On Display

He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. Colossians 1:17

Little legs pumped quickly as excitement grew all the way down the hall to the first classroom on the left.  Lilly entered and immediately found her work laying on the table. It was more than artwork; it was a display of creativity and effort, an extension of her tiny four year old heart.

Watching the two of them, I realized her daddy and I could have stayed home.  Bent over the bright, yellow creation book, she and her brother shared one of those moments that only exists between two children who grew inside their momma together. Their bond is always such a wonder to me even after all this time, and it has grown stronger with every passing year. With one arm around Lilly’s shoulder, Jake cocked his head slightly to catch his sister’s eye, as if what he was saying was of utmost importance.

And it turns out, it was.

“Wooooooowwwww! Lilly, you made that?! Great job!” he exclaimed. Praise for her careful work continued on and on as we stood behind them nodding in agreement.  Lilly beamed with pride, then led us around the room to point out more artwork hanging on the walls.

Afterwards we trekked down the hall to Jake’s classroom and I was surprised to find a similar yellow creation book out on display.  It’s not uncommon that two four year old classes do the same activity, but his genuine enthusiasm for Lilly’s work had me thinking his class had done something entirely different. The four of us crowded around the short, preschool table and watched as he flipped through all seven days, telling us about each page in as much detail as a boy his age cares to share. 

It didn’t register with me fully until the ride home: Jake knew they had made the very same project. He must have recognized the similarities in each piece of art bound together with rainbow ribbon in his sister’s classroom, yet he chose to celebrate her. It’s a rare occasion to see that kind of delight in honoring someone else. It was encouragement that wasn’t staged. It was love without dangling strings. It was a beautiful example of how we’re all called to live.

At home, I placed the two books side by side and marveled at the contrast in technique, color, and style of my two little artists. Each difference reminded me that God may have knit these children side by side in my womb, but He made them unique. As I turned the last page, I realized why I was smiling. It wasn’t the differences that made my heart swell; it was the unity that God had reflected through a simple preschool open house art project.

The stories were the same.

How many times have I compared myself to another- to the very work God has done in another heart- only to come up feeling slighted? How many times have I failed to see Jesus in someone's story because I was too focused on myself and how I fall short? God is showing me that my story, your story, his story, her story…. they are all the same story. Though a creative God brings diversity to each one, His beauty is displayed in our unity.

Colossians 1:17 becomes vibrant to me in light of this realization. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

It is Jesus who brings oneness to every story told. He is the center and He gets the credit because He does the work.  He is our Pursuer, our Rescuer, Redeemer, Restorer, the One who holds us and holds our stories together. And the amazing part? He allows us to be reflectors of His glory.

May we boldly display God’s work in us for everyone to see.  May we celebrate our differences in light of our common bond, remembering that harmony reverberates from a well-told Jesus story. And may others be delighted with a childlike heart and compelled to invite Jesus to write their stories too. 

The Color of Joy

I’m scribbling notes as my pastor talks about the first miracle Jesus performed.  I know this story, but I still have questions.  I always have questions. I tune out momentarily to absorb what I’m hearing because I process slow and steady: 

“Wine is a symbol of joy.”

I add it there to the page underneath the words “John Chapter 2” and somehow I know God is speaking words personal and timely into the very crevices of my heart. Jesus turned water into wine and He performed a miracle in my own life when He turned a dead end into new life in the form of a precious baby girl. I have known Joy ever since the miracle. It is the singular word- the only word- that adequately describes the emotion bubbling wildly out of me. It’s my baby girl’s middle name.

About a year and a half ago God asked me in the silence one morning to trust Him. And I could hear Mary’s words, “Do whatever He tells you.” Whatever He tells you. However hard it is. For as long as it takes, trust Him.  Follow Him.  Even in the face of fear.

And I had. For an entire year. I had trusted Him with the most precious thing in my life- my family.  He said He would grow it.  He said He wasn’t finished. And I chose to trust Him.

The fear was present every step of the way, its grip rooted deep in the pain I’d encountered over the past eight years. The most painful part of my journey wasn’t the waiting. It wasn’t the longing for a child. It wasn’t the repeated no’s in a sea of others’ yes’s. It wasn’t the labels I’d worn: forgotten, unloved, childless. It wasn’t feeling helpless and hopeless for months, then years at a time. Those parts were painful, yes.  But the hardest part- the most painful part- was the blood. Not physically as much as emotionally. Spiritually.

The blood was evidence that something once alive was now dead. It was the color of grief. Raw.  Unexpected. Unwelcome.

All I could think about when God said, “Trust me,” was the bright red tear drops I knew so well. I was terrified my obedience would only lead me back to that dark place of doubting God’s love and sovereignty, of feeling the anger pulse through my veins, of isolating myself from anyone who even thought to get close.

This summer I flew across the country to a writer’s conference.  I met with publishers and my mom told me to wear red. I told her I didn’t like red. It didn’t suit me, excite me, and I didn’t want to wear red. After a friend proposed that God might be trying to grow my faith by speaking through other godly women, I sent my mom a quick text asking whether the wardrobe suggestion was hers or God’s.  Her response: “From God.”

And so I wore red. Nothing elaborate or extravagant happened the day I wore red. No one seemed to notice the pregnant lady in red.  Except Jesus.  He noticed.  And that day He initiated a conversation with me about joy, and months later we are still deep in discussion.

All these thoughts and not-so-distant memories are tumbling around inside my head as I sit in the pew and write out that tiny word: Joy. Three letters strung together so tightly have meant the difference between darkness and light, between shadows of doubt and bright, shining hope, between longing and contentment.

I decide right there on that Sunday morning that joy is red.  Deep burgundy, like pressed grapes crammed into a wooden barrel, left to mature with time. Joy is bold celebration. Joy blushes and Joy spills. Its stain is not easy to remove. Joy thrives.

And God is asking me all over again to wear red. He has given me this Joy and I want to wear it well. But what I cannot shake- and it troubles me for weeks to come- is that this color of Joy matches the color of my deepest pain.  How can they coexist in one tone on the Artist’s palette of colors?

Death and life. Pain and celebration. How can this be?

The red words in my bible lying open in my lap remind me of the blood that redeemed my life. Red spilled into death but the story didn’t end there. After Jesus died, after He conquered the same death that snatched His breath by walking out of that grave, He met with His closest companions. He showed them his hands that wore angry, jagged scars of red and then He returned to His father in heaven.  Luke recorded it all in his gospel.  He wrote that the men and women who witnessed all this also returned home… “with great joy.”

The color of death bleeds into the vibrant color of life. Drops of grief age into the deepest shade of beauty. Sorrow makes way for unspeakable joy.

And Jesus is the Way.

I have worn this color, begging for God to remove it.  I’ve despised it and made every attempt to avoid its clutches at all costs. Until God asked me to trust Him. Now I see that it wasn’t about Him removing the distant memories or erasing or covering over that red with another color.  He left the color exposed, splashed right there on the canvas, so He could create a masterpiece on the very same surface… in the very same tone.

His design involves restoring what’s already there. Only God can hold together what has fallen hopelessly apart. Only God can turn mourning into dancing, pain into purpose, and sorrow into joy. 

Only God knows the depths of the color of Joy.

As the words rush out onto smeared page, I realize that the red I now see is evidence of the Father’s Love. He loved me when I wept over what could have been. He loved me when I pummeled angry questions at a God I still did not know. He loved me in my grief, in my turning away and then back to Him; He loved me as He watched Jesus’ blood stream crimson down that hill.

And He loves me now as I wear Joy. 

My son and my daughter- beautiful gifts from a God who loves without limit- share a birthday and a birthstone. A tiny red ruby dangles from a silver bangle to mark the day their lives with us began.  Weeks after this sermon, I think to look up the birthstone that matches the anticipated birth date of this unexpected miracle I’m carrying. When I learn it’s a garnet- a vibrant, deep red that signifies eternal friendship and trust- I experience the Father’s love all over again, fresh.

His love is in the details, small as they may seem.

His love is in the suffering, in the deep pain of broken hearts.

His love is in every step that demands our trust.

His love is what creates Joy, deep and bold and fully alive.

Small Enough To Be Held

Who dares despise the day of small things, since the seven eyes of the Lord that range throughout the earth will rejoice when they see the chosen capstone in the hand of Zerubbabel? Zechariah 4:10

I am in a season of small.  And I struggle so with smallness.  Small can be terrifying… and lonely. Small can be confusing and uncertain. Small can mask itself in limitations and restrictions. But small can also be humbling and full of peace. Small can bring such relief.

Small does not mean alone nor does it mean insignificant- that’s what I’m learning these days. Being small compels me to evaluate the big things in my life and reveals what is currently bigger than God.

Small is exactly what I need to be to remember that He is holding me. 

I stumbled upon this passage yesterday (and when I say stumbled upon, I mean the very words made my knees kiss the carpet). 

“Who dares despise the day of small things?” God asks in Zechariah 4:10a.  The context of these powerful words is centered on the task God has given to Zerubbabel: rebuild the temple that was in ruins. The work was to be completed not by human power or might, but by the Spirit of the Lord. (see Zechariah 4:6)

The Hebrew word translated ‘despise’ means “to hold in contempt, to hold as insignificant, to trample with the feet.” As the weight of it hung over me, I realized that it’s impossible to be held by God yet cling to feelings of contempt and insignificance towards the very place He’s brought me.

God is clear: “Do not despise the day of small things.” This season of small is but a day- a day ordained by God as very necessary and significant.

The remaining part is where I find comfort and rest: “…since the seven eyes of the Lord that range throughout the earth will rejoice when they see the chosen capstone in the hand of Zerubbabel.” (Zechariah 4:10b)

God sees the small things.

God rejoices in my smallness.

I learned something about the Mona Lisa this summer.  Erwin Raphael McManus, in his book The Artisan Soul, writes about the size of this well known masterpiece.  Never having been to the Louvre, I was stunned to learn that the entire thing- frame and all- is about 31 by 21 inches.  “You could pretty much put it on the back of a T-shirt,” McManus explains.

Yet this piece of art has not lost its beauty or elegance on account of its smallness. He writes, “Great art is not limited to its canvas any more than it is limited by its medium.”

Smallness does not equate insignificance. 

My favorite quote in the entire book is this:

“Yet here we see that God’s most creative act, rescuing all humanity, could be accomplished only when he emptied himself of his limitlessness and took on the limitations of being human.  For the singular act that brought salvation to the world, God chose what for him must have seemed the smallest of canvases and the most common of materials.  To do his greatest work, he embraced his greatest limitations. Above all, he understood that the intention of the art determines the medium that must be chosen.  To save humanity, he would need to become a man; to conquer death, he would need to be crucified; to bring us back to life, he would need to be resurrected; to heal our wounds, he would need to be wounded; to free us from ourselves, he would need to become our prisoner.

The artisan soul understands that if our lives are to be masterpieces and if life itself is our most creative act, then we must embrace life as a canvas and recognize that the medium we have chosen (or haven’t chosen) comes with boundaries and limitations and that these boundaries are not to be despised but to be embraced.”

Do not despise the day of small things.

There’s another guy who understood this notion of small.  His name was Saul.  Actually he went by Paul after he met Jesus on the road to Damascus.  Saul means “desired one,” while Paul means “small or little.” He was both: desired and small.  God chose this man as a key instrument in the building of His kingdom.

Paul went by his Roman name rather than his Jewish name because of the people he was called to serve, yet I wonder if there was more to that decision.  I believe Paul understood and embraced his smallness. 

Paul did not despise the day of small things- like writing letters from a prison cell.  He used a great, big word- elachistoteros- to describe himself in his letter to the church in Ephesus.  It is the only place in the entire bible this word is used.  It means “less than the least” or “lower than the lowest.” This was a man who understood the beauty of being small.

Although I am less than the least of all the Lord’s people, this grace was given me: to preach to the Gentiles the boundless riches of Christ. Ephesians 3:8

His two names- desired and small- stand in opposition to each other. The beauty of this mystery is depicted in the very imbalance of a great and mighty God choosing the small, the littlest, the least of the least. To be chosen, to be desired, to be plucked from the path of a murderous persecutor, to be forgiven, loved and used by God is no small thing.  It is grace on display for the world to see.

God chose us to be small.

Small enough to remember how big He is.

Small enough to realize just how loved we are.

Small enough to be held… in the palm of His hand.

An Uncluttered Heart

In the thick of closet clutter this week I learned something: I keep way too many boxes. I hauled boxes that used to hold the stuff that’s now scattered throughout my house: a roasting pan, a fancy wine opener I still don’t know how to use, an ice cream maker, a cell phone case, a humidifier, and boots.  There were enough shoe boxes to construct a fairly impressive tower.

With each trek to the garage, I began to notice a pattern.  All the boxes were empty.  I found myself asking, Why do I keep so many empty boxes?

It might have something to do with commitment. Maybe.  See, when I open the box that holds the brand new coffee maker, I’m scared to commit.  I want the box tucked neatly on my pantry shelf just in case. 

Just in case I find out that the single serve feature is overrated.
Just in case I’m disappointed.

Just in case I change my mind or it doesn’t work out.

It’s like that in my heart too.  Empty boxes sit around waiting for me to pack up what I’ve opened and can’t find a place for anymore.  They offer the facade of a re-do, a return, a retreat from rejection. Like the friendship I took a risk on. The conversation where I let the real me show.  The promise I made but struggled to keep. 

What if hanging onto all those boxes was no longer an option?

Living with a heart free of clutter is a risky thing.  It means guarding and protecting that friendship even if it costs something.  It means being fully myself and also fully ok with those who don’t agree with me. It means letting rejection instruct instead of injure me. It means being choosy with how I hand out my yes and my no.

It sounds a whole lot like real living to me.  And it has to be less complicated than letting all those empty boxes collect dust and crowd out what really matters.

Keep vigilant watch over your heart, that's where life starts. Proverbs 4:23 (The Message)