Hearts and Hope Chests

What is the meaning of life? 

    The “meaning of life” has been searched out and pondered since long before history found its way into text books.  As a matter of fact, Adam and Eve were searching for the meaning of life when they argued over the apple in the Garden.  The Apostle Paul realized his entire life had been a search for its meaning while he was walking that dusty road to Damascus.  Marco Polo, John Wycliffe and Joan of Arc were all taking a deep look into the past trying desperately to decide on the meaning of life.  Sir Thomas More and King Henry the VIII argued until their deaths about what life really meant and countless men and women whom call themselves philosophers have followed in their footsteps.  The question in itself has such an elusive nature to it that any sensible answer provided to it seems to expire with the great thinker who was brave enough to whisper the answer.  And so, for century after century, humanity has very nearly squandered their existence as they wandered through life aimlessly, void of any knowledge of how to fashion their reality of breathing, talking and crossing things off their lists into something that actually resembles life. 
    Ah, but life does exist.  We’ve been blessed enough to see it with our own eyes if we were wise enough to know what we were seeing.  We know that some people do find the answer to the question, because their very lives leave a mark on the heart of history.  It seems some people were just meant to live and since wandering and squandering was never meant for princesses, we know once upon a time, someone somewhere must have passed along the secret meaning of life.  Perhaps, the true meaning of life was penned with the finest of quills onto the most delicate pieces of parchment and placed behind the seal of an ancient glass bottle to be protected and passed down from generation to generation.  Or maybe there is a special code quietly recited to princesses in their infancy by handmaidens who scarcely understand the depth and meaning of the words they speak.  It is possible that loving fathers cradle tiny princesses in their arms and while they intend to think loving thoughts about their daughters’ futures, that the meaning of life magically replaces those thoughts.  Yes, all those fancy imaginings make for some stunningly constructed bedtime stories and have certainly earned their place on many a pink bookshelf, but where fairly tale and fantasy end, a brave and beautiful truth stands.  That truth has given countless, special people the ability to draw a fine line between merely being alive and living a full and momentous life that makes a difference, not just to the person living it, but to all those he or she comes in contact with.  That truth has been hidden, sold, twisted and torn a million times since it was first spoken, but it has always managed to remain pure and powerful.  It has tucked itself between pages of the very best books, hitchhiked itself across the planet on the most beautiful journeys and found itself in the most peculiar of places.  And today, it longs to tell its story, not on a bright marquee or stealing fame from the famous, but instead, by tucking itself away in an old, dusty box and patiently waiting for you to find your treasure.  May the adventure of realizing the true meaning of life be a story you tell your children’s children’s children!


The Tale of Two Boxes

    Once upon a time, in two very different cities, lived two very different girls with very different lives.  In fact, these two young ladies couldn’t have been any less similar if they had actually met each other in person and spent weeks devising a devilish plan to see how different they could pretend to be.  And the differences we’re talking about go far beyond hair color and fashion sense.  These girls were different in the quiet places of their hearts that nudged their thoughts in one direction or another.  They were different types of the same kind.
    And yet, as fate would have it, their lives painted pictures that tell of the same story.  The story doesn’t seem the same, mind you.  Their stories appear to be in sharp contrast of the other, but in reality, they are very much the same tale spelled, drawn and painted out by two very different girls with two very different experiences that started with two very different fathers who each gifted his daughter with very nearly identical boxes.
    Elizabeth turned twelve years old the day her father covered her eyes with his calloused, work-stained hands and led her into a room filled with family to surprise her with her very own hope chest.  Elizabeth had read about hope chests in her novels about pioneer families, so she knew exactly what she’d been given.  In her most precious conversations with her mother, she’d whispered about things she would love to tuck away in a hope chest for her own daughter one day, but she never imagined having one to fill with her very own treasures.  She breathed deeply, taking in the sharp aroma of the cedar chest as she slowly raised the lid to reveal that her chest wasn’t empty.  A handmade quilt, an antique silver coin and a few ceramic dishes she’d previously admired were tucked away inside.
    “Do you love it?” her father asked.
    “I do,” Elizabeth replied.  “I’ve always wanted one,” she said, rushing to give her Daddy a hug.
    “I want you to promise me something,” he asked, looking his daughter in the eye.  “This chest is for you to save treasures for your future life as a wife and mom,” he reminded her.  “As long as you keep the chest in sight, you’ll always be thinking about, praying and planning for your future.  The things you put in this box will be very important to you later and I want you to promise me that you’ll fill it with lovely things.  Be picky about the things you save, Elizabeth, so that when your future gets here, you’ll have excellent treasures to unpack.”
    “I promise!”
    That was a promise that Elizabeth meant with all her heart, and she planned to keep it, too!  Even though she was just a child, she decided right then and there that filling her hope chest was going to be serious business.  There wouldn’t be any dollar store trinkets in her hope chest.  A quick survey told her that she didn’t have a whole lot of space to fill in the first place, so she made her mind up quickly that only the best, most beautiful and meaningful treasures would earn a space in the cedar chest she would one day move to her very own house with her very own family. 
    “Happy Birthday!” rang out from her family as they watched her survey her new gift. 
    Looking at her grandparents, brothers, and cousins, she couldn’t help but smile.  “This is the best birthday ever!”

***

    Twelve-year-old Patty rolled her eyes behind the backs of her guests as they arrived at her home to celebrate her birthday.  She was embarrassed that her parents insisted on throwing her a party as if she was four.  They refused to listen to her when she told them that she was too old for a party and they had even bought a cake with the same brown and pink polka dots that last year’s cake had displayed.  Shaking her head, she could only hope that nobody would notice.  Just before she could shut the door behind one guest, another started up the sidewalk.  Patty raised her eyebrows in exasperation as Kimberly, a girl she went to kindergarten with, jogged to the front door and held out a gift bag.  “Thank you,” Patty said curtly as she moved to let Kimberly in.  She always buys the cheapest gifts, she thought as she closed the door a little harder than she should have.
    If she could just get through the next few minutes or so of pretending to be a little child, then she would be able to open her presents and finally get the new iPad she’d practically begged for since she’d seen that Naomi from dance class had one.   She could only hope that her parents had been paying attention when she said she wanted the pink one with the zebra case.  It’s bad enough that one of her classmates got one before her, but to have a generic one without all the latest accessories, well, she didn’t know if she could handle that.
    “Patty, did you hear me?” her mother practically sang from across the room.
    Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Patty replied.  “What did you say?”
    “I thought you might like to open your presents before you blow out your candles this year,” her mother offered sweetly as she pointed to an empty chair that would place Patty in the center of attention.
    Perfect, she sighed.  “Sure,” Patty said as she took her seat with a slight shrug.  The last thing she wanted to do was to appear anxious in front of her friends. 
    “Your dad and I have a very special gift for you this year.”  The words were barely out of her mother’s mouth before she started her silent celebration, knowing she was going to get exactly what she’d asked for.
    “Yes, Sweetie,” her dad said, nodding his head to Patty’s big brother.  “You are growing and maturing and becoming a young lady before our very eyes.”
    Patty couldn’t hide the flush of embarrassment that crept up her neck and into her cheeks.  Surely, her parents weren’t going to humiliate her on purpose in front of all these people.  “Daddy,” she said quickly, trying to send a message with her face that she didn’t like being babied in front of her friends.
    Her father smiled and continued as if she was supposed to be happy about her humiliation.  “We’ve watched you grow from a beautiful little girl who used to sing and dance every chance she got into a young lady who takes care of herself and appreciates nice things.  Before we know it, you’ll be grown and getting married, getting ready to start your own family.  Your mom and I wanted to get you a gift that would help you start really thinking about your future and what kind of woman you’re going to grow into.”
    Patty was confused.  Her forehead twisted as she watched her company shift from one side of the room to the other as her brother carefully maneuvered a massive present into the room.  That can’t be an iPad, Patty thought with disgust, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because her friends were all cooing and eyeballing her gift, waiting for her to unwrap it.  She gave her parents a nervous look before she stood to unwrap it.  The gift truly was enormous.  All hopes that it was a mostly empty box vanished the minute she pulled at the first strip of paper.  “A box?” she whispered out loud as she unwrapped what appeared to be nothing more than a wooden box. 
    “Not just a box,” her mother chimed in.  “It’s a special box.”
    “Special box?” Patty asked, puzzled before she realized something must be inside the box.  She very quickly jerked open the heavy wooden lid, only to find a musty blanket and an old crystal vase.  “I don’t understand,” she said, looking at her parents, trying very hard not to let her friends see how disappointed she was.
    “It’s a hope chest,” her father answered.  “Tradition holds that young women were given hope chests to fill with special things so that they would be prepared for their futures.  We know that you’re becoming a young woman now, and part of growing up is planning for your future.  We thought that having a hope chest to fill with your own treasures would help you to always be mindful that tomorrow will be here soon.  So, we bought you your very own chest and you can fill it with whatever you like, knowing that you’ll take this chest and all its valuable contents with you to your home when you start a family of your own.”
    Patty held her eyes open wide as she listened to her father speak.  He’s serious, she thought, trying to decide how to respond without embarrassing herself.  “I don’t know what to say,” she finally offered.
    She watched as her mom smiled and reached for her father’s hand.  “It’s okay, baby,” she said.  “It’s a big deal.”
    “You don’t have to say anything,” her dad told her.  “Just promise me that you’ll fill it with the finest of treasures.”
    “Yeah, Dad,” Patty said, running her fingers along the edge of the bulky wooden box.  “Treasures,” she said, trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice.  This is the worst birthday, she thought as she sat back down and waited for the pile of presents her friends had brought.  Worst birthday, ever!

***

    And, so began a decade that included two very different girls filling two nearly identical boxes.  Although they had never met and knew nothing of each other, Elizabeth and Patty both placed their hope chests at the foot of their beds and opened it every now and then to place things inside.  But the things each young lady tucked away within, and the care they took doing so, would make all the difference in their lives.
    Patty never grew to understand that love was the motivation behind the gift she hated.  For a few years, her chest lay empty at the foot of her bed, gathering dust and dirty clothes.  Occasionally, she would open it and toss something inside until she could find a better place for it, but in time, her hope chest became the place she used to hide her secrets.  It started out innocently enough when she accidentally broke her brother’s cell phone.  Rather than taking responsibility for her mistake, she hid the phone beneath the old quilt, knowing her secret would be safe there.  And it was.
    Unfortunately, hiding secrets became a habit for Patty and before she even realized it, her hope chest became a hiding place for everything she didn’t want to take responsibility for.  An empty pack of cigarettes littered the bottom of her chest before her sixteenth birthday.  After getting caught writing letters to a boy that her parents didn’t approve of, she found that slipping things inside her hope chest almost meant she could pretend like they never happened.  Year after year, her box became filled with all the things she didn’t want her parents to know, not because she was ashamed, but because she was tired of hearing the disapproval in their voices.  Love letters that celebrated disobedience were soon covered up with foul and wicked things that she didn’t want anyone to see, but Patty found security in the fact that she could live two lives:  the good one she led in public and the life she hid away in the box she despised.
    Before long, Patty walked away from her box of secrets and the family that loved her dearly.  She had allowed herself to put such a distance between herself and her loved ones that she was certain she’d never be welcomed back home.  Off she went into the harsh and cruel world, unknowingly dragging a haunting truth behind her.  Patty had never asked for the cedar chest that would eventually reveal to her parents how bad their good girl had become, but it had faithfully sat at the foot of her bed all those years, whispering a truth that Patty had no desire to hear.  She had spent her life saving and hiding garbage that painted a picture of who she had become, and now she had no intention of living her life any differently.  As far as she could tell, that old box and her hard heart had a lot in common.
    Elizabeth, on the other hand, had wasted no time making a list of precious things she would love to find for her hope chest.  By the time she turned fifteen, she had found the last book in a collection she wanted to save for her daughter.  That same year, she completed a cross-stitch work that she tucked away between the layers of her quilt with plans to frame it as soon as she could.  She had also hidden her small collection of silver dollars in a coffee can that sat on top of her journal where she’d worked on her family tree and the ragged Bible her mother had passed down to her.  Elizabeth had left her hope chest at home when she went away to college, but every time she got a chance, she’d bring treasures home to slip inside. 
    The night before she married the love of her life, she knelt down beside the chest that had faithfully housed her every treasure and allowed it to carry her down memory lane.  Very carefully, she unpacked each item and admired them.  Many of them were simple, but special things that she planned to use to make her new place feel like home.  Some things were truly precious, and she intended to keep them as they grew in value.  But the things that meant the most to her were sentimental in nature.  A dried flower she’d received from a secret admirer in high school, a letter from a missionary overseas, a journal she’d written her first year in college- those things held her heart and reminded her, not only of who she was, but also who she really wanted to be. 
    After carefully examining each precious item, Elizabeth had placed all of her belonging back into her chest and sighed.  She had kept her promise to her Daddy.  She had been wise with her choices and saved room for the most special of treasures.  She had even discarded a few items when she realized that they weren’t exactly what she thought they had been when she first saved them.  She had protected the contents of her chest as she thought and prayed about her future and now, the night before her wedding, she realized just how wise her father had been.  For as careful as she’d been with her treasures, she’d been just as careful with her heart.  God had used that old chest to teach her something about life that she might have missed otherwise.  Climbing into her old bed for the last time, Elizabeth was overcome with thankfulness.  Life truly was what you put into it. 
    Her Daddy had taught her to be picky about what she put in her chest, and in the process, taught her to be picky about what she let in her heart. “Guard your heart above all else,” he would faithfully remind her of the Proverb.  “It’s where life comes from.” 
    And so, she fell asleep that night knowing that she truly did have a box of treasure to take with her tomorrow on her new journey with her husband.  But that was the smallest part of the story.  While carefully packing what mattered most into that big wooden box, she’d trained herself to closely watch what she packed into her heart.  Tossing out the bad to make room for the precious, she knew that the box wasn’t all she had to offer her new family.  She’d grown up taking good care of her “well spring of life” and in doing so, another small town princess learned how to answer an age-old question. 

***


Above all else, guard your heart.  It is your wellspring of life!

…to be continued…

Taylorjourney: Why We Homeschool

     Years ago, I found myself sitting across from my young son in a restaurant, faced with a dilemma.  You see, I had always promised myself that I would fight for my children no matter the cost, and yet I distinctly remember watching the shadows of fear and disappointment cast across his little face as he described yet another miserable day at school.  Trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I nodded my head and squeezed Tim's hand in a silent acknowledgement of what we'd come to accept as normal:  Our oldest child hated school, and apparently school returned the favor.
      Now, I'm not saying that the struggles we were dealing with are common to other parents.  As a matter of fact, it seems as though we were getting it from all sides.  Our son was ten years old at the time and was consistently coming home from school with headaches and stories that would make a saint want to try her hand in a boxing ring.  We live in a small community with a K-12 school system and because of that, our son walked the halls with juniors and seniors that had mouths like sailors and the character, apparently, of catfish.  Being asked to explain detailed sexual terms by your ten year old pales only in comparison to trying to explain why a 17 year old would tear up your homework, steal your textbook or threaten to kill your dog.  After nearly two years of jumping through hoops at the school to try to handle the "bullying" situation to no avail, we were ready to start picking fights with parents in an attempt to curb the abuse, but then God started opening our eyes to a completely different can of worms.
      This kid of mine who seemed to garner the attention of every kid with a perverse sense of humor was also a fantastic student.  When he started school, he absolutely loved to learn and it showed.  He would often finish assignments while the teacher was still giving instructions to the class.  He would grow bored in science and history and read ahead or study the parts of the texts that the classes would skip over.  He, at ten, was reading like a champ and had earned himself a reading level that allowed him to snag books from a different shelf in the library than his classmates.  You would think that what I'm telling you would be wonderful news, but sadly, in the school system, it spelled disaster.   Very few teachers had any patience for his desire to move at a different pace than his peers because it simply didn't fit into a public school schedule, or scope and sequence, to be more exact.  Instead of being encouraged for moving ahead, he was called out in front of the class and even written up on more than one occasion.  My young learner quickly realized that being good at what you do at school meant sneers and visits to the principal's office.  It was a very frustrating consequence of the 'system' side of education, but even at its worst, it didn't touch the issues we ran into when it came to his ability to read on a different level than his classmates.

     It's easy to assume that having a child who loves to read and does it well would be a huge benefit to his schooling, but doing so will only set you up for disappointment, and quite frankly, disgust.  Imagine my horror when my kid brought me a newly finished novel and asked me to clarify the ending for him, only to read and realize that my then nine year old had followed the story of a young orphan who trekked across the country and found himself unknowingly in the care of an older homosexual with questionable motives?  Well, I was furious.  I accompanied my son and that book to the school the next day, sure that the book in question had found its way to his hands by mistake, only to find out that I was being unreasonable.  Apparently, my son's reading level dictated that such material would be made available to his young eyes and there was nothing I could do about it.  As a matter of fact, that book turned out to be a slight blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things as I repeatedly approached teacher, librarian, principal and BOE with reading material that would cause grown ups to blush and squirm, only to be made feel like my finding issue with it in the first place apparently meant I was raising my son wrong.  It was a frustrating time, to say the least, but in the absence of any real solution to the problem, we ended up not participating in the state-wide reading program that sent my son to the library each week.  He went from winning awards to earning zeros and that was as close to compromise as we could get.

      Another thing that really turned my stomach happened at one of our famous teacher/parent meetings just a few weeks before I pulled the plug.  We were a few months into the 5th grade and I found myself sitting at a short table with his three teachers, one of which being his reading teacher.  We were discussing, as always, the problems with a kid who gets bored with classwork and how 'disrespectful' it is for a ten year old to begin an assignment before a teacher gives instructions, or even worse, to do assignments that the teacher hasn't even assigned.  I was frustrated to tears with that particular conversation, only to be questioned next, by his reading teacher, who was profoundly disappointed that my kid wasn't participating in the 'supplemental reading program.'  After retelling my woes about the experiences we'd tucked under our belts, this teacher looked confused for a moment before excusing herself and leaving the room.  After a few minutes, she returned and confessed that she didn't realize my son could read on a higher level than his class and had assumed, for months, that he was defiant and lazy. After a few questions and reminders on my part, I realized this woman wasn't just a teacher, she was his reading teacher and yet she could tell me nothing of his ability to read, only that he didn't "conform" to her version of a "normal" ten year-old. Sadly, I can't even tell you that this situation was the result of an apathetic teacher.  She cared, bless her heart-she just didn't have time to concentrate attention on any one student, therefore, a student who performed above grade level was essentially ignored, unless they caused the problems my child caused.  It was explained to me that the only students who actually get one-on-one time are the students that fall below the average.   It occurred to me right then and there that I had placed my child's academic future into the hands of people who couldn't afford (because they don't have the time) to really care about his future beyond their classroom.  It was a gut wrenching bump in the road that led us to that seemingly dreadful conversation five years ago.

    So, I was sitting at this restaurant, watching my family enjoy homemade salsa and chips while I tried to ignore the dance that was going on in my gut.  Across the table from me was a kid that God trusted me with.  I was supposed to protect him and fight for him.  He was my responsibility and his life wouldn't be graded with a report card that begged for my signature.   It would be graded by his ability to show character when nobody else could, to succeed even it was looked poorly upon, to go the distance, even if it meant going alone.  I was setting my kid up for failure. And as we bowed our heads to thank God for the simple meal, I once again whispered, "God, if you'll just show me what to do, I'll do it.  Show me how to rescue my kid from what seems to be changing who he is."  And it hit me:  God had given me a way, I had just, until that moment, said "no" to it.   We said "Amen," and I casually looked at my son and said, "You can quit worrying about school, son.  You won't be going back."
     Did I have a job to quit?  You betcha'.
     Did I have a clue what I was getting myself into?  Not a chance.
     Was it to be a huge sacrifice?  Absolutely.
     After half a decade of being at home with my kids, would I do it again?  A million times over.


So, there is a picture of my journey from "real" school to homeschool.  It's been the wildest, craziest, hardest and most beautiful ride so far and I'm looking forward to the next leg in the journey.  We're not perfect, but my kids love school.  Better than that, when they talk of their futures, they don't center around fortunes or travels or lottery tickets.  Instead, their stories of being grown revolve around picnics, dinner tables, food fights and making memories.  My kids don't "fit."  They would stick out in a crowd.  In any given situation, they're going to look for "another" way to get something done.  They're a little unique.  And that's just fine by me!

     I decided to jot down this story because I'm asked to explain it on a weekly basis. I plan to write more in the near future about our homeschooling journey.  If you have specific questions, please send them my way.  I don't, for a second, believe that homeschooling is the right choice for every family, but if God is leading you in that direction, I'd love to help! 


   

Miles to Go Before I Sleep...

"Whoever asks you to go one mile, go with him two."  ~Matthew 5:41

Many of you know that I am rising to the 90 Day Bible Challenge for the second time this year.  I met that challenge earlier this year and my heart was astounded at all I was able to absorb in such a short time.  I felt as though I'd crawled up in the lap of my Father and asked Him to tell me stories.  It was an amazing time and if I live a hundred more years, I don't think I'll ever be able to settle for a few verses a week.  On Monday, I will open my Bible to Genesis and  begin anew... But that's not all I'll be doing.

First, I have a dismal confession to make.  It's not one I like sharing.  Actually, I believe, until this moment, I've only shared it with two people.  When I finished the last Bible Challenge, I felt so incredibly close to God that I truly felt as though I could hear Him breathe.  My faith was stronger than it had ever been.  So was my prayer life.  I know exactly how human I am and I feared that after the challenge was over, that the disappointment in being finished would somehow cause me to 'fizzle-out.'  During my prayer time, I felt like the Lord was impressing a fast on my heart, and I promised to finish my 90 Day Bible challenge with a 90 Day fast of some sort.  Unfortunately, I can't tell you how that fast went, because I simply didn't do it.  I caved.  I justified.  And I fizzled.

So, I've been asking God to show me how to keep my promises, how to fight for my prayer life and how to sow spiritually healthy habits.  I believe He has answered me in three very different, very difficult ways.

#1:  I am going to dive into the 90 Day Bible Challenge with my heart wide open.  I'm going to give Him all I have.  I'm going to study to show myself approved and spend three months writing His Words on my heart.

#2:  I am going to fast something for said 90 Days.  (I know you're not supposed to advertise this, but we're on a journey of vulnerable obedience, here.  I won't share the details, and I won't twist my face and pout about it- still, there's an element of making the promise real by saying it out loud.)

#3:  And this is the purpose of this blog...  I'm challenging myself to walk two miles a day during my 90 Day Challenge.  I love the story behind the Matthew Chapter 5 verses about carrying a soldier's pack two miles if he asks you to carry it one.  I love that we were designed to be "more than expected" people.  I also love how my daily prayer walks used to define my days.  I don't even remember why I quit them, but I did.  Gone are the days when I would start my day with a brisk walk and a long talk with my Father.  A mere twenty minute walk could easily make the difference in a day, a week, a project or a life.  I'm not sure why I allowed myself to inch away from my Father in my prayer life, but I did.  And no amount of empty promises will get it back, so I'm swapping my words for verbs.  I'm challenging myself to walk, not one mile with my Father each day, but two.  180 miles in 90 days.

Three simple promises from one simple girl who wants her life to be marked, not by what I go through, but by Who lives in me.

May these 90 Days fashion me into a sweeter, more faithful daughter whose heart is set on doing her Father's bidding.

Passenger Seat: Classical Ride

"Young folks these days..."


Allow me to introduce you to one of the good guys.  I was honored to get a guest gig on the blog of someone that I respect and adore.   Stop by and spend a few minutes with a young man that will make you want to be a deeper, more authentic and cooler person.  Rise to his occasion and get to know a 'kid' who just might renew your faith in a God who still moves.

The Classical Ride

Fighting Naked

As much as I hold a grudge against the legacy she left, there are certain aspects of Eve's character that I find captivating.  I love that she was so completely human; even in her pettiness and manipulation, she reminds me of myself. I'm equally amazed that she had the undivided attention of both God and man and still whispered into history that it wasn't enough for her. Only a woman could absolutely have it all and yet wreck it trying to feel even better about herself.  I'm strangely comforted by the fact that she didn't have a single woman to compare herself to, and yet she still had self-esteem issues-enough so that she fell for Satan's ego-boosting schemes.  I also find it absolutely fascinating that the very complex woman walked naked, but unashamed.  And as much as I love to camp out in Genesis and apply Eve's old truths to my life, I always tend to get stuck on the fact that while she didn't have a thread on her body, she also didn't have a care in the world.  Being naked and unashamed is such a foreign concept for me that I find Daniel, Jonah, Shadrach, Meschach and Abednego far more believable than a naked woman without shame.

I happen to know that I'm not the only person to ever wake up in the middle of the night clutching the bedsheets about my throat saying, "It was only a dream, Sue.  You weren't really at school (or church, or the airport, or the county fair) naked." As a matter of fact, every time I share that horrible dream with someone, I'm always entertained with stories of the similar dreams of my peers.  I have a friend who dreamed that they showed up to a medical conference without a stitch of clothing.  I have another who told me about a nightmare which ended shortly after they realized they were being welcomed as the keynote speaker onto a grand stage, only to look down and realize that not only were they naked, but the miracle cream they'd thrown a hundred bucks at was a complete waste of money.  And even if we don't actually dream about showing up to the important parts of our life without our clothing, we still fear being stripped down to the naked truth in public.  For years, I've assumed that Eve's lack of shame in her nakedness was attributed to her lack of sin, and for the most part, I still do.  But lately, as I pray and think about ways to teach the young folks in my life how to fight the raging battles for their hearts and souls, Eve's nakedness has come to mean a bit more to me.

Eve, for all of her complexities and issues, did exactly what I'm praying the people I love choose not to do;  SHE FOUGHT NAKED.  She really did.  Eve showed up to war without her britches on.  And it wasn't just her pants she forgot, she stood on the front line of the world's first war without a thread of clothing to cover her flesh.  SHE WAS NAKED, alright.  And in a picture that would last for all eternity, Eve attempted to do battle with the evil one with absolutely NOTHING separating her FLESH from her ENEMY. 

Bear with me, here.  I know I'm speaking in pictures now, but try to see it with me.  Imagine that her physical nakedness was a symbolic picture of our spiritual nakedness.  Imagine that the portrait in our minds of a soft, chunky Eve with an apple in the beautiful garden is actually our greatest motivation to put our clothes on before we attempt to do our daily business with an evil one lurking about. I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that the idea of someone doing life without their clothes on is made-for-reality-tv-madness.  You're thinking that I must be the only one on the planet who would even dream of going about my ordinary day with no regard to the fact that every part of my being is vulnerable and exposed.  No, you say, folks simply don't try to do life naked.  But, I say we do.  As a matter of fact, I say it's very possible that even though YOU are in the midst of a destiny-changing battle at this very moment, you're doing so without an inch of fabric separating you from the enemy who desires your demise.  I wonder how many of us are mothers engaged in a battle for the souls of our children without our clothes on.  I worry that some of us are fathers, camped out in the middle of a war for our families and instead of being able to fight the good fight, we're distracted by the nagging sense that we're not prepared for the fight at all, while oblivious to the fact that we left our wardrobe at home. 

Think about it, friends.  God told us to cover ourselves before we do battle with the one who hates us.  He didn't just say, "Suit up," and leave it at that.  He gave us detailed instructions about what we should wear.  He told us what to protect.  He shared with us exactly what to don and how and why, but at the end of the day, the moral to all of His instruction and advice sounded a lot like this:

Don't fight naked.

God wouldn't say that, you say?  Well, let me remind you what you probably taught in Sunday school last month...

Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.


You see?  God told us a truth that Eve didn't understand.  With His Word and His Wisdom, he showed us that we'll never win a battle that we try to fight without our clothes on.  In telling us how to WIN A SPIRITUAL BATTLE, He also very clearly told us HOW TO LOSE.  The quickest way to lose a battle with your enemy is to show up for war donning only your flesh, talents, abilities and resources.  If you care to win in any way that counts in this life, you've got to swallow the truth that you'll never do it alone-and you'll certainly never do it naked.  And the scariest part?  You're in the thick of war this very instant- whether you realize it or not.  That means that if you forgot a few important articles of clothing THIS MORNING, you are losing a battle THIS AFTERNOON.  It could be a battle for your ministry, your purpose or your future.  It could be a battle for your talents, your time or your resources.  It could very well be a battle for your integrity, your self-esteem, your character, or even your family or your children. The fact that we can't sense the battle should only serve as a great motivation to go and look in the mirror.

So, wake up and take a gander at yourself.  Are you naked?  Are you vulnerable?  Are you exposed?  Have you followed your Father's advice today?  Did you put Him on this morning?  Are your pants being held securely in place by the belt of truth?  Is your well spring of life being protected by His righteousness?  Is your ministry covered with the Gospel of Peace?  Are you holding a shield of wide-awake faith?  Is your mind covered with a helmet that constantly reminds your thoughts of your Salvation?  And is your hand on the handle of the Sword that finds its very power in the vowels, consonants and punctuations found between the covers of your Bible?  Are you, in fact, able to stand your ground against the one who wants to steal your joy, kill your heart and destroy your future?  Or, are you instead, standing naked and vulnerable in the face of a very crafty enemy?

We weren't meant to lose, friends.  I mean that.  We simply weren't meant to watch our marriages fail.  We were never supposed to break the hearts of our children.  We weren't made to walk away from our Father, medicate ourselves with false hope, spend our hours dancing with vain imaginations.  We weren't designed to swallow the guilt we've bought, lie the lies we tell or try to sleep without the character we've sold.  We simply weren't made to lose...

And we weren't made to fight naked.

For the love of God people, put your clothes on!







(And if you don't know how, message me at faithmyeyes@msn.com or look me up on facebook.  I'd love to help!)

Get up!

I was reading over a prayer list today and smiled about a young Mom who wants her friends to pray for a surgery her son is having tomorrow.  It took me back in time about a decade and a half to the morning I drove my infant son to the hospital to have tubes surgically placed in his ears.  My healthy son was having the most performed medical procedure known to pediatric medicine and yet, driving to that hospital before sunrise that morning, I felt like no other Mom had ever endured such concern.  I'm a lot older and a little wiser now, but it's obvious that the fears that fluttered throughout my heart that day are both timeless and universal.  There is something inherently terrifying about watching a loved-one roll away into an operating room.
I've never really put much thought to what we're actually afraid of until a few recent health scares with my Mom.  You see, my Mom doesn't have to guess at what to be afraid of- she knows what's really at risk when a patient holds that mask to their mouth and count backwards.  She's been a decorated nurse in a high-stress medical environment since I was just a toddler.  She's memorized the risks, knows the statistics and understands the factors involved in the simple and not-so-simple operations that take place from day to day in the medical community.  And with all of her lofty knowledge and studies and experience, do you know what my Mom decided was the most dangerous part of an operation when she found herself on the bed instead of manning the controls beside it?   
THE ANESTHESIA. 
It wasn't the exploratory aspect of surgery that frightened her.  It wasn't even the fact that she was putting her God given life into man's fallible hands.  She wasn't even concerned about the risk of some ugly infection or blood loss or any of the crazy scenarios I could dream up if you gave me enough time.  Nope, my mom, the one who's been bedside for literally thousands of surgeries in her career, decided that what TERRIFIED her about an operation was the fact that she would be put to sleep.
In pondering my Mom's ordeal from a few months ago and praying for my friend's son, a realization hit me that makes all of the fear and prayers make sense:
We're never closer to death than when we are in a deep, uncontrollable sleep.


  I don't know that there's any medical proof to what I'm saying.  I'm only saying that what caused me to be so deathly afraid for my infant son was that I was terrified that they would put him under anesthesia and that he would never wake up.   I don't know for sure, but I believe if you asked my friend what scared her most about her son's surgery, that she would shudder as she communicated how wrong it felt to know that a doctor would soon cause such a deep, uncontrollable sleep to overtake her son that he wouldn't be able to inhale a breath on his own volition.  And I know that for my Mother, anesthesia was, at least in her mind for that moment, the enemy of her very life.
Now, all this thinking makes me ponder questions of a slightly different variety.

If we're so sure that being put to sleep is actually being put close to death, then why are we so content to pretend to live our lives when we're really under the anesthesia of our worst enemy?
Why so much fear and anxiety when we think our physical lives might be in danger, but a general apathy when our spiritual lives are?
Why do we resist death in absolutely every aspect except when that death threatens the Life within us that matters most? 

Soak in some of the following Scriptures and wonder with me if we're terrified of all the wrong things.

For this reason it says,
         “Awake, sleeper,
         And arise from the dead,
         And Christ will shine on you.”

      Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise men but as wise, making the most of your time, because the days are evil. So then do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. And do not get drunk with wine, for that is dissipation, but be filled with the Spirit, speaking to one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody with your heart to the Lord; always giving thanks for all things in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ to God, even the Father; and be subject to one another in the fear of Christ.

Wake up! Strengthen what little remains, for even what is left is almost dead. I find that your actions do not meet the requirements of my God.

Wake up, you drunkards, and weep! Wail, all you wine-drinkers! All the grapes are ruined, and all your sweet wine is gone.

Do this, knowing the time, that it is already the hour for you to awaken from sleep; for now salvation is nearer to us than when we believed. The night is almost gone, and the day is near. Therefore let us lay aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.

When he rose from prayer and went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow. “Why are you sleeping?” he asked them. “Get up and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.”

And finally, 

Go back to what you heard and believed at first; hold to it firmly. Repent and turn to me again. If you don't wake up, I will come to you suddenly, as unexpected as a thief.

Can't you see it?  We were right to be afraid of that deep, dead-to-the-world sleep.  We were right to think that you can't get that close to death without being in danger.  We were wise to resist that artificial, anti-life slumber that only comes at the hand of someone else.  Our fears were founded! They were just misguided.  It's not the medical kind of anesthesia that should leave us shaking in our boots, it's the spiritual kind!  We shouldn't shake in terror when a highly qualified and educated professional administers a medical sleep that will numb our senses to what's going on in our bodies. We should shake in terror when the enemy of our hearts attempts to administer a spiritual sleep that numbs our souls to the living, breathing battles that rage all around us.  We don't need to fight against the doctor who's trying to save our physical lives.  What we need to be doing is fight against the enemy who is trying to steal, kill and destroy our very souls.

 SOUND THE ALARM!  Shake yourself from your slumber and then fight the good fight.  Cover your family in prayer.  Stuff your heart with the Word of God.  Slap on the armor you thought you'd misplaced.  Pull out the sword you told yourself you weren't worthy to hold.  GET UP! Crawl out of bed. Stretch those forgotten muscles.  Take a deep breath and PURPOSE to live your LIFE, not sleep through it.  And the minute you're conscious enough to wipe the sleep from your eyes,  go snatch someone you love out of their proverbial bed. WAKE UP!  Wake me up!  Don't let me sleep while souls slip away. Don't let me slumber while my family crumbles.  Don't you dare let me nap while I forfeit the life Jesus came to grant me! 

Be alert, for your enemy, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour!  

Tell me, friends, what is the opposite of 'alert?'  Well, obviously, it's SLEEP!  And what does sleep look like in terms of my soul?  Well, I'm going to go out on a limb here and tell you from the depths of my heart what spiritual sleep looks like in my life.

If I, no matter how excellent my excuses sound, am not daily digesting sizable chunks of God's Word, then I am sleeping through my spiritual life.

If I, no matter what I say I'm doing instead, am not fighting, praying and paying to see that the Gospel gets to the ends of the earth, then I am sleeping through my spiritual life.

If I, no matter what my mouth says, am not doing what God says I should do, then I am sleeping through my spiritual life.

If I, no matter how politically correct it is to do otherwise, am not confessing to my close friends where I'm struggling against God's Word, then I am sleeping through my spiritual life.

If I, no matter how very busy my calendar becomes, can hear stories of failed marriages, broken families, hungry orphans and lonely widows without being moved beyond emotional tears and into physical action, then I am sleeping through my spiritual life.

And if I, no matter how pretty words sound coming out of my mouth, am not living a life that is defined by an intense love for others, then I am sleeping through my spiritual life. 


So, friends, will you heed my own call to consciousness?  Will you love me enough to scream to me when I slumber?  Let's not continue to fear a synthetic sleep that aids our bodies while we revel in a spiritual sleep that forfeits our Life.  Take a deep breath.  Pour a cup of coffee.  Call a friend and spill your guts.  The sleep is over.  Let's LIVE!

If you care to know...

After having the incredible blessing of spending a few sweet days with some of the best friends I'll ever have, I wanted to take the opportunity to share why I love who they are, what they do and where they come from.

Viorel and Delia Cruceru live in Southern Romania where they work daily to share the Gospel of Jesus to a country scarred by decades of darkness and deceit.  Facing opposition at every turn, they spend their time, money and life offering the Hope of Jesus to people who, without people like them, will spend their lives believing that they lack a Redeemer that allows them to have a relationship with their God.  Because of people like Viorel and Delia, there is a small group of "Repenters" in Southern Romania that no longer have to pay and hope for forgiveness, trust a man to be their bridge to God, or live in hopeless darkness.  Yes, the Cruceru family has made it their purpose to share Christ with the nations, but they didn't stop there.

Viorel pastors a church in Slatina, Romania.  What we once called Grace Baptist Church, we now jokingly refer to as Sardines Baptist Church because while the sanctuary of the building is small, around 125 people squeeze themselves in there on Sundays to pray, sing and study God's Word.  When Viorel first started pastoring, he knew that he wanted to 'be about' the Word of God so now, after years of leading congregations, he's still centered on his first love:  The Scriptures.  Members of Grace (Sardines) Baptist Church know that their hope rests in God and that truth rests in the Bible.  As a matter of fact, Viorel and Delia have practically spent their adult lives teaching people what the Bible says, but they didn't stop there.

The Cruceru family knows that if you're going to give someone the best chance at a life of Grace, you need to reach them when they're young.  They also know that if you're going to minister to a person, you have to minister to the whole person.  For these reasons, they support and oversee an orphanage near their home that houses teenagers in need.  Whether these teenagers were put out on the streets for professing a faith in Christ or they came to the orphanage because high school wasn't offered in their village, they get the great opportunity to live in Grace.  Teens who make their home here are taught the Word, offered a high school education, given a faith family and trained in life skills, all while basking in the love and truth of God.  I, personally, have met some of my favorite people on the planet within these walls and am so glad that this House of Grace is available for them.  Yes, the Crucerus have made many sacrifices to make sure that the orphanage continues to help teenagers, but they didn't stop there. 

  Much unlike Northern Romania, poverty is the norm in the Southern parts of the country.  While Slatina is a city comparable to parts of Birmingham, it is surrounded by villages that would seem a century or so behind the times to most of us.  Working small pieces of land to provide for their families, villagers live with very few of the amenities and blessings that we take for granted.  Without public transportation, internet, libraries, or high schools, it would seem that those born into the villages are destined for hardship, but thanks to mission-minded churches like Grace Baptist, Hope and resources have been made available to these beautiful villages.  Just a few of the examples I've witnessed throughout the last decade include the only Christian kindergarten in the county, an amazing young woman blessed with a high school education and medical clinics that offer healing hands and precious prayers to hundreds of people who couldn't afford to pay for services.  Viorel and Delia have walked these streets, loving and helping these people, but they didn't stop there.

Apparently, spending their lives and hearts on the Romanian people isn't enough for Viorel and Delia because just last week, they sat in my living room and poured life and truth into my children and friends.  Our time together, as always, was filled with laughter, tears (on my part, of course), Scripture, wisdom, hugs and encouragement.  They shared their hearts with my friends and shared their dreams with my children.  They took time and explained Scripture to Chandler and sang songs (in Romanian and English) with Bre Elise and Connor.  They prayed with and for us and made themselves at home in our home, blessing us beyond measure.  To be sure, they are some of the best friends Tim and I will ever have and they mean the world to us.  They have been faithful to pray for our marriage, our children and our ministry, but they won't stop there.

They will keep the faith and let God finish what He started when He called them. A legacy is already growing in their midst as Luiza, Rebecca and Beni (one of our heroes) stand up to continue what Viorel and Delia started. Souls are being saved in Romania.  The saved are being taught deeply the Word of God.  Strongholds are being demolished.  Families are being redeemed.  Examples are being made.  They are hard pressed on every side, my friends.  There isn't a single area of their ministry that hasn't, at least to some degree, been postponed due to financial hardship.  The government and opposing religion look down on them daily. They are a pitiful minority in a corrupt country. They are 365-day-a-year-missionaries and because their 'mission' is worthy, by definition, it can't be easy.  No, a life sold out to the Gospel isn't necessarily an easy life, but I can tell by the sparkle in Viorel's eyes and the love in Delia's voice that it's a good life, indeed. 

So, what's the moral of this beautiful story?  Pray for my friends.  Pray for the work they do.  Pray for their children and grandchildren and the ministries represented by them all.  Pray for darkness to flee.  Pray that people fall in love with missions and that they would share their treasure for the cause of Christ.  Pray for wisdom and favor for my friends as they live the life I wonder wasn't made for each one of us.