Do It Now

"Our insistence in proving that we are right is nearly always an indication that there has been some point of disobedience" -- Oswald.

What is the big attraction to being right? I'm not sure I can answer that, but I know it's huge. We choose being right over relationship time and time again.

To be honest, I see this most clearly in the relationship between my daughters. Much of the time, they are the best of friends, but when they fight, it is mean-spirited, vicious and hateful. When they fight, they have trouble remembering that they were ever friends. To be fair, when they are friends, it's difficult to believe that they were ever so hateful to each other. They make food for each other, watch girl movies, sleep in the same bed, giggle and tell secrets for hours and hours on end. And then, abruptly, they're willing to sacrifice all of that over some small point of contention, over the need to be right. They will insist upon justice -- or their version of it -- as adamantly as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.

Partly, I think, they take it for granted that the other person will always be there, that they can cling churlishly to their point in this moment and not really lose anything. They can be right and have the relationship, too. Only, sometimes when the heat escalates to the boiling point, I wonder, can you really go back? Is something lost in the churlish clinging? Is some small permanent damage done?

Here's the thing I know: I've been able to trace the root of almost every sin I see in my children back to myself. So I ask myself, to what am I churlishly clinging? Where have I allowed my need to be right to take precedence over relationship?

Direction of Discipline

"It is better to enter into life maimed and lovely in God's sight than to be lovely in man's sight and lame in God's" -- Oswald.

I'm not sure that this is right, but here's what I'm thinking . . .

My depression is my thorn in the flesh, my lameness. It keeps me from becoming brazenly independent. Here's my insane pattern of behavior: cry out to God in desperation, receive comfort, pick myself up and strike out again -- on my own, fall, crumble, cry out to God in desperation, receive comfort, pick myself up and strike out again -- on my own. Over and over and over again. It is as though I believe the purpose of the healing is to erase my need for God. How stupid can I be? Well, apparently stupid enough to engage in this merry-go-round behavior for most of my adult life. But sometimes I wonder if the depression is not a gift in disguise (albeit a very good disguise) as it continually drives me back to God.

Apprehended by God

I read the verses around Oswald's chosen passage this morning, beginning in Philippians 3:1, but I got hung up on verse 10:

I want to know Christ. Check. And the power of his resurrection. Check. And the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings. Oh, uncheck. In fact, erase, put down the pencil and run full speed in the opposite direction. I know I should be able to affirm Paul's sentiment, but the words coming from me right now would be incredibly disingenuous. I do not want to share in his sufferings. I do not want to suffer at all.

I want to have fun and laugh and remember why life is good. Why is life -- why is today -- precious?

I lay in bed with my husband last night and discussed how life had become something other than what we thought it would be in our twenties. Less romantic. Less fun. Less sexually charged. More heavily packed with responsibility. Not at all like any engaging movie we had ever seen. Less witty. Less beautiful. Less filled with oh-so-glad-to-be-alive moments.

And that little whining tirade was minus any true suffering. No, I cannot say I relish the thought of sharing in Christ's sufferings. I am weak, and while I tell myself over and over that happiness is not the goal, my self isn't listening. When my feet hit the floor in the morning, bottom line, I want very much to be happy.

The Overshadowing Personal Deliverance

Jeremiah did not have a fun life. He preached a message of condemnation to a people who did not want to hear it. He foresaw doom and destruction for his entire country. He was persecuted, arrested, mocked, thrown in a cistern (something like a well -- deep enough that he had to be drawn out with a rope), saw his life's work -- a scroll which contained all his messages up to that time -- torn to pieces, and had the unwelcome distinction of being right when being right meant ruin. Some historical accounts say he was stoned to death.

An online commentary by J. Philip Hyatt at bookrags.com adds this: "Jeremiah was by nature sensitive, introspective and perhaps shy. He was denied participation in the ordinary joys and sorrows of his fellowmen and did not marry. He thus could say, 'I sat alone,' with God's hand upon him. Jeremiah had periods of despondency when he expressed the wish that he had never been born or that he might run away and live alone in the desert. He . . . even accused God of deceiving and overpowering him. Yet there were times of exaltation when he could say to God, 'Thy words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart.'"

Justice. What an odd and multi-faceted word. Our hearts yearn for it on the one hand, and on the other, we know that none of us could stand in the face of it. God requires us to show it, and Oswald writes that we must not seek it for ourselves.

Today is my brother Pat's birthday, and so as I write this, I cannot help but think about his life in connection with these concepts. If God were to invite me, I might ask him, "Why have you treated my brother so? He is one of the hardest working, most God-fearing, sacrificial men I know. He loves you. He longs body and soul to do what is right in your eyes, and yet he, like Jeremiah, sits alone." God, of course, knows the rest of the story much more clearly than I -- the messy divorce, the betrayal, the pain, the rebellion of his children. Have you taken notice, Lord, of your servant Pat?

The health and wealth Gospel fails so completely to address life as most of us know it. Oswald's words ring so much truer: "If we are devoted to Jesus Christ we have nothing to do with what we meet, whether it is just or unjust. Jesus says -- Go steadily on with what I have told you to do and I will guard your life." Less immediately comforting perhaps, but true.

Always Now

Don't wait, Barb. Pray for grace now. In this moment. Now. You cannot survive a single moment without it. Breathe in grace. Breathe out confession of sin. Breathe in grace.

Now.

Receiving One's Self in the Fires of Sorrow

Oswald's message today is not an easy one. I believe it to be true. I have witnessed its truth, but I cannot say that I eagerly welcome it into my life.

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

Most recently, I have seen this truth in my friend Sarah's life. Seven years ago, Sarah gave birth to a stillborn baby girl, whom she and her husband named Grace. I write about Sarah and Grace here with extreme caution because I do not want to give the impression in any way that I grasp what my friend has been through or continues to go through. I just know that I see how she nourishes other people from her own pain and loss. I followed her blog during the month of May, the anniversary of Grace's birth, and over the years, I have noted her fierce compassion toward mothers experiencing like tragedy.

Sarah has modeled for me what it means to receive oneself in the fires of sorrow and to be nourishment for other people's souls. I see the beauty that he has wrought in her, but I would never want to justify or trivialize the cost. I think Sarah herself wrote somewhere that she would trade everything -- all the ways Grace's death has stretched and grown and expanded her -- to have Grace herself, alive and well, her 7-year-old, first-grade self.

I think Oswald has hit on a truth, but it is certainly not an easy one, not even a particularly welcome one.

Reconciling One's Self to the Fact of Sin

"You may talk about the nobility of human nature, but there is something in human nature which will laugh in the face of every ideal you have" -- Oswald.

I just started reading Now & Then by Frederick Buechner, and an early quote from one of Buechner's seminary professors, James Muilenburg, seems to complement Oswald's thoughts for today:

"'Every morning when you wake up,' he used to say, 'before you reaffirm your faith in the majesty of a loving God, before you say I believe for another day, read the Daily News with its record of the latest crimes and tragedies of mankind and then see if you can honestly say it again.'"

As Christians, Oswald writes, we are not to be "innocent," but "pure." I take that to mean that our faith should be an eyes-wide-open one in which we acknowledge that "the basis of life is tragic," that sin -- original and immediate -- and its consequences are wreaking havoc round about us, and yet, still, we daily choose to reaffirm our faith in the majesty of a loving God.

Tension and struggle are inherent in such a faith. Hence, the daily reaffirmation. The goal of this faith is not a mastery in which we then proceed on our own. No. No. No, Barb. You are so susceptible to that notion. The goal is to come again to him moment by moment. Though you've wandered away, come again. You cannot make sense of life on your own. You were never meant to.

Acquaintance with Grief

"We take a rational view of life and say that a man by controlling his instincts, and by educating himself, can produce a life which will slowly evolve into the life of God. But as we go on, we find the presence of something which we have not taken into consideration, viz., sin, and it upsets all our calculations. Sin has made the basis of things wild and not rational"-- Oswald.

Oswald's words today made me realize how much I minimize sin, underestimate its power, its effect on the world in general and my life in particular. I tend to think, just as Oswald describes above, that it can be managed and contained, made ineffectual by right living and good choices. What heresy. Sin is so much more than a bad habit that can be overcome by careful planning, goal setting, rewards for good behavior, distractions, and step-by-step instructions.

The presence of sin in the world required the death of Jesus Christ. I can only overcome it in my life today by relying on that payment and the power that proceeds from it. I cannot manage it or plan away its consequences.

To minimize sin is to minimize Christ's sacrifice. I need to recognize it for the formidable enemy that it is -- pervasive, insidious, and capable of morphing from humanism or religiosity into sheer self-interest and back again into behavior that on the surface appears to be morally neutral. No matter the face behind which it masquerades, sin is a vicious, writhing, contemptuous rebellion against a loving God. Ugly and awful in its destructive power.

"He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed," Isaiah 53:5.

I cannot manage my sin. My only hope in life and death is that my iniquities were laid upon him.

The Undeviating Test

Unshaved legs. Blemishes. Dirty ears. Cavities. Extra pounds. Snoring. Gas. Buck teeth. Bad jokes. Bad breath. Bad hair. No hair. Wrinkles. Make-up smears. Fingernail biting. Swearing. Stains. Poor taste. Forgetful. Curt. Impulsive. Flirtatious. Boastful. Accident-prone. Self-absorbed. Lazy. Unforgiving. Disrespectful. Undisciplined. Addicted. Lustful. Angry. Obsessive. Compulsive. Wishy-washy. Jealous. Gluttonous. Stingy. Uptight. Careless. Negligent. Rushed. Oblivious. Fastidious.

I am flawed. The people around me are flawed. We can pick each other apart bit by bit or we can extend the same generous forbearance we hope others will extend to us.

Grace.

The Ministry of the Interior

Like a child.

Izzy had an imaginary grandmother when she was little, and the two of them had such grand adventures. Izzy would tell me how they ate pink cookies, white icing, marshmallows and sugar cubes -- all the time. Her grandmother lived in a treehouse, got hurt by a porcupine, swallowed by a fish and captured by Pink Panther. Together they would jump and dance and twirl together but rarely take naps because her grandma had a jiggle-wiggle bed. Hard to take naps on a jiggle-wiggle bed, as you can imagine. Izzy's grandma broke her back while jumping on the trampoline and had to have all her skin cut off but made a remarkably quick recovery. Izzy, at three, told me about this seeming miracle quite matter-of-factly.

Imagine. I once asked Izzy if I could wear her pajamas, and she replied simply, "Yes, when you get little."

Oswald writes about "the robust, simple life of the child of God" and calls us to "launch out in reckless belief that the Redemption is complete." But the passage tied to today's devotional refers to us as "a royal priesthood." The juxtaposition of what seemed to me like contradictory metaphors sent my thoughts whirling in a variety of directions, and I'm really not certain I can bring them all together.

At the beginning of 1 Peter 2, Christians are encouraged to be like newborn babes craving pure spiritual milk. Eugene Peterson puts it like this in The Message: "Now, like infants at the breast, drink deep of God's pure kindness."

The next few verses are devoted to a stone analogy -- Christ as the cornerstone, us as living stones. Then verse 9: "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light." And, in his reflections on the passage, Oswald again evokes the beauty of childhood in his description of the Christian as one devoid of self-consciousness.

I watched with mixed feelings as my children's delight at traipsing to the mall in pirate costumes or tutus morphed into horror at the thought. Self-consciousness awoke, and childhood delight seemed to slip away in equal measures. As my youngest, Izzy's transition from childhood to young womanhood is freshest, and at times, I can still catch glimpses of the innocence and reckless abandon that marked her childhood.

We are to be like children. We are priests. I'm wondering if the two roles are more alike than they first appear. Both share the ability to suspend disbelief -- to allow room for mystery, for the supernatural, for life to be more than science or the senses allow. Both drink deeply of God's goodness. Both are freed, at times, from the awkward confines of self-awareness.

When I enter into the Holy of Holies, where God is present, when I sit on his lap and lay my head on his bosom, I am freed from myself. I am a priest. I am a child. I am perfect because I am in Christ.

Have You Come to "When" Yet?

"I have to resign every kind of claim and cease from every effort, and leave myself entirely alone in His hands . . . " -- Oswald.

Again, Oswald reminds me that it is all too possible for me to be overly concerned with my own righteousness: "I cannot make myself right with God, I cannot make my life perfect; I can only be right with God if I accept the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ as an absolute gift . . . the thing is done."

1) Christ has done the work.
2) I am a poor judge of my own -- or any man's -- righteousness.

The book of Job has always troubled me a bit. While I love the speeches God makes from the whirlwind in chapters 38-41, the truth seems to be divided amongst the various characters throughout the majority of the book, and I am hard-pressed to explain why one viewpoint is wrong and one is right. I turned to Matthew Henry's commentary this morning for help.

On Job: "Those who are truly righteous before God may have their righteousness clouded and eclipsed by great and uncommon affections, by the severe censures of men, by the sharp reproach of conscience, and yet, in due time, these clouds shall all blow over, and God will bring forth their righteousness as the light and their judgment as the noonday, Psalm 32:6."

On Job's friends: "They had wronged God by making prosperity a mark of the true church and affliction a certain indication of God's wrath. . . Those do not say well of God who represent his fatherly chastisements of his own children as judicial punishments."

One application: "Job was in the right, and his friends were in the wrong, and yet he was in pain and they were at ease -- a plain evidence that we cannot judge of men by looking in their face or their purses. He only can do it infallibly who sees men's hearts."

On Oswald's subject of the day, intercession: "Notwithstanding all the wrong his friends had done him, he is so good a man, and of such a humble, tender, forgiving spirit, that he will very readily pray for them . . . True penitents shall not only find favor as petitioners for themselves, but be accepted as intercessors for others also. And, as Job prayed and offered sacrifice for those that had grieved and wounded his spirit, so Christ prayed and died for his persecutors, and ever lives making intercession for the transgressors."

My charge: Fret not about my own righteousness. Leave myself in God's hands, and begin to pray in earnest for the people God brings into my life. I cannot know (with any kind of certainty or clarity) what he is doing in my life, let alone anyone else's, but I can join in the work through prayer.

Service of Passionate Devotion

What, I find myself asking, is the difference between devotion to the cause of Christianity and devotion to Jesus Christ?

I've joined a number of causes on Facebook, mostly because friends invite me and I hate to disappoint -- causes associated with the pro-life movement, the fight against homelessness and domestic violence, a cure for breast cancer, and others. Of those, I am most passionate about ending abortion and caring for the destitute. Those two have a direct effect in my life: I will not vote for a candidate who is not pro-life, and I work for a homeless shelter. I give financially to both causes on a regular basis.

Neither has as large or as direct of an effect on my life, however, as the cause of Christianity. In fact, both are a direct result of that greater cause. The cause of Christianity has shaped my sense of right and wrong and most of my major life choices -- my decision to marry, to have children -- four children -- and to homeschool those children. My decision to delay the pursuit of a career; my belief that my children needed a full-time parent. And it shapes my smaller, day-to-day choices, as well -- what I allow and do not allow my children to do, how I spend my money, my attitude toward alcohol, anger and forgiveness. What I read. What I watch. I don't shop at Victoria's Secret because I think much of their advertising strategy borders on the pornographic, and because I believe in the value of a woman as a child of God, I find that offensive and wrong.

The cause of Christianity has had a profound impact for good on my life. I'm beginning to realize, however, that the cause of Christianityis not the same as devotion to Jesus Christ; and should the former stand in the way of the latter, the impact ceases to be good, ceases to be life-giving, and actually becomes an agent of death. Strong words, but I think they're true. The cause of Christianity is about principles, not relationship, and we are not saved by principles.

Oswald writes: "A man touched by the Spirit of God suddenly says, 'Now I see who Jesus is," and that is the source of devotion."

Please, Lord, keep me looking up and give me eyes to see -- not just a cause -- but You.

Don't Think Now, Take the Road

The Wind and the Waves: my job, the writing itself, the future, finances, relationships, mini and major responsibilities.

The waves surround me and, in fact, make up the majority of my life: What are you going to wear to work this morning? You really need to lose weight and clean up this room. You can't find anything, and nothing fits anymore anyway. When are you going to fit in a walk? and stomach crunches? How are you going to write that article on the thrift stores? Do you have a creative approach? You're behind on thank-you letters. Think up a new way to say thank you! Your car is out of gas. Did you make an appointment for Izzy with her diabetes doctor? How about that lab work? That was supposed to be done weeks ago. What was her blood sugar last night? Did you ask? Have you filled out the financial aid paperwork for either of the two boys for next year? Do the kids have stuff for lunches? What are you getting your dad for Father's Day? How about your husband? Are your kids moving on that?

The water is lapping at my ankles. One look and down I go. Like Peter, if I do not keep my eyes on Jesus, I am sure to sink.

The remarkable part about this story, however, is that Peter did the impossible. Right along with Jesus. The waves were real. The threat of drowning was real. But still Peter stepped out of the boat. Jesus does not reprimand him for doing the reckless thing -- the crazy, wild, impossible thing. No, there is no rebuke for that bit; it is only after he reaches down and saves him that he questions why Peter doubted.

Peter was reckless, and Oswald encourages recklessness: "You will only realize His voice more clearly by recklessness." What does that mean for me?

The Uncritical Temper

"In the spiritual domain, nothing is accomplished by criticism" -- Oswald. In fact, Oswald states, criticism damages both the person being criticized and the person doing the criticizing.

What criticism does to the one being criticized:

• hurts and wounds
• causes self-doubt and reticence

What criticism does to the one doing the criticizing:

• prevents communion with God
• makes one hard, vindictive and cruel
• leaves one with the flattering unction that she is a superior person

"Beware of anything that puts you in the superior person's place," Oswald warns and refers to the following Scripture:

"I have a special word of caution for you who are sure that you have it all together yourselves and, because you know God's revealed Word inside and out, feel qualified to guide others through their blind alleys and dark nights and confused emotions to God. While you are guiding others, who is going to guide you?" Romans 2:19-20, The Message.

Forgive me for my critical nature, Lord, and help me to extend grace readily and freely as you have so readily and freely extended it to me.

What Do You Make of This?

"The sense of our duty is only realized by our sense of the heroic" -- Oswald.

Every morning before my feet hit the floor I need to remind myself that I owe Christ my life. Maybe this is the idea behind the Catholic crucifix. Maybe it is too easy to forget the price he paid. However, while I cringe to admit it, not even a mental picture of his excruciating death on the cross automatically softens my hard heart. Perhaps it is the onslaught of stories and images that bombard my senses every day or perhaps it is the protective layer of cynicism with which I have wrapped my innermost self. Whichever the case, my heart is not easily moved. Still, simple things sneak up on me on occasion, and it is these simple things with which I need to confront myself each morning.

He knows the number of hairs on my head. He collects my tears. He is paying attention to my life -- my fears, my pain, my joys. He cares about the things I care about -- my children, my husband, my church, my friends, the homeless men, women and children in the shelters of the Union Gospel Mission, the words I write, the thoughts in my head. He knows them, sees them, hears them.

"It is far easier to die than to lay down the life day in and day out with the sense of the high calling" -- Oswald.

I can lay down my right to my life -- today, in this moment -- for Someone who is paying such close attention. I can gently, carefully, set aside my dreams, my hopes, and pay attention to his plan. I can look for ways to be part of what he wants for my little corner of the world.

"We are not made for brilliant moments, but we have to walk in the light of them in ordinary ways" -- Oswald.

I keep thinking of Tolkien's Frodo in connection with today's reading. The majority of his quest to destroy the one ring was made up of less-than-brilliant moments -- putting on the ring at the wrong moments, snapping at Sam, getting stabbed by one of the Dark Riders and cocooned by the great spider, Shelob, falling under Gollum's spell, wearily trudging on day after day through hunger and cold and lack of all the creature comforts of which hobbits are so fond. And when, finally, the brilliant moment was within his grasp -- he stood above the fires of Mordor, his quest nearly at an end, all of Middle Earth depending on him -- he failed. The creature Gollum accomplished the final goal by biting off Frodo's finger and accidentally falling into the fiery pit below. Frodo was not made for the brilliant moment, but he undertook the journey and continued day after day in light of it.

I am made for the stuff of everyday life, but I can only continue day in and day out in light of the Brilliant Moments. He gave his life for me, and I must give my life for him.

Get a Move on

"Routine is God's way of saving us between our hours of inspiration" -- Oswald.

Just last night at a church meeting, we were discussing the issues of duty and obligation. I was rather adamant in my insistence that duty for duty's sake is meaningless, but I love Oswald's spin on the subject today. God molds me through laundry and paying the bills and scraping wax.

"The great hindrance in spiritual life is that we will look for big things to do" -- Oswald. Or in believing that meaning lies in the big things. I am meant to be the "common stuff of ordinary life exhibiting the marvel of the grace of God." Please help me to remember that.

Get a Move on

I'm going to disagree with Oswald here. It may be a matter of semantics -- but important semantics -- at least in terms of my own journey.

Oswald: "God will not make me think like Jesus, I have to do it myself."

Barb: Because I am one of his children and he has made me a new creature, God will bring my thinking into line with his Son's.

I can fight him every step of the way. I can slo-o-o-ow the process wa-a-a-ay down. I can try to bury my head in the sand or compartmentalize my life to keep him out of certain aspects, but I believe he will continue to pursue me. He has given me a new, everlasting heart that beats life to my fingertips, my toes, and every corner of my mind. He will not allow death and decay to have its way in my life forever.

It's not brainwashing. It's not a re-circuiting of my thoughts against my will. It's a flower in the garden that speaks: "This God whom you distrust to manage your life is the Originator of all things beautiful." It's a line from literature or a movie that shocks me out of my dazed enchantment with success and financial security. It's a night out with girlfriends in which I remember that I was created for relationship. It's a trip down the river in an inner tube -- a moment when all my troubles disappear. It's a word or a whisper: Come.

I will wander, but he will call me back.

Getting There

I love Oswald's language today. Who wouldn't want to be a "holy experiment" in the hands of God? Especially knowing that his experiments always succeed. Mine, on the other hand, frequently don't, so why would I insist on control?

I worked in my wildly overgrown, out-of-control garden today -- pulling weeds and volunteer plants with abandon -- and I was getting hugely discouraged by the overwhelming amount of work when I stopped. I stopped, went to find a camera and took a few pictures. The purpose was to remind myself to look for beauty along the way, to enjoy the process, but it occurred to me that I was also documenting a few of God's experiments.



An amazing wellspring of original life. Perennially fresh.

A life reproducing the echo of Christ's "come."

Getting There

"The disciple is one who has the new name written all over him" -- Oswald.

"Muscle memory." My second son, Carter, throws discus, and he uses this phrase to describe the relationship between practice and competition. If you repeat the process of spinning and releasing with the correct form enough times, then when you step into the ring for competition -- with mind racing and stomach churning -- your muscles will remember what to do instinctively. They will perform what they have been trained to do. Creating those memories, however, takes hours and hours of practice -- not a practice here and a practice there but three hours a day, five days a week for weeks and weeks on end.

The parallel I'm attempting to draw between today's Oswald and throwing practice isn't so much about discipline and the Christian life (although I'm pretty sure a case for that parallel could be made) but about time spent abiding with God and muscle/mind/behavior memory. By the end of May when he went to Nationals, Carter was virtually pickled in throwing technique. He may have spent more time with his discus than his textbooks. The index finger of his throwing hand was deeply calloused. His calf and shoulder muscles sculpted. The tendons in his wrist inflamed. He didn't just wear a t-shirt that said "thrower;" the word was engraved all over his body.

If I make a practice of abiding with God, then his name will be engraved all over my life -- not just in spiritual spots. I won't need to worry about performing because my mind/my lips/my body will respond instinctively and in a manner consistent with the love in which they have been steeped.

Getting There

Oswald's entry for today made me think of my eldest son, Drew. He is a college wrestler -- all lean muscle, music and motion. Coincidentally (or not), he and I were home alone this morning. He went out to get us pastries. I made coffee for me, and we sat down to read and talk about Oswald.

His take: "Sometimes Christians my age want to focus on what we can't do -- drink, party, have sex -- 'suffering the will of the Lord.'"

"Where is the majestic vitality and might of the Son of God about that?" -- Oswald. Drew echoed Oswald's sentiments, albeit a little more succinctly. "That's crap," he said.

I tend to be a glass-half-empty kind of girl. Drew is definitely a glass-all-full kind of guy. The world awaits, and all God requires is that we come unto Jesus. Make the journey, take each step, with him. It's not about what we can't do or even what we should do. It's about walking with him. He promises never to leave us nor forsake us. He promises abundant life. And what does he ask of us? "Come unto me."

Oswald's version of rest also made me think of Drew: "I will get you out of bed, out of the languor and exhaustion, out of the state of being half dead while you are alive; I will imbue you with the spirit of life, and you will be stayed by the perfection of vital activity."

Vital activity. Drew has always been energetic, but in the last two years, he has taken on the yoke of college wrestling. I cannot say that I understand it. I have watched video of him and his teammates running up steep hills with fellow wrestlers on their backs. Sweat is pouring off of them. Guys are moving off to the side of the road to throw up. They drill and lift weights and beat their bodies into submission toward a goal -- to be in optimum shape, to master their craft. It involves incredible sacrifice, but Drew would never describe it that way. It is a joy, a pleasure to him to be able to compete with other fine athletes. "Sweet," I think he would say.

At the end of our devotional time, Drew played a song for me. I do not know the title or the artist, but it portrayed the Christian walk as a grand adventure -- with knights, fair maidens and dragons to be slayed.

"Where the sin and the sorrow cease, and the song and the saint commence."

Thank you, Drew, for giving me a picture of the might, the vitality and the song.

Don't Slack Off

"Am I abiding? Am I taking time to abide?"

According to Webster, "abide" (in its intransitive form) means "to remain stable or fixed in a state; to continue in a place: sojourn."

I think I might need a map, a map with a large red "X" in the spot where I am supposed to abide and lots of arrows showing how to get back to that spot from all the places to which I am likely to wander off. In fact, I better make several maps so that I can post them in all those same places. I have a tendency to get lost.

Right now, I am abiding. I am in a stable fixed state. I have had three days to read and blog and meditate on chazaq. The sermon I heard on Sunday was about chazaq, Hebrew for repair, healing, courage, being strong, restoration, and how our God is a God of repair. "God loves to heal," the pastor said, and I thought, Yes! that's my God. He can heal all that's broken in the world. He can heal what's broken in my life, and all I need to do to join him in that master chazaq plan is abide.

But here's the thing: the author of "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" knew my heart. "Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love." And so I pray, "Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee." Set limits to my wandering, Lord. Keep me close to home, and as I wander, ever draw my eyes to the big red "X" and the way back.

Work Out What God Works In

God is not only with me. He is in me. I have to remember that. Maybe first I have to convince myself that it's true, and then I need to grasp hold of that fact and cling to it for dear life.

I am not my sin. I am not my mistakes. I am not just a hopelessly flawed human being struggling to keep my head above water. God is in me. His Spirit is shaping me, molding me, re-creating me.

He is not the Authority from whom I need to hide because I screwed up or because I cannot possibly meet his expectations. He is not waiting in the principal's office or sitting in the audience to critique my performance. (How did these ideas become so inextricably linked to my understanding of God?)

It is he who is at work in me. He is in me. He is with me. He is on my side -- not waiting to judge me but to love me, to heal me, to make me whole.

When I write or speak or reach out in love, I am working out what he has worked in. We are a team.

He is in me.

God's Say-So

God promises his presence.

And I say, "Yes, but . . ."

And God promises his presence.

And I say, "Yes, but . . ."

And God promises his presence.

And I say, "Yes, but . . ."

And God promises his presence.

The Never-Failing God

"And so you risk. You keep standing in crowded rooms and giving yourself over to people. You hand them your innards, brown-red and coiled on the center of a dirty plate. All the women in the room keep talking about crafts and sales and their children's latest colds."
~from I Went to the Animal Fair by Heather Harpham

Why don't I read the Psalms more? The Psalmists longed for the very intimacy that I seek. They sought it, too: "To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul; in you I trust, O my God," Psalm 25:1. I picture myself gingerly holding my soul in my cupped hands -- only my soul looks more like the brown-red, coiled innards that Heather Harpham describes -- and I offer that soul to God. I lift it up to him, and somehow he finds it a treasure.

He will never leave me nor forsake me.

The Secret of the Lord

"The things that make God dear to us are not so much His great big blessings as the tiny things, because they show His amazing intimacy with us; He knows every detail of our individual lives" -- Oswald.

My husband is an unusual man. He has never run from intimacy with me. Initially, when I told him I wanted to get inside his skin, not only to know what he was thinking but to understand why those thoughts were his thoughts, he tried to tell me he just wasn't that deep. "I think about food, sex and sports. That's about it," he said. But he didn't run or try to hide. He held still while I poked and prodded, and at some point, things shifted a bit. He became more the pursuer than the pursued.

When I found a book that read like a journal of my own craziness, he read it too, even though it wasn't at all his kind of book. If I felt like the author "got me," well then, they had something in common. He wanted to get me, too.

When we're apart for the day -- me at my job, he at his -- he calls me once or twice to check on me, to "take my temperature," as he says, and he can do that from the way I say "hello." He knows the cadence of my voice.

He knows my favorite pen, and he cares about whether or not I can find it.

He knows that I am hard on myself -- that my list of faults is never far from the tip of my brain -- and while that list must be readily apparent to him as well, he never uses it against me.

He has read nearly every word I have ever written, and he believes in me. Still.

The Free Dictionary suggests these definitions of intimate: "relating to or indicative of one's deepest nature; essential, innermost."

My husband gives me the clearest earthly picture of intimacy, of what is deepest and most essential in him relating to what is deepest and most essential in me.

It is often hard for me to believe that he loves me as he does.

It is even harder to grasp that my husband's love is just a dim reflection of God's more perfect love.

What Are You Haunted By?

"So we are to live and move and have our being in God, to look at everything in relation to God because the abiding consciousness of God pushes itself to the front all the time" -- Oswald.

I walked in the rain today and tried to meditate on this idea -- this marvelous, too-incredible, disturbing, extraordinary, beyond-natural idea. God is with me. All the time. Every moment. Walking in the rain. Sitting at the computer. Driving to work. Making dinner. Stewing in the tub. Crying under the covers.

God is with me. A supernatural, invisible Being. The Originator of word and thought and beauty. The Scientist who designed the laws of nature and ordered the universe so that a drop of water would cling to the tip of every pine needle, reflect the diffused light, and delight me on my walk. The ultimate Conversationalist, Poet and Storyteller. Loving Father. Adoring Bridegroom. Mind reader.

God is with me. Throughout time and beyond it, he has always been and always will be. He exists in another dimension unlimited by hours, beginnings and endings, and yet, he is here with me in this moment. In this moment.

God is with me. Fully present. Alongside. His brain isn't splintered and overburdened and only partially present like mine. He can be completely and wholly engaged with me and run the world all at the same time.

God is with me. Me. Barbara Comito. The real one. The one who will never ever have her act together. The one whose comforter is hopelessly stained. The one who has been pulling work clothes out of a pile for weeks, months maybe. The one with cellulite, stretch marks, gray re-growth and wrinkles. He is not deceived by my clever performances. He knows my thoughts, my insecurities, my un-coolness. He not only knows my sins but took them on himself and suffered their consequences. He is intimately acquainted with me. The real me.

God is with me.

Oswald wrote: "We rob ourselves of the marvelous revelation of this abiding companionship of God." But he didn't write how or why. I have a pretty good idea on the how -- busyness, valuing performance over relationship -- but I'm stumped on the why. Why do I rob myself of God's constant company when I cannot think of anything I desire more?

My assignment: memorize Psalm 25.

The Staggering Question

Have I experienced the transforming power of Christ in my life?

It's probably a bizarre allusion, but as I contemplated today's Oswald, I was reminded of a scene from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." I'm not even a big Monty Python fan, but nonetheless . . . Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad and King Arthur must answer three questions correctly before they can cross the Bridge of Death and continue their pursuit of the Holy Grail. The first two questions are easy: What is your name? What is your quest? But the third one ranges from "What is your favorite color?" to "What is the capital of Assyria?" A wrong answer launches the seeker over the edge into the pit of despair. Sir Galahad is so distraught he changes his mind about his favorite color and is subsequently launched.

I feel a bit like Galahad about the answer to the question at the top of this blog. As a Christian, I know what the right answer is supposed to be. As a fairly solid Calvinist, I have long subscribed to the doctrine of "total depravity," the basic idea being, as I understand it, that man in his natural state is in rebellion against God.

While I normally hate what I see as overly simplistic metaphors, here's one I like: A bunch of people in random states of physical fitness and strength are going to try to jump from a pier along the California coastline to Catalina Island. Some of them are going to jump a little -- or even a lot -- farther than others. No one is going to get anywhere near the island. Catalina Island is God's standard of righteousness. All fall short. Way short. I get that.

Still, that doesn't really answer the question: Have I experienced the transforming power of Christ in my life? Oswald asks: "Is my experience such a wonderful realization of God's power and might that I can never despair of anyone I see?" The implication is that when I have seen God transform me, I will know that transformation is possible for everyone, but have I truly seen God transform me?

I feel as though I have reached a blockade on my pilgrimage -- a question that demands to be answered. The wrong answer could send me veering off into the pit of despair, but I cannot parrot the right answer as though I am in Sunday school. The right answer must also be true.

Have I experienced the transforming power of Christ in my life? I grew up in a Christian home. I cannot remember a time when I was not either striving to be good or feeling guilty about being bad. I have not seen radical change in my life. I honestly feel as though I have struggled with the same sins for most of my life -- worry, depression, self-absorption, idolatry.

I heard a quote attributed to Saint Augustine: "I am capable of the worst sin I have seen my neighbor commit." I believe that. The thing is I believe it is true of me right now . . . and I am still unclear on the question at hand.

Have I experienced the transforming power of Christ in my life?