Post 37 | What I Want

"oh, had i wings i would fly away,
and be at rest."
chelsea moon + the franz brothers

It's just that I don't want to do it.  I recently watched a video where a friend of mine shared her 'last words' and end-of-life heart.  She was born a month before me and died this December.  As good, empowering and hope-filled as her words were, the only thing I could think as I watched was: I don't want to do it.

I don't want to record somebody's -- my somebody -- last words.  I don't want to say good-bye.  I don't want to delete her number from my phone, but I also don't want to look at it and know that she won't be there on the other side if I call or text.  I don't want to describe her to my kids, making them imagine her.  I don't want to labor through labor without her there to fight with me, and without her there to gaze at my new one like I do.  I don't want to hear her children say something funny and not pass on the story to her later in the evening.  I don't want to see an empty bed someday.  I don't want to watch my sisters fall in love and get married and look through the wedding pictures and see her missing.  I don't want my brother's to be dads -- tender and delicate and kind -- to their own babies without her able to watch on, without her able to see her gentleness passed on to them.  I don't want to live in a house she hasn't seen or design a kitchen without her thoughts or pick out fabric for the curtains without her hawk-sense for a deal.  I don't want to watch her get worse.  I don't want to stop going to chemo appointments because there is no one to bring.  I don't want her to miss their game winning lay-ups and home-runs and penalty kicks, and, well, I don't want her to miss their blow-out losses either.  I don't want to be the second emergency contact.  I don't want my sisters to look to me for things I looked to her for.  I don't want to never eat her salsa and fried tortillas and rice and tacos again.  I don't want other people to wrap her little kids' Christmas presents.  I don't want to know that no matter what there will be no "happy event" in my or their entire lives that will ever be shared with her ever again; that the best of times will never include her.  I don't want to lose her. I don't want to do it!

“My Father! If it is possible, let this cup be taken away from me!"

Sometimes the cup doesn't pass.  Sometimes it is upturned onto our heads, smoking, boiling, burning oil runs it's horrible pain over us.  It didn't pass for God himself.  And though He wanted us, He didn't want to experience death and hell.

“My Father! If it is possible, let this cup be taken away from me! But I want your will, not mine.”

That's the statement.  I've learned recently how acceptable and even right it is to vent to my Father.  I hate this.  I don't want it. Please remove this from me.  Oh God, make it stop.  But then that statement appears.  I want your will, not mine.  God that's easy to say when you're reciting the Lord's Prayer in a congregation when you're fourteen.  Thy Kingdom come! Thy Will be done! Woo hoo! Go God! Do your thing!  You can't say that statement flippantly when your whole heart and desire and prayer and beg and belief is in direct opposition to what God might will, is likely willing.  It's quite pleasant to say when His will feels comfortable, practical, pleasant and successful.  "All glory to God!" when He's giving.  Oooh, the words -- meaning the words -- struggle out when He's taking.  You can't fake it, like you fake worship when the photographer is capturing you.  All glory to God when she's missing?  All glory to God that my friend -- who dreamed of husband and babies and houses and ministry and more -- is not here?  All glory to God?  Oh, you watch what you say.  You don't say things you don't mean.  It's not a motion or habit; it's real and it hurts.  Therefore:

I don't want to lose her and yet I want Your will, not mine.  

Post 36 | A Morris Christmas Hunt

Four Christmases ago he sat in my family living room and opened presents. My brothers and sisters were painfully polite in front of him, a genuinely amused behind his back. It's only fitting that My Christmas Angel made a gut-call, last-minute, crush-stricken decision to fly to Florida and be with me on December 25th. To re-phrase Dorothy Custer: "And after that, there was only Caleb."

The following year he didn't just spend the holiday with us -- his entire family did too. My mom had cancer again and we didn't know it yet. I felt 'so fat' after gaining confident, happy, carefree, un-insecure, believed-I-was-beautiful dating weight. We wined + dined + hiked + biked + couch-snuggled our way through the summer and fall. Research shows that women tend to add pounds when they are in happy, long-term relationships and lose pounds when they are going through a break-up. I don't know. I just liked pasta carbonara, and him, and life.

Last year was the big change. The Christmas before I was 'just' his girlfriend, and then all of a sudden in one year I was married to him and growing his firstborn son. It freaks me out looking back at the pace, but it felt perfect at the time. We cut down a tree together that year, a new experience for both of us. "Next year we'll bring a BABY with us!" we noted. "Promise we'll still do things like this with a baby?" "Promise." Pine needles and cinnamon were a couple out of, well, three smells I could tolerate. The smell of "fresh air" and "clean bed sheets" and old books and newly washed hair disgusted me. Our apartment was intolerable. Saved by the evergreen! As soon as our (not so little) tree was installed, I could manage living in my own home again. Caleb helped me step out of urined pants and underwear, he tied my hair up high (the best that he could), he immediately handed me warm, damp washcloths so I could wipe off my nose and mouth. He bleached the floors over and over. He caught my vomit in his hands. He made me three meals, and I'd eat none of them and when I asked for a fourth ("I really think I can eat Honey Nut Cheerios. THAT is what I want. I'm sorry.") he made it happily. He rubbed my feet because I couldn't stand the smell of him and I needed him far away.

It's still hard to believe a person came out of me. My body grew a body. It's just... earwax comes out of my body. Saliva and sweat come out of my body. Hair comes out of my body. And this other body came out too. For me it is like pushing words out of my head, onto paper and then my story spoke back to me with a wet "craaaaaa-Ah!" It came out of (ripped through? literally tore through?) me and my heart and it was hard, with bones and cheeks and a reproductive system. It was hard meaning it wasn't a cloud or a puff of mist or a memory. I could touch My Living Story. He came out of us, and we love him just because. He reminds us every day that Hope Has Come. Hope had mini-bones and kitty-cries, too. Hope looked up at His mama, too, and just His eye-contact alone whispered "The LORD comforts Zion. Your LORD reigns. Behold, I am with you." Her breasts dripped milk and it dried in her clothes and she had to wash Hope's milk out of her garments. Hope has come, and He came very tiny, and He rules the world with Truth + Grace. Rowdy is a Wonder of His Love.

Christmas with my family. Christmas with my baby. Christmas with my husband. Christmas post-Jesus. Christmas in the details. Christmas in the tears. Christmas in the eye-contact. Christmas in the relief. Christmas in the longing. Christmas in the snow. Christmas in the bitter cold. Christmas for us. Christmas because we matter much. Christmas with Bing Crosby and Mariah Carey. Christmas with my mom. Christmas for victory! Christmas for 'at last!' Christmas because my boys and tree farms. Christmas because He came happily, He wanted to. Christmas for cookies -- homemade or storebought and definitely full of fat. Christmas because a teenage mama swept a swept a slimy, wailing, cheesy, helpless, mess of a baby into her arms and pronounced love to Him. Christmas because He loved her more. Christmas because of delivery. Christmas since The Word of God tore through the canals of Humanness and was attached to a woman by an umbilical cord. Christmas because our soul's have worth and we are loved by a Very Good King. I don't think the beautiful starkness of glowing tree (or even candle) in a dark place, in a cold season, is missed by Him.

Merry eff-ing charming real hopeful Christmas, rascals.

Post 35 | The Two Faces of Legalism

It's a pricy penny.  And there are two sides to this coin.  Legalism.  "Behaviorism," I've heard it called.  Pharisee-ism.  Self Righteousness.    In my last post I talked about my firm, growing and delighted belief that the cross is not the gospel, or the most important part of or "the heart of" the gospel.   My belief that the events of the cross aren't the center, with the "other" events of Jesus toggled around it, like the rays of a child's hand-drawn sunshine.   The gospel events are the pieces of a puzzle, or dominoes -- one goes missing and the whole operation halts and cannot be finished.  I shared that I believe the gospel is what God, three-in-one, did for us and gave to us, because He loved us and it made Him happy and glorified to do such things.

(Recap if you missed it:  

What did He do? Chose, loved, made, sustained, came, lived (sinlessly), died as a Lamb, experienced hell, defeated it, resurrected, left the grave for good, walked on earth again, ascended to heaven, sat on the throne, and made us heirs of every single good gift.  

What are the good gifts He gave us? Family, Salvation, License, Nobility, Righteousness, Freedom, Hope, Paradise, Feasting, Companionship, Blessing, Honor, Power, Home, Victory and every other good thing.  Every single one.)  

Legalism contorts both of those things (what He did and what He gives).  It uses His very Holy Language, Scripture itself, and twists, mangles and stabs.  It is offended by diversity, license and individuality.  It thrives in like-mindedness, repetition and rules.  

“There are people... bent on making you a slave of their conscience. They are legalists, and their tools are guilt, fear, intimidation, and self-righteousness. They proclaim God’s unconditional love for you, but insist on certain conditions... I’m not talking about people who insist you obey certain laws or moral rules in order to be saved.   Such people aren’t legalists. They are lost! They are easily identified and rebuffed. I’m talking about Christian legalists whose goal is to enforce conformity among other Christians in accordance with their personal preferences. These are life-style legalists. They threaten to rob you of joy and to squeeze the intimacy out of your relationship with Jesus."  Sam Storms (borrowed be EGM)

There is a legalism that tries to re-sculpt what God has finished.  It tries to convince you that you need this on top of Jesus' complete, A-Z, work.  Many a cult and religion have taken off by using the Bible and Jesus Himself, and then adding to it.  Many not-cult churches are guilty of doing the same thing.  Sometimes it's as "simple" as saying "You must be believe in Jesus and be baptised in order to be saved."  

This form of legalism -- the kind that claims you can add to the security or finality or actuality of your salvation -- is, well, to be frank, very easy to identify.  Anything -- anything -- other than "by grace I have been saved through believing, through faith!" is salvation-legalism.  "I did not do this myself -- I contributed nothing, as this is the gift of God to me." Excellent.  Easy.

"Yet, I have noticed that many of us Christians are certain that God's observing face must be twisted in a displeased scowl. Most seem sure that God experiences a roller-coaster ride of emotions regarding us – dictated by this morning’s state of behavior, spiritual focus, or attitude. We seem to assume that God saves by grace alone and then enjoys us according to a fluxuating, gold star, logarithm-graphed, merit badge system…alone. I knew I should have paid better attention to cosines and tangents in high school and if only I could remember that one other spiritual discipline we were taught last year." Enjoying Grace Ministries

This other form of legalism is a crafty serpent.  It sounds like Colossians 3 with a "don't you dare!" and supernatural-ultimatum tone.  It looks like hands held high (much like the shirt collars), busyness and involvedness in church affairs, and a Bible filled with underlines.  It looks good.  Really good.  Self-depricating, scripture on the tip of the tongue, and a fierceness in guarding God and 'His commands', while remaining doting, 'humble', and friendly.  Pharisees.

They convince you that you are to work hard at pleasing God.  "If you have been raised with Christ, you better seek the things above." They talk about 1 John 1:9 as if it were written to believers, not the lost.  For some reason you feel like you're never quite walking out your salvation without enough fear, enough trembling, and enough accomplishing -- psh, you feel like it's your responsibility to "walk out well," its in your hands.  Conversations in church groups and accountability sessions -- more often than not -- circle around your and their struggles: the conflict in marriage, the unbelief in hearts, the (always sexual) lust given into, the pride we possess that deceives us more than we can know, the single person's fight with emotional purity.

When you share with them the honest, vulnerable, painful stories of your life, they ask you things like "Do you think you are being bitter?" or "Do you think you deserve something more?"  Sports were "gospel-centered" by doing things like praying before, after or during games, never missing Sunday morning church because of sports, by opening up practice with a devotional -- I even know of kids who were sent out of practice to spend 10 or 15 minutes 'with the Lord' because they hadn't done it earlier in the day.  The way to make 'regular things' turn into 'a Christ-honoring thing' was to do 'the spiritual things' (pray, encourage, use scripture, confess sin, etc).  'Godliness' (according to human standards) was often highlighted publicly and often for doing publicly-'spiritual'-things (for example: the youth worship band being applauded for their godly lives and their motives for playing in the band -- "their desire is to glorify God!" -- when I know for a fact that some of the kids are 'struggling' or abandoning their walk with their Lord, and some were playing in the band because they loved their instrument and... that was about it.  I also know some of those kids were Pharisees. PS. I don't care about which kids were up there... I care that their personal lives, motives and hearts were often falsely announced and then clapped-at.  Why can't we just clap-at their talent and thank them for their time? Regardless of "why" they play?  Their skill reflects their God even if they don't realize it.  I actually have more to say about "this" so I should let it be for now.  It should be a separate post.)

"Rarely would these folk ever admit to any of this. They don’t perceive or portray themselves as legalists. If they are reading this they are probably convinced I’m talking about someone else. They’d never introduce themselves: 'Hi! I’m a legalist and my goal is to steal your joy and keep you in bondage to my religious prejudices. Would you like to go to lunch after church today and let me tell you all the things you’re doing wrong?'

I suspect that some of you are either legalists or, more likely, the victims of legalism. You live in fear of doing something that another Christian considers unholy or vital, even though the Bible is silent on the subject. You are terrified of incurring their disapproval, disdain, and ultimate rejection. Worse still, you fear God’s rejection or displeasure for violating these things. You have been duped into believing that the slightest misstep or mistake causes God’s disapproval and disgust." Sam Storms

The first time I read this article I had tunnel vision and sat on my bed wide-eyed.  I was such a blinded, knowledgable legalist that I even frequently used the word 'legalism' and accused other people of it!  Flashes of my life struck like lightning in my head, and I sat there in stunned acknowledgement: "Oh. My. Gosh.  That's me.  I'm a thief of joy, and I'm terrified of God being disappointed in me.  The times when I was most convinced I was 'taking a stand for God' or 'being a good friend by not shying away from tough love' were the times I robbed joy the most.  I must make people so uncomfortable."  While I never (EVER) told anyone that the way to be saved was to "add to the gospel," I did live like people could do things to add or detract from God's pleasure with them, therefore, I was a legalist. "IF you LOVE Him, you WILL obey Him." I announced.  It was a demand, not a new way of life, a promise.  "Guess what, guys!  If you love Me, if you believe in Me, part of the perk is that you're going to obey me! More and more, until heaven where you'll be flawless."

I didn't realize that my salvation was final and God's delight in me was final.  I had lived two decades primarily thinking of 'the gospel' as 'my salvation' and "I'm not a legalist because you can only be saved in Christ alone, by grace alone, through faith alone!"  but I didn't feel like God really absolutely enjoyed me all.the.time.  All the time.  That I never disgusted Him.  That when He thought of my name, when He watched and walked beside me in my life He wasn't thinking "Gosh, when will she EVER learn?  She's a hard-hearted one, this Kristen.  It's a good thing I'm strong so that I can change even HER."

"I will not keep silent... you shall be called by a new name

that the mouth of the Lord will give. 

You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord, 

and a royal diadem in the hand of your God. 

You shall no more be termed Forsaken, 

but you shall be called -- your name will be! -- My Delight Is in Her!   

Your land will be Married for the Lord delights in you, 

as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride,     

so shall your God rejoice over you."

Since the gospel is two-pronged, legalism is too: what God did for you, and how you can add to it!  What God gave to you, and how you can change that.

"When you are around other Christians, whether in church or a home group or just hanging out, do you feel free? Does your spirit feel relaxed or oppressed? Do you sense their acceptance or condemnation? Do you feel judged, inadequate, inferior, guilty, immature? Jesus wants to set you free from such bondage!" (Sam Storms) Do you feel like you have to explain, in dramatic detail, why you can't make it to small-group or other church events?  Do you still feel really, really, really bad about not going?  When you walk into church after worship has already started, do you feel like your friends in the seats around you are disappointed you are late or are thrilled to see you?  (Also, does it cross your mind that if you show up late looking good and made-up that people will think you are really vain and self-absorbed... and if you show up late and disheveled people will think you are really a disaster?)

What I am writing and sharing here is much more about my own story and what I believe with all my heart the world needs to know -- the riches we have in God -- than me feeling angry towards or trying to bash the people and leaders (and parents!) who surrounded me growing up.  This is about my husband who grew up a thousand miles away and who had never heard of my church/family of churches, but lived his life in legalism.   This is about anyone who could be a legalist and not know it (most don't).  This is about Scripture saying "They shall wash their hands and their feet, so that they may not die. It shall be a statute forever to them and their offspring throughout generations.” (Exodus 30:21) and the men who cared deeply about Scripture, who spent their lives desiring it be passed to their offspring and the rest of generations, being offended when this Jesus waltzed into the scene saying things like "...to eat with unwashed hands does not defile anyone.” (Matthew 15)  He directly contradicted Scripture and therefore God, so it seemed.  The Word of God matters! they must have thought!  How dare He! they must have worried!  God's Word is True! they must have countered. But they missed the point.

This is for anyone who may have missed the point.  Who have devoted themselves to God, Scripture, Church and missed it.  Like me.  Like my husband.  You may have been raised in the circles we were raised in and never missed it.  But we did.  And we know others have.  And if you have perhaps missed it -- if you have perhaps obeyed, and memorized, and know the language, and serve, and sing, and have a lot to say about your faith because you take your faith very seriously, stayed a virgin, have a bright shining face but make possibly make your fellow saints feel uncomfortable, please listen.  This is where Jesus was harsh.  This is where He was violent.  The diligent, obedient, compliant, determined, admirable, dedicated Older Sons can be left outside of the Father's House.  Obedience is fabulously important -- please don't hear what I'm not saying.  Obedience, diligence, etc is good.  It's necessary.  It is.  But there is a reason the horrifyingly disrespectful, greedy, douchebag, sleezeball son was rejoicing at the feast, welcomed into the house.  There is a reason the boy-who-would-fulfill-every-checklist, the son who obeyed was left out of the celebrating.  He missed the point.  He had the appearance of wisdom and goodness.

This isn't directed at someone or some specific group: it's for the church kids and adults anywhere and everywhere who are doing it right.  Be. Careful.  If you may be an Older Son, listen closely:

“You tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on people's shoulders... You do your deeds to be seen by others... you love the place of honor and greetings in the marketplaces ...

... For you shut the kingdom of heaven in people's faces... You blind guides, straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel!  Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! 

You clean the outside of the cup but inside they are full of self-indulgence... outwardly you appear beautiful, but within are full of all uncleanness... So you also outwardly appear righteous to others, but within you are full of hypocrisy. 

You serpents. 

You group of venomous snakes."


"If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, why, as if you were still alive in the world, do you submit to regulations— 'Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch' referring to things that all perish as they are used — according to human precepts and teachings? These have indeed an appearance of wisdom in promoting self-made religion and asceticism and severity to the body, but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh." Colossians 2

Be free.  Be free to be real.  Come as you are, and be who you are.  Pursue every good thing you can get your hands on.  Enjoy it.  Live life like you want kids to respond to their Christmas gifts: with anticipation, wild, noisy happiness, and natural excitement.  He's everywhere.  He's in running line drills, He's in strumming your guitar to Dave Matthews Band, He's in the sound of a toddler's voice, He's in a new haircut that just kind of makes you feel pretty, He's in the color of eggplant, He's in the pages of a Book and in the pages of wordy Ernest Hemingway.  He's in nature and in Times Square and in bath-tubs and in graveyards and in coffee shops and in bed at noon (because you slept in).  He's in the days of sweatpants and the days of sweaty workouts and the days of tears and the days of cheers.  He's not disappointed with you.  He adores you.  He is in charge of "who you are" and He calls it "good" and He is making it "perfect."  Everything about Him is good, and everything about Him is yours.  If washing your hands makes you happy, wash away Germ-Freak and if you don't mind jumping right into a meal without, stuff your face Fatty. You are free.  Do not submit to self-made, severe religion.  Be free! Head inside for a feast!

__________________________________________________

---> EDITED TO ADD <---

I am not looking for just affirmation and "positive" response (don't get me wrong... I want that too!).  In a way that's not "giving you permission" but that's hoping for conversation: it's okay to disagree with me.  I'm not trying to draw the line in my sand and push you away and keep you in, I'm opening up the front door and putting my self, life and thoughts out here hoping you'll come in, even if your story or beliefs are different.  I don't *have* to write -- I believe this, and I talk about it as much as I can as it fits the occasion.  I want to discuss, I want to help, I want to share -- and I want you to as well.   And if you think it's futile slash annoying to discuss on comments... e-mail me (kristen leigh photography at gmail dot com), ask for my number and call me, set up a time to chat in person.  I'm not afraid of people disagreeing.  I'm afraid of what would have happened to me if I hadn't been told the things posted above, if I hadn't become completely free, indeed.  Especially if you've grown up in the same places Caleb and I have -- we know those two "worlds" well, and we love so many people in them.  Even people who we might disagree with on every point.  If you're willing to join in a discussion and chew over big, real topics - welcome! Really! 

Post 34 | The Cross Is Not The Gospel

I was chatting with my mom about whatever it is we chat about.  At the East Village and Goshen crossing we had somehow sparked up a conversation about church or last Sunday or caregroup or something or other.  We inevitably go there at some point during a long, good conversation.  I was tracking with her and we were agreeing with each other (in fact, I think the conversation may have been about worship) and then she said something that concerned me.  Real, uncomfortable concern.

"Not to mention that I can't remember the last time I heard the name JESUS! spoken.  It's the gospel the gospel the gospel.  And the cross and the gospel.  By the way, the cross isn't the gospel.  It's part of it, but you're not supposed to 'stay at the foot of the cross.'  Why don't we hear the real gospel?  Why don't we hear about Jesus."

Oh my gosh, I almost felt bad for her (I was an obedient, stuck-up ol' puss).  The poor woman hadn't been listening close enough.  Didn't she know?  I mean, the popular song said it perfectly:

Holy God in Love became, 

Perfect Man to Bear my blame,

On the cross He took my sin,

By His death, I live again

It took the destruction of my assumed and imagined life and a couple of years for me to realize that she was right.  When I was quizzed on "the most important question" of becoming a member in my church: What is the gospel? it took a long time for me to understand how awful my answer was, even though it was wholeheartedly accepted: "The five finger gospel! Jesus. Died. For. My. Sins!"  It took a long time for me to unwrap and then enjoy the real gospel.  To not live a 'cross-centered life.'  To not think "cross" equals "gospel."

Even the recent Chris Tomlin song repeats a bridge cry of "The cross was enough! The cross was enough! The cross was enough!"  I actually like the song, but if I had heard it a few years ago I would have messed it up.  The cross was enough to kill Jesus, send him to Hell and, because of who Jesus was, satisfy God's wrath, but the cross was not enough to save us.  The gospel was enough to save us, however.  Jesus was enough.

This may be obvious to every other person, but in my life it was all mashed together.  What I was hearing and believing then applying was a "Jesus died for sinners" gospel and it made me incredibly guilty, nervous about my sin, harsh towards other folk's sin, and uncompassionate.  My half or part gospel (which is arguably false gospel) would have me, for example, scan for key words when someone was crying and rambling in front of me about something happening in her life.  I was looking for that sin-root to grab a hold of.  I was looking for the "source" of this problem.  I wasn't being God-like, Jesus-like, Gospel-like at all.   I had no idea how to "be God" to someone.  How to just give, be understanding, enjoy our differences (freedoms).  I a bad concept regarding what is "written in blood" and what is "written in pencil, with a good eraser."  Turns out a lot less is written in blood than I thought.  Turns out He is a God of feasting far more than fasting.  A God of indulgence far more than deprivation.  Turns out He thinks of us as dear far more than damned.  Turns out the cross was piece but not adequate to do the whole job.

"If you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' 

and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, 

you will be saved."

"Since He raised Him from the dead, never to return to decay...

I will grant you the faithful covenant blessings made to David."

I had crucifixation-centered life.  It was easy for me to call myself a sinner, and difficult to call my self heavenly royalty.   It was easy for me to have concerns/observations/thoughts for my friends, and hard for me to chill out, empathize and listen.  The cross-part of the gospel is a dramatic, chilling, necessary, horrifying part of the story.  It's in many ways unbelievable.  But I'll never forget reading this for the first time:

The Most High God, the Goodly-wise, the Maker of Heaven and Earth loved us before the earth was made. For all eternity He lived in extravagant Joy with His Son, bound together in the love of His Spirit. He needed nothing – not even us. But He wanted us. He wanted a bride for His Son – a bride shaped in His image, glorious in beauty, and birthed through His irrepressible grace.

He wanted to be known for His grace more than anything else, so there was an Incarnation and a Substitution and a Sacrifice and a Resurrection and an Ascension and a breathtaking Celebration; and now all who are known by Him (and therefore love His Son) are His own children and heirs and treasured saints – blameless and faultless before His face. We are priest-kings in His expanding Kingdom and no eye has ever seen or ear has ever heard or dreamer has ever imagined what He has prepared for us – from this moment forward. Without delay.

Because all this (and even more) is the Gospel.

{Enjoying Grace Ministries}

A grave-cented gospel would be dangerous.  A virgin-birth centered gospel would be dangerous.  A cross-centered gospel is too.

Love centered? Grace centered? Heck, celebration centered?  Now we're talking.  The gospel is what God, three-in-one, did for us and gave to us.  What did He do for us?  He loved us, then made us, came to live with us, died a punishment death, endured Hell, triumphed above it, lived again, walked on earth again, flew to heaven, and started the party.  What did He give to us?  Family, Salvation, License, Nobility, Righteousness, Freedom, Hope, Paradise, Feasting, Companionship, Blessing and every other good thing.  Every single one.  

That's the gospel.

If Jesus had only come and died, we could not be saved.  If death had beaten Him we could have no hope.  If He couldn't enter Heaven as our representatives, we couldn't have access.  If the cross was the climax and center of the story, we'd be doomed.  We don't live by His death, we live by his life -- or at least his life, his life, his death, his life.

The five-finger crucifixion? Jesus died for my sins.

The five-finger gospel?  Every good thing from Love. 

The cross and it's events should not be minimized, ignored or misunderstood.  They are a (phenomenal) part of the story, just not THE story.  Mom was right.  On our pilgrimage we should encounter the foot of the cross (after many other events!), and we should crumple in relief as our burden's are plucked off our back, as our rusty shackles are unscrewed, and then we should get up with our perfume and walk to that empty grave, where we can crumple with relief again knowing that Our King couldn't be swallowed.  And then we raise our eyes and follow our Hero like a balloon into the Holy Places where gates are encrusted with jewels, and the streets -- the asphalt of heaven -- is made of gold.  ("What will the gold of heaven be?").  And now we have to rely on our imaginations and a few descriptions, but the celebration of the Prodigal-children-turned-priests commenced, and it's raining down on us here on earth, too.  It's final.  It's complete.  And it's ours.  NOW.

Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim my crown, through Christ my own.

Post 33 | Happy Birthday, Mama Bear

Happy Birthday, Mama Bear! 

For the love, don't "live like you were dying."  Live like you are living.

Live like "shlupping the kids around in a minivan - 'I feel like a chauffeur!'" is a joy.  Because you have children who are alive, and you are alive to drive them, and you live in a place where there are paved roads.  Like my mom does.   Live impressed with beauty around you.  Like my mom does.  I've told this story before, but God let it stay in my head.  I think about it almost everyday, and have for years: mom and I were grocery shopping -- not even, we were running into the Giant really quick to get a few ingredients for dinner.  I was bagging onions, she was bagging tomatoes and then the eggplant caught her eye.  She stopped and stared at it.  I thought she was trying to decide whether we needed it for our meal or not.

"Just look at this color.  Come here.  Look at this.  I don't even like the color purple, but isn't this so beautiful?  Why did God decide to make all these red, orange and green vegetables and then pick one to be deep, navy purple? He's so creative."

We left eggplant-less, but I always notice the particularly royal color of an eggplant.  Live like your mom or best-friend is available to go grocery shopping with you.  Live like you can call her up or send her a text whenever you want.

Live like your lungs can take deep breaths, and your legs can walk up and down stairs easily, and like your body can enjoy a hearty, tasty meal and that you can look forward to food.  Live like beauty is all around you, and that who a person is is what makes them beautiful -- stop hating the wrinkles and soft patches and boniness and chubbiness and acne and bags under your eyes.  Goodness, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen is bald (for the third time), barely ever wears make-up, is thinner and bonier than she should be, doesn't have toned muscles, has one arm swollen to twice the size of her other arm, wears glasses and crow's feet.  God, she's beautiful.  She has cancer in her liver, bones, lungs and brain and she absolutely loves to braid her youngest daughter's hair before bed.  She never misses soccer games.  Like.  She can't come downstairs for dinner.  And she does.not.miss.soccer.games.   She does not shoo children out of her room or life because she's too busy.  "Let the little children come to me, and do not hold them back."

And just so you know, she did these things before she was sick.  She's the most "here" person I've ever known.  During our last long drive from Oklahoma to Maryland I called mama.  I missed her and wanted to talk.  We talked for over 100 miles.  She listened a lot, because I blabber a lot.  She's brilliant and tried and incredible and I should listen to her more.  She was so tired, I know it.  But she wouldn't hang up on me.  She never does.  She lets me talk and she's there with me.

I know being a part of humanity is hard.  I know we each have our battles.  I know many battles are more intense and scary and lonely and miserable than ours -- by longshots.  But as we're on this distorted escalator that is moving forward to a terrifying final stop, and as we're banging on the walls hoping to find a trap door or emergency hatch to escape through (because it happens.  People who are 'guaranteed' to be gone in nine months are here three years later, fit as fiddles.  A man in Guthrie had such an aggressive, deadly form of brain tumor that he was given three months to "check off his bucket list."  And I talked to him two weeks ago... He's been here for 124 more months 100% tumer-less!  Our God is a Healer, a Powerful Miracle Worker, a Rescuer.  There just may be that miracle door up ahead.  Please, Jesus.  Let there be!)  we're staring life's hardest questions and possibilities square in the eyes.    Days and times and two months and two years and two decades and two minutes.

To quote Joel's mama: "And it's so hard, and I've never more overwhelmed in my life. And it's so worth it.  And it's so wonderful.  And it's not going to be like this forever.  It's not the worst thing in the world to be needed."  

My mother, the made-with-common-sense, neo-natal, pediatric, army nurse, the science major, the one who has to "just do something creative!" every once in a while, who just loves good church worship, who gave us all our stubborn spirits and refusal to quit character quality, who can interact with a 4-month-old like a flippin' Baby Wizard, who can calm the frantic, serious, noisy rants of a teenage son, who listens carefully to the stories of almost-pre-teen girls, is alive.  And we've needed her all of her life.  We've sucked and pulled and drained and taken and exhausted and worn this lovely woman right out.  And she has, quite simply, lived like it was wonderful.  This isn't cheesy.  This isn't cliche.  This isn't a nicely designed quote on Pinterest. This isn't a sentimental blog post about how my mom was sick once but now she's better.  My mom is sick now and this is real and it's heart-breaking.  I think about my children never knowing the woman who made and raised me.  How could I possibly describe her to them?  How could they miss out on someone so beautiful and strong?  How on earth could they live a life without going to Disney with her?  And hearing her yell at the refs on their behalf?

Mom, it's no small joy that I get to see you every day.  That my son adores you.  That my testimony of growing up in a "big, homeschooled, conservative Christian family" is so different than so many.  You know us as individuals.  You didn't place the responsibility of being a mother onto us -- you've carried that burden and that joy.  Watching you be a mom and woman and person has made me want to try to give people what you've given me.  You make me want to be to my children what you've been to me.  I respect you, and thoroughly enjoy you, and wish I could make all your cancer go away.

I pray we are able to share many more life holidays and milestones together.  I hope you're in the birthing room for many more Morris babies.  I hope we're going out to dinner for many more birthdays.  I hope we're sitting in your bed (waaaaay too late into the day) talking about whatever while "The Chew" is on for years to come.  I hope you feel better.  I hope I get to spend the rest of life on earth with you loving you the way you've loved me.  Thank you for your sincerity.  Thank you for being my friend.  Thank you for being honest and not trying to appear to be something you aren't.  Thank you for your determination.  Thank you for being able to simultaneously be accurate and truthful about who your children are while being so happy and eager to love us as we are.  Thank you for noticing beautiful things and drawing attention to them.  Thank you for being a beautiful thing yourself.  Thank you for seeing my curiosity, and Caleb's child-like-ness, and Timmy's goofiness, and Katie's big ideas, and Kevin's sensitivity, and Michael's quirkiness, and Shannon's ferocity, and Lauren's communication skills as our strengths.  Thank you for making my childhood a dream, for pushing me to find my way as an adult, for giving me the wedding that was straight up magical, and for plowing the way for a future that is hope-filled and good.  Thank you for being what God is like even more than saying what God is like: for treating me like I am loved and precious and honored in your eyes.  For carrying me.  For delighting in my joys and in me, even at my worst.  For being brave enough to say hard things to me.  For desiring me to be happy, even at the cost of yourself.  For making home the best place.  For always being available (I don't say 'always' lightly.  It make take four-times as long, and we may get interrupted constantly, but you are always available.)  Thank you for showing me Jesus-like love and admiration.

I want to be like you.  Don't deflect that.  I mean it.  You're extraordinary.  And I'm one of the lucky seven in the entire world who get to call you "mom."

Happiest of birthdays to you, mama.  Let's celebrate hard and plan to celebrate even harder next year.  Maybe I should make eggplant parmesan ;)

All my love,
Kristen, the privileged first-born of Suzanne Lee Snyder.