Easter for the broken

Oh heart, how could you not remember?

Oh heart, you've been all tangled up, all caught in a whirlwind of sorrow, trapped in a cavern of anxiety.

One day, its the pit of depression. The next, its a deep fear of the future.

Oh heart, where has your hope gone? All you can see is the storm in your view. The sun has not made an appearance for days, the sky has let loose a torrent of rain. And the winter, his hold is so tight. The battle between winter and spring is a discouraging endeavor. The flowers keep pushing, but the forecast keeps promising snow. Will it end?

Oh heart, where have you been? You were once so alive. You once beat with joy, and now you beat because of mere command by the brain. Your breaths were long and sweet, now short and gasping.

Oh heart, do not lose heart.

Sometimes, I forget about the moving power of the resurrection. Sometimes, my heart filled with discouragement wins. But I must remember. I must remember hope. I must remember his sacrifice.

2000 years ago, Jesus Christ saw my heart. He saw it drowning in the fear, he saw it bound by the sin, he saw it trapped by the sorrow. Before the foundation of time, my heart was in his hand. He knew my sin would disconnect me from him. He knew that this fallen world would write tragedy into my story, and he put a seal on my heart, long ago, and whispered of a coming redemption.

He came to the earth. And we know the story because we are the saved. We are the saved who feel broken, the redeemed who feel wrecked, the chosen who are tired. We know the story like the back of our hand, but the storm is all we see.

We cannot let the story lose its power.
He came to the earth, he lived his life, he healed the sick, he gave sight to the blind, he rose the dead. He was Jesus, God incarnate. The beauty is much deeper than the stories know and buried deeper behind the words. He had friends whom he laughed with, deep belly laughs that had him rolling on the floor. He had the ones he cried with, for the tragedies that took place. He had a mom who held him, and a dad who taught him. Can you only imagine? Those whose memories of Jesus were among their treasures.

And in the midst of this life, your broken heart was still precedent. The story that we are familiar with happened. Jesus went to the cross, betrayed and rejected by his friends. He forgave those who did not understand what they did, he loved from the cross. He breathed his last, the sky went dark, and for three hellish days, Jesus laid lifeless in the tomb. And the beauty of Easter is that he rose again, burying sin once and for all.

And it is the story that is supposed to comfort us, the sacrifice that is supposed to heal us.

But the storm still swirls, the tragedies still come, the memories still haunt. And it is not as if we aren't grateful for his sacrifice. We're just lost and drowning.

The truth is that in the midst of our storm, his sacrifice is enough. Jesus is enough. He came for you. He said that your life was worth his love and his sacrifice. Sometimes, 2000 years ago seems like too much time. Sometimes, we cannot feel his hand in ours and we start to lose our grip. Is it possible that we cannot feel his hand because we have gripped so hard we have lost our feeling? Sometimes, we look around and we do not see Him. Could it be that it is because he is just outside of our view, working a miracle?

The truth is that God's heart is for us. It is true that He came to the earth to die so that we might live. This is true in the deepest of sorrows and the greatest of joys. This is true at the bottom of the canyon and in the tops of the trees. This is true in the farthest galaxy and in the depths of my heart.

If you are broken this Easter, do not lose heart. You can rejoice in the steadfastness of this gift, in the eternity of his kindness, and in the graciousness of his love.

In this storm, remember the truth. In your blindness, remember your hope. This Easter, do not lose sight of his great love.

the River

The river snaked his way through the canyon of this valley. The trees fighting the winter beginning to turn green. Shades of green growing up the trees, the moss reviving, grass shooting up like wildflowers, the snowdrops gently growing as the snow melts. And the river, always faithful, always running, always bringing peace. The river, so lovely.

Like lightning, His voice came as I walked along the river. 

Follow Me like you follow the river.

I stopped. I'd been following the river as I always do when I walk along rivers. I always choose the path that keeps me closest to the river, my breath catches when the path leads me away from the river, fearful it will lead me away. 

Follow Me like you follow the river.

At that moment, I was at a curve in the path, it led away from the river. I knew it was only a moment, but I didn't want to take my eyes off the river, I didn't want to lead away from the peace it offered. At that moment, fear clenched me. Because I had to turn my face, I had to rely on the memory of his face, the distance of his voice, the faithfulness of his promise. 

It was only a moment. This leg of the path was so short in comparison. What did I fear? My capacity to wander. Walking along the river, I knew I would never turn from it. But if the path led me away, if only for a moment, what if there was a fork in the road? What if I forgot about the beauty the river had to offer? What if I turned away from the river forever?

His pursuit is greater than your ability to wander ~ Lisa Bevere 

Is this true? For the first time in my life, I stumbled upon my capacity to drift away. At this crossroads, I knew I had the innate ability to walk away from the river for some other object of temporary beauty. It terrified me, nearly crippling. But I had to keep walking, I couldn't stay right here, by this part of the river. I had to move forward, leaning on the promise that the river wouldn't end before I saw it again, falling into the hope that as I listened to it, it was still there. So I moved forward. No longer could I see the river, but I heard it. Was it enough?

His pursuit is greater than your ability to wander ~ Lisa Bevere

I have the capacity to drift from my faith. It is inside of me. Overwhelmed by this fear and trepidation, shocked by where my heart had landed, paralyzed by the place that my thoughts had led me, afraid at how far I was from Him, I am leaning heavily on the promise that his pursuit of me is greater than my ability to wander. 

I am wandering. Drifting. Losing my footing. My feet have led me to a place of disbelief and doubt. My mind is racing with thoughts of the world. I wrestle with the evidence I see in the world of pain and suffering and I attempt to compare that to a good Father who pursues us. A kind Lover who recklessly follows us.

Because there are two of me. There is the one that looks around at the tragic circumstanes and demands to God, "where are you? What are you doing? Do you even care?" The one where doubts rage like a wildfire, consuming all of me. My ability to wander is bigger than anything I've ever known.

There is the one that sees his kind hand. The one who sees Jesus when a friend weeps in my arms, who sees his tender heart in the gift of friendship or someone texts me and asks to go for breakfast before Church when I tell myself I'm never going back.

The first is my ability to wander, the second is his pursuit of me. 

How undeserving this heart, how gracious is His. 

I will choose the River. But in moments when I don't, when I choose to wander, I will come back. His pursuit of me will remind me of the river, stir in my memories of the peace and joy of the river. I have chosen to follow Him and so, as He leads me along the River, no matter what arises in my path, he remains faithful, gently calling as the River does, growing louder with the waterfalls, calming my heart in the hurricanes. I will follow the River.

Oh, how undeserving this heart, how gracious is His.

plagued by promises, a prisoner of hope

I'm listening to a song of hope. It's called Mountain to Valley by Jason Upton. The chorus washes over my frightened spirit. "There's one thing I can't escape: Your Love. From the mountain to the valley, from the silence to the city street... Your Presence always covers me."

I listen to it on repeat, letting my tired heart drown in its gentle reminder of hope.
And then it says something outrageous.

Plagued by your promises.

What?

Jason, I hope you know, plagues aren't a good thing. Typical Leah, I looked up the definition.

plague noun : a destructively numerous influx

                        an epidemic disease causing a high rate of mortality.

I was singing this song. Did I know what I was asking for?

Oh, Jesus, I want to be plagued by your promises. I want this destructive influx of promises to come in and wreck my soul. I want it to destroy my hopelessness. I want it to weaken my white fists wrapped tightly around the illusioned control of my life. I want this plague to ravage my soul until it has taken everything. I want this epidemic disease to take effect and ruin me. I've never been so thirsty for destruction and ruin.

Does this prayer terrify me? Absolutely.
 The hopelessness I see when I look around me is frightening. I'm wounded by the pain I see. The devastating loss. The crippling sorrow. The oppressive anxiety. The lies that steal the truth. I want hope to sneak in like a plague and wipe it all away.

I want hope. I want it desperately, the way a flower needs water to grow. I want hope, the way the ground needs rain to cultivate. I want, in the midst of this chaotic, terrifying, painful life, for hope to drown me in the goodness of God.

This is a hope that will follow me no matter the circumstance. I want to see it when I look back, when I walk on the path of my life and when I attempt to foresee my future. I want that hope. I desire it when I scroll through Facebook and see cancer diagnosis and horror stories of abuse and torture. I need it when a friend cannot see the light or questions her worth. I long for it because the world doesn't make sense. The pain isn't going away. The struggle is remaining far more real than I ever imagined. I long for it because the ache in me for Heaven is real. The peace that is there, the loved ones who have gone, the presence of Jesus.
So I need the hope. I need to be plagued by Your promises. Take me captive, Jesus, to be Your Prisoner of Hope.

Zechariah 9:11-12
As for you, also, because of the blood of my covenant with you. I will also set your prisoners free from the waterless pit. Return to your stronghold O prisoners of hope."  

a broken wonder

It was the lights. The way the cheaply shone on the window panes and tried to spark joy in my hardened spirit. It was the price tags in bold red that screamed clearance and drew my heart away from its source. It was all the cars and all the people and all the noise that pummeled my heart like a wrestler in a boxing ring. I couldn't take one more round. I couldn't give anything more.

It wasn't like I didn't want it. Christmas is a time of joy and giving and peace and glad tidings, but I felt nothing of the sort. The places where there was supposed to be wonder and simplicity, I only felt annoyance and overwhelmed.

Because Christmas comes no matter what. Christmas comes and the sadness is still there. The battle from November turned into the battle of December. The struggle that was there before will be there still. Christmas comes even if it brings memories that hurt a heart far too much.  It comes even if there are spaces empty at the Christmas table. It comes even when there is anger and sadness and fear. It comes. December 25th every year shows up faithfully. For some, it means joy. For others, it means survival.

I've come a long way from those times as a child when I marveled at the Christmas story or when the presents under the tree seemed to be more than my little heart could have dreamed of. It's been a long time since I sat in wonder at the lights that we drove by or the joy that came with the hustle of the season. Now I was tired and the hustle irritated me. Now I am far from those bright lights of childhood.

My wonder is broken.
My wonder is lost.

But that's just it. I've lost the wonder of Christmas. I've entered this Christmas season mortally wounded from a battle I no longer want to fight. I've come to this Christmas season with a broken heart.

And Jesus still came.

Like Christmas, Jesus still comes no matter the circumstance, despite the pain. Jesus came, even though there was no place for him to stay. Even though Mary probably tried to stop those labor pains and keep that baby inside till she returned back home. Jesus came, even though the government didn't want him and threatened to kill him. Even when the world stopped looking for him. Even when God had been silent for nearly 400 years, Jesus came.

Jesus came, even though the world would hate him. Even though his people would reject him. Even those his followers were almost snuffed out. Jesus came, knowing about the sleepless nights and the people that would cling to him. Jesus came, knowing about the nails that would be driven through his wrists and feet. He came knowing his death would be that of a broken heart. He came, knowing the prophecies, knowing the suffering, knowing the struggle.

Jesus came.

And even now, when I cry out "where are you?", when I've lost the wonder of his birth. When I doubt his faithfulness. When I allow the earthquake to shake my heart. When I look at those I love and feel a helplessness I cannot shake because of a hurt I cannot remove. When I look at those I hold close and feel burdened because the prayers I've prayed for years have fallen on seemingly deaf ears. When I look at my own heart, a bloodied, battered mess, and cry out because it's been hurting for too long and I just want some peace. Even now, I see him.

Even now, I know him.

Immanuel, God with us, came down.

It was hidden, in a silent night. It was disguised, in a stable birth. It was wondrous because the Savior of the world came down.

And now, I am called to remember, to remember what he did, to remember his goodness, to recall the Hope he gave.

It is with a broken wonder I come. Before, I saw the simplicity of what Jesus had done when he came to earth as a baby. Now, I see the complexity. Because he didn't come to a world of small children, eagerly waiting to accept the gift he had to offer, instead he came to an earth that didn't want him, that would hurt him and reject him. He came for my messy heart, he came for the ones that would turn away from him and for the ones that couldn't hear him. He came for them because he loves them. he came for you and he came for me.

So with my broken heart, I wonder at my beautifully broken Savior. I marvel at the simplicity and complexity of what He has done. I praise him because He came. I celebrate Christmas, even if it comes in a whirlwind and I don't want it, I celebrate it because it is what I need: to be still before the greatest of gifts. To worship because he came to be Immanuel, God with us. It is what I need because even when I try to shut him out, he still comes. Even when I cannot see him, he is still there. Even when I turn my back, he is relentlessly pursuing me. Praise to Jesus who has come.

an ocean of sorrow

All Sons and Daughters have a song that begins like this:

Feels like an ocean of sorrow is under my skin.

I have never heard truer words. Wrapped underneath all interweavings of skin, trapped in the structure built by my bones and the pathways that are my veins is an ocean of sorrow. An entire ocean, filled with tidal waves and storms is flowing under my skin. It ebbs and it flows and I feel emotion I do not understand. I wonder if I have the capacity to hold these emotions that threaten to explode out of my skin. Just one touch seems as if it will break me open and I will bleed out, my life source gone. 

And as I sit in this cafe, I see oceans of joy, rivers of happiness, forests of melancholy living under the skin of these people. Behind their eyes, as they sit alone, working on things that have captured their attention, share their hearts with people who have stolen their attention, or dream about being in cafes far from here, in distant cities, looking out at streets that are not their own. 

These stories capture me. They invite me on a journey far outside of my own. Into lives that are apart of something bigger. Something far more extravagant than this life I am currently living. 

Because I have been in those distant cities. I have dreamed those far-off dreams. I've been there. The capacity of our human hearts is exponential. 

The core longing of our hearts is that things would make sense. That we would be able to look back at our lives and see a tapestry of beauty. To say that each thread was intentionally woven, each word articulated perfectly, each person a gift. 

But the truth is, words fail. Tears burst out at the wrong time, laughter fills us when we should mourn, people hurt us and break us and they don't say the words we need them to say. Our longings are not met and into our tapestry ends up ugly threads.

I'm only 22 though. I have seen the sun shine on the other side of the world. I have met people who have not been more than 10 miles from their home. I have met people who have experienced loss in the deepest places. I have met people who have encountered joy to the fullest. I have stared up at stars questioning the meaning of my life and wondering about the depths of my pain. I am here and it is hard. There is an ocean of sorrow under my skin. Everything is a disaster, most things are falling apart, none of my tapestries is weaved. Forgotten it has become tangled, a mess I wonder if it could ever be undone. 

Feels like an ocean of sorrow is under my skin.

The very next verse says this, 

but even the ocean eventually meets with the sand. 

Eventually, the sorrow will end, I will encounter joy. Eventually, my life that is undone, my sorrow that is volcanic, my anger that is steady will meet an avalanche of hope. I don't have it all together. The people in this coffee shop don't have it together. But the hope of this song is that Jesus has it all together.  He holds the world in his hands. I get it. I know.

But the ocean of sorrow is still under my skin.

How do I reconcile His goodness and His kindness with this ocean that is a hurricane? That threatens to tear through the very core of my being?
This good, good Father that I have come to know has touched my heart in deep and beautiful ways. I can feel His presence, here. I can see him moving and I fall in worship before Him.
But how does this chaos make sense next to His beauty?

surrender.

My fingers wrapped tightly around this place I've called home. I am clinging desperately to the ones I love, fashioning intricate plans of healing and redemption for their hurting souls. Only now am I coming to realize the fallacies in my words, the failure that has married my attempts at rescue.

Because I wanted to be Jesus.

Not God, not the name above every other name. But I wanted to do what He could do. I wanted to fix people. I wanted to bring healing. I wanted to orchestrate lives together. 

The hard part was this gift he has given me; the gift of feeling. I feel it all so deeply. I feel the pain of my friends, the struggle of my family, the heartache of those around me. 

With that gift, I wanted to bring change.

But I am not Jesus.

I remember the first time I realized I had this gift and I wanted to throw it away immediately. I was in Nicaragua. I had worn myself out in the day playing in a trash dump with children. We handed them food and there wasn't enough. They told us to be careful in the dump, but I got down in the trash with this sweet little girl and I held her. My Spanish was borderline nonexistent. I had nothing to offer her but a sandwich and the willingness to sit in the trash with her. I decided to make her smile. It was my goal. 

But that night, as we sang to Jesus, something in me broke. I cried and I cried because this little girl was never going to hear about Jesus from me. I was a temporary fix for a lifelong problem. She was sitting in that trash and I would leave to my safe bed. She was playing in that trash with dirt smeared on her face and I would shower. She was stuck there and I had freedom. 

Jesus, how is this fair? I cried for her because I felt her pain. I felt the pain that she would experience growing up in nothing. 

I wanted to be Jesus. 

Because my heart felt like He didn't do something. Was He going to do anything for this sweet girl who desperately needed love, who desperately needed to hear Jesus? And that was the first time I felt someone else's pain. And since then, I've entered this world where I feel so deeply and I am to give it to Jesus and pray for these people. But sometimes, I just don't want it. I don't want it because I don't pray. I don't want it because I try to be the doctor of these wounds, the author that writes happily ever afters into these stories. 

His voice is clear, he whispers surrender. Surrender. Jesus, really? You know it's easier to hold this. How do I surrender when these gifts I have I sometimes don't want? How do I surrender when these dreams I have were not what I first started dreaming of? He says to let go of the old me. But the old me was me. It was everything I knew. Everything that made sense. 

He's a God that doesn't make sense. And His plan is far more marvelous than mine could ever be.

I am not Jesus.

Jesus is asking for far more than I ever wanted to give. But he has given me everything, how can I not give him all of me? I was nothing, and now I am his. I have belonging. He has called me by name and written it on the palm of His hand. The gifts he has given me are good. The life he has given me is His. 

So I surrender. 

I surrender to this Jesus who has given me everything, who has wrapped me in his loving arms and held me close, who has promised good out of terrible things, who has turned sorrow into joy and tragedy into a garden. I am not Jesus and that is good. I don't want to be Jesus, I just want to take these gifts he has given me to learn to be like him. So that in my weakness, he can be known. In my chaos, calm will be seen. In my fears, peace will overflow. In my broken, testimony will be heard. 

So I release these fingers that are tightly wound around this life. The good, the bad, the gifts, the talents, the passions, the joys, the sorrows, the material things, my thoughts, and feelings. Everything. I release everything to Him because He is the Giver of every good and perfect gift and what He takes He can restore infinitely. I give it all to Him because He surrendered first, he laid down His life first. He gave Himself first. 

So I surrender, just like Jesus. 

Psalm 31:5, 19

Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

Oh, how abundant is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you and worked for those who take refuge in you.  

art of trusting

The first trees that let go of their leaves are the most courageous.

How do they have no fear of the change or the unknown?

Don't they know it will be months until they bloom again?

Does that not shake them?

See, the trees have mastered the art of trusting. They feel the dry air, the shift in the stratosphere, the cooling temperature and they smile.

Now is the time for beauty.

The time for them to rest. The time for survival. 

The trees have been gifted a magical force that helps them survive the freezing temperatures of winter. They are willing to surrender their identity of evergreen beauty. They have lived enough winters to know this is merely temporary, that seasons come and seasons go. 

So the air shifts and so do the trees. The life pulsing through their veins moves slower. The soft leaves dehydrate and become crispy. Vivid colors overtake these trees of strength and onlookers marvel. Because when something or someone goes through a season of change it is absolutely stunning, despite the inner turmoil, as they surrender their wills to the one that is greater than them. 

It is the inside of the tree that does the most wonderful thing. The very nature of the cell changes to become more pliable, chemical reactions cause the starch to turn into sugar creating a natural antifreeze and lastly the liquid of a tree becomes like glass to remain a liquid and avoid freezing. 

It is this miracle that allows a tree to survive winter. 

It is the trust that awes me and leads me to believe that the trees that let go of their leaves first are the most courageous. And I realize I am called to be like the tree. The air is shifting and the temperature is cooling, instead of allowing my heart to panic at the season to come, it ought to smile.

Now is the time for rest. Because the work that God has done this summer to change the very core of my being and the work He will do in preparation for the hunkering down of winter will allow me to survive. 

For a moment, I thought I was the leaves. That the tree was letting go of me, that I would fall to the ground and be only a remnant of beauty, only something that thrived in the abundant months of summer. And there was despair. 

But then I realized, I am the tree. The leaves are the things I must let go of and surrender. They are the things that are not bad but not what the Lord is calling me to do. They are the things that hold me back from being all that God has called me to be. They are my fears - the ones that cause me to doubt the goodness of God. They are my insecurities - the ones that hold me back from being all that I need to be. They are the walls that I build - the ones I believe will keep me safe, but truly only suffocate me. 

And it is incredible that God built nature with a need for rest. I read a quote a few days ago that sticks with me, "Nothing in nature blooms all year long, so don't expect yourself to do so." The God who created beauty, created it for times of dormancy, for times of rest.  Just as He created me for times of rest. If the God of abundance created us to restore and refresh, then why do we feel condemned when we do not do all the things the world has given us to do?

And the thing is, you cannot stop the coming of winter. No matter how hard you try, no matter what you do it is inevitable. So the trees teach us the art of beautiful surrender. They allow a glorious work to be done in them so that when Spring comes, they again can show us splendor. 

Despite what is happening in our lives, whether we have filled our time with too much, if God is prompting a season of rest and you are wearing thin, it is not a call to push yourself to the point of exhaustion, it is time to surrender to the will of the Giver of every good and perfect gift, and trust that He is calling you to a time of restoration, not of condemnation. 

As my leaves turn, I will trust that God is all good and that the impending winter is a call for rest for my soul. I can trust that He will take me in the shadow of his wing and hold me close in the terror of the winds and deadly pestilence that stalks the night. Because no, God doesn't end the winters, instead he shows up in the midst of the winter and blankets me with snows and clothes me in comfort. 

So, I lay me down. I surrender my knowing, I surrender all of me in exchange for all of Him. So that He can take this leaking soul and fill it with His greatness and glory. I let go of what I thought was my splendor in exchange for rest. Soon, he will fill me with more, so that these dry bones will live again and these heavy lungs will breathe in deep. I have prayed that He would take me where my trust is without borders, so here I am, borderless and afraid, falling wonderfully into His grace.