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)

On Saying Good-bye

Sometimes I wonder why God allowed my friend to wander back into my life after fourteen long, silent years only to say good-bye one quick year later.  Though best friends since the age of ten, our relationship was torn apart by the time we both turned 19. Only because of what Jesus has done in my heart and in hers was forgiveness given, accepted, and our friendship restored. Only because of Jesus.

Yesterday I cried big, sloppy tears in a parking lot and hugged her good-bye.  We will stay connected through computer speakers and tiny i-phone screens, but it will be a while before I can hug her again. She has prayed for this baby I'm carrying, yet she won't get to hold her when she's born. I know she needs to be where Jesus has called her to go. There are people He wants to reach through her story and her love for Him.

This past year was a gift- an unexpected one to cherish. Because when you say good-bye and it costs something, isn't that proof you've loved well? If it's hard, doesn't that mean it matters? If it hurts, doesn't that mean it was worth it?

The Beauty in Starting Small

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. 

And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

Micah 6:8

I shook my head hoping to erase the words that had been imprinted in my mind.  But unlike an Etch-A-Sketch screen that can be cleared with ease of motion, I could not undo what I had just learned. I sat stunned as each devastating statistic traveled from my head all the way to the guarded parts of my heart. 

I knew it would change everything.

 

Forty percent of the world lacks basic water sanitation, resulting in disease, death, waste water for drinking, and loss of immunity; Americans spent $16 billion on bottled water in 2008.

We spend more annually on trash bags than nearly half the world spends on all goods combined.

Four out of five children worldwide work every day instead of going to school; four out of five Americans are high school graduates.

Eight percent of the rest of the world owns a car; one-third of all American families own three cars.

Roughly 40 million people (about seven Jewish Holocausts) die annually from starvation, disease, and malnutrition; 65 percent of U.S. adults and 15 percent of children and adolescents are overweight or obese.

The U.S. makes us five percent of the global population, but we consume 25 percent of the world’s oil, 20 million barrels of oil a day; next is China at just 6.9 million a day.

When a group of leaders from developing nations begged U.S. government leaders to explore intervention options for their countries in crisis, a U.S. official was quoted as saying: “The American lifestyle is not up for negotiation.”

(From Jen Hatmaker’s Interrupted, p.23)

 

Doing nothing was no longer an option for me.  I was aware now… and a deep concern was welling up from that place of new knowledge. 

But I’ll be honest. Sometimes doing the right thing can feel a bit overwhelming.  First there is the daunting task of figuring out which thing is the right thing.  Then it can seem improbable that my one small something could make any sort of impact.

It reminds me of dropping a tiny pebble into the ocean. But one person reaching out to another person does count for something, because even a small stone creates a ripple. And a ripple can cause a wave and a wave can move water with determination and strength.

The first step is picking up something to throw.

Poverty is as far-reaching as the ocean, and quite honestly, I have no capacity to even understand it. The effects extend far beyond the physical realm.  Emotional, social, and spiritual scars are often invisible, but we serve a God who sees and hears and cares.

Looking through the lens of God’s Word brings it all into perspective. Micah 6:8 says that God requires this from me and from you: “To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

Sure, I want justice.  But this verse indicates action.  A response is required. A different translation spells it out like this: “Do justice.” This is more than a way of thinking; it’s a matter of doing… something.

Loving mercy is the fire that God sparks inside us when we choose to believe that our one, small something is not insignificant but required obedience instead.  It’s a heart change that is born out of knowing and not wanting to ever forget.  It’s deciding to keep our eyes open to know more.

Walking humbly is the beautiful result of watching God love the poor, the lost, and the broken,  because He usually has a way of showing us how we, too, are poor without Him, lost without Him, and broken without Him.

So I made a list that day of ways I could act justly. I picked something. And the first something on my list was sponsoring a child through Compassion International. I've learned so much about who God is just by picking up this very, very small stone. 

He has taught me that in order bring comfort to another heart I must allow my own heart to become uncomfortable.

Some of you are just like me. You read these statistics and everything in you is fighting the urge to look away, forget what you’ve read, and go about the rest of your day like nothing has changed. But that’s impossible because now you know. Now you’re aware. Resist the urge to pull away and instead let the Father draw you to His heart. 

Let Him pick your something and watch Him use it to change everything.  

Learn more about Compassion International today.