Grace Like An Ocean

What if it wasn’t enough? All the love that we bottled up and poured out on the ones we held most dear? We filled our leaking vessels with what we thought would fill the hearts that fester and bleed. We took our unsteady acts of kindness and fragile gifts of hope and offer them like a small child giving the gift of a dandelion to their mother. Deep inside, we know it’s not enough, but it stands firm on the foundation of love. The dandelion fades, the kindness is whisped away like a feather in the wind, but the steadfast gift of love remains.

But it is possible that it wasn’t enough. As age came and captured our bodies, the vessels of our hearts became heavier, like a roof that has endured enough storms, it caves. But we don’t take the time for restoration. And we fill, fill, fill, yet it is never enough. Because we leak, leak, leak.

Until there is nothing left to refill it with.

Until we are empty.

And dry.

And so exhausted.

Then comes the anger. Because we are empty and our love isn’t working. Our communication skills shattered on the ground. Angry with ourselves for trying and failing. And this is close to home.
Because what was the center of my world for so long I see has a failure.
What was the very reason for the breath in my lungs was meaningless.

A valiant effort, like a baby eagle, kicked out of the nest, stretched his tiny wings out, believing he could fly, but plummets to the ground.
It was not without rescue though, because the mother Eagle never lets her baby down. Just as the baby eagle thinks he will never soar above the trees again, she swoops into his helpless state and catches him and flies back to the nest, only for the process to begin again.

But I’m not a baby eagle. I’m a grown eagle, who is tired. I’m unable to save those who are falling. I won’t reach them in time. And even if I did, my strength is not able to save them, because they aren’t baby eagles either.

There are gifts for moments like this.

Restoration and grace have a way of offering the solace we need.

It begins with a picture of the ocean.

The ocean is relentless. Never once does the water fail to kiss the shore or the waves to crash on onto the sandy edge of the earth. It is faithful to the shore. Sometimes ravishing the coast after ferocious winds stir up its strength. Sometimes gently touching the shore, reminding us of his presence. What a picture of grace, I thought, as I stood with the water tickling my toes. The deeper I went, the more I felt washed clean by the dirty water. Jumping the waves, laying onto of their majesty, tossed by their power, suddenly a kid again. The worries, the fears, the tensions all fade away.

It’s like that with grace. I can run, fast and far, away from grace. But without it, there is no restoration, there is no hope.

Sometimes we run from it for valid reasons. Memories roared in my head of when the waves were unkind to my body, when fear flooded my heart and the water terrorized me. Before I had learned the art of the ocean, before I had embraced the love of danger that comes with adventure, stories of me as a little girl being taken by the ocean, a memory I cannot shake here at the shore. But I refuse to let the fear stop me from returning to this powerful force that paints a portrait of grace.

I wonder though, why we always compare the attributes of God to dangerous things?
Grace like an ocean, love like a hurricane, an avalanche. Peace like a river.

Is it because He's dangerous? Is it because what He can do to me could wreck my soul? Maybe I need to drown in Him so He can teach me the value of each breath that I take. Maybe we need His grace to be an ocean because it is unexpected. It might not be what we wanted, what we dreamed about as a child and wished on the bright stars for. But it is far more extravagant, far more lovely than our dreams could ever be. Even the hurricanes and the tsunamis are for our good. It does not come without grief or pain. But the grief is there to soften us and the pain to build up others. Grace is dangerous, unexpectedly so. But grace is also gentle and kind because it is a gift that changes me in the most beautiful of ways. Grace is the ocean that ravages the shores of my life in a hurricane, it wrecks the things that I once thought lovely so that he can build me up into God’s workmanship, that resembles Him, that shines brightly so that they no longer see me, but they see Christ within me. Grace isn’t what I thought, but it is what I need. It is beyond all I hoped for. Grace unveils the truth that I am not enough but covers me so that I am. Grace unravels the truth that I am more flawed than I dare admit but weaves me back together into a testimony of mercy and love. Grace extends a bridge because my offering was not enough, but it lays the foundation of the offering that was. 

Thank you, Lord, for offering me Grace like an ocean, vast and deep and wide, when I deserved nothing of the kind.

“But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ, even when we were dead in our trespasses. It is by grace you have been saved! And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with Him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages He might display the surpassing riches of His grace, demonstrated by His kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved through faith, and this not from yourselves; it is the gift of God, not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s workmanship created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance as our way of life." Ephesians 2:4-10

rest for the weary

two years ago I made a promise,

I was waiting

          and waiting

                and waiting.

I gave the Lord my heart, fully and truly. 

The thirsty, shattered pieces,

and the dusty, forgotten rooms,

he had it all. 

but my heart was yearning,

thirsty,

desperate for more of him,

for him to show me the purpose for the pain,

meaning for the struggle. 

My heart's song was devotion and dedication,

no matter how unsteady my faltering feet. 

Terrified of my heart's capacity,

frightened of my distracted heart's wandering,

 I clung ever so tightly to Jesus.

The waiting did not last forever, 

he stayed true to his word.

but there were other prayers, 

bigger pleas,

more important matters,

I said, "Jesus, please."

but he did not come.

I begged, "Jesus, PLEASE."

but he stayed away. 

I cried, "Jesus I need you."

Why didn't he come?

Why hasn't he come?

There are seasons of desperation. When our faith is rooted in history, not sight. When our belief in our Savior is planted firmly in memory of what He has done before. In these exhausting seasons, our reservoirs of faith are often drawn upon.
Sometimes, the reservoirs become nearly dry. Like a trek up a mountain, our energy spent, every muscle in our body shaking, crying out for rest. Parched mouths search the sky for rain and scavenge the ground for streams.
Just as we are about to collapse, as our knees begin to buckle, the call is to lift up our eyes.
Because the spring of Living water is ahead, the reservoir filled with the supplies to rejuvenate our aching bones is just before us.

I haven't seen the reservoir yet. I am still trudging the mountain, knowing it's close, sure as the sun that it is not far off. But the strength I once had confidence in is fading. The energy I once thrived on is completely spent. My bones are crying out, they've been bruised from the fall. I am clumsier than I once was. My muscles scream, weaker than I had believed.

So what do we do when the reservoir is still a long way off? What do we do when our hearts are weary? Or when sleep is restless and we cannot find the energy we need to go on? What about when the thoughts swirl recklessly in our mind, uncaring of the destruction they cause, the anxiety they invite? Where is the peace like a river that passes all understanding?

I know I am not the only one to ask these questions. I know I am not the only one to wrestle and struggle with the God that I love.

His most beautiful answer is hidden away in Isaiah 40.

"Comfort," He begins. A passage of comfort for his hurting and weary nation, for his people who feel they cannot lift their heads. He comforts them with himself. The following verses are questions to remind them of himself. In verse 25 he goes on,

"To whom then will you compare me, that I should be like him? says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power, not one is missing."

This God, this powerful, mighty strong God calls the stars by name and not one is out of his reach. He speaks lovely of the great mystery that covers our sleep at night and goes on to speak kindness to the greatest of his creation, humanity.

"Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak O Israel, 'my way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is disregarded by my God?'"

These words may not have drifted carelessly from my mouth but my mind has wrestled them. The painful circumstances before me, my eyes focused only on them, and my heart is sure, the Lord does not care, he cannot see, this does not matter.

But these words of hope are not filled with accusation.

"Have you not known? Have you not heard?" He gently calls his people to reflection.

Of course, they had known! These were the Israelites! They knew their God. He had led them through the seas, out of slavery and into victory. They had known, the stories had been passed down from generation to generation. There was not a doubt that he had been faithful before. But would he be faithful again?

"The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

This is a gospel message to us. It is for us who have fainted and grown weary with the demands of life. For us who cannot understand the workings of this world. To us who are youths and yet feel we there is not an ounce of strength left in our bones. He promises to renew our strength, to be God to our brokenness. He is good, he is the creator of the ends of the earth. How could we doubt him?

But maybe you are like me. Maybe the promise of strength is great. But you aren't sure if you want to continue. You aren't sure if it is worth your time. You wonder that even if He does renew your strength, how much longer will this take? How much more must we wrestle with before our hearts are at ease, our bones can rest, our souls at peace?

The next promise is for us.

"Listen to me in silence," he says. (1) Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (9-10)... "I am the one who helps you, declares the Lord; your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel. (14)
'When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the Lord will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers on the bare heights and fountains in the midst of the valleys... (17)."

His promise is for us. Listen to him. Fear not, yes, it will be hard, but he will help us. He will answer us and not forsake us. He will do the miraculous because of his immense love for us.
In spite of the pain and the difficulty, he will provide for us.

I have to believe that the glory that is to be revealed with this story is far greater than the glory that was revealed in the last. 

I have to believe that Jesus will continue to be kind and gracious and good to my heart.

I have to believe in this hope that is invisible.

I cannot see it. I do not know how this will remain true, but I believe in my God. My hope is fully in Him. 

And I have faith. that this will come to pass because He is good.
I believe that He will renew my strength, he may not lessen my load, but he will strengthen my bones. He may not silence my tears, but will help me and be with me. He may not take this away, but he satisfy me in the desert places. 

the resurrection and the life

There is this story of Jesus I have fallen in love with. I've been reading it for weeks and I still come up speechless, in awe, flabbergasted by the absolute beauty of my Savior. Hidden in those last few weeks of Jesus' life is recorded a stunning story of selfless love in the face of rejection, deep grief evidenced by his devotion to those He loved and an incredible Light that shown in the darkest of places.

"Lord, if you had been here..."
The words fell from Martha's mouth like a burning coal.

They had sent for Jesus days before when it became evident that Lazarus was dying. They needed their Savior, they needed His healing power. They pleaded with him to come.

1 day went by.
2 days passed.

4 days Lazarus had been in the tomb.

4 days. Jesus had been a few miles from the house
and He did not come.

If it had been me, my thoughts would be chaos.
Jesus, why did you not come?
Jesus, where were you?
Jesus. . . why?

I've been there. You've been there. I see the struggle. There is tension all around of people trusting Jesus and yet wondering about his goodness through it all.
They did not doubt his power. They knew He was powerful. They knew He was a healer.

But He didn't come.

As soon as He arrived, Martha ran to him, "Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
But Martha, the one we condemn for working and not resting.
The one we do not want to be,
this sister trusted because she goes on,
"But even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you."

Trust saturated her words. The pain in her heart was unbearable, yet her belief in her Savior was undeniable.

Death's last word hung heavy in the sky and Jesus' words reverberated across her bleeding soul.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet he shall live. Do you believe?"

Without hesitation, her words came from the truth that she believed in her inmost being. "Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God who is coming into the world."

Mary waited at home. She was the one whose feelings got the best of her. Whose heart mourned in ways I only wish I could.
When Jesus came, she fell at His feet and said the same words that her sister said. Through her sobs, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

I am so much more like Mary in this story. I leave my accusation. I speak my thoughts.
If you had been here, my heart would not hurt so.
If you had been here, the grave would not be closed.

Jesus saw her tears. He saw the tomb, and he wept.
Onto the ground, he sank. Grief washed over him.
He knew that he would raise Lazarus, but his heart still shattered at the grief of those he loved and the pain within his heart.
He cried because he felt the pain of searing loss when death seems to be victorious.
He cried because of the pain that his friends had been subjected to, because of the doubt this situation had birthed in their hearts.
He wept because life was hard.

This story ends in hope. Jesus walks to the grave and demands the stone be moved.

He commands the dead man to come out of the tomb.
Lazarus, dead for four days, breathe again.
Lazarus, in a tomb for four days, rises.
Lazarus lives again.

But what about us? Sometimes we cry out. Tears pour into our pillowcases. Our hearts break because the healing has not happened yet. Our dead have not come back to us, nor will they this side of heaven. Our dreams sometimes feel unachievable and no one is standing for us and it crushes our Spirit. Diseases and disabilities cripple us. Life is hard.

How do we trust in Jesus' goodness if He says no to a miracle?
How do we lean into Him if He tells us to wait forever?
How do we believe that He is good when the pain is real?

A week after Lazarus' resurrection, Jesus found himself in a similar, painful place.
He was the night before His crucifixion and his Spirit was in agony. Luke 22:44 says, "And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground."
He prayed, "Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from Me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done."

How deep His pain.
His body reacting to the turmoil in his soul.
He heart torn between obedience to His Father and his flesh.
Jesus did not want to be subject to pain.
The Son of God felt a pain exponentially worse than I can even imagine.

What great love this is.

How could Jesus trust in the Father's goodness? Because He knew Him.
Jesus believed even in the pain that His Father was good.
Jesus trusted that even when the Father allowed the pain, He was absolutely trustworthy.

Jesus modeled trust. Even in his most painful moments.

So how do we trust Jesus' goodness when this side of Heaven is painfully real?
We model Jesus. We take our grief to the Father, in our agony we pray fervently, we pour our heart before Him like Mary, and we choose, in the midst of the pain, like Martha, to trust that He is good even when our circumstances are hopeless.

In this post, my heart is thinking about my friends whose baby is in the hospital. It's been many months and their journey is painful to follow as many prayers float to Heaven and the healing has not yet come. They like Martha, have trusted in His goodness in the depth of their pain.

We will continue to pray for healing, for this side of heaven to not hurt so, for the struggle to subside, for the tears to end.
But even if the answer does not come, even if the story remains the way we do not want.
We will trust that His answer is in Jesus. In the beautiful work that He did on the cross.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet he shall live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die."

*passages taken from John 11 and Luke 22

daffodils and weary hearts

Two years ago, I saw a daffodil thriving in the wild. A garden flower contrasted against the drab color of the dirt path. I wrote these words about her

 There she was, a simplistic beauty, misplaced. An attention drawn to herself, unintentionally,
because of who she was and how she thrived.
She was a garden flower blooming in the wilderness.

But wasn't it just beautiful?

The way she grew right where she had been planted? The way she allowed her roots to run deep, intertwining with those around her. Somehow stunning the way her vivid yellow contrasted with the drab colors of the dried, desert-like ground. Right next to the gentle brook, the daffodil's courage spoke to my heart.

I prayed this dangerous and painful prayer that God would take my roots deep, that He would ground me in His love, that He would bring me to a place where my roots would grow deep where He planted me. I prayed that He would be my perfect Gardner, gently uprooting me, planting me, cultivating me. I prayed that His kind hands that have moved mountains would teach me what it meant to grow here with my roots running deep and wide. 

I prayed,

he answered.

Two years later, I am deeply rooted. In this place that has been hard and painful. In this ground that has experienced long droughts and torrential rain. Under this sun that has scorched my skin and given me life. I am deeply rooted, fully alive. 

Today, I saw a daffodil. In the same wild I saw the other one. These daffodils had been trampled on. Right in the middle of a deer path was this daffodil plant. The daffodils were bent, their petals were dirty and broken. Their stems were drooping. My heart hurt for this daffodil. Maybe it was hurting for myself. Because just like I felt like that wild daffodil three years ago, I feel like this wilting daffodil now. 

"I am tired," I told Jesus. "So, so tired." 

I have nothing left to give. For the first time, I have worn myself to the point of exhaustion, to the point where I cannot stand and discouragement is bleeding through my heart. 

I've been waiting for the rest to return, the motivation to revive, my heart to leap, but it has not. 

Just like the broken daffodil, I wanted to be revived. 

Then I realized, maybe the Lord had been waiting for me to get to this place all along. Maybe, in my distress and my exhaustion, as I fall heavily in the arms of my Savior, he whispers, "finally." Maybe, He breathes a sigh of relief because I open my empty hands and He can fill me with his love, kindness, and rest. 

All my attempts at filling up this leaking vessel were meaningless. All these things that failed to fill me up: friends, school, activities, sleep, comfort, adventures. All of those things were temporary fixes to fill my leaking jar. 

And maybe, God's intent is to not fix the leaks but to overwhelm me with his love and presence that I overflow with Jesus and out of those wounded and broken places, He shines through and alleviates the aches in the pain.

I am the daffodil, strong and misplaced.

I am the daffodil, wilting but rooted.
I am in this place where I have been deeply rooted, but life has burdened me. But in this place, I have met my good and kind Father who is the giver of every good and perfect gift. His love is overflowing in this place because He is here. He may not take me back to the abundant and thriving place of the first daffodil and He may not revive these daffodils on the deer path to the way the others thrive. But within these circumstances, He is my good Father who faithfully caused my roots to run deep. And here in this dry and weary place, He is the One who provides rest for my restless soul, love for my broken places, and assurance to my doubting heart.

He is showing me that He is God.
And that is enough.

deliver us again

2 Corinthians 1:9-11

For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him, we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. You also must help us by prayer, so that many will give thanks on our behalf for the blessing granted us through the prayers of many.

Paul, what was your affliction? This affliction that has you so burdened beyond your strength that you despair of life itself? Can it really be so bad? Is this the type of affliction where when the bliss of sleep fades in the morning, the sunrise feels like an assault rather than a gift? Is this the affliction where anxiety catches your breath and holds it hostage there? Is this the affliction where loss tears hard through your life? When the ones you held most dear were taken away in thievery? What is this affliction that steals your joy and robs you of your peace? Tell me, Paul. 

Because this language is strong. These are not the words you see on a Sunday morning in fellowship with other believers. No, it cannot be something shallow, like the car won't start or the kids won't sleep. This is the pain where the storm won't end. This is a continual pain that has latched onto Paul and his companions. This is deep. Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death.

I wonder if he shares these words for those of us who feel this way too. For those of us who know our hearts are beating, but our lungs need to be reminded to breathe. For those of us who see the sun, but are blinded by the darkness. For those of us who are so utterly burdened beyond our strength. The ones who have been fighting for a glimmer of hope, but we've dropped our swords and we've been injured in the battle.

I think these three verses are for us. 

The broken.

The shattered.

The struggling.

The anxious.

The depressed.

This is for us. 

Verse 10 seems to be a reminder. He delivered us from such a deadly peril and he will deliver us. It doesn't say again. It says "and he will deliver us." It's like a reminder.

Soul, remember. 

 He delivered us before. 

He will deliver us. I promise He will deliver us. Does he say this to convince himself or does he believe that truly, God will deliver?

He delivered us before. We believe the stories. 

On him, he continues, we have set our hope that he will deliver us again.This is it. The assurance. He will deliver us again. It will happen. I am sure. I am convinced. I know. 

We just had this snowstorm. Next week is spring. It wasn't supposed to snow. We thought we were in the clear. We believed we had made it out of the winter. 

But it came, like nature always does in spite of our protests, without hesitation to our fears. And it dumped its beautiful white blanket on us. It feels as we shovel our cars and make paths for our feet to walk again that it will never melt. We are sure as we stand in the fields covered in white that the wind will never stop, the cold will never thaw, our pain will never ease. But I am sure, surer than the ground that I stand on, and the clouds that cover my sun, that there are flowers underneath those blankets. Those flowers cannot resist the coming Spring. The trees cannot help but allow blossoms to form on their leaves. 

Just as I am sure and confident that this snow will melt, that Spring will defy these winter months, I am sure that He will deliver us again. I am sure, that as he was faithful before, He will be faithful again. I've seen Him move mountains and I have no doubt that this one will likewise be thrown into the heart of the sea. I've seen Him walk on the water and I believe He can do it again. 

This water that is deep, He has parted, He has walked on, He has taught me to swim.
He will deliver us. I do not know how. But I know He will deliver us. 

This has happened to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. This has happened for a reason. There is a purpose for this storm, a meaning behind these tears. I reason for this struggle.
It is to make us rely on this good, kind, perfectly strong God who has raised the dead. Calmed the storm. Thawed the winter. It is to make us know our God who loves us, knows us and holds us. It is to make us rely on God who is strong rather than ourselves who are weak. This has happened for a reason. 

Verse 11 goes on

You must also help us by prayer. 

You must help us by prayer. Because this is impossible to believe. This is terrifying to wrestle with. You must help us by prayer because this journey was not made to be walked alone. Paul had companions, he had his tribe. He had the Corinthians whom he received much comfort from. And He had his prayer warriors, that even on the hardest of days, they would be beside him, reminding them that God will deliver us again.

So friend, on this hard day, when the storm has endured, the pain has been unrelenting, know that this has happened for a reason and we have a promise that God is entirely good and wonderfully kind. All his promises find their yes in Him. He will deliver us again.

handle with care

I don't know about you,
but I put up walls.
These high walls of self-protection and a stoic face that says "All is well," when the house is on fire.
There are these high strongholds around my heart that I believe will keep me safe. How is it that I believe that I will be safer in isolation rather than in the safe and loving arms of my Father?
But now the walls are gone.
Because I know vulnerability is the best medicine for this soul.
Only a box remains.
Because I know I must give myself to those around me, but there are still hesitations, so I've wrapped it tightly and I've labeled it 'handle with care.'
I thought the box was enough, but much to my horror, someone slit the seals and folded open the flaps.
 I did not stop them, although I could have.
I did not shout, although I wanted to.
The walls could have been pulled back up like a fortress on a hill, the drawbridge raised, entrance denied.
But I did not.
And they continued, these incredible people that had gained my trust, obtained access to my soul, looked inside and did not run. Instead, they reached inside and with care beyond what I even dreamed they handled my heart. When the wounds they touched were tender and tears sprang to my eyes they did not falter. And the truth they shared, the prayers they whispered over me were love and comfort to my weary heart. A balm to my dilapidated spirit.

This. This is what community is supposed to look like. This is what the most desperate parts of my soul were longing for. This is what I had been praying for. When I came home from YWAM 3 long years ago my prayers resembled that of a lonely heart. I yearned for the community I had built in Louisville. That similar place where we built one another up, prayed for each other, carried our burdens, and had friendships that were deeper than the ocean.
Suddenly, it seemed I had found it. Suddenly, I realized that we had pushed beyond the awkward introductions, we had put our eyes on each other and discovered meaningful friendships.

I went back to Kentucky for the weekend. To Louisville, to the people who made home a community. I have not been in a year and a half. Our reunions were stunning as we gathered for a good friend's wedding. When I returned this time, it was not sad, nor was it hard because for the first time my quiver was full. Coming home, I realized, I had found the community I searched so hard for.

What is community?
We are learning. Clumsily and passionately we are learning. It is the laughter that lightens our load, the listening in our brokenness, the praying that comes when we cannot bear one's burdens anymore, The joy that arises out of knowing you are part of a tribe, you are known, loved and not forgotten.
Community is an invitation that says, "We are here, we are a part of this journey, we will not walk this road alone." Community walks into the mire of the pit, community crawls in the valley of the shadow of death, community victoriously conquers mountains. Community rejoices, weeps, laughs and sings. Community is a group of people that are messy and beautiful, that push each other to the hope and life that is found in a relationship with Jesus Christ. This community is not perfect but is more than I'd ever dreamed of.

this my inheritance

she had $9,000 sitting on her wrist.
The look on her face told me she was terrified to even look at her wrist for fear of ruining the jewels found there.

Somehow, we had found our way into the most expensive of jewelry stores at the mall. And for some reason, the owner felt it necessary to have my friend be the model of his jewelry.
As we walked through the aisles of the mall, we became a bit more overwhelmed.
That store could feed a small country if every diamond and precious metal was sold.
Heck, we could feed the whole continent of Africa if every piece of merchandise and every beam supporting the place were auctioned off for its worth.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation to be revealed in the last time. 

This inheritance of mine is worth more than gold, diamonds, and silver.
I absolutely LOVE the joy of being invited into someone else's journey. This same friend, who had thousands of dollars on her wrist, has gone through a stunning transformation in the last few months. Part of which came into fruition during our trip to the expensive mall. Suddenly, the clothes, the jewelry, the money, it all seemed so meaningless. So temporary. It also didn't help that we had just spent a week at Missions conference.

Our eyes were not full of stars because of the priceless jewels and the shiny shoes, no we were encapsulated by our Savior. How temporary our breath suddenly felt. How meaningless this place felt. How desperate we were to share this inheritance we had found. Our inheritance was the most valuable thing we had, everything else was so unfocused because Jesus had our full attention, our unwavering eyes. This my inheritance, that there is a purpose for this momentary affliction. This my inheritance, that there is beauty beyond compare waiting for me in the presence of Jesus. This my inheritance, my forgiveness, my salvation, my acceptance, my sanctification, and the glory that awaits this weak heart. This is my inheritance. And it is this that none can take away. 

imperishable, undefiled and unfading:

Amiantus: a precious stone which cannot be blemished

Amarantus: a flower which keeps long, fresh and green. 

These are the words that Peter chose to define my inheritance. It is a stone whose ability to remain unblemished is steadfast. It is a flower that will never wilt, never be destroyed by the storm, never falter, never lose its luster or its flourishing qualities. 

It is in this that I rejoice. 

In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith- more precious than gold that perished though it is tested by fire- may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 

I rejoice that my inheritance is secure and it is worth more than the gold on my friend's wrist. It is worth more than the value of that store and it is worth more than all these things that are quickly growing strangely dim. I rejoice in spite of these trials that shake me to my core. I rejoice because the trials have only pointed me closer to Christ. I rejoice because in these trials, in this darkness, in this struggle I  glow because the Light inside of me cannot be hidden. 

Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls. 

I do not yet see him, but I know him. I believe in him and I am rejoicing with an inexpressible joy. Last week we had a speaker in Chapel whose voice shook when he shared stories of sharing the Gospel. I have never seen anyone more in love with sharing Jesus, more in love with knowing Jesus. It was as if his heart just could not bear the weight of glory and his soul was bursting with this inexpressible joy because Jesus was his and he was ready to share him with anyone he came into contact with. This man knew his inheritance. He was overcome by the weight of the good news. He was awed by the magnitude of this truth. He was a man walking so closely with the Holy Spirit. 

I want that kind of joy. When I do not see Jesus in my circumstance, I want to believe without doubt. Trust without fear. Rejoice without hesitancy. I want my joy to bubble over because of the abundance of the truth given to me. I want my soul to burst in response to the love I have received. 

O praise this Holy King who has made himself known to me. Praise this Gentle God who has come to us. Praise our Precious Savior who died for us. Praise upon praise to my Kind Father, my Sweet Jesus and the Ever-Guiding Holy Spirit. 

This my inheritance.