laces – watches them all the way in – swings straight …

steady …

strong …

Crack!

Laces spin, arch past pitcher, soar the clear blue past short stop, past center fielder … past 320 foot fence …

Graaand Slaaaaam!!

Pitcher-Slugger tosses bat like he knew it all along, takes glory run while Dad stands fist pumping, unashamedly shouting his approval … his pride … his joy.

Is God good in this moment?

The tire’s flat … again. Three small, budding noses gush the grody, seven bills seven days past due lie sprawled on counter and the checkbook’s empty and so is the fridge.

Is God good in this moment?

We watch it on the TV … Old Glory methodically folds beneath staunch military hands, gloved in starchy white. Taps blare, guns crack, casket lowers.

Is God good in this moment?

The sun beats brutal heat and the corner fan spins, spins, spins. Just outside, green leafy branches flutter in soft wind. Blades of grass, too. The song of life rustles in and around everything … save for the body of beloved mother. Like leprosy, the cancer ate away – feasted – and the hands that once held and nursed and encouraged and prayed lie lifeless in weeping daughter’s hand.  And her other children and grandchildren and husband check their own pulses, because maybe they are too …

lifeless …

Is. God. Good … in this moment?

In our pain and bewilderment, fellow believers remind us that God is good all the time, and the Christian-ese gets about as old as the Footprints In the Sand poem that’s been plastered in every church, every Bible bookmark, every greeting card for the last twenty five years. And the dirt clods hitting the casket echo louder than empty exhortations and the bare shelves burn soul craters and we remain skeptic.

What to do, what to believe when life is bright, life is dim, life is dark?

The Fall of Adam rests on me and you. And in our Fall, we find the why of all the heartache – because a world full of sin is a world full of suffering. And if the records are right (since the records are right) there’s only One who was and is perfectly sinless.

Still … we feel entitled. We want Perfect One to unravel the tangled web woven by our very own hands. By the hands of others. And when life remains one big knotted heap, we raise shaking fist toward Heaven and demand answers. Answers to how He has the audacity to call Himself good when we’re stuck down here, writhing in pain … in our eyes, forgotten and forsaken.

We don’t voice it, but we live as if His goodness equals good circumstances.

It doesn’t and hasn’t since the Fall and it won’t until He calls us home.

So how do we know His goodness, if not by the life of ease, life of roses?

The Psalmist says taste and see that the Lord is good. Open mouth ~ taste. Open eyes ~ see.  Feast on His Word, align the thoughts with His, see as He sees, do as He did, serve as He served …

suffer as He suffered.

There’s no better way ~ not truly ~ to know the depth of His goodness than to share in His sufferings. And if we could get it through the mile thick cranium that it’s not about living free of crosses - that it’s about trusting Him to use the crosses etched with our name for our good and His glory – we would count our various trials, all of them, joy.

Our suffering is light. Momentary. Not even worthy to be compared to the glory that will one day be revealed in us.

Not. Even. Worthy.

When we touch Mom’s hand for the last time, “not even worthy” and “glory revealed in us” seem like empty exhortations, too. Our wound is too deep to even care about what happens on the other side.

But we are believers.

And believers … believe … right?

And this “not even worthy” and “glory revealed” is not my word. It’s God’s. His promise to me and to you. And the last time I checked, His promise-keeping record was spotless.

So go. Carry your cross. The one with your handle carved in the side. And when we see each other in Glory, you will wink at me and I will smile at you – and for endless years, we’ll walk side by side with perfect vision, singing …

God is so good.

Lord, strengthen our faith. Help us to trust You when baseballs soar and tires tear and caskets close. Because we know that when we trust You with all our heart, You show us Your goodness and reveal Yourself in ways we never knew possible. Help us to glance at our circumstances and fix our gaze on You, right up until clouds roll back as a scroll and faith becomes site.

~Amen

The Preacher stands behind the table of remembrance, ready to chat one-sided about the broken body, broken bread. About the blood shed for me and for us.  He’s hardly spoken of anything, and already I’m swatting away tears. I take a deep breath to gather wits and …. I don’t know … maybe I should take on outta here.

Flee. 

I’m sitting too close, staring at my own reflection in the communion tray.

And I don’t like what I see …

child of God, bogged down in rut.

Child of God who, for one long week, attended Enemy’s voice, joined in the remembrance of previous offenses, willingly posed as a target for darts of accusation and allowed peace snatching; joy stealing.

I picture Him ~the King~ sitting there, behind His table asking why He died if I was going to allow such thievery. 

But I don’t have an answer.

At least not a good one. Because I don’t know why. I don’t know why I tolerate Enemy’s sabotage while Shield and Sword sit idle on corner desk, ready and willing to assist in the battle - untouched.

The darts … they pierce and burn and wound and weaken for his next dart and this game the Enemy plays – it always blurs sacred pages, tempts me to despair, tells me of the guilt within. Why do I not look upward … see Him there … see the end to all my sin?

The song we sang in the morning – didn’t it say something about the breaking of the bread, too? Beside the sea? Something about bondage ceasing, fetters falling, finding peace …

As Thou didst break the loaves
Beside the sea;
Beyond the sacred page
I seek Thee, Lord;
My spirit pants for Thee,
O living Word.

I seek Thee, Lord …

Seek Thee. Pant for Thee …

Do I really?

Bless Thou the truth, dear Lord,
To me, to me,
Then shall all bondage cease,
All fetters fall;
And I shall find my peace,
My all in all.

The truth …

know it, and you’ll be free.

We pass broken bread, and I ask Him to bless the truth. Bless it to me, Lord. Bless the truth of no condemnation to those who place trust in You.

Thou art the bread of life,
O, Lord, to me,
Thy holy Word the truth
That saveth me;
Give me to eat and live
With Thee above;
Teach me to love Thy truth, For Thou art love.

Holy Word is truth and truth is Holy Word and why haven’t I sought it like life depended on it?

Because doesn’t it? Depend on it?

I coddle the cup, remember blood spilt, confess willingness to be robbed, for not engaging in battle fully geared. And He reveals the secret. The why. How Enemy’s darts poison the bloodstream ….

spirit does not love enough …

does not pant enough …

not for Him, not for His Word … not enough.

I contemplate passing the cups to my neighbor. Is my heart clean enough to remember? I feel unworthy ~  am unworthy. But isn’t this who bread and cup is for? Sinners unworthy … cleansed and forgiven?

I picture Him again, behind the table. He sees me as I am, and still ~ He invites ~ raises cup. And we drink together, in remembrance of truth and forgiveness. Of Him and only Him.

And in the remembrance …

Enemy flees, fetters cave, bindings cease …

and I find my all in all.

The sun shines overhead as the wind blows eastward. In the library of the school-turned-church, a handful of God’s people bow in prayer minutes prior to the Sunday morning service.

Their hearts are deeply aware of His promise – His pledge that where two are three are gathered in His name, there He is in the midst.

But (is it just me?) … the people feel rushed. Easterly wind seemingly sweeps through prayer chamber, flinging thoughts into disheveled heaps of debris, and …

we feel frail …

in need of His strength and working this minute, this morning, this day and always … so we press on, blunder groanings as Holy Spirit delivers them to Heaven.

My neighbor to the left concludes her prayer, and we wait in anticipation for the next pray-er …

She pauses long …

And it’s not what we expect …

We hardly noticed her perched beside her Mama …

But with hands folded together …

Bible open before her …

She gathers courage and softly speaks  …

Our Father in heaven,
Hallowed be Your name.
Your kingdom come.
Your will be done
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts,
As we forgive our debtors.
And do not lead us into temptation,
But deliver us from the evil one.
For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. 

Amen.

Ancient Words long preserved pierce to the division of soul and spirit, and though I cannot speak for others, I am changed. I look to my neighbor ~is it changing her, too?~ and am convicted and thankful for little one who leads bigger ones, for Grace praying sola gratia, by grace alone, teaching her elders that waxing eloquent isn’t most needful, that power comes from above, not within, that it’s okay to not quite know what to say or how to say it … to back away from our own abilities and …

simply pray as He taught … 

because He knows …

before we ever ask Him …

the things we have need of.

I catch her eye, whisper my thanks. She smiles bashful, oblivious to her ministry of preaching in ways our hearts understood.

Her prayer – it heightens my awareness to the fact that we all preach.  We preach to our elders through prayer, to congregation through psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, to our readers through fingertips, to our neighbors and co-workers through our mouth and hands …

Everyone has an audience.

I know, I know. The weight of insignificance threatens to hush us. We doubt our preaching is even heard when our sole attendee is a babe of six months whose life mission is to drool and wake in midnight hour and teeth on everything (everything!) chubby knuckles can reach. Or we doubt because we spend hour after hour, day after day sitting in solitary cubby hole speaking to faceless voices. Or, or, or …

But I promise you ~ better yet, God promises you …

your preaching matters. 

So regardless of flock size or status, I pray you will be brazen. That you will courageously look your audience in the face today …

this week …

this month …

this year …

this lifetime …

and preach a Gospel too awesome to ignore.

Because if little Grace can do it … so can we.

Scenario 1:

6:00 A.M.

The alarm blares and I smack the snooze button. I flounder to get dressed … pull one leg on at a time, just like everyone else in the world. I stumble into Andrew’s room, pick up his deodorant, and throw it at him from the doorway. He prefers I wake him this way, and I’m okay with that. It’s most effective, and there’s no ugly tripping across last night’s dirty laundry.

I prepare breakfast and lunch  …

Slop, slop, slop … peanut butter on bagel. Actually – second bagel. First one stares at me with black eyes from the trash. Charred crispy.

Slop, slop, slop … mayo on sandwich.

Ham on bread. Cheese on ham. Spread just a tiny bit of mustard so boy doesn’t gag.

Ho. Hum.

Throw in a bag of chips, an orange, cookies, and a cheese stick. Mission accomplished.

I read Holy Word while Andrew readies for the day. Words wax stale, and I doubt about this day and His goodness, but … *check* … one less thing off the to-do list.

Andrew’s ready. I make my way to the car, void of hustle or bustle.

Scrape, scrape, scrape … ice off windshield.

On the road, Alistair Begg preaches. I tune him out, wrap myself in selfish thoughts.

Body is in Colorado state. Spirit is in Joyless state. I only see mundane … nothingness.

Scenario 2:

6:00 A.M.

My alarm sounds to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. The violins. The flutes. They fill my ear ~my very soul~ with cheer. Before I’m fully awake, I thank God for blissful melody, for restful sleep, for strong husband already on his way to work. I leap from my bed with anticipation for all God has in store.

The balls of my feet ache with arthritis, and I limp my way down the hall to wake Andrew. But when I remember I’ll do so by throwing deodorant at him – books, too, if he doesn’t wake up – I laugh.

In the kitchen, I pull out a bagel. Pop it in the toaster. Smooth peanut butter just the way the boy likes it. No messy drips. My heart bows in thankfulness for stocked pantry with cereal and flour and sugar and veggies and …… My heart is reminded of those less fortunate, and I pray. I pray for the poor, the needy, the starving.

I take bread. Lavishly spread scrumptious mayo – again, just the way Andrew likes. Squirt only a touch of mustard, knowing too much makes him pucker. I thank God for the bounty. Ask Him to bless it to the boy’s body. That he would know it’s packed with love. I encourage by throwing in a small piece of paper with a Scripture printed on it, and a short note to assure him he’s covered in prayer.

I read my Bible until the boy is ready. I drink in Psalm 119:165, and thank the Lord for the great peace that comes to those who love His law. That nothing causes them to stumble. I ask Him to help me love His law. To keep me from stumbling.

Outside, we inhale cold, crisp air. I lift scraper to cut through windshield ice, but the boy does the manly thing – takes it from my hands. I smile my thanks, hop in, start car and heater, tune radio to listen to my good friend, Alistair. I flip the windshield wipers, just to scare the boy and we laugh.

I drive, and as Alistair speaks, the majesty of His creation hovers in the heavens. And we voice awe and thankfulness at the sight of simultaneous western moon and eastern sunrise … and our hearts praise.

It’s now 7:00 A.M. I’ve prayed, thanked, laughed, read Holy Word, encouraged with written word, and praised the handiwork of a sleepless God who is faithfully keeping His promises to keep me from stumbling. And because of this, I am spurred on to more thankfulness.

See … it’s all about perspective and focus.

It’s about making the daily decision to see our problems or praise our God. To persevere or give in.

To sing of new mercies …

or spout unbelief.

And maybe we feel like an insincere Polyanna if we choose to behold majestic moon and stunning sun rather than the day-to-day, menial humdrum. But the choice remains. And the very health of our spiritual condition depends on which path we walk …

Truthfully, I don’t live in either scenario. I am neither Ghoulish Grinch, or Pleasant Polyanna. I seem to float somewhere in the middle … faltering here, tripping there, and most of all …

I’m just trying to take the next right step …

to praise even if I don’t feel like it …

and hoping you’ll join me.

Clip, clop, clip, clop. High heels on concrete. I hustle into church, because the wind beats wicked.

So does my heart.

Inside, we observe Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. The day centered around moms considering abortion, right? And me … I’m just a mom of three who has never had an abortion, and should probably help those poor, distraught souls who are (wittingly or unwittingly) considering killing their babies.

Right?

Wrong.

It’s Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. Not Sanctity of Unborn Babies Sunday.

The abortion holocaust in America is in the front of my mind as the service begins. But the sermon … it’s not merely about the vexed souls at Planned Parenthood. It’s about me. How I view life. The life of the unborn, yes. But also the life of my children and husband and friends and extended family. Every human being on the face of the earth that I have ever ~will ever~ come across.

My own life, too.

All human life is a reflection of sovereign God, our Creator.

Do I sense that? Believe that? Live that?

My heart constricts with conviction, because the respect-o-meter for my own feeble life runs low.

You want me to respect my life, Lord?

My life … with heart that failed me as a child, required the skill of a surgeon to go on pumping, and will always require the help of a pacemaker to keep steady, adequate rhythm? The one with insides too ill to eat properly? This malnourished, bone-brittle, arthritic life, dependent on the IV drip for nutrition and sustenance?

Yes, He whispers. That body. That life.

See … the change. It always starts here. With me. And if I do not view my life as sanctified … holy … sacred … how will I view other “broken” human beings as carefully sewn, hand crafted masterpieces who were fearfully and wonderfully made by the greatest Knitter and Potter of all time?

How easy it is to look on tangled threads and fractured ceramic pieces scattered about the very dust I was created from, and in my frustration, deem them as rubbish.

But God …

He looks on the thread mess and broken ceramic and sees a work that will one day be complete and perfect. Because my life ~all human life ~ is not just any work. It’s His handiwork … His reflection.

The service ends, and I beg Him to help me see my brokenness ~ the brokenness of others ~ through His eyes. For grace to live in this cracked pot that so often disquiets me.

In song, I ask Him to …

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Until my heart is pure,
Until my will is one with Thine,
To do and to endure.*

He answers, and my will – it begins to run parallel with His. Sight clears, and I behold a Creator who doesn’t make mistakes … or rubbish …

only beautiful reflections of Himself …

crafted by His own hand …

brought to life with His own breath.

*2nd stanza of Breathe on Me, Oh Breath of God, written by Edwin Hatch, 1878

You’re holding on too tightly …

The warning comes as I listen to a sermon. Oddly enough, the sermon doesn’t have anything to do with the earthly. But my ears perk. Not because I don’t believe what I am hearing, but because the warning – it’s so … spot on.

The preacher’s voice wafts into my subconscious while God and I converse …

I know, Lord. I shouldn’t love anything more than You.

And what would you do if I took it? He asks.

I don’t answer. I feel rigid and stiff -  impossible to bend. And I want to hide under my seat, because the awful truth is that if He takes it away, I’ll be an emotional train wreck.

Now I hear Corrie ten Boom: “Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open.”

Everything.

Every thing?

He does give us all things to richly enjoy, doesn’t He? Houses, spouses, children, automobiles, food, jobs, friendships, good health … all such grace. Common grace to those who do not know Him. But of course we know everything He has given on this earth will eventually be taken. We do know this … right? Either we will leave it (and them), or it (and they) will leave us. Our cars will die. Parents, too.  We have no guarantee our children will outlive us. And if we leave first, we take nothing.

Nothing.

Naked we came. 

Naked we will go.

Why all of this clinging, then? Adhering to the temporal. The earthly. Our knuckles are white with displaced hope. We trust in and for the wrong things.

So how do we loosen the grip? How do I loosen the grip?

How did Job? I mean, if anyone ever had stuff to clench, he’s the guy. If he lived today, he’d be on the same level as Bill Gates or Sam Walton, only with a lot more kids. But when Satan accused, and the prying began, Job’s knuckles were loose and ready to give back. Pink with blood flow. He didn’t turn and say, “Ouch! Lemme go!” He turned and said “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.”  The only action prior to Job’s hallowed utterance was the robe tearing, head shaving, ground kissing, and Lord worshiping. The worshiping of the Lord who just permitted Satan’s brutal snatching.

How very opposite of my reaction. I did not robe tear, ground kiss, or head shave (okay, that’s not so bad). But neither did I fall down in worship when He asked me what I’d do if – when – the prying began.

So how did he do it? How did Job, without any hesitation, say with open palm, Here, Lord. It’s Yours anyway?

Job 1:1 says Job feared God and shunned evil. And again in verse 8, the Lord defends him even to Satan, saying he was blameless and upright, one who fears God and shuns evil.

When did he become the blameless, upright, God fearing man?

Before the prying.

That’s the secret. We must  first become blameless, upright, God fearing, evil shunners (if I can invent a word). Then, and only then will knuckle tension ease.

What a high calling Job had. That we have. And this calling … again, it begs the question … how? How will we ever be Jobs? Doesn’t Job almost sound like Christ Himself? Free of blame. Upright. Shunning all evil.

Philippians 1, verse 6 …

being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.

Make no mistake. God has promised. He will complete the good work of making God fearing, evil shunners out of us. Our responsibility? To strive with Him. To love Him with all our soul, strength, and mind (Luke 10:47). To work with Him. Willingly, purposefully fixing our eyes on the unseen, rather than the seen (2 Cor. 4:18).

Because those things that we can see, hold, touch …. they wither like the grass. Fall away like the flower.

But what endures? The Word of the Lord.

Forever.

So go ahead and clench the fist. But clench the Never Ending. The Unseen and Unchanging. Let go of the temporal, and hold on to God’s promise- filled, Almighty hand.

Seemingly painful. Without a doubt, profitable.

In the end … less painful.