I like to think of myself as a planner, and most days I feel meticulous and organized.
Monday, was not one of those days.
Monday was a blonde moment day.
And not a blonde moment like sniffing a scratch and sniff sticker at the
bottom of a pool, a literal blonde moment.
These last few days I have been a tiny, little bit antsy.
I feel like so much in life right now is on the verge of changing, but
nothing has changed just yet.
This is what inspired my blonde moment.... I hope.
And don't pretend like you can't identify.
On a whim I decided I wanted... no needed to be blonde.
You know that need you get, when you are watching food network and all of a
sudden you need homemade lava chocolate cake with dark chocolate, warm
fudge filling?
This was a moment just like that.
There was no way Becca could fit me in for a color that afternoon so I
decided to take matters into my own hands.
I jumped in my car and landed at the nearest Target.
I browsed the magazines until I saw the perfect blonde shade for
me.
I took the magazine to the hair color aisle, downloaded "ModiFace: hair
makeover" from the app store.
I then compared the blonde on the model and the blonde in the bottle.
I compared the blondes on the app to what would look good with my skin.
The final step before taking the plunge into blonde bliss, I text my level headed,direct, sweet friend.
"Blonde?"
Her reply-
"Please don't"
I calmly walked back to my car, like I hadn't momentarily slipped into
impulsive insanity.
Night Alter
Over the past few months my mind and body have begun to play a sort of tug of war.
At night when everyone else is asleep, something inside of my mind kicks into full gear and prompts my body awake.
Thus begins the tug of war.
My mind wants to be up and productive; my body wants to be tightly tucked away and unconscious to the world for at least another 5 hours.
Something about the night fuels team mind and pulls me towards thoughtfulness.
Many nights I wake up with thoughts already in my head, spilling into my consciousness.
Last night I woke up to the thought “I have another question for you.”
The questions are the worst.
These questions of the night are like a begging child, they can’t be ignored, and are too smart to let you just play dead.
They nag and pull until you face them and the answers they demand.
“The God of the whole earth saved you?”
“Yes”
I replied and quickly turned over to play dead.
“The God of the whole universe stepped in and saved YOU? He commands lighting, oceans obey his voice and angels tremble at his name, and he sent his powerful, precious son to save small, pathetic, inadequate you?This is the kind of pathetic religion Roman history is made up of.”
I tossed and I turned trying to answer the question, thinking through the question, evaluating the question.
“Is it even plausible that my maker would allow his own blood to be spilled onto his creation for his creation to cover the destructive violations we infringed against his very person, against his perfect, good nature?
I willingly, joyfully embraced my sin.
I invested in fear.
I submitted to anger.
I spoon fed pride.
I did not allow false saviors, I built them with my own hands.
I built myself into a false savior and presented myself to others leading to more destruction! “
His death made no sense to me.
His death standing alone makes no sense.
But then sweet truth started pouring into my mind.
If I look at his death standing alone, apart from his character, apart from what his perfect life
accomplished, apart from my present position, and my future hope it is an incomplete truth.
It is like looking at a puzzle in pieces and calling it ugly because you haven’t seen the picture when completed it shows.
So I know this question, this doubt, this attack from the father of lies will come again.
I have started rehearsing the truth, remembering the truth.
He is the LORD and beside him there is no savior.
He pursued my prostituting soul.
He came and lived completely right-righteous- because of that right living I now have a legal
standing of righteous.
Because of this legal standing I now can approach the throne of grace with confidence.
And I’m not just approaching the throne as any old person I am confidently approaching as an adopted first-born son.
My big brother Jesus is standing at the throne with me.
He is my advocate.
Not an advocate who begs for my forgiveness but who presents my case as one perfectly righteous.
He calls me beloved of God.
He called me by name.
My maker has made himself my husband, the Lord of the whole earth.
The Lamb who is in the midst of the throne will be my shepherd.
As my shepherd he will make sure the only things that trail behind me are goodness and mercy.
He will wake me up with mercy.
My mighty warrior King will sing over me while I sleep.
He puts weapons into my hand that have divine power to destroy strongholds.
He throws down the great dragon.
He has made a way to call me honored, and loved. He says I am precious in his sight.
One day this perfect Kippur lamb, this might warrior king, my daddy will come back and reign forever.
His glory and the enjoyment of it will be the drive of our souls.
His perfect plan initiated and committed my soul to him.
His perfect life is now accredited to me.
His death and resurrection now causes all kinds of life to spring up in me.
His presence causes my present position to be filled with confident hope of victory.
His future return fuels glory in my soul.
Does any of this make sense? I find no logic in it.
And it gives me chill bumps to recognize he has not only caused my depravity and His divinity to collide.
He has paid for the exchange with His own blood.
Writting Memorials
 |
| Atoned for and Adopted |
But God's firm foundation stands, bearing this seal: “The Lord knows those who are his,” and, “Let everyone who names the name of the Lord depart from iniquity.”2 Tim. 2:19,
suffering qualitatively changes. Pain, loss, and weakness are no longer the end of the world and the death of your hopes.
If you are not a Christ follower, then sufferings are omens of the end of your world.
All that you live for will die when you die
The hope of the righteous brings joy, but the expectation of the wicked will perish. Prov. 10: 28.
But when you are in Christ, sufferings become the context to awaken your truest hopes and bring them to fulfillment." -David Powlison
Carboard Testimonies
We've all been there, that awkward moment, you make the split second decision
to cross the street before passing the now visible beggar.
Sometimes I stay on the same side of the sidewalk but pass by like I've just developed advanced stages of cataracts and can't see the end of my own nose, much less the impecunious man sitting a whole entire 2 feet to my left.
There are times I drop a dollar in the outstretched cup, careful to divert my eyes to the now fascinating crack between my shoes. As if poverty is a condition to be caught through eye contact.
Sitting folding clothes, I pulled up Youtube and clicked on the first card board song I found.
I know, I know it's odd, but it's what I do.
I clicked on this video.
Our sweet little testimonies aren't so nice and tidy.
Those cardboard testimonies are attractive, clean, inviting, some very powerful.
I am a huge picture person.
I kind of envisioned salvation like me standing in my 1950's attire, knocking at the honorable Jesus door, presenting him with my perfect apple pie to complement the feast he's prepared.
Every guest is dressed in their best, on their best behavior.
The picture he is beginning to paint isn't so inviting.
It's messy and there's no clean piece of cardboard to carefully, meticulously write on.
Thankfully, He doesn't avoid poverty like I do.
He doesn't cross the street to avoid me.
He joyfully endured the cross to affectionately embrace me.
He doesn't avoid my gaze, and find other things fascinating.
I'm mean he created arch angles and has elders, and animals, and saints crying "Holy, holy, holy" day and night. He wouldn't be making up an interest, that's captivating.
But my King is enthralled with me; not because of a beauty I’ve worked up on my own.
Oh no, no, no.
At the foot of the cross he has dressed me in his own purity, his own righteousness, his own status.
He doesn't drop a pity dollar in my cup, but prepares a feast of well aged wine, well refined.
Nothing cheap for his beloved.
And at that feast when my cup is so full that thick grace liquid is spilling over the edge washing my hands with it's crimson shade, Jesus will be swallowing up death that demanded a debt I could not pay.
I, we were just like the inspiration for cardboard testimonies.
We were the beggar sitting in the shadow dirty, no revolting, invisible, broken, wrecked.
“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, which though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.
These are their stones of rememberence
Sometimes I stay on the same side of the sidewalk but pass by like I've just developed advanced stages of cataracts and can't see the end of my own nose, much less the impecunious man sitting a whole entire 2 feet to my left.
There are times I drop a dollar in the outstretched cup, careful to divert my eyes to the now fascinating crack between my shoes. As if poverty is a condition to be caught through eye contact.
Sitting folding clothes, I pulled up Youtube and clicked on the first card board song I found.
I know, I know it's odd, but it's what I do.
I clicked on this video.
Our sweet little testimonies aren't so nice and tidy.
Those cardboard testimonies are attractive, clean, inviting, some very powerful.
I am a huge picture person.
I kind of envisioned salvation like me standing in my 1950's attire, knocking at the honorable Jesus door, presenting him with my perfect apple pie to complement the feast he's prepared.
Every guest is dressed in their best, on their best behavior.
The picture he is beginning to paint isn't so inviting.
It's messy and there's no clean piece of cardboard to carefully, meticulously write on.
Thankfully, He doesn't avoid poverty like I do.
He doesn't cross the street to avoid me.
He joyfully endured the cross to affectionately embrace me.
He doesn't avoid my gaze, and find other things fascinating.
I'm mean he created arch angles and has elders, and animals, and saints crying "Holy, holy, holy" day and night. He wouldn't be making up an interest, that's captivating.
But my King is enthralled with me; not because of a beauty I’ve worked up on my own.
Oh no, no, no.
At the foot of the cross he has dressed me in his own purity, his own righteousness, his own status.
He doesn't drop a pity dollar in my cup, but prepares a feast of well aged wine, well refined.
Nothing cheap for his beloved.
And at that feast when my cup is so full that thick grace liquid is spilling over the edge washing my hands with it's crimson shade, Jesus will be swallowing up death that demanded a debt I could not pay.
I, we were just like the inspiration for cardboard testimonies.
We were the beggar sitting in the shadow dirty, no revolting, invisible, broken, wrecked.
“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, which though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.
2 Corinthians 8:9"
These are their stones of rememberence
Sparrows as Stones
 |
| "Sparrow" by Poppy |
"Why should I feel discouraged,
why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely,
Why should my heart be lonely,
and long for heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion?
When Jesus is my portion?
My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow,
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
His eye is on the sparrow,
 |
| Poppy |
Whenever I am tempted,
whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing,
When songs give place to sighing,
when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him,
I draw the closer to Him,
from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow,
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me"
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)