... and I run down the aisle.

Once again (I might as well get used to this!) I was so broken by the words of Max Lucado. This is from his book, In the Eye of the Storm. I'm adding it to my list, for sure:

The Choice--

He placed one scoop of clay upon another until a form lay lifeless on the ground. All of the Garden's inhabitants paused to witness the event. Hawks hovered. Giraffes stretched. Trees bowed. Butterflies paused on petals and watched. "You will love Me, nature," God said. "I made you that way. You will obey Me, universe. For you were designed to do so. You will reflect My glory, skies. For that is how you were created. But this one will be like Me. This one will be able to choose."

All were silent as the Creator reached into Himself and removed something yet unseen. A seed. "It's called choice. The seed of choice." Creation stood in silence and gazed upon the lifeless form. An angel spoke, "But what if he..."

"What if he chooses not to love?" The Creator finished. "Come, I will show you." Unbound by today, God and the angel walked into the realm of tomorrow. "There, see the fruit of the seed of choice, both the sweet and the bitter." The angel gasped at what he saw. Spontaneous love. Voluntary devotion. Chosen tenderness. Never had he seen anything like these! He felt the love of the Adams. He heard the joy of Eve and her daughters. He saw the food and the burdens shared. He absorbed the kindness and marveled at the warmth.

"Heaven has never seen such beauty, my Lord. Truly, this is Your greatest creation."

"Ah, but you've only seen the sweet. Now witness the bitter." A stench enveloped the pair. The angel turned in horror and proclaimed, "What is it?!"

The Creator only spoke one word: "Selfishness." The angel stood speechless as they passed through centuries of repugnance. Never had he seen such filth. Rotten hearts. Ruptured promises. Forgotten loyalties. Children of the creation wandering blindly in lonely labyrinths.

"This is the result of choice?" the angel asked.

"Yes."

"They will forget You?"

"Yes."

"They will reject You?"

"Yes."

"They will never come back?"

"Some will. Most won't."

"What will it take to make them listen?"

The Creator walked on in time, further and further into the future until He stood by a tree. A tree that would be fashioned into a cradle. Even then He could smell the hay that would surround Him. With another step into the future, He paused before another tree. It stood alone, a stubborn ruler of a bald hill. The trunk was thick, and the wood was strong. Soon it would be cut. Soon it would be trimmed. Soon it would be mounted on the stony brow of another hill. And soon He would be hung on it. He felt the wood rub against a back He did not yet wear.

"Will you go down there?" the angel asked.

"I will."

"Is there no other way?"

"There is not."

"Wouldn't it be easier to not plant the seed? Wouldn't it be easier to not give the choice?"

"It would," the Creator spoke slowly. "But to remove the choice is to remove the love."

He looked around the hill and foresaw a scene. Three figures hung on three crosses. Arms spread. Heads fallen forward. They moaned with the wind. Men clad in soldier's garb sat on the ground near the trio. They played games in the dirt and laughed. Men clad in religion stood off to one side. They smiled. Arrogant, cocky. They had protected God, they thought, by killing this false One. Women clad in sorrow huddles at the foot of the hill. Speechless. Faces tear streaked. Eyes downward. One put her arm around another and tried to lead her away. She wouldn't leave. "I will stay," she said. "I will stay."

All heaven stood to fight. All nature rose to rescue. All eternity poised to protect. But the Creator gave no command. "It must be done..." He said, and withdrew. But as He stepped back in time, He heard the cry that He would someday scream: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" He wrenched at tomorrow's agony.

The angel spoke again, "It would be less painful..."

The Creator interrupted softly, "But it would not be love."

They stepped back into eternity again. The Maker looked earnestly at the clay creation. A monsoon of love swelled up within Him. He had died for the creation before He had made him. God's form bend over the sculptured face and breathed. Dust stirred on the lips of the new one. The chest rose, cracking the red mud. The cheeks freshened. A finger moved. An eye opened. But more incredible than the moving of the flesh was the stirring of the spirit. Those who could see the unseen gasped! Perhaps it was the wind who said it first. Perhaps what the star saw at that moment was what has made it blink ever since. Maybe it was left to an angel to whisper:

"It looks like... it appears so much like... it is HIM!"

The angel wasn't speaking of the face, the features, or the body. He was looking inside, at the soul. "It's eternal!" gasped another. Within the man, God had planted a divine seed. A seed of His self. The God of might had created earth's mightiest. The Creator had created, not a creature, but another creator. And the One who had chosen to love had created the one who could love in return.

Now it's our choice.

Beautiful, isn't it? The heart of our Maker. I grieve at the loss of perfection in this world. To read a depiction like that, and then step outside into life, is a stark contrast. And it hurts. And He hurts. Something deep within my heart cries out for a solution. Make it better, Lord. Take it away, God. Heal them, Jesus. Speak to them Holy Spirit. And I forget that most of what I'm praying for is exactly what He has made me to do. I am to be His hands, His eyes, His voice. I should stop mid-prayer and go find someone to love! What are we thinking?! Sometimes I wish I wasn't given that choice, because then it would be my nature to be like God. But then there wouldn't be a need for love in this world. Though trials and tribulations bring pain, they also bring great opportunity. I want to jump at any chance to tell someone what He has done for me. At the same time, I find so much doubt inside myself. What will they say? What will I say? How will they respond? Will my forwardness and boldness just increase their so-called hate for Him? Will I be an incorrect example of my Jesus? ... I really don't like those thoughts. Paul is so right when he says there is always a battle waging war inside of us: our flesh against our Spirit. I want to turn that around to my Spirit, or His Spirit within me, waging against my flesh. For we walk by faith and not by sight. I keep seeing this quote on a friend's facebook page, "Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."

I so desire to look past my own insecurities and selfishness and step into a full life of love and servanthood, but actually walking that out day to day seems so mundane and fruitless. A part of me knows it isn't. A part of me knows that a simple thank you, or smile, or hug, or word of encouragement can truly mean volumes to someone. It's kind of aggravating that I can't see that impact, but I know I'm not supposed to. Then I would have wrong motives. Then I would get prideful.

I am rambling, aren't I? I've just been so sensitive to Him lately. Like everything makes me start crying. Reading about Mother Teresa and learning about all these injustices and how screwed up the world is and we are... it's exhausting. A song comes to mind about how desperate we are, or should be, for Him. It's called Wedding Dress by Derek Webb. He says, "I am a whore, I do confess, I put You on just like a wedding dress and I run down the aisle. I'm a prodigal with no way home, I put You on just like a ring of gold and I run down the aisle, to You." It's brutally honest. I started another book today called Starving Jesus. The first few pages are just that-- brutally honest. And they make the point that honesty is so lacking in us, the Church. It's not one I will necessarily "enjoy" reading, but it'll be good.

I must continually remind myself of this truth: He is the Potter, continually shaping me into who I'm supposed to be, when I let Him. When I was little, I'd always want my mom to braid my hair. I had this image in my mind of what I wanted it to look like, because it looked so cute on other girls. I would sit there, still, for the painstakingly 10 minutes until it took her to finish. And then you know what I would do? Take it down. I didn't like the way it looked. It was too poofy here, and too tight there. I was so dissatisfied with what my mother had lovingly taken the time to make me into. But I didn't like it. I wanted it to look like so-and-sos hair.

I don't want to be that way with my Father. Maybe that's why He sometimes doesn't let me look in the mirror, not yet, because if I could fully see what He was doing in me, I would freak out & want Him to stop working because it's nothing I've ever seen before. It doesn't match in comparison to other Christians.

It takes a lot to make us like Jesus. And the neat (and scary) thing about it is that it's completely personal. He is completely personal. And He has plans for us beyond our wildest imaginations. If I trust that He loves me, if I can trust in my salvation, then I can trust that His will is the absolute best for my life. And from my love for Him that is birthed out of His love for me, I will choose to follow close behind Him all the days of my life. Forsaking all others, forsaking all things, I'll run to Him and into His dreams for me. I was made to adore Him, and so were you. For before the world began, He knew us. He loved us. And He became flesh of our flesh to see His promises fulfilled: that all people would see Him & enjoy His love for them.

Open our eyes to see the things that make Your heart cry.

To be the Church that You would desire,

a Light to be seen.

Break down our pride and all the walls we've built up inside.

Our earthly crowns & all our desires,

we leave at Your feet.

For You our King, with everything, we will shout forth Your praise.

With everything... with everything...