A close friend of mine took his own life a few months ago.
For some reason, I continue to ache for his family... searching for answers and feeling so helpless. Suicide, after all, makes everyone feel guilty; I wish I would have could have should have...
The other day I was talking to his father on the phone, as he described my friend's final few weeks. Some of the missing pieces of the puzzle began to sink into place, as the mystery of his spiral downward came to light. Through sentence fragments and tears, I listened as his father shared about a certain hopelessness that tormented my friend. As it turned out, he had committed a serious crime and had been living with the guilt and shame of his decision.
In broken chapters, I listened to the tragic descriptions of his final days: he had stopped eating, and had become sickly thin. At night, my friend would walk to a nearby wooded park, and lay under the moonlight. He would lay his head in the cold grass and claw at the cancer of his own self-hatred. My friend would cry rivers of salty tears, begging God for the mercy of divine forgiveness.
And in his final hours, my friend took a pair of scissors and plunged them through his own heart.
What if...
this were the end of my blog entry.
What if...
the credits were rolling
and the tragedy was over
and this was the conclusion
ashes to ashes and dust to dust?
_______________________________________________________
Every night as I drive home, north on highway 26 - there in the distant western horizon is a white cross. It reaches higher than all of the surrounding trees, and stretches to the sky overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. Tonight as I was driving home, I began to think about the weight of shame. I brushed away tears as I imagined my friend collapsing in despair, and knocking on the doors of heaven for the ever-illusive mercy of spiritual::emotional::mental f r e e d o m from guilt and shame.
I remembered the heavy weight of my own depravity, the secret sins that only God knows. I considered the options of this world and found them to be shallow. I know what it's like to contemplate what my funeral would be like... or the intoxication of ending it all.
But it's there that I see a cross. An instrument of death has become a scandal of hope! An execution stake leads to resurrected life. I am graciously reminded of the God who wrapped Himself in flesh, and walked a mile in our shoes. Jesus knew what it was like to sweat drops of blood beneath the moonlight, with His face buried in the grass; He knew the weight of separation, there as His Spirit was being pressed like the olives in Gethsemane.
I love Jesus. The more I learn, the less I understand. The mystery of the cross remains the center of my surrender. Following (even at a guilty distance) is a spiritual journey, not a guilt trip! I love Jesus because He meets us in that moment of despair, with a nail-scarred hand of forgiveness. When we think all is lost, He shows up in the morning and invites us to breakfast. When we have been disqualified, He reinstates, recreates, mediates, and stands as our defense.
I believe that I will see my friend again. And it's not some cliche happy Christian sub-plot to a Sunday school lesson. I believe that one day we will be reunited in the Kingdom of Freedom, a place that transcends time and space. I believe that we will live in delicate harmony with all of creation's song: in the presence of all that is, love.
12.12.2010
12.06.2010
The End of My Silence
"...If I say, 'I will not mention him,
or speak any more in his name,'
there is in my heart as it were a burning fire
deep inside my soul,
and I am weary with holding it in,
and I cannot."
- Jeremiah 20:9
11.22.2010
The God of Infinite Mercy
How many times should we extend forgiveness to those who have wronged us?
This was the dominant question, heavy on Peter's heart, as he approached Jesus for an answer. "But what about..." and "yeah, but what about in this situation?" Should we be a door mat for people to walk all over us and not fight for our rights?
Jesus' answer: 70 x 7
This numerical equation is the Jewish equivalent of, eternity. It is the same kind of language He used in answering the expert in the laws' questions about Olam Haba - "life to the vanishing point", or the foreverandeveramen.
What if He actually meant those words? Can you imagine if people actually took Him seriously in this command? That would really wreck your church constitution on disciplinary actions! It might actually mean that fallen people are still welcome at the Table, and sinners are embraced with amnesia, and grudges are expunged, and earthly judges are commissioned to sentence sinners to a life in communal confinement.
For all the times I have stumbled into the Heavenly Kingdom via Spiritual Bankruptcy, I am indebted to a Judge who does not keep a record of profits and losses. How can I say thank You? How can I possible say thank You enough?
Thank You for being my friend, when the bullets of criticism were fired. Thank You for standing as my defense, when professional religious people packed that side of the court room hurling rocks in the form of letters to a carnal impostor. Thank You for covering me with Your own blood, and washing me clean. Thank You for never giving up on me when everyone else turned away. Thank You for being the God of all-comfort. Thank You for being the Lion and the Lamb and the Tension between conquer and submission and fight and flight. Thank You for meeting me in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the Belly of the Whale, in the midnight hour; You whispered in my ear: "love still wins."
Thank You for Jamie and strength under control, and three little girls who could care less about organized religion and yet have a deeper understanding of unconditional love than most of the pastors in Muskegon. Thank You for my dad who, despite his unorthodox ways, has modeled for me what it means to be a safe place for people who are all screwed up. Thank You for my mother who still grieves my eXodus from home, and aches for her bloodline to be close. Thank You for Jennifer (Eric) who will war on my behalf if she so much as hears a whisper of criticism. Thank You for Janelle (Brian) who will give an earful to the management at the local YMCA if they hesitate to let me join their membership. Thank You to Jon (Sara) who continue to teach me how to love well, how to labor over the Word in worship, and how to model selflessness to our children.
This Thanksgiving I rest in this mercy, with uncontrollable trembling in response. That I have been forgiven (70 x 7) for my infinite sins, and I am being healed by the scars of a slaughtered Lamb who is returning as a Lion. I am, in every way, crucified and resurrected with Him!
Post Script :: I love You.
This was the dominant question, heavy on Peter's heart, as he approached Jesus for an answer. "But what about..." and "yeah, but what about in this situation?" Should we be a door mat for people to walk all over us and not fight for our rights?
Jesus' answer: 70 x 7
This numerical equation is the Jewish equivalent of, eternity. It is the same kind of language He used in answering the expert in the laws' questions about Olam Haba - "life to the vanishing point", or the foreverandeveramen.
What if He actually meant those words? Can you imagine if people actually took Him seriously in this command? That would really wreck your church constitution on disciplinary actions! It might actually mean that fallen people are still welcome at the Table, and sinners are embraced with amnesia, and grudges are expunged, and earthly judges are commissioned to sentence sinners to a life in communal confinement.
For all the times I have stumbled into the Heavenly Kingdom via Spiritual Bankruptcy, I am indebted to a Judge who does not keep a record of profits and losses. How can I say thank You? How can I possible say thank You enough?
Thank You for being my friend, when the bullets of criticism were fired. Thank You for standing as my defense, when professional religious people packed that side of the court room hurling rocks in the form of letters to a carnal impostor. Thank You for covering me with Your own blood, and washing me clean. Thank You for never giving up on me when everyone else turned away. Thank You for being the God of all-comfort. Thank You for being the Lion and the Lamb and the Tension between conquer and submission and fight and flight. Thank You for meeting me in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the Belly of the Whale, in the midnight hour; You whispered in my ear: "love still wins."
Thank You for Jamie and strength under control, and three little girls who could care less about organized religion and yet have a deeper understanding of unconditional love than most of the pastors in Muskegon. Thank You for my dad who, despite his unorthodox ways, has modeled for me what it means to be a safe place for people who are all screwed up. Thank You for my mother who still grieves my eXodus from home, and aches for her bloodline to be close. Thank You for Jennifer (Eric) who will war on my behalf if she so much as hears a whisper of criticism. Thank You for Janelle (Brian) who will give an earful to the management at the local YMCA if they hesitate to let me join their membership. Thank You to Jon (Sara) who continue to teach me how to love well, how to labor over the Word in worship, and how to model selflessness to our children.
This Thanksgiving I rest in this mercy, with uncontrollable trembling in response. That I have been forgiven (70 x 7) for my infinite sins, and I am being healed by the scars of a slaughtered Lamb who is returning as a Lion. I am, in every way, crucified and resurrected with Him!
Post Script :: I love You.
11.17.2010
11.08.2010
if i had more time...
i would tell you that my soul is being restored
and the aching is fading
to a delicate rhythm
of yes and maybe and
one day you will understand
the silence from a distance does not mean
that i have no opinion on things like
surrender and submission and you
and the all-consuming anger is a reminder
that if i don't learn to forgive
i will die from this poisonous rage
love wins
remember?
but sometimes it doesn't feel that way, does it?
sometimes it seems like judgment and betrayal has the last word
(or at least an encore performance)
just when i thought i had forgiven and forgotten
i'm reminded of your violent ungrace
and it meets me when i least expect it
like when i'm driving down the road
and i see a truck that looks like yours
if i had more time i would tell you that it doesn't matter
what's done is done and there is no undoing
and that's all there is to say about that
and the aching is fading
to a delicate rhythm
of yes and maybe and
one day you will understand
the silence from a distance does not mean
that i have no opinion on things like
surrender and submission and you
and the all-consuming anger is a reminder
that if i don't learn to forgive
i will die from this poisonous rage
love wins
remember?
but sometimes it doesn't feel that way, does it?
sometimes it seems like judgment and betrayal has the last word
(or at least an encore performance)
just when i thought i had forgiven and forgotten
i'm reminded of your violent ungrace
and it meets me when i least expect it
like when i'm driving down the road
and i see a truck that looks like yours
if i had more time i would tell you that it doesn't matter
what's done is done and there is no undoing
and that's all there is to say about that
10.26.2010
Embracing the Absent Presence (Pt. 2)
I remember when we lost everything.
With the loss of my job, we lost an entire community of support. We lost our health insurance, and our house. We lost our friends, and our ekklesiastical family. I guess they were busy dancing beneath the "One in Christ" banner at the local Christian music festival.
And in this loss, so too died my faith that God answered prayer. On bended knees, I had pleaded for His merciful presence. I claimed the happy verses; the passages that declared me redeemed and forgiven and restored in Christ. But my experience left me meeting a different reality.
So where is God when it hurts? The age-old problem of evil and human suffering and the debate of His Sovereignty, etc. is not something that this blog entry is going to conquer. Rather, I write to instill a few alternative options in viewing His presence:
1. God shows up in the most unlikely ways. He shows up spitting in mud and healing the blind man. He shows up speaking through donkeys and in the nakedness of an infant baby. He appears in the thunder and lightening and in the calm before the storm. He screams in a whisper, and whispers through the prophets. He triumphs by shutting the mouths of the lions, and appears as the fourth man in the fiery furnace.
God is present with a suffering humanity by His own journey to an execution stake. He knows the pain of betrayal. He knows the sting of divorce. He has felt the cheers of the crowd one minute, and the letters written from professional religious people to the judge - the next.
2. God shows up through the most unlikely of people. The King of Glory appears in the face of "Happy" the homeless man I met here on the streets of Asheville. Jesus said, "whenever you give a cold cup of water in my Name, you've given it to me..." - Consequently, Jesus can be found among the often overlooked, least of these. He shows up in a wheel chair, playing the harmonica and spreading joy to any soul within earshot.
God meets us in the pain, when you least expect it. Just when you thought He had forgotten you, He calls your name in the October wind. He taps you on the shoulder and offers a hug of comfort from a stranger on the street.
He shows up in the mail box with food stamps to feed your children.
With the loss of my job, we lost an entire community of support. We lost our health insurance, and our house. We lost our friends, and our ekklesiastical family. I guess they were busy dancing beneath the "One in Christ" banner at the local Christian music festival.
And in this loss, so too died my faith that God answered prayer. On bended knees, I had pleaded for His merciful presence. I claimed the happy verses; the passages that declared me redeemed and forgiven and restored in Christ. But my experience left me meeting a different reality.
So where is God when it hurts? The age-old problem of evil and human suffering and the debate of His Sovereignty, etc. is not something that this blog entry is going to conquer. Rather, I write to instill a few alternative options in viewing His presence:
1. God shows up in the most unlikely ways. He shows up spitting in mud and healing the blind man. He shows up speaking through donkeys and in the nakedness of an infant baby. He appears in the thunder and lightening and in the calm before the storm. He screams in a whisper, and whispers through the prophets. He triumphs by shutting the mouths of the lions, and appears as the fourth man in the fiery furnace.
God is present with a suffering humanity by His own journey to an execution stake. He knows the pain of betrayal. He knows the sting of divorce. He has felt the cheers of the crowd one minute, and the letters written from professional religious people to the judge - the next.
2. God shows up through the most unlikely of people. The King of Glory appears in the face of "Happy" the homeless man I met here on the streets of Asheville. Jesus said, "whenever you give a cold cup of water in my Name, you've given it to me..." - Consequently, Jesus can be found among the often overlooked, least of these. He shows up in a wheel chair, playing the harmonica and spreading joy to any soul within earshot.
God meets us in the pain, when you least expect it. Just when you thought He had forgotten you, He calls your name in the October wind. He taps you on the shoulder and offers a hug of comfort from a stranger on the street.
He shows up in the mail box with food stamps to feed your children.
10.23.2010
Embracing the Absent Presence (Part 1)
The name given to my hope, is Immanuel.
Which is translated from the Hebrew tradition: "God is with us."
Have you ever, in the midst of a ferocious storm, searched for the calming touch of the One who can quiet the winds and silence the waves? And in your calling out, found no answer?
Well, I have. And it has messed with my theology.
I worship the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I celebrate His promise that He will never leave me forsaken or alone. I have encouraged my friends to trust the nearness of the Abba Father in the struggle of loneliness. After all, the Scriptures insist that He is close to the brokenhearted.
But if I were to be really honest, I have screamed out for his help; the waves have overcome me, and in my sinking, I am reaching. reaching. reaching.
And there have been times when there was no answer. Heaven was silent. Immanuel seemed to have been a nice flannel-graph Christmas story, about as real as reindeer and rooftops.
In my agony, my faith wilted. In heaven's coldness, my hope grew weary. In transcendent distance, God seemed to be an amnesiac, bi-polar mystery, with multiple personalities. Even His own autobiographical confessions articulate His paradox. Which is it, is He near or far, immanent or distant? Has He predetermined all things, or has He left certain elements of human freedom open for our choosing? Is He the Abba "Daddy" Father, or is He the Holy Terror?
When I read about the cruel suffering of the innocent, cosmic earthquakes, tsunamis that wipe out thousands of small children, and 4 million women and children forced into human sexual trafficking, I can't help but to wonder: Where is Immanuel? Where is this Divine Presence who has promised to be with us in the struggle?
I am learning to embrace the absent presence of the Resurrected Christ. I am learning how to pray differently; to ask for the Kingdom of Mercy to invade this hurting world. I am attempting to be content in the mystery of His paradox.
Which is translated from the Hebrew tradition: "God is with us."
Have you ever, in the midst of a ferocious storm, searched for the calming touch of the One who can quiet the winds and silence the waves? And in your calling out, found no answer?
Well, I have. And it has messed with my theology.
I worship the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I celebrate His promise that He will never leave me forsaken or alone. I have encouraged my friends to trust the nearness of the Abba Father in the struggle of loneliness. After all, the Scriptures insist that He is close to the brokenhearted.
But if I were to be really honest, I have screamed out for his help; the waves have overcome me, and in my sinking, I am reaching. reaching. reaching.
And there have been times when there was no answer. Heaven was silent. Immanuel seemed to have been a nice flannel-graph Christmas story, about as real as reindeer and rooftops.
In my agony, my faith wilted. In heaven's coldness, my hope grew weary. In transcendent distance, God seemed to be an amnesiac, bi-polar mystery, with multiple personalities. Even His own autobiographical confessions articulate His paradox. Which is it, is He near or far, immanent or distant? Has He predetermined all things, or has He left certain elements of human freedom open for our choosing? Is He the Abba "Daddy" Father, or is He the Holy Terror?
When I read about the cruel suffering of the innocent, cosmic earthquakes, tsunamis that wipe out thousands of small children, and 4 million women and children forced into human sexual trafficking, I can't help but to wonder: Where is Immanuel? Where is this Divine Presence who has promised to be with us in the struggle?
I am learning to embrace the absent presence of the Resurrected Christ. I am learning how to pray differently; to ask for the Kingdom of Mercy to invade this hurting world. I am attempting to be content in the mystery of His paradox.
10.21.2010
10.14.2010
The Parable of the Lost Daughter
It wasn't until I had children of my own, that I began to comprehend the mystery of God's love for me.
As I think about the measures I would take to provide and protect my daughters, the parables of Jesus take on a whole new meaning.
What does the Heavenly Kingdom look like? It's like a woman who has lost a valuable coin. She searches the whole house and will not give up until she has found it. It's like a shepherd who knows each of his sheep, and at the end of the day - one of them has run away... The shepherd leaves the 99 to hunt down the lost one. Yes, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a Father who waits at the edge of the driveway for His prodigal to return...
A few days ago we took the girls on a hike up the trails leading to Triple Falls. Jamie carried her camera in one hand, and tucked Ashlyn in a pack to carry along. Ambria, as usual, stayed close to me as we walked the rocky terrain. Mariah Grace was running all over the place, looking for hiking sticks, noticing caterpillars, and searching for short cuts.
On our way back from the falls we all got a bit separated. After stopping for a drink, we realized that Mariah was neither with me, nor her mother. She was missing!
Jamie ventured back to see if Mariah had delayed in the trek home. I ran ahead, to hunt her down. I could feel the pace of my heart accelerating in its beat. My steps were hurried, and my mission was urgent. She was not around the bends ahead. Jamie returned and said that she was not back at the falls, either.
As I ran in pursuit of missing daughter, I asked fellow hikers on the trail if they had seen a little girl with a pony tail and big stick. "Yes", they said, "Hurry... she is walking alone back toward the road ahead!"
As I passed others along the way, they confirmed this report. I ran as fast as I could, trying to catch Mariah before she ventured out into the highway from whence we came.
And as I ran, I could sense the Presence of the One who reminded me: "Now you understand the heart of a Father. Now you realize the urgency of the search. What wouldn't you do to find your missing prodigal?"
I neared the entry point of the trail, near the highway overpass. And there she was. Mariah was standing alone at the edge of the road, waiting for me. She had wandered off from the protection of our group, and thought that she had been left behind. In her mind, she had to catch up to us. And when she arrived at the road she knew it would only be a matter of time before her Father would come to her rescue.
And in my embrace, she could feel my heart pounding in determination. I held her close to me as I carried her back safely. And I remembered those times when it was I who had been lost, and in the midnight hour - He arrived.
10.06.2010
Death and Deity
I am learning to be more honest.
I am learning that the image we present to the world is the one we want people to believe. So we put our best foot forward and only post pictures on our facebook account that we want people to see. We delete the pictures that are less than favorable, and we highlight stories about our successes and our smiles and our norman rockwellness.
But that is not reality. The truth is, we all have pictures that make us shudder to look at. We all have a virtual trash bin of images that we keep hidden from the public eye. This image management allows the world to see only what we want them to see.
After the death of my friend Gina Carlin, I noticed that so many of her friends joined me in grieving her loss. We spoke in monotone regret-stained whispers, of her memory. We elevated her status to the point of sainthood, and bowed down her to deity. And as I caught myself in mid-conversation, the thought occurred to me that we have done her an injustice:
We do each other no favors by denying the brokenness that we all share.
I am not perfect. I take horrible pictures. Not every day is a full of walks in the woods with my wife, or swinging my daughters around at the beach. In reality, we argue at times - just like every couple I know. We yell at our "precious angels" for not obeying us immediately. We stress out over money. We avoid taking the trash out. We delete 95% of the pictures on the digital camera, and let people see the few that make us look better than we are.
But this is exactly where incarnation meets us; the Sacred collides with the common. It is in this very ordinary messiness, that humanity becomes holy. As we realize our imperfection it makes us weak in the knees - we bend to the One who extends the grace we need to keep going.
And when we are weak, then we our strong. When we realize our condition, and we are courageous enough to be honest about our brokenness, then the message of the cross takes on a deeper conviction to be lived out.
So we stumble and fall, we falter and rage, we deny and curse. But one thing remains constant, a Jesus who waits for us to answer the question: "do you love me?"
I am learning that the image we present to the world is the one we want people to believe. So we put our best foot forward and only post pictures on our facebook account that we want people to see. We delete the pictures that are less than favorable, and we highlight stories about our successes and our smiles and our norman rockwellness.
But that is not reality. The truth is, we all have pictures that make us shudder to look at. We all have a virtual trash bin of images that we keep hidden from the public eye. This image management allows the world to see only what we want them to see.
After the death of my friend Gina Carlin, I noticed that so many of her friends joined me in grieving her loss. We spoke in monotone regret-stained whispers, of her memory. We elevated her status to the point of sainthood, and bowed down her to deity. And as I caught myself in mid-conversation, the thought occurred to me that we have done her an injustice:
We do each other no favors by denying the brokenness that we all share.
I am not perfect. I take horrible pictures. Not every day is a full of walks in the woods with my wife, or swinging my daughters around at the beach. In reality, we argue at times - just like every couple I know. We yell at our "precious angels" for not obeying us immediately. We stress out over money. We avoid taking the trash out. We delete 95% of the pictures on the digital camera, and let people see the few that make us look better than we are.
But this is exactly where incarnation meets us; the Sacred collides with the common. It is in this very ordinary messiness, that humanity becomes holy. As we realize our imperfection it makes us weak in the knees - we bend to the One who extends the grace we need to keep going.
And when we are weak, then we our strong. When we realize our condition, and we are courageous enough to be honest about our brokenness, then the message of the cross takes on a deeper conviction to be lived out.
So we stumble and fall, we falter and rage, we deny and curse. But one thing remains constant, a Jesus who waits for us to answer the question: "do you love me?"
10.03.2010
9.27.2010
and the Tree is a witness
A close friend of mine committed suicide a few days ago.
I'm still grieving her absence, and especially the circumstances that led to her exit. For the past few days I have been wrestling with questions and anger and now, profound sadness. She left behind three small children, and a million mysteries...
Confusing incidents, frantic phone messages, and an open investigation have led to the assumption that her self-inflicted fatality was incited by unspeakable hurt (guilt?shame?fear?) Perhaps she felt that she had nobody to lean into for support, and that she would have been abandoned by those around her when it all came out in the wash.
Suicide has a way of making everyone feel guilty: I wish I would have could have should have been a better friend, son, sister, mother...
and from this regret, I write these thoughts -
I am convicted and inspired to lead a life of perpetual communication to my loved ones, that there is nothing that can be done to make me turn my back on them. I am determined to be the kind of friend that will kick down the door and loudly declare that unconditional love crashes into the despairing heart! Our God meets us in the hour of suicidal thoughts and greets us with a gentle whisper. His Divine Embrace catches the salty tears as they spill out in confession, and His nail-scarred hands wipe away those heavy thoughts of self-harm.
"What can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus? Nothing. Nope. Not that. Or that either. Not even. No. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What part of Nothing don't you understand?" (Romans 8:38, JLD translation).
_______________________________________________________
We've been worshiping as a family together at nice church here in Asheville. It has been refreshing to just be able to sit as a family, to hold Jamie's hand and to watch her worship. I can just sit in the chair and absorb the grace that has brought so much healing to my heart.
Every Sunday before the services begin, I walk Mariah down the sidewalk to the adjacent building where the children's ministries gather. She holds my hand as walk together, and I seize that precious moment to shower her with my promise.
When we turn up the sidewalk, there is a beautiful tree that greets us. It is a geographical reminder to say the following words:
"Mariah, we're near the tree now, and it's time for me to remind you that I love you. And that there is nothing that you could ever do that would make me love you any less than I do right now."
She usually rolls her eyes and shrugs it off, "I know dad. You tell me that *every* time we come to this tree..."
and I have to be aggressive in the telling, lest she might neglect the agape covenant. "Do you understand what I am telling you? There is nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I will never turn away from you. Even if you do something really bad, and it hurts my feelings. Or maybe it breaks my heart, I will always let you in. You are always welcome in my arms."
I want her understanding of heavenly mercy to be shaped by the annoying insistence that her Father says what he means, and he means what he says...
and the Tree is a witness.
I'm still grieving her absence, and especially the circumstances that led to her exit. For the past few days I have been wrestling with questions and anger and now, profound sadness. She left behind three small children, and a million mysteries...
Confusing incidents, frantic phone messages, and an open investigation have led to the assumption that her self-inflicted fatality was incited by unspeakable hurt (guilt?shame?fear?) Perhaps she felt that she had nobody to lean into for support, and that she would have been abandoned by those around her when it all came out in the wash.
Suicide has a way of making everyone feel guilty: I wish I would have could have should have been a better friend, son, sister, mother...
and from this regret, I write these thoughts -
I am convicted and inspired to lead a life of perpetual communication to my loved ones, that there is nothing that can be done to make me turn my back on them. I am determined to be the kind of friend that will kick down the door and loudly declare that unconditional love crashes into the despairing heart! Our God meets us in the hour of suicidal thoughts and greets us with a gentle whisper. His Divine Embrace catches the salty tears as they spill out in confession, and His nail-scarred hands wipe away those heavy thoughts of self-harm.
"What can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus? Nothing. Nope. Not that. Or that either. Not even. No. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What part of Nothing don't you understand?" (Romans 8:38, JLD translation).
_______________________________________________________
We've been worshiping as a family together at nice church here in Asheville. It has been refreshing to just be able to sit as a family, to hold Jamie's hand and to watch her worship. I can just sit in the chair and absorb the grace that has brought so much healing to my heart.
Every Sunday before the services begin, I walk Mariah down the sidewalk to the adjacent building where the children's ministries gather. She holds my hand as walk together, and I seize that precious moment to shower her with my promise.
When we turn up the sidewalk, there is a beautiful tree that greets us. It is a geographical reminder to say the following words:
"Mariah, we're near the tree now, and it's time for me to remind you that I love you. And that there is nothing that you could ever do that would make me love you any less than I do right now."
She usually rolls her eyes and shrugs it off, "I know dad. You tell me that *every* time we come to this tree..."
and I have to be aggressive in the telling, lest she might neglect the agape covenant. "Do you understand what I am telling you? There is nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I will never turn away from you. Even if you do something really bad, and it hurts my feelings. Or maybe it breaks my heart, I will always let you in. You are always welcome in my arms."
I want her understanding of heavenly mercy to be shaped by the annoying insistence that her Father says what he means, and he means what he says...
and the Tree is a witness.
9.22.2010
Come, Gather Round...
Every one has a story worth listening to, and this comes from a quivering daughter.
9.19.2010
9.14.2010
Graceology - A Mystery of Mercy
I heard about a serial killer who kidnapped his victims before raping them. Then he killed them and cut their body parts into little pieces, and put them in his freezer. He would occasionally dine on his victims as his hunger would strike.
He attempted to capture and rape a teenage boy, who fled into the streets naked. This drew some unwanted attention, as you can imagine. The police discovered this holocaust of horror in his apartment.
Of course, the serial killer was sentenced to life in prison.
And in prison, he claimed to have "found Jesus". A few months later, he was beaten to death by fellow inmates with the end of a mop. But not before Jeffrey Dahmer "was reconciled" to God.
I don't get it. What kind of a theological system would make room for someone as jacked up as this psychopath? Who kidnaps, rapes, kills, and eats people? And what kind of a God would invite this kind of behaviorist into His heavenly kingdom?
A God of scandalous grace. A God who covers the sins of Mother Theresa and my three daughters. A God who sent His Son to be massacred on a Roman execution stake in the worlds first "Shock and Awe" campaign. A God who saves a seat at the banquet table for Jeffrey Dahmer, and me.
A God who meant it when He inspired the words: "Whoever is willing... Whoever is broken... Whoever is thirsty... Whoever needs 70 x 70 chances...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IjW7bezdddE
He attempted to capture and rape a teenage boy, who fled into the streets naked. This drew some unwanted attention, as you can imagine. The police discovered this holocaust of horror in his apartment.
Of course, the serial killer was sentenced to life in prison.
And in prison, he claimed to have "found Jesus". A few months later, he was beaten to death by fellow inmates with the end of a mop. But not before Jeffrey Dahmer "was reconciled" to God.
I don't get it. What kind of a theological system would make room for someone as jacked up as this psychopath? Who kidnaps, rapes, kills, and eats people? And what kind of a God would invite this kind of behaviorist into His heavenly kingdom?
A God of scandalous grace. A God who covers the sins of Mother Theresa and my three daughters. A God who sent His Son to be massacred on a Roman execution stake in the worlds first "Shock and Awe" campaign. A God who saves a seat at the banquet table for Jeffrey Dahmer, and me.
A God who meant it when He inspired the words: "Whoever is willing... Whoever is broken... Whoever is thirsty... Whoever needs 70 x 70 chances...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IjW7bezdddE
9.02.2010
On Finding God
As I pulled in to the driveway this evening, I was greeted by the collective squeal of Mariah and Ambria. They were jumping and shouting and twisting and pointing...
Before I could even open the door, I could hear my three year announcing with all of her might; "Daddy, daddy! We found something...." and other [indiscernible] chaos. I climbed out of the car and they both began to lunge at me with hugs and kisses and the prideful exuberance of their discovery.
"What do you find?" I asked.
"Actually, we found two things." Ambria stated demonstratively. She held up a rusted horse-shoe that required both hands for the lifting.
"We found this lucky horse shoe..." she said. "And we found, God!"
I made her repeat her sentence, for clarity.
"Yes, we found this (holding aforementioned horse shoe) and God."
I glanced at Jamie for confirmation that I had heard her correctly. Jamie was walking over to join the conversation and suggested that I take a look at the sign Mariah had made.
The girls led me to the swinging tree, and Mariah pointed to a picture that she had created: "Here lays Jesus." it said, with a picture of a broken-hearted stick figure, unmistakably the Messiah.
All of this inspiration was detonated by the afternoon discovery of an old horse shoe in the rustic barn behind the house, and a deteriorating iconic relic of a very fading Jesus.
Having found God, they had decided that they would display Him beneath the tree. The invitation to an obviously hope-starved world was posted in crayon. Come and see that the Lord is good. Here lays Jesus. We found Him. For anyone searching for answers... He once was lost, but now He is found.
Before I could even open the door, I could hear my three year announcing with all of her might; "Daddy, daddy! We found something...." and other [indiscernible] chaos. I climbed out of the car and they both began to lunge at me with hugs and kisses and the prideful exuberance of their discovery.
"What do you find?" I asked.
"Actually, we found two things." Ambria stated demonstratively. She held up a rusted horse-shoe that required both hands for the lifting.
"We found this lucky horse shoe..." she said. "And we found, God!"
I made her repeat her sentence, for clarity.
"Yes, we found this (holding aforementioned horse shoe) and God."
I glanced at Jamie for confirmation that I had heard her correctly. Jamie was walking over to join the conversation and suggested that I take a look at the sign Mariah had made.
The girls led me to the swinging tree, and Mariah pointed to a picture that she had created: "Here lays Jesus." it said, with a picture of a broken-hearted stick figure, unmistakably the Messiah.
All of this inspiration was detonated by the afternoon discovery of an old horse shoe in the rustic barn behind the house, and a deteriorating iconic relic of a very fading Jesus.
Having found God, they had decided that they would display Him beneath the tree. The invitation to an obviously hope-starved world was posted in crayon. Come and see that the Lord is good. Here lays Jesus. We found Him. For anyone searching for answers... He once was lost, but now He is found.
8.31.2010
writer's block
i feel like i've lost my voice
and my pen has lost its fire
and i'm not good at expressing comprehensive thoughts
but i've become an expert at staring at walls
and losing myself in the wonder of
august heat
country roads
and ashlyn's tears
i've been attempting to write about the rhythm of birth and live and death
and rebirth and life and death and rebirth and...
but it all comes out like a schizophrenic flood
of nonsensical psycho-pseudo babble
in fragmented sentences
hanging
gerunds and dang
ling participles
i feel like a traveling salesman
distracted by a garage sale
with an armload of seconhands
baffled at their rejection of my personal credit card
spitting on my palms, extending my handshake
pinky swearing that i'm good for the payback
what i'm trying to say is
i miss the old me.
and my pen has lost its fire
and i'm not good at expressing comprehensive thoughts
but i've become an expert at staring at walls
and losing myself in the wonder of
august heat
country roads
and ashlyn's tears
i've been attempting to write about the rhythm of birth and live and death
and rebirth and life and death and rebirth and...
but it all comes out like a schizophrenic flood
of nonsensical psycho-pseudo babble
in fragmented sentences
hanging
gerunds and dang
ling participles
i feel like a traveling salesman
distracted by a garage sale
with an armload of seconhands
baffled at their rejection of my personal credit card
spitting on my palms, extending my handshake
pinky swearing that i'm good for the payback
what i'm trying to say is
i miss the old me.
8.25.2010
8.16.2010
life as we know it
we live far away.
anyone who has braved the journey to visit us in our new home, will testify to this reality.
most of those who are closest to us question this situation.
"wow, you sure are quite a ways from civilization!" they say.
"wouldn't you be happier a little closer to the city?"
we live far away.
the songbirds in the morning echo through the valley behind our house, and the crickets and bullfrogs compete for attention at night. the fireflies explode into a ritual at dusk, as we tuck three girls into bed. they look out the window and watch the fireworks.
the barn behind our house was built in the mid 1940's. she has weathered many unpredictable storms over the years. the property adjacent to ours is home to horses that run over the pasture, stirring up the cows in the distance. whenever a passerby ventures down hazel brook road, a habitual southern waive is assumed.
we live far away.
and in this rhythm of quiet, God is wooing me back in to His embrace.
anyone who has braved the journey to visit us in our new home, will testify to this reality.
most of those who are closest to us question this situation.
"wow, you sure are quite a ways from civilization!" they say.
"wouldn't you be happier a little closer to the city?"
we live far away.
the songbirds in the morning echo through the valley behind our house, and the crickets and bullfrogs compete for attention at night. the fireflies explode into a ritual at dusk, as we tuck three girls into bed. they look out the window and watch the fireworks.
the barn behind our house was built in the mid 1940's. she has weathered many unpredictable storms over the years. the property adjacent to ours is home to horses that run over the pasture, stirring up the cows in the distance. whenever a passerby ventures down hazel brook road, a habitual southern waive is assumed.
we live far away.
and in this rhythm of quiet, God is wooing me back in to His embrace.
7.22.2010
proverbs 25:22
it's fascinating to review the history of visitors to my blog - (it gives me the url and actual location) of who exactly is viewing these thoughts, and from where.
all i can say is, wow!
some of the same people who have verbally attacked my family, and launched anonymous rocks in our direction, seem grossly curious about our slow [yet imminent] healing.
read on, haters.
because i have something for you:
i love you.
the end.
7.11.2010
Keep This Confedential (Promise)?
It's going on three years now, since much of my life was rearranged. For most of that long, cold winter of the soul's discontent, I allowed myself only the privilege of an ink pen to my personal journal. At long last, I've chosen to post some of these feelings.
I realize that what you are about to read is depressing. And indeed, I was going through the valley of the shadow of doubt. One minute I would feel hopeful and content, and the next - suicidal! Most of the scattered journal entries were in the immediate months following my resignation from Lakeshore Community Church, and the exile from my home.
I am posting some (of course, not everything!) of these journal entries because they are beautiful and sacred, and I have come so far from that place. I have also chosen to share this emotion because I believe it will help me to bring closure to a painful chapter in the story of my life. Although I am not fully healed from the self-inflicted wounds, the scars are fading and my heart is beating again...
Read at your own risk:
__________________________________________________________
"this then, is my confession:
that i'm losing hope in the power of prayer.
st. john of the cross refers to this season as
'the dark night of the soul'.
when God seems detached
a million miles away
laughing uncontrollably at my petty confessions
with bloody knuckles pounding on heaven's door
for justice and mercy and deliverance
from the thorn in my soul
again and again and again...
sometimes your grace does not seem sufficient
sometimes i speak with the tongues of foreign groans;
an unholy rage that can not be interpreted
sometimes these tears fall like salty blood and sweat
violent explosions from my soul
delicate implosions from this body of death
who can deliver me?
_______ the truth_______
i'm a fellow pilgrim on the journey
trying to wrap my mind around grace
and a post-easter worldview
____________________________________________________
a question posed by my therapist:
"do you find it difficult to believe that people could actually love you, just for being you?"
a) "i don't understand the question."
____________________________________________________
"yesterday afternoon i had a meltdown. for some reason i could not function. i could not make the simplest of decisions. i stood in the kitchen and just cried my eyes out. i went into the living room and just sat on the couch. mariah was watching television and i tried to hide my tears. i do not want her to see me like this.
i went into the bedroom and collapsed. jamie came in to comfort me, and mariah followed... suspiciously curious.
kyle b. came over. we sat in the basement. he told me that some people are questioning the sincerity of my repentance or pride. trust me, this is not pride - it's self-hatred. how long will i continue flogging myself? and then it hit me: God knows the condition of my heart, and nothing else matters. nothing."
___________________________________________________
"except for the fact that i am losing hope
in love in koinonia in ekklesia in the body of Christ
to be a safe place for broken people like me
to confess sin, and in repentance, find restoration.
i am so catastrophically pissed off!
outraged and ashamed, all in one breath.
i am not well
dangerous, i can not drive down the highway
or speak an intelligent word
or make the simplest of choices
i want to scream out at the thousands of curious spectators
who are watching like a ten-car highway wreck, with detached, vulgar curiosity.
i refuse the eucharist in community.
i am afraid for my daughters
that their eyes will watch the body lose a limb
and silence a voice. that they will grow up
like every other suburban child
confused and uncertain
just like their daddy.
Jesus give me the strength to pack my bags and wiped the dust and blood off my wretched self."
a d m i t m e.
_____________________________________________________
"this morning i am in the recovery room.
yesterday a statement was made by the elders
my dirty laundry put on display
like my dad's childhood sheets, soiled
hanging out to dry, flopping in the wind to be observed by the entire neighborhood.
this morning i am in the recovery room
let the healing begin
i want to rip the iv out
disconnect from the monitors, supervision, speculation
white coats with their hushed whispers and clip boards,
taking notes and diagnosing me
oppositional defiant disorder."
_________________________________________________________
"lately i've been cold
constantly freezing and trembling
my knees buckling as i walk
lately i've been waking up in a pool of sweat
sheets soaked; cold cold sweat
electric blanket on seven
shivering."
___________________________________________________________
"my counselor stretched me yesterday and i am furious!
he asked me what i value the most:
acceptance by God or the praise of men?
obviously, i answer, acceptance by God.
why then
is my soul in shambles? feeling the sting
(that all-too familiar slap) of rejection
and the self-verification that consumes me?
he asks me if anyone truly knows me.
seriously, truly knows every detail. every scar. every hidden secret.
'no, perhaps not.'
he said that's because you don't know yourself.
so who am i then [these questions haunt me]
which is the real me:
the guy on stage under the spotlight
or
the guy hidden behind a door
locked and bolted shut?
yes."
_________________________________________________________
[counseling sessions]
fifty-three miles outside my comfort zone
this leather couch holds me captive
to another fifty minutes of show and tell.
these tears have escaped with a vengeance
streaking naked down my face
trembling with anticipation
before the interrogation is over, i will come to terms with my greatest fear.
rejection has been a part of my story for as long as i can remember.
the haunting crash of doors
slammed in my face
this incessant sting of abandonment has fueled within me a thirst for affirmation
that suffocates me like an electric blanket in august
in full volume, the praises of men;
self-verification has become a lethal drug
i will embrace this season
introspective soul-searching will bring
the healing i need from the inside out
i will embrace this silence
isolation is the rhythm that peddles the chain that turns the wheels that keeps me going...
i will embrace this anger
sins of omission, words left unspoken
promises broken, gasping and choking
i will embrace this memory:
a porcelain toilet and a mess on the floor
tears and dry heaving; a spiritual war
i will embrace this hope
an empty tomb a resurrection
from the crucifixion; an all-sufficient Savior
who reinstates
recreates
mediates
and stands as my defense attorney in a court of law
i will embrace this grace
seeking the affirmation of my Father
and no other."
__________________________________________________________
"i don't know is the answer
to the questions and the doubt
the reason for His silence
abandoned in the drought.
i don't know is the answer
to the laughter and the kiss
betrayal in a whisper
hurt i do not miss.
i don't know is the answer
to the grace that covers sin
the slaughter of my Savior
and the love that does not win."
__________________________________________________________
[cell phone alert; 1 new email message]
'My free, unsolicited advice would be to grieve. Make sure you grieve, or you will (as you said) be confronted with it again some day. Feel your feelings and let time take its course. What was once there is gone. But what replaced it might be better."
- Marcia R.
(6.3.08)
__________________________________________________________
[unpublished letter to our Lakeshore Family]
"Dear Friends,
Grace and Peace to you from our Lord Jesus Christ, who has redeemed us for His glory. May these words find you and keep you in the Spirit of grace. With trembling hands I write; nauseously slow, pondering each word...
This afternoon Jamie and I sat outside beneath cloudy skies, to commemorate the past, contemplate our present, and deliberate our future. As Ambria slept in her crib, and Mariah played with her toys, we landed on this inevitable conclusion: our exodus from Muskegon is immanent.
Our hearts are shattered into a million pieces, to think of those faces with whom we have fallen in love! This city, so desperate for change; this vision, now clouded. These friends, now family. We reminisce with ache, to be reunited in glory - some glad morning!
We are torn between the heavy weight of our responsibility to a call to ministry and the great commission/ and the unification of the Body of Christ. To see the Bride of Lakeshore Church so polarized is excruciating! Indeed, Christ's final prayer was for His Church to be One.
The Revolution of Love includes radical surrender and submission to the point of death. We love this community so deeply that we are willing to walk away, if it will help to see her prosper. As desperately as we desire to return, we realize that our own selfishness may intercept the emergence of Lakeshore's future...
And so we are leaving forever, for now. We trust that the Elders will remain true to the original vision of preaching Jesus, and loving people. We trust the counsel of local pastors who believe that Lakeshore's only chance of survival is for us to part ways. We trust that many years from now, She will continue to be thriving under the leadership of Brad, Skot, Jeff, and Matt.
And most of all, we trust that you will never forget those epic moments of awe and wonder, as God used someone as screwed up as me, to speak words of encouragement into your lives.
Thank you, from the bottom of my nauseous heart, for the honor of taking this journey with you, as a fellow pilgrim in search of grace.
in One peace,
- J D
__________________________________________________________
"there are times, of course, that i miss the rush of the stage.
the auditorium quickly filling up... people scrambling to save seats.
the worship team takes their place, 'one name, under heaven...'
i miss the sense of expectation!
we used to anticipate the visitation of the Victor.
i miss seeing cars lined up all the way down lakeshore drive.
i miss greeting visitors, memorizing names, and welcoming friends.
detox sucks.
i hate the current anxiety of sunday mornings.
'what church shall we visit today, honey?'
[pick your poison]: would you rather die by suffocation or electrocution?
drowning or fire? how about in your sleep?
_________________________________________________________
"let it be known that i loved lakeshore church.
i will always love her!
i will go to my grave with a fierce love for her!
i watched her bloody birth on the floor of our living room
at 1434 canterbury avenue, with eleven friends...
i watched her first steps as a toddler community.
i watched her grow and blossom and reproduce and multiply
and i love her. i love her. i love her. i will always love her!
i think before i can move forward
i need to go back to that place of original surrender
to grieve and to celebrate
and to give thanks.
__________________ [goodbye]_____________________
to endless pacing back and forth
rehearsing words on saturday night
everything in its rightful place
clocks and candles and notes
and no need for an alarm clock
early, i rise. in eager anticipation with a fire in my heart.
skot's car is already parked in the back.
the worship team is rehearsing in rhythm.
kathy is brewing the coffee and chain-smoking and washing the windows.
i am walking in circles
habitually opening the door
glancing up and down the street and
here they come...
the traffic begins to slow
and hugs and introductions to friends and
family reunions will never be the same
the worship begins and john beats the drums as an invitation to the mayor to take notice.
my heart is going to explode!
there is now standing room only (don't tell the fire marshal)
two services, now
visitors returning as friends, then family
the sidewalk is still flooded with late-comers
stepping over colored chalk:
'love wins.
'have mercy!'
'you are forgiven'
my fingers still stained with powdered pink and blue chalk
as i scurry down the isle to take a seat next to jamie
and she takes my hand in hers as i whisper in her ear,
'i love this moment!'
__________________________________________________________
dear Jesus, come in to my life and save me.
remove my sin
as far as the east is from the west
as far as the east is from the west
as far as the east is from the west
I realize that what you are about to read is depressing. And indeed, I was going through the valley of the shadow of doubt. One minute I would feel hopeful and content, and the next - suicidal! Most of the scattered journal entries were in the immediate months following my resignation from Lakeshore Community Church, and the exile from my home.
I am posting some (of course, not everything!) of these journal entries because they are beautiful and sacred, and I have come so far from that place. I have also chosen to share this emotion because I believe it will help me to bring closure to a painful chapter in the story of my life. Although I am not fully healed from the self-inflicted wounds, the scars are fading and my heart is beating again...
Read at your own risk:
__________________________________________________________
"this then, is my confession:
that i'm losing hope in the power of prayer.
st. john of the cross refers to this season as
'the dark night of the soul'.
when God seems detached
a million miles away
laughing uncontrollably at my petty confessions
with bloody knuckles pounding on heaven's door
for justice and mercy and deliverance
from the thorn in my soul
again and again and again...
sometimes your grace does not seem sufficient
sometimes i speak with the tongues of foreign groans;
an unholy rage that can not be interpreted
sometimes these tears fall like salty blood and sweat
violent explosions from my soul
delicate implosions from this body of death
who can deliver me?
_______ the truth_______
i'm a fellow pilgrim on the journey
trying to wrap my mind around grace
and a post-easter worldview
____________________________________________________
a question posed by my therapist:
"do you find it difficult to believe that people could actually love you, just for being you?"
a) "i don't understand the question."
____________________________________________________
"yesterday afternoon i had a meltdown. for some reason i could not function. i could not make the simplest of decisions. i stood in the kitchen and just cried my eyes out. i went into the living room and just sat on the couch. mariah was watching television and i tried to hide my tears. i do not want her to see me like this.
i went into the bedroom and collapsed. jamie came in to comfort me, and mariah followed... suspiciously curious.
kyle b. came over. we sat in the basement. he told me that some people are questioning the sincerity of my repentance or pride. trust me, this is not pride - it's self-hatred. how long will i continue flogging myself? and then it hit me: God knows the condition of my heart, and nothing else matters. nothing."
___________________________________________________
"except for the fact that i am losing hope
in love in koinonia in ekklesia in the body of Christ
to be a safe place for broken people like me
to confess sin, and in repentance, find restoration.
i am so catastrophically pissed off!
outraged and ashamed, all in one breath.
i am not well
dangerous, i can not drive down the highway
or speak an intelligent word
or make the simplest of choices
i want to scream out at the thousands of curious spectators
who are watching like a ten-car highway wreck, with detached, vulgar curiosity.
i refuse the eucharist in community.
i am afraid for my daughters
that their eyes will watch the body lose a limb
and silence a voice. that they will grow up
like every other suburban child
confused and uncertain
just like their daddy.
Jesus give me the strength to pack my bags and wiped the dust and blood off my wretched self."
a d m i t m e.
_____________________________________________________
"this morning i am in the recovery room.
yesterday a statement was made by the elders
my dirty laundry put on display
like my dad's childhood sheets, soiled
hanging out to dry, flopping in the wind to be observed by the entire neighborhood.
this morning i am in the recovery room
let the healing begin
i want to rip the iv out
disconnect from the monitors, supervision, speculation
white coats with their hushed whispers and clip boards,
taking notes and diagnosing me
oppositional defiant disorder."
_________________________________________________________
"lately i've been cold
constantly freezing and trembling
my knees buckling as i walk
lately i've been waking up in a pool of sweat
sheets soaked; cold cold sweat
electric blanket on seven
shivering."
___________________________________________________________
"my counselor stretched me yesterday and i am furious!
he asked me what i value the most:
acceptance by God or the praise of men?
obviously, i answer, acceptance by God.
why then
is my soul in shambles? feeling the sting
(that all-too familiar slap) of rejection
and the self-verification that consumes me?
he asks me if anyone truly knows me.
seriously, truly knows every detail. every scar. every hidden secret.
'no, perhaps not.'
he said that's because you don't know yourself.
so who am i then [these questions haunt me]
which is the real me:
the guy on stage under the spotlight
or
the guy hidden behind a door
locked and bolted shut?
yes."
_________________________________________________________
[counseling sessions]
fifty-three miles outside my comfort zone
this leather couch holds me captive
to another fifty minutes of show and tell.
these tears have escaped with a vengeance
streaking naked down my face
trembling with anticipation
before the interrogation is over, i will come to terms with my greatest fear.
rejection has been a part of my story for as long as i can remember.
the haunting crash of doors
slammed in my face
this incessant sting of abandonment has fueled within me a thirst for affirmation
that suffocates me like an electric blanket in august
in full volume, the praises of men;
self-verification has become a lethal drug
i will embrace this season
introspective soul-searching will bring
the healing i need from the inside out
i will embrace this silence
isolation is the rhythm that peddles the chain that turns the wheels that keeps me going...
i will embrace this anger
sins of omission, words left unspoken
promises broken, gasping and choking
i will embrace this memory:
a porcelain toilet and a mess on the floor
tears and dry heaving; a spiritual war
i will embrace this hope
an empty tomb a resurrection
from the crucifixion; an all-sufficient Savior
who reinstates
recreates
mediates
and stands as my defense attorney in a court of law
i will embrace this grace
seeking the affirmation of my Father
and no other."
__________________________________________________________
"i don't know is the answer
to the questions and the doubt
the reason for His silence
abandoned in the drought.
i don't know is the answer
to the laughter and the kiss
betrayal in a whisper
hurt i do not miss.
i don't know is the answer
to the grace that covers sin
the slaughter of my Savior
and the love that does not win."
__________________________________________________________
[cell phone alert; 1 new email message]
'My free, unsolicited advice would be to grieve. Make sure you grieve, or you will (as you said) be confronted with it again some day. Feel your feelings and let time take its course. What was once there is gone. But what replaced it might be better."
- Marcia R.
(6.3.08)
__________________________________________________________
[unpublished letter to our Lakeshore Family]
"Dear Friends,
Grace and Peace to you from our Lord Jesus Christ, who has redeemed us for His glory. May these words find you and keep you in the Spirit of grace. With trembling hands I write; nauseously slow, pondering each word...
This afternoon Jamie and I sat outside beneath cloudy skies, to commemorate the past, contemplate our present, and deliberate our future. As Ambria slept in her crib, and Mariah played with her toys, we landed on this inevitable conclusion: our exodus from Muskegon is immanent.
Our hearts are shattered into a million pieces, to think of those faces with whom we have fallen in love! This city, so desperate for change; this vision, now clouded. These friends, now family. We reminisce with ache, to be reunited in glory - some glad morning!
We are torn between the heavy weight of our responsibility to a call to ministry and the great commission/ and the unification of the Body of Christ. To see the Bride of Lakeshore Church so polarized is excruciating! Indeed, Christ's final prayer was for His Church to be One.
The Revolution of Love includes radical surrender and submission to the point of death. We love this community so deeply that we are willing to walk away, if it will help to see her prosper. As desperately as we desire to return, we realize that our own selfishness may intercept the emergence of Lakeshore's future...
And so we are leaving forever, for now. We trust that the Elders will remain true to the original vision of preaching Jesus, and loving people. We trust the counsel of local pastors who believe that Lakeshore's only chance of survival is for us to part ways. We trust that many years from now, She will continue to be thriving under the leadership of Brad, Skot, Jeff, and Matt.
And most of all, we trust that you will never forget those epic moments of awe and wonder, as God used someone as screwed up as me, to speak words of encouragement into your lives.
Thank you, from the bottom of my nauseous heart, for the honor of taking this journey with you, as a fellow pilgrim in search of grace.
in One peace,
- J D
__________________________________________________________
"there are times, of course, that i miss the rush of the stage.
the auditorium quickly filling up... people scrambling to save seats.
the worship team takes their place, 'one name, under heaven...'
i miss the sense of expectation!
we used to anticipate the visitation of the Victor.
i miss seeing cars lined up all the way down lakeshore drive.
i miss greeting visitors, memorizing names, and welcoming friends.
detox sucks.
i hate the current anxiety of sunday mornings.
'what church shall we visit today, honey?'
[pick your poison]: would you rather die by suffocation or electrocution?
drowning or fire? how about in your sleep?
_________________________________________________________
"let it be known that i loved lakeshore church.
i will always love her!
i will go to my grave with a fierce love for her!
i watched her bloody birth on the floor of our living room
at 1434 canterbury avenue, with eleven friends...
i watched her first steps as a toddler community.
i watched her grow and blossom and reproduce and multiply
and i love her. i love her. i love her. i will always love her!
i think before i can move forward
i need to go back to that place of original surrender
to grieve and to celebrate
and to give thanks.
__________________ [goodbye]_____________________
to endless pacing back and forth
rehearsing words on saturday night
everything in its rightful place
clocks and candles and notes
and no need for an alarm clock
early, i rise. in eager anticipation with a fire in my heart.
skot's car is already parked in the back.
the worship team is rehearsing in rhythm.
kathy is brewing the coffee and chain-smoking and washing the windows.
i am walking in circles
habitually opening the door
glancing up and down the street and
here they come...
the traffic begins to slow
and hugs and introductions to friends and
family reunions will never be the same
the worship begins and john beats the drums as an invitation to the mayor to take notice.
my heart is going to explode!
there is now standing room only (don't tell the fire marshal)
two services, now
visitors returning as friends, then family
the sidewalk is still flooded with late-comers
stepping over colored chalk:
'love wins.
'have mercy!'
'you are forgiven'
my fingers still stained with powdered pink and blue chalk
as i scurry down the isle to take a seat next to jamie
and she takes my hand in hers as i whisper in her ear,
'i love this moment!'
__________________________________________________________
dear Jesus, come in to my life and save me.
remove my sin
as far as the east is from the west
as far as the east is from the west
as far as the east is from the west
7.07.2010
6.20.2010
Ashlyn Hope
Young lady, you were born in a furnace of resistance! For the past nine months, you have kicked and turned and caused us to ache for your delivery. Nothing about this pregnancy has been normal, or average, or boring. Instead, you are already marching to your own drum, and dancing to your own song. And we wouldn’t have it any other way!
The world that you have been born into is in desperate need of hope. Hope that there is life after death, resurrection after crucifixion, and the conviction that love, wins. Into this hope, you have been conceived and delivered! Your sisters (Grace and Faith), will guide you in the Way of Truth. The fuel within you to navigate the difficult journey ahead will require a hope that transcends understanding.
(As your mother is writhing in the pain of giving birth, I cannot help but to recognize the cosmic metaphor of God’s own gift…)
My prayer for you is that you will guard your heart, “for it is the wellspring of life”. I pray that you will reside within the fortress of security; concrete walls around the castle of your heart. The enemy has come to kill, steal, and destroy, but the well-guarded heart will recognize the counterfeit lies and plastic promises of the deceiver.
Guard your heart, and always remember that your mom and dad love you with an eternal covenant. Our commitment to you is for life! Even in this moment, as your mom is crying out in labor, we are fighting for your very being. We are dedicated to the war for your heart, and pray that you will One Day, understand our resolve.
And as the moon is now bearing witness through the window, over the mountains (the ever faithful witness to this declaration), I covenant to walk with you on this journey.
I will physically carry you out of this hospital and bring you home. I will walk you to school on your first day of kindergarten. I will dance with you as your self-appointed chaperon at your junior-high dance. And I will walk with you down the isle, some glad morning… when I give you away to a better man than me.
It won’t take long for you to realize that I am a very broken person, desperately in need of grace, faith, and hope. I will need the love of my daughters to carry me through this mission of loving you well, from the mosaic of my heart… a trophy of heavenly mercies. I remain yours, until we are parted by death.
- Your Daddy,
6.07.2010
Loneliness in a Crowd
A few years ago, I lost a few really close friends. For whatever reason, I have yet to find a replacement. Perhaps I am guarded in the initiation of new relationships. Perhaps it is my "ferocious fear of abandonment". Or maybe I just don't have enough room in my heart to let new people in. Who knows?
I crave intelligent conversation. I miss the passion and emotion of being involved in activities of substance. I still want to change the world, but I need a few revolutionary souls to join the insurrection.
I told you I would be "back with a vengeance."
I'm limping my way toward the light at the end of the tunnel.
5.30.2010
5.19.2010
5.03.2010
Psalm of MY Day [Ps 13]
How long, O LORD ? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?
Look on me and answer, O LORD my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death;
my enemy will say, "I have overcome him,"
and my foes will rejoice when I fall.
But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing to the LORD,
for he has been good to me.
4.27.2010
22 Random Things
1) Discipleship is messy.
2) So is "Evangelism"
3) My friend John's wife Kristine has been diagnosed with epilepsy. They are handling it better than I am.
4) I miss my Muskegon Family.
5) I don't miss Muskegon.
6) We are still contemplating on a name for our 3rd daughter.
7). I don't get Lady Gaga.
8) I sent in a video application to be a contestant on 'Survivor'. They haven't called me yet.
But, if they do, I will win the million dollars and give it all away to www.remembernhu.org
9) I don't play games on facebook.
10) I recently sent a friend request to someone that I miss. He accepted it, but if I post anything on his wall, he deletes it because he doesn't want the public to see that we are friends.
11) I am not in anyone's denominational "camp", but not for lack of wanting.
12) Sometimes you just need to listen to Appetite For Destruction and remember the old school havoc we created together.
13) I will never go back to my high school alma mater reunions, etc. I'm sure that's fine with them, too.
14) Jamie wants breakfast at IHOP for her Mother's Day gift.
15) If I ever see a snake, I will run away screaming like a little girl. Don't judge me.
16) My sister Jenny will kill anyone who says anything bad about me. And Janelle... she's just a different kind of animal altogether.
17) I still bleed blue and gold.
18) One of these days I am going to learn how to play the acoustic guitar.
19) Remind me to tell you about the time the axe flew out of my hand and almost hit Mariah. I'm still too shaken up to write about it.
20) Remind me to tell you about the time my Father stood up for me when the rest of the world was throwing rocks. Yeah, that's scandalous grace. It's in the blood.
21) My mom is a Southern Belle. But she doesn't know what that means.
22) I am sorry for the delayed response, to so many who have written to me over the past couple of years. Thank you, I love you too. I promise.
4.08.2010
4.03.2010
3.23.2010
Guard Your Heart
[A few thoughts from the petrified mind of a daddy
to the curious ears of his young daughters]:
When I was a little boy we used to have a pet mutt named Binky. She was, without a doubt, the best friend a lonely, home-schooled kid could ever have. Although she was part feline and 1/8th sloth, my love for her was unconditional! She used to snore beneath my bed, as I’d lay awake in our A-framed house on Byron Road.
Something suffocated my palpating heart the afternoon of her premature exodus. An unsuspecting motorist had collided with Binky, and the screeches of halting tires in front of our house had interrupted an otherwise captivating episode of Little House on the Prairie. We all ran outside to scrape her from the pavement…
I watched my dad bury her in the wooded lot behind our house. A concrete brick was left to serve as a headstone, and that was her farewell. Life was assumed to have resumed. I remember retreating to the basement where I was reunited with the Ingalls family via a black & white television. In the privacy of an otherwise empty room, I cried my little eyes out.
Where does this come from? How does a seven year-old boy clutch so fiercely to the solace of security and attachment? And whatever happened to this elemental dis-ease of innocence? There was a time in the life of a young child when statistics had names and faces had stories, news broadcasting injustice was incomprehensible to the cognition of a second grader on the playground! As the mind “matured” through the evolution of experience, it also became desensitized to the Spirit’s conviction against the murder of hope.
As I watch the expression on your faces when the thunder roars and the lightning shatters, I wonder what happened to my heart. Have the wounds received and the lessons learned somehow hijacked my youthful exuberance? Why don’t I tremble at the foot of the storm or blink in the eye of the hurricane? I am envious of your emotional connectedness to the groaning of all creation.
My prayer for you, my daughters, is that you will guard your hearts in such a way that you will never lose sensitivity. I beg of you three resolutions:
May you pledge allegiance to a Hope that springs eternal
This hope is born in a furnace of doubt, and experienced when everything else has been torn asunder. It is the practice of resurrection in the spirit that is depleted. This hope is in a Divine Movement, not a temporary boyfriend. This hope is the fuel that powers the engine of your heart, and keeps you going when you have nothing left to give.
May you establish concrete boundaries around your heart
This fortress is not to prevent you from getting out, but to protect the enemy from invading your castle with his lies and counterfeit promises. In the building and maintaining of a fortress, you will recognize the fleeting kisses of betrayal, the empty choruses of the crowd, and the shallow contracts offered by popular culture. Do not invite this poison in to your life! Do not open the door to the knocking of foreign invaders; they will tear down your gates and plunder your savings.
May you become a flood of blessing to those around you
As your heart remains pure, it erupts as a fountain of water within. It is “the wellspring of life”, and a thirsty world is waiting for a drink of the hope that is within you. May your heart rise like an ocean’s tidewater, bringing refreshing encouragement to those who are within your reach. And as you pour out love, mercy, and forgiveness – may God replenish your reserves in due season.
“…above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.”
- Proverbs 4:23
3.14.2010
3.06.2010
journal selections
Here is an example why I don't write as often as you would like me to. My rambling is borderline schizophrenic with random thoughts; incoherent babble about indescribable aching. The following entries were scribbled into my leather journal (over the course of two years) in no important design or structure:
______________________________________________________
"whatever happened to old-fashioned letter writing? the kind with stamps and mail boxes and surprises? whatever happened to pencils and tear-stained paper and intentional expressions of affection? it's been replaced my twitter and my space and text messages."
"i feel like a windshield smeared
with fog and ice and rage leaking from unsuspecting bugs
and a gloriously defiant defroster..."
"note to self: write m___ a letter soon, and tell him to go now, he is forgiven."
"...but i can't be sure. sometimes, instead i'll settle for maybe forever for now. after all, i have forgotten the names but not the faces of those baptized in the breakwater. it was epic, and i was there to witness the falling dove and heavenly voice."
"after all, you're still here. right beside me when i've lost my way. thanks for meaning it when you promised, 'till death shall we part'. i am forever in debt to the bashful freshman in the grey t-shirt. birkenstocks. red toenails. seems like yesterday; that river in a canoe for two."
"she asked, 'what color is the sunset, daddy?'
it's a fusion of orange and purple and black and blue.
it's the color of my heart as we speak
the breath hanging in the air
like a question unanswered.
what color is the sunset, daddy?
to be exact, i'm not sure of much of anything these days. but of this, i am confident: this snowbank is our couch. and i'd rather sit here with you. right now. this moment. than to do anything else in the world.
it's the color of tears; salty
down my face an ocean on the carpet where i am fully present fully somewhere else. i am tired of repression. suppression. depression. and the self-hatred.
i am numb to the words of affirmation that used to fuel me like a drug.
it's the color of dry heaving and the ejaculation of hopelessness.
it's the color of prescription medication. anti-everything.
it's the color of trust in circles of tears and prayers and battle cries for deliverance. it's the color of a God who is counting down the hours until my groaning will be no more.
what color is the sunset, daddy?
it's the color of melting snow in a blistered fever. it's the color of doubt and wonder and phone calls avoided and endless pacing around the living room and wilting and starving
love sick hope starved sleepless. two days without food or water.
it's the color of whisper and gossip and a personal protection order. it's the color of b___ and k___ and j____ coming over unannounced, late at night to try to convince jamie to leave me. it's the color of distance and transcendence like a runaway labrador retriever who will not respond to my calling. it's the color of a leaking roof as randy points out the inevitable future and i can't help but see my own reflection in the mirror of each splash. it's the color of professionally religious letters sent to a plastic judge. it's the color of rocks thrown from unexpected people in unexpected ways. it's the color of the breath that leaves my lungs at the last email received."
"this afternoon my dad took me to a detroit tigers baseball game. i've never been to comerica park before, it was beautiful! 41,259 people in attendance. i began to wonder if i could somehow be the catalyst to spark a wave through the stadium. so i went down in front of the crowd and began to shatter my vocal chords, trying to ignite the attention of the masses. 'on the count of three we'll all stand!' and the people around us will catch on. screaming and jumping and recruiting and pointing and sweating as if the sky were about to collapse unless we all come together in a unification of magnetic rhythm. it worked."
"7.13.08 - 952 am. sunday bloody sunday.
i am sitting outside in the morning shade with a hot cup of hazelnut coffee and rocky at my feet. i am [gasp] content. breathing in; exhale self. finding a rhythm of wait. shhh, listen: the wind is shining. the sun is blowing. i am staring at the cloudless sky. somewhere else. metamorphosis. transformation. evolution. new creation."
"...heal this heart of mine! so angry and afraid. vulnerability haunts me like the neighborhood bully always calling my name under the streetlight for another session of accountability in the presence of a thousand witnesses. i lace up my combat boots expecting a blood bath, surprised to find unexpected grace."
"i am a thousand miles silent, bleeding from the wreckage
a collision in a whisper
barefoot on the highway
my favorite jeans are torn
and the witnesses are sick.
i am unspoken. requesting an ambulance with no insurance."
"this morning i climbed the endless stairs overlooking the dunes at hoffmaster state park. in the distance the torrential winds pounded the waves of lake michigan against the sand. i stood trembling with a felt marker, scribbling graffiti into the wooden railing: 'love wins'."
2.27.2010
2.24.2010
Thinking Out Loud
I am hidden in the corner of a nostalgic coffee house in Marshall, North Carolina. As the steam rises from my cup, the flurries outside hint of a coming storm. And I am perhaps, the only local resident not rushing off to stock up on canned goods and bottled water.
Instead, I am contemplating the words of Richard Rohr, and deliberately pondering his suggestion that everything belongs.
"One always learns one's mystery
at the price of one's innocence."
In a recent conversation with my sister, she asked me how I have changed from recent years. I have been thinking much about that question, and wondering if I have become unrecognizable from the charismatic dragon-slayer I once presented. I confess that somewhere between Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After, the bridge collapsed. In the gravity of my fall, the crash landing has produced a few open wounds, and my passion has leaked.
My passion has leaked. There is no eloquent way to speak of it. If I have assumed a new identity, it is a surrender of yes and all and whatever. I am not yearning for a retreat to Egypt, nor have I the stamina to stumble forward to Elim. Instead, I have collapsed here beside the bitter waters of Marah.
If I ever make it to the Oasis of Elim, it will have been for the gracious transport of pneumatic strength. Here, by the rivers of Babylon, I am resigning my harp on the barren tree branches. You go ahead and sing; I will listen.
2.19.2010
An Open Letter to Rob Deckert
Dear Rob,
Once upon a time I was really good with words. I could clearly articulate my feelings and communicate with relative transparency. For the past two years, however, this has been a struggle for me. I've been meaning to write for quite some time, and struggled to find the words that could capitulate my gratefulness to God for your voice in my life.
I was referred to Sacred Space Counseling through a friend. I needed to find a safe place to think out loud. I was craving a trusted voice to help guide me along the treacherous path toward inner healing. The first time we met, I noticed the tattoo on your wrist: "remember"; I knew I had found a wounded healer in your company.
You have seen me at my best; an optimistic warrior who was committed to absolute Truth and unwavering confidence in the practical implications of the Resurrection. You have listened to my promises and helped me to create a treatment plan that would include the necessary boundaries of protection from the enemy within.
And you have seen me at my worst; a borderline schizophrenic with a mild case of oppositional defiant disorder. There have been counseling sessions where I would cross my arms and hope to die. I would give you one-word answers (a miracle for a DePoy), and admit that you had been added to my list of people to whom I would not speak if we should ever cross paths at the local grocery store. You have seen me angry. Stone.Cold.Rage. You have been the catalyst for many a migraine.
And still you believed in me. You never stopped listening. You continued to push me forward - to that Great Physician who was insisting on a heart transplant. You did not give up on me. You volunteered to meet me, at my convenience on your time. You opened your heart to me. The line has blurred between professional counselor, and personal confidant. You became one of my truest friends.
Thank you, Rob. Although I have moved far away, and we aren't able to meet for usual therapy sessions, I have been journaling in remembrance of the things you taught me:
1) Thank God for the thorns that keep us humble. ("Think of what an ass you would be, if you did not have these areas of personal weakness."
2) God is unconditional love. (One time you corrected my poor theological assumptions that God was a cosmic disciplinarian who was eager to punish me. You said, sarcastically, "Yeah, 'cuz that's how God works!")
3) Invest in Ecclesiastical Koinonia. (The power of a community of love, held together by a core conviction of doing life together, until death shall we part).
I will never forget you, and the life-giving counsel you have shared with me. I am a better man because of your influence, and I often wonder if I would still be alive had it not been for your intervention. Thank you for providing a space sacred enough to hold in tension the doubt and the faith that are so intricately connected.
2.12.2010
1.22.2010
(thoughts while clearing a brush pile...)
in this change of scenery, i am finding solidarity with those pilgrims who have sojourned before me, in pursuit of simplicity. in this stillness, i hear heaven whisper: Sunday is coming.
smell: long leaf pine on the north carolina farm.
see: sun setting over the distant hills.
feel: my heart being put back together.
1.15.2010
two roads
every morning the country road leads east,
or north,
ultimately south.
north on kelly hunter road is more expedient; a straight road. some would suggest it to be a shortcut. my gps has a conniption every time i ignore her directives.
more often than not, i choose to remain straight on the otherwise unnamed winding road. the rising sun casts shadows and colors on the distant mountains. deep in the valley below, goats and cows and horses give praise to the One to whom the trees clap their hands.
i am awake, and breathing, and moving forward...
this road, although longer, is my surest route home.
click here.
The Road Not Taken (Frost)
| Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. |
1.11.2010
In the Beginning...
I have begun writing, quit, and started all over... I have thrown away manuscripts, deleted 78 pages of thoughts, and can't seem to break free from the writer's block.
These days, I have seemingly lost all interest. I can't finish sentences. I can't seem to put a cohesive paragraph together. I don't talk as often, and certainly not as loud!
There are so many things I want to tell you.
OK, so here is a sample of some of the things I have written over the past year.... Enjoy. Or not.
___________________________________________________________
Sidewalk Chalk and, Her
"The following semester I returned to Grand Valley State University to finish my degree. But a profound, indefinable transformation had erupted within my heart. I was no longer the intimidated, quiet kid with no direction. Instead, I could not shut up about this new Way of living. I felt responsible to communicate this life-changing message to everyone in my path.
I remember walking in to the University Bookstore on campus, and buying out all of their colored chalk. I proceeded to paint Jesus graffiti all over the sidewalks, on the sides of buildings and buses and even the clock tower. “You are loved.” I would write, “Love wins!” and “Go now, you are forgiven.”
One day the local campus ministry pastors called me in to their office. They sat me down and asked me what my objective was. I didn’t really know. Then they expressed deep concern for me. “Quite frankly, Jerry, we’re worried about you!”
(Apparently, my energy made them nervous.) I suggested that there were approximately seventeen thousand students on campus who could probably use more of their concern than me. Then I began to laugh hysterically at their nervousness, and told them that I would pray for them.
And that was the day I got kicked out of campus ministry.
Evangelism 101
Perhaps it was the fundamentalism that had been rooted within me, or maybe I was just born stupid. But I began to seek out some of the most dangerous places to testify of the resurrected Christ. I used to set out on foot, through some of the most violent neighborhoods in West Michigan, hoping to stumble into a conversation with the homeless, drunkards, prostitutes, or those who were simply lonely.
Every Saturday evening I would walk down Division Street in Grand Rapids, alone. I would breathe in the scent of the painful reality that incarcerated so many of the nameless faces who had gathered under the streetlights. Sometimes I would simply strike up conversations with whoever was waiting at the bus stop, or sitting on a park bench. Often, they would ask me for money, and I would give what little I had to offer. But on occasion, a conversation would actually allow for me to listen to the harrowing accounts of those who had suffered violently at the hands of an abusive system of evil, or an addiction that could not be shaken.
One evening in particular, I was listening to a homeless man share his personal story. “Rick” was veteran who had returned from Vietnam with Post-Traumatic Stress-Syndrome, leaving him unable to work. He had been well-cared until the death of his wife, a few years earlier. I listened to him as the tears rolled down his face, reminiscing of the night she was taken in a horrific car accident. He lost his wife, and their only daughter.
He paused to control his breathing, and to brush away the salty wetness from his eyes. I noticed a hospital bracelet that remained on his wrist. “How can I help you, Rick.” I asked. Considering the logistics of getting him the significant medical attention he required, I felt helpless. He was unable to stop shaking his hands. On Tuesdays afternoons he would give his own plasma, and eventually he was able to save up for the cost of the prescription medication to combat the shaking. He would also collect recyclable bottles, and try to make ends meet.
It was cold outside, and beginning to rain. I walked to the nearest vending machine, and bought him a hot cup of coffee. Regretting my own inability to ease his financial burden, at least I was able to console him for a while. In my return to Rick I handed him the Styrofoam cup, and suggested he stay warm. He looked at me graciously, not wanting to embarrass me. In my ignorance, I failed to realize that a man with uncontrollable shaking could not hold a cup of scalding liquid! Unsure as to what to do, I simply set the cup of coffee down on the sidewalk next to him, and we both sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Back to the Chalk Art, and Her
In between classes I used to sit and listen in amazement to Preacher Tom. While he would spitting and shouting about the whoremongers on campus, I used to paint the sidewalks around him with words like, “Loved.”
I will never forget the day that a petite, Puerto-Rican beauty stopped to read my words. She seemed inquisitive, and I handed her a piece of chalk. She sat down next to me, and doubted whether she had the courage to write anything.
Jamie Jo was dripping with charisma, and I was pretty much putty at the introduction. We talked for hours that afternoon. I skipped class and we walked to Afterwards Café on the center of campus, and agreed to meet again the following afternoon for lunch.
She met me at the clock tower, and we walked to the café, again. That fall semester would become the season of electricity in a lifelong romance. I did not flinch when she shared with me the intimate details of the traumatic events in her adolescence. And she did not cower away from the scars I exposed for her to witness. She too, had been involved in a valiant war against the spirit of depression and self-hatred. She could relate to my feeling of isolation of disconnection from belonging.
This would become the catalyst for a best friendship that would never be in jeopardy. Together, Jamie and I set out to share with the whole world this message of God’s redeeming grace. Jamie initiated and led a bible study in her dormitory. Even as a freshman in college (yes, I was a senior), she was learning and memorizing stories of the Bible, and sharing them with delicate authority. I was so proud to be seen with this (smokin’ hot!) Jesus freak, I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life at her side."
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