Centimeters, Inches, and a Mental Block

The metric system baffled me as a child. I agonized over my math book until Mom gave up.  Home schooling offered us that blessing—the freedom to say, "Let's try again next year."

I have no idea why it was so hard for me to measure things a different way. Centimeters? Inches? Who cares? My young mind couldn't do it, and my struggle continues to this day.

Oh, I can handle centimeters now, but changing other measurements in my life has been harder. How do I measure myself? I tend to measure my success, and thus my value, by what I accomplish. Did I get my work done today? I measure myself by what other people think of me and my ability to live up to their standards.

The apostle Paul understood this struggle. Many people judged him, evaluating whether he was the best speaker, the most gifted teacher, or the greatest one to follow. His answer? "Big deal! I'm a servant of Christ, and God asks me to be faithful." (See 1 Corinthians 3:4-6; 4:1-2.)

But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by a human court. In fact, I do not even judge myself. For I know of nothing against myself, yet I am not justified by this; but He who judges me is the Lord. Therefore judge nothing before the time, until the Lord comes, who will both bring to light the hidden things of darkness and reveal the counsels of the hearts. Then each one’s praise will come from God. (1 Corinthians 4:3-5 NKJV)

I try to measure myself by God's standard and not the measuring stick of our current culture, but I don't fully grasp God's ways. Besides, I know I fall short. Am I getting a B or a C? Not a chance. When I look at God's holiness, His absolute perfection, I know I'm at a solid F. Maybe I should go back to the world's standard. I have more hope there.

But God stops me with His gentle whisper, "Jen, you're My daughter. Quit grading yourself. Be faithful, and I'll praise you. I promise."

Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3:13-14 KJV)

Don't Press Record!

Record buttons make me freeze. Worse yet, they make me shake in fear and trepidation, a fact I tried desperately to hide in yesterday's recording session with the Chippewa Valley Symphony Orchestra.

After a year of no orchestra rehearsals, we met and recorded a concert to be premiered on the symphony's website on May 8 at 7:30 p.m. The recording session began well, but the gently rising melody of Tchaikovsky's Elegie ruined me. Its whispery entrance accentuated the tremor I hoped to suppress.

Recordings unmask my secret horror, "All my mistakes will be permanent."

This angst plagues my relationships too. What if I say something wrong? What if I accidentally hurt someone? Is there any way to erase the pain?

I'm growing in the humility of seeking forgiveness, but I have no control over whether that forgiveness will be granted. However, I can control one thing—my responses to others. I can choose to forgive. 

1 Corinthians 13:5 says love "keeps no record of wrongs." Our culture paints many pictures of love from gushy romances to friendships built on shared interests and time spent hanging out. But God's love is deeper. It's a love that does the tough stuff, a love that forgives.

So I'm embracing God's love today and choosing not to press record.

Image by THAM YUAN YUAN from Pixabay

Happy Holidays?

Christmas won't be the same this year—no Christmas parties with my relatives, no white elephant gift exchange, no excuse to bake pans and pans of cookies. How do you cope when the happy slips off of holidays and you're left with a...holiday? What's that?

According to Merriam-Webster.com, a holiday is a holy day, and holy means "devoted entirely to the deity or the work of the deity."

Christmas never was about the presents or the cookies. Of course, I won't tell my mom that because she has been baking, and I'm enjoying eating the sweets.

Christmas is about giving ourselves entirely to God because He gave Himself wholly for us. So I'm not giving up on joy this year, and I'm not giving up on the holidays. In fact, I refuse to wait until December 25. When I roll out of bed tomorrow morning, I'll give my day to God, and I'll have a holiday.

And the angel said to them, "Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord." Luke 2:10-11 (ESV)

 

 

The Gift of Disagreement

Image by congerdesign at Pixabay

What is the best gift you received recently? Was it a physical item—big and expensive or small and thoughtful? Was it time or encouraging words from a friend? 

I have the most generous friends, and their kindness touches my heart. But there is a gift that I often overlook. I seldom think back on my day and say, "Wow! I'm so glad my friend disagreed with me today." Yet disagreement can be a gift. 

The philosopher Vince Vitale described this in the book Jesus Among Secular Gods. 

Academic philosophy has its vices, but, at its best, one of its virtues is that it places a very high value on truth. And one result of this is that disagreeing with someone about their core beliefs is seen as a compliment and an act of service. It's a way of saying that the other person's ideas are promising enough to take seriously, so much so that you are willing to invest time and effort into them yourself... 

 

Something similar is true in sports. Extensive critique by a good coach means that the coach sees potential in you, and therefore believes that putting extra time into you is a good investment. (p.211)

Am I humble enough to receive this gift? How well do I give it? With love, gentleness, and respect?

That's the challenge with disagreement. It's a lot like tomatoes. We've been feasting on juicy tomatoes from Dad's garden, freshly picked and sprinkled on salads or sliced with olives and feta cheese. We share them with friends and neighbors and relish the homemade tomato sauce they share with us.

But tomatoes also spoil. They get thrown in people's faces, leaving emotional scars that are hard to heal.

Disagreement is a priceless gift that spoils just as easily, but I'm slowly learning the best methods of preservation. I'm collecting recipes to enhance its taste, and I'm training my taste buds to accept it as a gift.

If you wonder why I have been silent on my blog this summer, I've been in cooking school—studying divisive topics, trying to understand, dialoguing with a few friends. And that's where disagreement works best, in private where we feel safe and can communicate well how much we value each other.

So I invite you to join me in these culinary pursuits. If you disagree with me, message me. I respect your opinion. I treasure you. And if I ever fail in communicating that, please tell me. Tomatoes should always be served with the best olives.

Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. (Romans 12:10 ESV)

Skipping Church

 Image by Michael Gaida at Pixabay

I received a kind email the other day, closing with “Blessed Easter to you!”

“This will be a strange Easter,” I thought. “No dressing up in our Sunday best. No rousing rendition of ‘Up from the grave He arose,’ sung in harmony with my whole church family. Will the day be a dud?”

But then I thought of Good Friday and the moment the veil in the temple was rent in two. The curtain that kept people out of the Holy of Holies, that kept them away from the overwhelming presence of God, was destroyed. God would never again live in the temple.

Jesus’s sacrifice paid the price to wash me clean. God says, “Accept My gift, and I will make you the Holy of Holies.”

We long to praise Him for this on Easter, but the church is locked up tight. Can skipping church be an act of worship? It is when we remember God doesn’t live in the church building. He lives in us. All because of Easter.

Christ in you, the hope of glory. Colossians 1:27

Jesus's Identity and Mine

I’ve been reading John in preparation for Easter, and I found Jesus’s worldview beautifully pictured in John 13:3-5 (ESV):

Image by falco from Pixabay

Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him. 

Jesus knew who He was, the Son of God and possessor of all things. He knew where He came from and where He was going, and He acted on this truth by serving His disciples. Then in the greatest act of love, He died for us.

His death and resurrection are the ultimate declaration of His identity. He is the Righteous Judge who won’t ignore the tangled mess of my sin. He is the Merciful Savior who paid the penalty for me. And He is God incarnate, life itself, so He couldn’t stay in the grave.

Now He invites me to find my identity in Him. He tells me where I came from, from His loving heart (Psalm 139:13-14). He guarantees my destiny in heaven if I accept His gift by faith (Ephesians 2:8-9). And He offers to remake me in the moment, taking away my sin and filth and giving me His holy, blameless heart (Colossians 1:22).

Then He calls me to go out and serve like He did.

If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet.  For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done to you. John 13:14-15 ESV

When God Doesn't Speak

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

As we muddle our way through the coronavirus pandemic, I wish God would speak out loud. Should I cancel everything and stay home? Love says I shouldn't expose myself to germs and share them with the vulnerable people in my life. But are some activities safe? How can I know? God, just speak!

When King Ahab wanted to kill Elijah, God spoke clearly, "Hide yourself" (1 Kings 17:3). Elijah hid by the brook, not from fear but from a heart of obedience. When God said, "Show yourself to Ahab," Elijah immediately obeyed (1 Kings 18:1-2).

But God wasn't always that clear. The next time Elijah's life was in danger, he was afraid and ran. The Bible doesn't tell us whether this was God's will. God miraculously provided food for Elijah's journey, but when he arrived at Mount Horeb, God asked him, "What are you doing here, Elijah?"

Was Elijah right or wrong? Does it matter? God in His mercy gave food and comfort to this faithful prophet. God spoke to Elijah in a still small voice, and in the silence Elijah could hear.

I wonder if fear of the coronavirus is forcing us to face our greater fear--our fear of silence. I didn't do too well my first couple days of self-imposed confinement. I couldn't stop. I emailed assignments to my students. I hunted for music to practice. I cleaned. I chatted with friends online. I left little space for God to speak.

Can I learn to embrace the silence? Can I stop to listen? It won't be easy, but I'll do it. I'll learn because it's the one thing I'm sure God is saying to me.

"Be still, and know that I am God..." Psalm 46:10

The Stinking Gifts of Christmas

Image by AgnesR from Pixabay

After a whir of concerts, recitals, and Christmas gigs, I was drained. I might play “Silver Bells” with its dream of “children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile,” but that wasn’t happening in my heart. I was being irritable with the people I love the most, and I was irritated with myself for being that way.


If I paused and painted a picture of Christmas, you wouldn’t see a “Holly, Jolly Christmas.” When I strip away the veneer of the carols, my soul goes back to the Bible in Isaiah 1:5b-6 (ESV):

The whole head is sick,
    and the whole heart faint.
From the sole of the foot even to the head,
    there is no soundness in it,
but bruises and sores
    and raw wounds;
they are not pressed out or bound up
    or softened with oil. 

That’s me this Christmas. I reached the end of myself, and it wasn’t pretty, but then God came down. He painted for me a picture of Christmas in Isaiah, setting the stage in chapter 1.

His people were laden with iniquity (Isaiah 1:4). Their evil deeds weighed them down and broke their backs, yet they stubbornly plodded on. They were wounded and suffering (Isaiah 1:5-6), yet they refused to seek help from the God who wanted to heal them. Instead, they offered sacrifices and celebrated their religious feasts, pretending everything was okay.

“Enough!” God cried.

Your new moons and your appointed feasts
    my soul hates;
they have become a burden to me;
    I am weary of bearing them. (Isaiah 1:14 ESV)

This empty religiosity was one load God refused to carry. “Give Me everything else,” God said. “Give Me your sin, your pain, your sorrow. Just don’t make Me carry your hypocritical ceremonies.” We find this promise in Isaiah 53:4-6 (ESV) where God foretold the coming of His Son Jesus:

Surely he has borne our griefs
    and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
    smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions;
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
    and with his wounds we are healed.
All we like sheep have gone astray;
    we have turned—every one—to his own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
    the iniquity of us all. 

God doesn’t want me to pretend I have it all together. He yearns for me to be honest with Him that I’m broken and I need Him to heal me and fill my heart. So when I wrap my gifts for God this Christmas, I’m not putting great deeds of righteousness under His tree. I’m giving Him my sin and my sickness because I trust Him. He came to earth for this reason, to carry my yuck, to receive my stinking gifts of Christmas. He loves me that much.

Embracing Turkey Day

Image by PublicDomainImages from Pixabay

The grocery store was a zoo Monday evening. With snow coming everyone needed their Thanksgiving shopping done immediately. What would Turkey Day be without a turkey?

Our national day of thanksgiving has turned into a day of food and football, but I'm not fighting it this year. I'm embracing it, the food part at least.

Worship in the Old Testament seldom happened without food. The Israelites took their sacrifices to the temple, offered them to God, and then ate of the sacrifices. If the offering was particularly holy, only the priests could eat. The food was sacred.

Jesus's death on the cross has ended the Old Testament sacrifices, but God invites us to celebrate every meal as a holy offering to Him. In 1 Timothy 4:3-5 God tells us we may eat anything we want. There are no longer forbidden foods "for everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, for it is made holy by the word of God and prayer" (ESV).

I always read these verses as permission to eat bacon, one of the forbidden foods in the Old Testament. I missed the significance of the words made holy. This is the same term used in the Old Testament to describe the grain and sin offerings--they were so holy that anything which touched them would be made holy (Leviticus 6:18, 27).

We find the word again in the Lord's Prayer: "Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name." Our food can be holy like the name of God. This changes the way I think about turkey.

There is no dividing line between Thanksgiving and Turkey Day. When I receive my food as a gift from my holy Father, eating it is a sacred act, just as sacred as eating food from the altar.

So enjoy the feast, add bacon if you want, but do it all as an act of worship to the God who daily showers us with blessings. And may you have a very happy Turkey Day.

So whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. 1 Corinthians 10:31 ESV

The Lost Art of Sitting

Conservatory Coffee from Pixabay

Facebook is a necessary evil in my life. I'm thankful I can stay in touch with friends around the world, but when my loved ones are hurting, social media isn't enough.

Too often I click on Message and find I have no words. Words are hollow in the middle of our pain.

As I hunt for an acceptable sentence or two to reach out and share my love, I think of Job in the Bible. His friends did well for a week. They cried. They tore their clothes and sprinkled dust on their heads. Most importantly, they sat with him and didn't say a word. Only after a week did they open their mouths and fail completely.

That's how I feel on Facebook. If you're hurting right now, I wish I could sit with you. I don't want to say anything. I just want you to know my love.

The Monotony of Worship

I was sipping coffee and reading a few chapters in my Bible Saturday morning when I came to Hebrews 10:11 (ESV), "And every priest stands daily at his service, offering repeatedly the same sacrifices, which can never take away sins."

Photo by thesuccess at morguefile.com

"How monotonous!" I thought. Can you imagine going through the same rituals day after day and wondering if they did any good?

Instead of beautiful moments of worship, this verse reminds me of the Greek myth of Sisyphus, forever struggling to roll a boulder up the hill only to watch it tumble back down. But maybe that's the point.

Maybe God wanted them to glimpse the pointlessness of it all, so they would understand none of their good works or rituals could make them right with Him. They needed something greater. They needed Someone greater, as the very next verse states, "But when Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God" (ESV).

So the next time I'm too tired to feel anything during a worship service, when my mind is a fog and my heart is numb, I'll accept the feeling as a gift. A reminder that it doesn't depend on me. God has done it all.

The God who Runs, the God who Walks

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My pastor preached a moving sermon last Sunday about the prodigal son. He dramatized the shame this son brought on his family when he demanded his inheritance early. "Dad, I wish you were dead," the son implied.

Then came the moment when the the inheritance was spent, and the son found himself feeding pigs, unclean animals both physically and ceremonially. The son finally felt his own shame.

But his father didn't hold back. In a culture based on honor and respect where men don't run, the father did just that. He abandoned it all and ran to meet his returning son.

We see this as the epitome of love and grace, yet I seldom feel the impact of the story because I can't see myself in the prodigal son. That's not my personality. I follow the rules.

The grace that touches me most comes at the end of the story when the father walks out to his older son, who was fussing, "You never threw a party for me."

What greater shame could the father bear? Having to walk out and beg his unrepentant son to come in?

But that is what God did for me. I will forever be grateful to the God who walked out to me and said, "Jenny, I love you. I'm throwing a party, and I want you to be part of it. Will you come in?"

Releasing My Dreams

After a hectic week directing and teaching at a music camp, I packed for vacation and set off for a week at the lake. Packing is an intricate process of choosing the best books to fill two tote bags, throwing a bunch of clothes in a suitcase, and calling it good.

My book selection this year was perfect. I relished moments rocking on a swing, listening to waves lap against the shore, and flipping pages in my chemistry book. Yes, chemistry.

How Chemistry Essentials for Dummies made it into my carefully packed book bag is a question I'll let you ponder. The why is not as important as the what that I discovered in chapter four. After agonizing through a chapter on electron configurations with their orbits and energy levels, I was surprised when chapter four touched my heart.

The opening paragraphs explained how every atom wants to be satisfied. It wants a full set of eight electrons in its outermost energy level. Atoms with seven electrons can gain one, and they're complete. Amazing satisfaction.

But what about those poor atoms with only one electron in their outermost level? Is it possible for them to be satisfied? The rules of chemistry say they can't gain more than three electrons.

Thankfully, there is a path to satisfaction if they're willing to lose an electron. If they release that lonely electron in their outermost energy level, the energy level disappears. Now an inner level that's already full with eight electrons is the farthest out. It's satisfied, and so is the atom.

Why am I so excited about a satisfied atom? Because I realized I can become satisfied the same way.

I have so many dreams spinning around, never coming to fruition. I structure my days and use every minute in a hopeless attempt to fulfill each vision. But sometimes I just have to release the electron, let go of the dream, and realize that underneath I'm already complete.

I'm not giving up. I'll still pursue my hobbies and give the dreams a chance to come true, but I don't need them. I'm satisfied.

Doing Easter First

The Resurrection of Christ
by Rembrandt

Although I've never attended a liturgical church, I find beauty in the church calendar. The solemnity of Holy Week paints in dark brush strokes the agony of our Lord and draws our eyes irresistibly toward Easter, toward the light, just like Rembrandt did in his famous painting The Resurrection of Christ. The impact of Easter fades if we refuse to walk the road to the cross.

But somehow the apostle Paul got this mixed up. Maybe he was chronologically challenged, but he blundered when stating his life's goal in Philippians 3:10, "that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death" (NKJV). Everyone knows you have to die before you can rise. Why switch it up like this?

The answer is in the meaning of the cross. If Good Friday were only about getting into heaven, Holy Week would make sense. I should spend that long contemplating the price Jesus paid for me before celebrating His resurrection. However, the cross is much more than payment for my ticket to a good place.

The cross is God's invitation to me to be His friend. He yearns for fellowship with me. He wants to be close, but friendship isn't just mushy feelings. When we're friends, we bear each others' burdens. We carry our friends' sufferings and weep their tears.

How can I be the friend of God? I'm already cracking under the weight of my little problems. How can I bear the burdens of God, who carries the weight of the world? Paul knew the answer. He didn't carry the cross first. He visited the empty tomb.

If I still smile when my heart is aching, if you see peace in my eyes when the storm is strong, I'll tell you the secret. I can face the darkness because God gave me the light. I can bear the pain because He gave me the power. I can walk through Good Friday because I did Easter first.

The Beautiful Humility of No

Photo by Pellinni at morguefile.com

A friend reminded me recently of the importance of saying no. She knows me too well. I rush here and rush there, trying to use every minute to the maximum, and yet I always feel like I haven't done enough.

"Whenever you say yes to one thing, you're saying no to something else," my friend shared, and she is right. We cannot avoid saying no, but we have two choices. We may choose when we say no and how we say the word.

No can communicate a lovely spirit of humility. I am admitting that I am not superwoman. I am not God. I am weak and frail, and I cannot do all the things that are close to my heart.

No is also a word of trust. The apostle Paul exemplified this aspect of no. When the church at Ephesus asked him to stay with them longer, he declined, but he left his companions Priscilla and Aquila at Ephesus. He trusted them do the job (Acts 18:18-21, 24-26).

To be honest, I'm not a wonderful example of humility and trust like Paul. Too often I say no with a touch of frustration. Don't people understand how busy I am? I work from breakfast to bedtime. I don't have fifteen minutes free. How do they think I can do one more thing?

But I have a choice to make, and I choose to be more like Paul. I'll say no more often, and I'll say it with a heart of love that recognizes the importance of the thing I was just asked to do and yet shares my weakness and vulnerability. I want my no to radiate trust in God and others around me—I can't, but someone can. That is the beautiful humility of no.

Traveling Home

Photo by grandma613 at morguefile.com

This week has been a whirlwind of rescheduling as we cleared our schedule for Grandma's funeral today, but I'm glad we could be there. The ceremony was sweet with memories shared by my uncle, and I cherished the time with my cousins during lunch.

On the trip home as our car bumped along the backroads of Wisconsin, I buried myself in a book. Ironically, I was reading about how Greek philosophers compared death to the journey home, an image that resonates with my soul.

When dusk fell and the words became blurry, I closed my book and gazed at the pink clouds wisping across the sky. I searched for words to sum up the day, but my wisdom falls far short of the great philosophers. I did decide what not to say. I'm not saying good-bye.

I'd rather whisper, "Welcome home, Grandma. Welcome home."

For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2 Corinthians 5:1 (ESV)

The Ugly Side of Christmas Lights

Photo by lauramusikanski at
morguefile.com

As my friends are hanging their lights and wrapping gifts for under the tree, I'm usually sitting at the piano, clunking out the notes of accompaniments I'm learning for my violin students. I get well acquainted with Christmas songs this way. My students choose their favorite pieces for recital, and I'm obligated to learn the piano parts.

One of the projects this year was to master "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." I worked through the jazz chords, which don't exactly fit in this classical musician's brain, but my heart kept whispering, "It's not. It's not the most wonderful time of the year." Everything hurts more at Christmastime, maybe because Christmas reminds us of what life ought to be.

I'm tempted to shut my eyes to the problems and build a wall around my heart so I don't feel the pain. Can't I pretend for one day that the world is white and filled with love, joy, and peace?

But Christmas won't let me do that because Christmas is about Jesus, the Light of the World. Jesus didn't enter the world as a pretty strand of colored lights hung on a tree. He entered as a floodlight that shows us everything we ought to be. He is the perfect picture of love, joy, and peace, even greater than the Christmas movies we watch and the songs we sing of perfect Christmases long ago. He sheds light on all the ugliness around us.

So I prayed the strangest Christmas prayer last night. I prayed that God would open my eyes to see evil for what it is and feel the pain it brings. I choose courage this Christmas, the courage it takes to keep my eyes open, to keep the light on. Only then can I be the heart and hands of God reaching out to my hurting world.

Then Jesus spoke to them again, saying, "I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life." John 8:12 (NKJV)

Cream for My Coffee

Photo by Larisa Koshkina

I sipped my coffee as I relished a little time in my Bible this morning. Actually, I was doing last-minute prep for our ladies Bible study, and I was puzzled by 2 Corinthians 1:17-20. All the yeses and nos in this passage made my head spin.

Besides, if "all the promises of God in [Christ] are Yes," why does it seem like God says no to me? What about the great dreams I had for my life, dreams that fizzled as life fell into a rut? Is God really a God of yes to me? I'm aware that God sometimes says no to my request in order to say yes to something better, but that something better isn't always apparent. The rut is too deep, and I can't see over it.

With no great answers in sight, I headed to the kitchen for more coffee. "Sorry we ran out of half and half," Mom apologized.

"No problem," I replied. "This gives me an excuse to use whipping cream." I poured a nice dose of the thick whiteness into my mug and filled it up with coffee.

My thoughts turned back to prayer. In Matthew 7:9-10 Jesus asked, "Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent?"

In a Jennifer paraphrase, the question might be, "Which one of you, if his daughter asks for half and half, will give her milk?" No, my heavenly Father has filled the refrigerator with cartons of heavy whipping cream.

I finished my devotions with no new insight on prayer, but the picture helps. I may not understand the mind of God, but I choose again to trust His heart and enjoy the cream.

Sprinting Through a Marathon

Photo by GaborfromHungary
at morguefile.com

Click-click-click-delete. I dumped the junk emails that had accumulated overnight. But then a subject line caught my eye, "When John Piper was a teenager..."

It was a short message from Brett Harris at The Rebelution, sharing his favorite episode of the Ask Pastor John podcast. "Every young person in the world needs to hear this," Brett declared. My curiosity piqued, I hit play.

John Piper was preaching on Hebrews 12:1, "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us" (ESV).

"Don't just lay aside sins to run this race," Pastor John challenged. "Don't just ask, 'What is wrong with it in life?' Don't just say about your music, about your movies, about your parties, about your habits, about your computer games, don't just say, 'Well, what is wrong with it?'...What question should I ask if it is not, 'Is it a sin?' And the answer is, 'Does it help me run?'"

As Pastor John expounded on how we should lay aside everything that is holding us back from reaching our goal, part of me wanted to cheer. What music teacher wouldn't cheer at the idea of teens laying aside video games to focus on more important things in life?

But part of me said, "You're missing something." This wasn't the message I needed as a teen or even now. My personality tends too much toward laying aside weights. I watch the minutes of my life slip away, and I grasp at each, trying to make the most of it as I reach for the goal.

I sensed God whispering in my heart, "Jen, you're trying to sprint through a marathon." Now I'm not much of a runner. I've never run a marathon or the 100-meter dash or anything in between, but I know one thing. In the 100-meter dash, you won't reach for a cup of water. In a marathon, you drink.

There was nothing wrong with Pastor John's sermon. To run well we must lay aside the unnecessary weights, but running isn't all about laying things aside. It's also about adding things, the healthy refreshments that restore our souls.

In the days to come, I'm determined to run better, not by eliminating things from my life but by adding activities of pure enjoyment. So if you find me cooking more, reading more, or enjoying a cup of tea in the middle of the day, don't be puzzled. I'm running a race.

When the Colors Don't Match

Photo by lauramusikanski at morguefile.com

Shirt ironed, hair fixed, just about ready for church. Now for the finishing touch. I wrapped my new scarf around my neck and went upstairs to ask my family one more time if the colors really matched.

"It's perfect," they said as if they couldn't understand why I'd worry.

"I know what florescent lights do to colors," I countered, but I wore the scarf anyway. It was a special gift from a friend, and I figured the match was good enough.

As I sat in church, though, I couldn't forget the effect of those lights. Something that seemed perfect in my dimly lit bedroom (yes, one of my light bulbs burned out again) wasn't so perfect in church.

My mind wandered to Isaiah's vision of God in the throne room of heaven. When faced with the absolute holiness of God, the radiance that exposes everything, Isaiah blurted out the only possible response, "Woe is me!"

Woe is me, for I am undone!
Because I am a man of unclean lips
And I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips;
For my eyes have seen the King,
The LORD of Hosts.

There are times when I can convince myself I'm a pretty good person until I gaze on the perfection of my God and I let Him search my heart. Then I know with Isaiah that I am undone. I have no hope apart from the cross where the Light of the world was crucified for me.