The Field

Yesterday’s yesterdays jumble and pile.


I wake,


and walk — 


again.

I shuffle with leaden legs in numbing rhythm, 


rousting a sacred cloud that accompanies


my tracing of Hope’s path.



Spent flora, trapped in brittle nests


offer silent tribute to


by-gone seasons of life.



With dulled eyes skimming 


the frustrated landscape,


I plant with wobbly resolve.

And wait.



I return


to this Field of Promise


a beggar — 


again.

Dank grayness surrounds me; 


I’m chilled —  


from the inside out.



Hushed tormenting sameness


tensions my faith


toward thinness.



A violent tumult of


what is, what isn’t, and what should be


usurps all cognition.

Dear God, Sower of this Field —

 
Wrestle life from


the starved soil


of this bewildered soul.

Rake, pull, tear, and burn


my prideful thatch.



Plow the deadness


into furrows of grace.



Water and Light, 


come nourish my anguish.



Release in me a joyful submission


and patience’s fruit.



Call forth a sprig of green.

For tomorrow I’ll wake, 


and walk to this Field again.

Sweet Mary

In the dark of my desk drawer is a birthday card.


On the cover, in black and white, is the photo of a crinkle-faced, toothless old man. 
Inside is this salutation: “You had better pray that you are as young as you feel and not as old as you look! – Love, Mary :) ”

Funny Mary.

Mary’s gone. 

At least from here. 

That void aches.

I think of her. And cry.

Separation hurts.

Death’s old cuts are bleeding fresh.



I’m pondering pain and justice.

Coaxing hope from the chaos of grief. 

Cultivating joy in the seedbed of faith.

Still, I long for more of that beautiful life. 

For more of Mary.

More of her laughter and jokes.

Her pranks and her pizza.

Her finely-feathered costume halo and mischievous smile.



I’ll miss her sipping coffee from a Victorian teacup.

Perching tiptoed on a step stool to fetch reams of paper.

Sprinting through the hall to answer a ringing phone.



Hard-working Mary.



I have books on my shelf. 

Books from Mary.
Old books. Wonderful books. 

Her husband’s books. 

Thumbing through their pages, I glean Mary’s love.

I am humbled. Honored. Unworthy. Grateful. 

Wonderful gifts.



Thank you, Mary.



Death is a robber. 

A felonious creep that steals our best treasures. 

He took our Mary – and not very nicely.

Jerk.

But Mary’s just fine.

Better than ever, really.

Rested. Satisfied. Complete.


Alive!  



Her earthly song reverberates.

It is lovely.

And we sing for her, as she renews her precious marital grip.

Basks in faith’s realization.

And meets the gaze of her greatest love.



Well done, Sweet Mary.





Mary’s life verse: “I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, attaining to the resurrection from the dead.” (Philippians 3:10–11, NIV)

Heaven Moves

Perfect love.

Pure community.

A vision for expression.

Empty. Dark. Barren. 

Generative speech.

Creativity tramples the void.



Water and warmth.

Light and life.

Plants and beasts.



Man. Then woman.

Perfect partners. 

Wonderful wholeness.



A question posed.



Word against word. 

Doubt and decision.

A fateful fulcrum.

Hiding. Shame. Sorrow.

Death is born. 

Pain rides death’s wake.



Yet, a promise.

Hope’s seed.

Divinely sealed.

But not now.



First a flood.

Then a tower.

And bondage.



Wild wandering. 

Conquest and settling.

Cycling generations. 



Judges. Kings.

Captivity. Release. 

Remnant. Rebuild.



Courageous voices stir atrophied hopes.

To remember.



Oh Lord, how long?

The silence is deafening.



In time…

Heaven moves.



Angelic pronouncements.

Startling words. Heavy words. 

Fantastic words. Terrible words.

Ancient, but fresh words.

Life-giving words.

About The Word.

To a priest. 

A girl. 

And a man.

Great expectation initiates unexpectedly. 

Perfectly timed.

Unassuming, yet shocking. 



Man. Woman. Spirit. 

A mystical incorporation.

Fragile, but unbreakable.

Their faith – steadfast.

Their contentment – inspiring.

Their obedience – courageous.
 


Hope’s seed.
Sprouted and growing.

Setting roots in a maligned cove of Palestine.

Human life.

Flesh and blood. 

Crying. Dirty. Bloody. Helpless.

Beautiful.

A birth for our re-birth. 

Our rescue.

Our redemption.



First a child. 

Then a man. 

Always God.

Jesus.

A promise fulfilled.

Hope made real.

A crush to the curse. 



He cried at birth.

He would cry in His death. 

Again dirty. Bloody. Helpless.

Alone.

His life for ours.

A fantastic swap.

We crowd His Cross to wash in grace.

Salvation, sprung from a manger.

Profoundly simple.

Mysteriously complex. 

Soulfully wonderful.

What selfless limiting. 

What sacrifice.

What love.

What joy!

His joy.

Our joy.

He is our ransom. 

He is our God.

Who is with us.

Emmanuel. 


Getting Schooled at VBS

I guess after three years you could call it tradition. My family is now in the routine of spending the last week of June serving at a Vacation Bible School. Just today we closed the books on a week packed with fun, sweat, wonder, singing, crafts and a multitude of juice boxes. Of course all those things played second fiddle to God’s Word. It was wonderfully exhausting!

My childhood VBS memories are quite sentimental. The unique sights, sounds and smells of small church culture. Singing to tape recorded sound tracks. Song words projected from smudged overhead slides. The spirited team competitions and Spirit-led calls to repentance. There was hot dry grass, red Kool-Aid, assorted homemade cookies and the wooden sanctuary that desperately needed to be air-conditioned. Cherished memories.

Now that I’m all grown-up, VBS has a different flavor. I still sneak an occasional cookie, but my childhood VBS delights have been exchanged for adulthood responsibilities. Responsibility for spills, scrapes, cleanup and discipline. The grown-up side of VBS is not as romantic as my youthful experience. Has the delight faded?

Not at all.

In many ways, my VBS love has deepened. My fond memories from decades ago are blending with recent joys of leadership. God is growing in me a new love for making Him famous. A fresh desire to work in the field of souls. But like most parts of my journey with Jesus, the path isn’t straight and flat.

If you ever need to be humbled, teach at a VBS. It’s a wonderful crucible all teachers should experience to hone their craft. This past week, in the midst of my unmet teaching desires, God was developing in me a new confidence. A fuller picture of faith. A fresh understanding that my efforts aren’t really mine. That I’m a piece of His teaching plan. That He’s got it covered – in spite of my “big idea” for the day.

Part of what stimulated my development was this quote from Puritan preacher Thomas Lye: “Patience is hope lengthened and confidence is faith strengthened.” I prefer instant. Quick. Timely. But when sowing gospel seed, a long patience is required. Patience covered with grace and prayer for continued watering followed by steady rest in the hope gained through the empty grave of Jesus Christ. Some fruit grows slowly. And growth isn’t a result of what I do. It comes from Someone else, and what He’s done. In that, I must be confident. Hopeful. Patient.

It was a wonderful week. Souls were rescued from the enemy. Now for some rest – but just for a bit. There’s much work to be done when it comes to sowing, reaping, discipling, and my own sanctification. I am grateful that God is continually at work, bringing to complete fullness what He has begun in me, and in all those who call Him Lord.