the man in the middle

"Please remember ...
there's a Creator standing the middle of your story. And he doesn't want you to die alone."
Louie Giglio



I spent yesterday evening pruning and digging through the garden boxes in my backyard. It seems that few other tasks help clear my mind, or focus my mind, like gardening. Particularly weeding.
The box above and to the right was especially thick. Thick with what? That is the question. Grasses, chives, other long plant-like species. One such species has nearly microscopic thorns ALL over it. I mean, covered. Even the leaves. I hadn't seen such a plant since my days in the Amazon. It was beastly. And I was determined to conquer it.

I can still feel the tingling in my fingers from the still present teeny thorns that have made their home in my hand. I couldn't help but think of this experience in a deep, metaphorical sense (as I usually think about simple things in life. God forbid anything to remain simple, practical, or without a gargantuan life lesson buried in it for me).

My brokenness runs deep, like the tough & lengthy roots of the thorny weeds in my garden. And unless you take care of the roots, the weeds will never fully disappear. And still, even after removing the roots, the dang weeds will most likely come back. Because what is a garden without constant maintenance? Where is the joy gained from beauty and growth without the pain of digging, pulling, cutting, and getting a few thorns in your hand?

I guarantee you when that box is filled with flowers or vegetables or whatever my little heart desires to grow in there, I will not focus on the memory of the thorns or the strange bite marks or the fear of re-discovering the enormous, brown spider that made its presence known to me. Nope, my thoughts in those days will be of accomplishment, of "it was worth it," and "what spider?" I will be so consumed with the greater purpose of having something come from that soil than of what hurt me while working through it.

Which brings me to tonight and my opening quote. There is a man in the middle. He stood in the center and made a world around him; made all things through his presence. He created from a pure heart. He worked in love. And He still works in love, for our benefit. He still creates, for our beauty. He toils alongside. He tarries until it is finished. He will be here forever.
Do not forgot, dear soul, that He is the most important. No other can stand in that center. No other can complete His work.
One day you will find someone who shares your heartbeat.
For now, commit yourself to Him who formed you in darkness, who made your being from the dust, who called you by name, who clothes you in his perfection, who extracts purpose from all of our broken hearts.


Maybe we all should garden more. :)




if you have endured great despair...
getting a transfusion from the fire
picking the scabs off your heart
then wringing it out like a sock...

You powdered your sorrow
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

-Anne Sexton-

story time, kids

Today:
"She knows that Jesus is comfortable with broken people who remember how to love."



an excerpt from Brennan Manning's Ruthless Trust:

A water-bearer in India had two large pots. Each hung on opposite ends of a pole that he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other was perfect.

The latter always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house. The cracked pot arrived only half-full. Every day for a full two years, the water-bearer delivered only one and a half pots of water.

The perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments because it fulfilled magnificently the purpose for which it had been made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfection, miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After the second year of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, the unhappy pot spoke to the water-bearer one day by the stream. 

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you," the pot said.

"Why?" asked the bearer. 

"What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work and you don't get full value from your efforts."

The water-bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed as they went up the hill, the cracked pot took notice of the beautiful wildflowers on the side of the path, bright in the sun's glow, and the sight cheered it up a bit.

But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad that it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, not on the other pot's side? That is because I have always known about your flaw, and I have taken advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path and every day, as we have walked back from the stream, you have watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. 

Without you being just the way you are, he would not have had this beauty to grace his house."

If you only look at us, you might as well miss the brightness.

We carry this precious message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives.

That's to prevent anyone from confusing God's incomparable power with us.

2Cor4:7

New favorite:

I found a treasure, friends.
Another beloved woman who writes, most descriptively, about her life. And I am so overwhelmed by the power and beauty of her words.

Maybe this is one of my shortcomings... I spend so much time drooling over other people's gifts that I rarely share my own. But I love sharing the treasures that I find on the world wide web, so this will always be a part of what I do here: copy and paste the beautiful stories that I so enjoy reading myself.

This is Erika.
She has lots of good things to say. Unspeakable emotions welled in me as I read her bio. I hope you go visit her space and receive even just an ounce of the inspiration that I have.

"I am The Life Artist. 

I came by this name in the unusual way. The WAY that is defined by the voices of holy, devoted friendship attached to The Voice that spoke my knitting together. Twenty friends (plus a few more) with the rough and tender fingertips of the Spirit, told me it was okay to say, “I am”; to believe in the un-earthing of truest self; a self named not by parents of flesh, but Parents Triune. 

And I believe, I believe that God would give a name to His children.  What earthly parent, even, wouldn’t do that? These double-dozen friends and Father held me and heart-deep-traveled with me while we jointly explored what the mixture of my dust looks, feels, moves, breathes, contributes, speaks like. I wept myself dry; discovered myself unbelievable; broke my pride-back six-ways-to-resurrected-Sunday. And the name heaven gave me awoke from slumber in my belly, yawned deep and opened eyes new to the world. Not a thing has looked the same since Father blew His breath on the dormant seed of myself . . . Life the voice whispers strong . . . I need you to be Life . . . The weary world needs to see My Life.

For this reason I am passionately audacious about LIFE; living. You know, the kind when and where you’re awake – in all respects.  I gather stories and symbols and Spirit interaction from my microscopic, mundane and mystery filled moments.  I live with the great hope that each molecule, every word, every choice, each individual thread of circumstance, gesture, dance, phrase, laughter, soul-crack, brow-pain, sea, mountain, rain, shine . . .  is woven together intricately and deeply with a deeper story of love, as expressed by The LIFE of Jesus."

Amazing, right? My heart lept and my chest constricted at her telling of the journey to our deepest, truest selves. It is a long time comin', this finding who you are. But may we each choose again today that we are still going, still treading, still stepping, still climbing... we're going further still, until we see the glorious sight, feel the amazing awakening, and hear the holy whisper... 

"You shall be called by a new name, which the mouth of the Lord will announce."

Is. 62:2

so is life

Brutal + Beautiful = Brutiful
So is life.


I really, really enjoy Glennon's Momastery blog. I know I've mentioned it  few times, but really. It's the best. This week has been deemed Miracle Week. I just sat and read through many, many comments of readers and their own personal miracles. The brutiful thing is, those miracles were each side by side with grief and pain and sometimes even loss.

This post got me thinking... where are my miracles? What do I consider a miracle to be? I tend to forget about important things that happen to me. Call it memory loss or laziness, but it's something I genuinely struggle with. I receive so much joy from reading about other people's miracles, the beauty in the suffering of their lives. One woman commented, "I love that you embrace the paradoxes of life. Not negative, just real and whole. Continuing to trudge through rugged terrain is a miracle. We are all miracles and it is these challenges that can help our souls grow."
love that.

We're all miracles. My therapist (ha) has told me that several times. "Candice, it's a miracle that you are here and that you are trying to love and follow Jesus, and that your life is the way that it is." The truth is I could have self-destructed a long, long time ago. We all could have. This pain that we deal with, be it physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, has attributes of the impossible. It's too much. How do we possibly go on? And here is where I am so, so, so convinced that we as human beings were created with purpose, intended for greatness, and loved beyond measure. Despite all, we can go on. We are going on. We are living. This is a miracle. Yes, we may drink and we may sleep around, but we are here. His grace is abounding. We are healing. Alive.

I had the immense privilege of showing hospitality to some of my favorite people yesterday: my small group ladies. It was so fun to have them at MY HOUSE. I have a house! This is also a miracle. I honestly had this moment, amidst my running around trying not to burn the muffins and realizing I should probably get dressed and do something with my hair, where I looked in the mirror and paused. Breathed. And thought to myself: You are doing this. You are in Minnesota, renting a house, hosting people. You are a woman. It was a moment of accomplishment and the realization of adulthood. And it was oddly sacred.
We discussed the subject of letting your life speak-- living out of the deep, honest place inside of you and being true to yourself. How do we do that in a world so full of comparison and unreachable  standards of perfection? Of course, this brought out a lot of brutiful things. Fear and faith. Love and leaving. Sadness and excitement. News of babies alongside news of "still no babies" and "no longer a baby." News of "we broke up" alongside stories of "my fiancee and I..."
Brutiful.


Today I am choosing to rest in this brutal and beautiful life. I am choosing to open my hands, even if I have to pry each stubborn finger open, and let go. I choose to let forgiveness break through my hardened heart. I choose to speak up and also shut up. I choose to just be. Be sad. Be heavy. Be hopeful.

Let's hold ourselves to a standard of GRACE, not perfection.
Let's do this brutiful life together.


xo.

poetically acurate

I want to unfold.

I don't want to stay folded anywhere,

because where I am folded, there I am a lie.

And I want my grasp of things to be

true before you. I want to describe myself

like a painting that I looked at

closely for a long time,

like a saying that I finally understood,

like the pitcher I use every day,

like the face of my mother,

like a ship

that carried me

through the wildest storm of all.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke, 

current poet obsession

food for thought

I saw Blue Like Jazz the movie-- not a big fan. But I AM a big fan of Donald Miller's writing. I'll stick to books & my infatuation with words.






“It made me wonder if the reasons our lives seem so muddled is because we keep walking into scenes in which we, along with the people around us, have no clear idea what we want.”


“I've wondered, though, if one of the reasons we fail to acknowledge the brilliance of life is because we don't want the responsibility inherent in the acknowledgment. We don't want to be characters in a story because characters have to move and breathe and face conflict with courage. And if life isn't remarkable, then we don't have to do any of that; we can be unwilling victims instead of grateful participants.”


 "I wouldn't really know what forgiveness meant for another year, until my pastor, Rick McKinley, happened to spell it out in a sermon. He said that when you forgive, you bear the burden somebody has given you without holding them accountable.”


“It occurred to me, as it sometimes does, that this day is over and will never be lived again, that we are only the sum of days, and when those are spent, we will not come back to this place, to this time, to these people and these colors, and I wonder whether to be sad about this or to be happy, to trust that these moments were meant for some kind of enjoyment, as a kind of blessing. And if feels, tonight, as if there is much to think about, there is much we have been given and much we have left behind. The smell of freedom is as brisk as the air through the windows. And there is a feeling that time itself has been curtained by darkness.” 


“The more I try to impress people, the more I separate myself from them. Vulnerability attracts love.” 








Dear Don, 
if I could sit and drink coffee with you, I would say thank you.
You are inspirational and genuine and raw and you tell it like it is. But not only that,
you help me to imagine what could be: what our world could be, what my life could be. 
I love to dream of ways to communicate in written words the beauty that I feel and see and breathe. 
You ignited that dreamer within me.
I wish we could be real life friends.


Love,
C

tenebrae

Tenebrae: latin; shadows or darkness

[ With a loud bang, He appeared, bent low in agony. Scenes flashed across the screen showing this man, broken and bruised. A story of death. ]

I still cannot explain why this story affects me so. Wasn't he just a guy who lived some thousand years ago and was crucified like so many others under Roman rule? Is his story so different from countless others? Would I weep had it not been my Jesus dying that death on the screen?

No, it is different. And something resonantes in me, in all of us, that this isn't just a human death. God gave part of himself. He united his perfection and our humanity, and as worlds clashed, darkness fell. Despair reigned. Truth was taken. Hope had flown.

[ Candles are snuffed. Silence. Tears. Heavy hearts. ]

Help us to know your pain, Lord.

Oh, He never lets go. The shame speaks from deep within: you aren't worthy of this. My mind reels. Why, God? Why did someone do that for me?

And whispered to my heart are the words:

Because I AM LOVE.

Truth stirs in my belly and thankfulness pours out through my tears.

He. is. love.

Isaiah 53

Who believes what we've heard and seen? Who would have thought God's saving power would look like this?

The servant grew up before God-- there was nothing attractive about him, nothing to cause us to take a second look. He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at him and people turned away. We thought he was scum.

But the fact is, it was our pains he carried

our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.

We thought he brought it on himself, that God was punishing him for his own failures.

But it was our sins that did that to him,

that ripped and tore and crushed him.

Our sins.

He took the punishment that made us whole. Through his bruises we get healed. We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost. We've all done our own thing, gone our own way. And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong, on Him.

On Him.

He was beaten, he was tortured, but he didn't say a word. Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered, he took it all in silence. Justice miscarried, and he was led off. Did anyone really know what was happening? He died without a thought for his own welfare, beaten bloody for the sins of my people. They buried him with the wicked, threw him in a grave with a rich man, even though he'd never hurt a soul or said one word that wasn't true.

Still, it's what God had in mind all along, to crush him with pain. The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin so that he's see life come from it--

life, life, and more life.

And God's plan will deeply prosper through him.

Out of that terrible travail of soul, he'll see that it's worth it and be glad he did it. Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,

will make many righteous ones, as he himself carried the burden of their sins. Therefore I will reward him extravagantly-- the best of everything, the highest honors--

because he looked death in the face and didn't flinch

because he embraced the company of the lowest. He took on his own shoulders the sins of many. He took up the cause of all the black sheep.

Help us to know your story, Lord.

absorbed

"suffering either gives me to myself or it destroys me.

if you receive yourself in the fires of sorrow, God will make you nourishment for other people."

Colossians 3: the message

" don't shuffle around, eyes to the ground, absorbed with the things in front of you ... "

absorbed. If only I could say those words weren't for me. Truthfully, I am absorbed. I am absorbed in offenses. I am absorbed in anger and "it's not fair" thoughts.

"your old life is dead ... and that means killing off everything connected with that way of death ... "

Never would I have thought I came from a way of death. Truthfully, we all do in one way or another. The evil genius has set us each on self-destruct mode. Oh the joy of realization and insight and the revealing of the path to life. But this pathway is steep, narrow, windy, bumpy, somewhat undiscovered. The hardest way. The best way.

" dress in what God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline; be even tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive & forgive completely; and put on love. "

Truthfully, this used to be my favorite verse. Until I had to start living it in detailed ways, with specific people. I don't want to forgive. I don't want to be compassionate to those who've hurt me. I don't want to love them as freely as I've been loved.

news: I'm dying.

other news: it's a sorrowful process.

other, other news: there's hope for many good things to be born.

from Mr. Oswald (it's been a while)

" Perseverance means more than endurance-- more than simply holding on til the end. A saint's life in the hands of God is like a bow and arrow in the hands of an archer. God is aiming at something the saint cannot see, but our Lord continues to stretch and strain, and every once in a while the saint says, "I can't take any more." Yet God goes on stretching until His purpose is in sight, and then He lets the arrow fly.

Entrust yourself to God's hands. Proclaim as Job did, "though he slay me, yet I will trust him."

There are areas in our lives where that faith has not yet worked in us-- places still untouched by the life of God. There were none of those places in Jesus' life. And there are to be none in ours.

If we will take this view, life will become one great romance-- a glorious opening of seeing wonderful things all the time. "