Another Way

He said it in the Garden–

Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done (Luke 22:42).

What was it He was looking for, asking? Wasn’t it this: another way? Another way the Father might provide; He with whom nothing is impossible? Might He have asked His Father as any child might? The plea goes up; the submitted head down.

But the question has not fallen. It’s not forgotten, and it will not go unanswered. John 19 unfolds.

“Where do you come from?” [Pilate] asked Jesus, but Jesus gave him no answer. “Do you refuse to speak to me?” Pilate said. “Don’t you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?”

And the question is back. In the open. There might be another way?

¹¹Jesus answered, “You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above. Therefore the one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.”

Jesus knows it best. Pilate speaks with imputed authority, the authority of the One and Only. And no one hears more clearly the will of God spoken through a man’s mouth.

¹² From then on, Pilate tried to set Jesus free

And he, a Father-figure recognized, sets about to show a Son. Let’s see whether there might be another way. So Pilate appeals.

“Here is your king,” Pilate said to the Jews.

And he doesn’t stop once. Or twice. But he tries even a third time.  And three times the answer comes: There is no other way.

And no one hears more clearly the things of God in every man’s mouth.Three times the words assure. No, there is no other. There is no other Way. And the hands are washed and the Ruler has made his final decision. And death is pronounced. The answer pronounced.

The Answer pronounced. Word made flesh; the Answer pronounced in body and blood. And hands are washed. And He makes the Way, is the Only Way. And apart from Him there is no other.

 

. . .

Happy Resurrection Sunday! By Steve and Janine

Stillness You Can See

I think I finally figured out what I love about it–the snow piled high on the trees.

I’ve been watching it for some time now, out the window, all day. The eyes are drawn to it, like I’m looking for something in all that white. And only the dark branches stick out, outlined and glowing.

I take an unusual few minutes and let myself sit and look at them and listen. I try; it’s hard. But that’s when I finally see what I was looking for: stillness.

If they weren’t so still, they couldn’t hold those crystal snow flakes, or let them pile so carefully high. And if they didn’t just whisper and wait, they’d shake the glory off.

And there it is. I move constantly, even though He says, “Be still.” And I fling things away, and move people left and right. And I miss the Glory all around. And I don’t know like I should.

But if I would be still, I might collect too. Hold. Let the Glory rest.

And could it be as simple as that–when I’m still, I might just know better that He is God? Find some more of Him all over and around?

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations,  I will be exalted in the earth” (Psalm 46:10).

That’s it: stillness so I can see.

The Carpenter’s Letter

It came in the mail—from my dad. A letter, during my college years. You wouldn’t think it was such a big deal; people get letters, right? Except this wasn’t like anything I’d received before.

It was written on a piece of wood.

A roofing shingle, to be exact. And I’ll be honest: I don’t remember all of what the letter said. But I’ll never forget his reason for writing—and the reason for the wood.

You see, he was at work. And he was thinking about me.

And so he grabbed what he had right there, in hand, and he put the words right onto it. The picture’s pressed into my mind: dad, sitting in his truck, scratching words onto wood. And then he keeps moving; back to work. Back to building again.

My dad’s a carpenter.

He’s always been one. Most all the words he’s spoken in his life, most all the energy and time’s he’s spent, have brought things into being—buildings and structures and homes you can see and feel and run into in the rain. And so right there, in the middle of work, he pauses to remind me: I’m thinking about you.

And his words were at it, building again. This time, the work in my heart.

The letter will always be precious to me; all the words that came that day. In fact now, all these years later, I’ve got more reasons to remember them.

They remind me of another Carpenter, and a letter He wrote on wood.

It’s just how you’d expect a builder to get a message across. The wood, always His tool. And while He’s still laboring, busy bringing things into being, He writes the Word, scratches it right on the wood.

So we’d know for certain: He’s at work. And He’s thinking about us.

The Letter written, He’s off again. Still busy; still moving.

Because there’s more to be done, more letters to pen. Always there, where He’s at work. Right on what He’s holding in His hand.  

You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts (2 Corinthians 3:2-3).

. . .

Happy Father’s Day! Written with love for my dad—and with love for the glory of our heavenly Dad–my favorite writers and builders, both.

My Husband Rocks

It’s my favorite T-shirt.

And I wear it without apology. Everytime I do, it never fails to spark an interesting exchange. Invariably, one of two scenarios plays out.

There’s the covert confession: I like your shirt. It comes in a decibel that only I can hear; the smile and eye-contact timid to match. We exchange some kind of secret understanding. But it’s unspoken.

After all, it seems I’ve said enough already. Shouted, really. The hush-hush is hanging out in the open.

And then there’s the frontal assault: Did your husband buy that for you? It’s brash; there’s no need to conceal it. Afterall, the game’s afoot: the narcissist sniffed out; the foul-play exposed.

But no. No, he didn’t. And the snickering snuffs out. The hiding’s over, but the game’s still afoot. The questions cut close, the conversation goes far. All this with a few words until we walk away, somehow different for it.

Some things are worth that.

Worth the courage; worth the words. Worth the asking and the listening. Worth the showing up. And worth wearing the T-shirt for.

But I’m not talking about my marriage.

Yes, it’s a worthy cause; it’s of great value to me. But it’s not the reason I bought the T-shirt. When it comes to marriage, I’ve got it same as you. It’s hard work and I’d never tell you any different.

When I put on those words and wear them out loud, I’m not commenting on my marriage or subtly sending you a message. And I’m not talking to the rest of the world, for that matter, either.

I’m just talking to my husband.  

And he’s worth it. Worth the courage; worth the words. Worth the asking and the listening. Worth the showing up. Worth wearing the T-shirt for.

. . .

Don’t ever doubt it: Your words matter; change the world you live in. To celebrate it, I’m inviting you to share a comment (can’t wait to hear from you) by midnight Wednesday, June 15th for a chance to win a $25 gift certificate from the gracious team at Union 28 (check out their site)! One winner will be drawn at random and announced on Thursday, June 16th. And here’s the best part: this is one gift you can spend completely on yourself.

. . .

And the winner is… Jami Acker!  It’s time to shop, girl–stock on some wearable goodness! Thanks to everyone who left a comment. Jami was drawn randomly at Random.org.

Everyday, the Ebenezer

I got their news: new babies on the way. And then there were the other announcements—the showers: another baby; a wedding celebration as well. No, wait. There were three wedding showers. And some graduation open houses–yes, three of those too. At least for now. And the two weddings will come later, mid-summer.

They’re milestones, all of them. 

And all of them celebrations. I wade through the news, float really—carried along by the excitement. And as I do, I reflect on our firsts, the fragrances of spring. The firsts, that for us, fade into yesterdays.

Springtimes pass. Times for growing up and away all become yesterday-seasons sometime.

And we celebrated ours well. But that doesn’t mean we’re done celebrating. Many firsts rest behind, and looking back at them isn’t cause for sorrow, but great joy.  

The more we look back, the more we see how very far we have come.

When I look back, I don’t see the waning of years slipping thin, but the waxing of years growing full. The days, by His hand, piling high and pressing close. And these I wouldn’t trade for anything. These I wouldn’t do over, not one of them. It’s all of these so safely behind that keep me always contentedly here and now.

Everyday’s the Ebenezer. Each one, the milestone. Each day the mark: this far, with the Lord’s help.

. . .

How far have you come, with the Lord’s help?

Forgotten

I felt forgotten. Twice in the same day; several times in the past month. But who’s counting?

And why does it matter? It seems so silly to mention, but I suppose it doesn’t really happen all that much–or on the scale it seemed to be happening on these occasions. This time it felt…big. And I felt small. Left out.

Poor me, right?

I started thinking it. The sadness creeping in. And just then I remembered [His grace, right?] something my sister shared with me–years ago. She told me about when we were kids. She said if we had two balloons, and one popped, I’d cry and cry because of the balloon that popped. You’d still be happy because there was a balloon left.

There it was: a chance–a choice–to re-think and re-see.

There really is two ways to see things: the half-full or the half-empty. Maybe it’s even a little more profound than that. But either way, it is a choice. So I chose right there, no more. No more foolishness. 

Everything is a gift, and I have far too many to believe I may be missing something else. Really, what foolishness and ingratitude. And right there, I found yet another gift—that even the missing and the left out was a gift, a chance to be changed and to receive instead of be emptied by ingratitude.

May today be a day of receiving all that God has for you–whether the gifts come through having or through their absence, when the forgotten treasures surface and you still find yourself the fuller. And may you know today that when you receive the gifts, should you choose to, you’re receiving more and more of Him.

. . .

Looking for a good book on this subject? Get yourself a copy of Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts. You will not finish reading this the same person you started it.

If your day had a shape…

What shape would it be?

And why?