When the Colors Don't Match

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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.

Living in the Paradox

Photo by CarraB at pixabay.com

I jotted a couple notes in my student's assignment book as he wandered through my studio room. Picking up a little cross I had on the file cabinet, he exclaimed, "A mini graveyard!"

"Which way is it supposed to go?" he asked, flipping it over to see the word Hope on one side and Believe on the other.

"It could go either way," I answered, and he wandered on. But his words continued to ring in my mind. It has been a week touched by death, not in my immediate family, but in the lives of my students and friends. Is that what the cross says to me? The ultimate symbol of death, the most cruel death mankind can impose on one of its own?

Maybe. But the cross also whispers something else because Jesus's tomb was found empty on the third day. So I hear a murmur, a murmur of life in Christ. Jesus entered death to conquer it for all of us. The grave is not the end. There is hope when we believe.

I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. John 10:10 (NKJV)

Urinals, Dustpans, and Worship

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at morguefile.com

Those who know me well might have figured out I have some germophobe tendencies. Needless to say, one part of self-employment I don't relish is scrubbing the urinal. But someone has to do it. So I pulled on my gloves, grabbed the spray bottle of disinfectant, and attacked the restrooms yesterday.

For the most part, I enjoyed myself. I had tucked my MP3 player into my pocket, and the soothing melodies of hymns filled my heart with peace, as I offered up a quick little prayer, "God, help me find the dustpan." What germophobe would want to pick up dirt from a public restroom without a dustpan?

I wonder if that's how Jesus felt when He left His holy abode in heaven for this sin-cursed world. But He didn't don gloves or spray disinfectant from a safe distance. He deliberately took my germs on Himself. He became sick for me so that I could be made whole.

Why the almighty God would do such a thing for me, I will never be able to tell. Words fail me, but my heart whispers, "Thank You, Jesus. Thank You."

For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him. 2 Corinthians 5:21

When God Played Oboe

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at morguefile.com

Gentle applause greeted our concertmaster as he walked on stage and signaled for three As. The piercing tone of an oboe filled the hall for the brass to tune. Sitting a few chairs away in the second violin section, I waited for the final A when we string players would tune.

This preconcert ritual is such an ordinary part of my life that I often forget its significance. To play together we must agree. But who gets to choose the pitch of an A?

I knew Steven was playing a true A on his oboe. A simple tuning app can confirm that an A is exactly 440 Hz, the standard set by an international convention in 1939. But who gave them the authority to define what an A ought to be? Can I be confident this standard is truth?

Later as my family and I celebrated the successful concert with crème brûlée, I pondered the relationship between our orchestral tuning note and truth in general. I’ve been thinking about truth a lot lately because RZIM’s writing competition this month is to answer the question, “In today’s culture of alternative facts and fake news, how do you define truth?” To be honest (a good thing to be when defining truth), my first thought about the contest was “Boring! How can I be creative with that topic?”

The dictionary defines truth. If I go beyond its definition, I might not be speaking objective truth anymore—I might have wandered into the nebulous realm of personal opinion. But who gave the authors of the dictionary the right to define truth? They didn’t create the definition; they merely described how the word was used in contemporary English. As common usage changes, the dictionary changes, just like grammar and punctuation rules change. The perfect English papers I crafted in high school are now flawed. The standard morphed, leaving me longing for something permanent in life.

The dictionary itself testifies to the changing winds of time. Merriam-Webster defines truth as “the body of real things, events, and facts,” and “a transcendent fundamental or spiritual reality,” but the third definition is archaic: “fidelity and constancy.”

In my stubborn refusal to accept the inconstancy of a word that once meant constancy, I’m inclined to weave all three definitions together, for they touch the yearning of our souls. We long to know real facts about transcendence, our purpose in life and the meaning behind it all, and we want these facts to be stable, not shifting with public opinion or the fickle decisions of government officials.

We dream of a world where justice and goodness flourish. To achieve this we need a standard higher than the most powerful government, higher than all international organizations, a standard even they cannot violate. We need a tuning note that enables us to live in harmony.

Only a personal God can offer us this. If He made us for a purpose and communicated to us what is good, we can apply that to all perpetrators of evil. If He is unchanging, I can rest in a moral code that permanently protects me. If He is all-powerful, I know justice will ultimately be done.

This is the God I meet in the Bible, a God who entered the world two thousand years ago in the person of Jesus. He picked up the oboe, and He played an A.

“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’” John 14:6 (ESV)

An Early Valentine's Day

Recently, I posted a Facebook picture of myself wearing red. "Celebrating Valentine's Day early?" a friend asked.

No, it was National Wear Red Day to raise awareness about heart disease in women. I didn't expound for my friend that I'm a Valentine's Day dropout. I'm single and happy, so I avoid red and hearts, but I refuse to do black on February 14. Bright blue is more my color.

As I pondered my friend's question though, I realized my answer wasn't quite accurate. I'm no good at awareness days. If I really wore red to raise awareness, I would have included that in the caption on my photo. Instead, I wear red because I care. I care for my loved ones who are battling heart disease, and I want them to know I'm standing with them.

Likewise, I observed Wear It Pink for breast cancer awareness for the first time this past October. Few people saw me that day, and I'm not sure any of them knew why I wore pink, but I did it for a special friend who had just been diagnosed. I did it because I carry her in my heart.

Isn't that what love is? It's not mushy feelings or sappy songs. Often it is silent because there are no easy answers, but it is there to carry the burden you can't carry alone.

So I'm reevaluating my Valentine's Day blue. I'll go red and pink this year. Only those of you who have read this blog will know what the colors mean to me, but that's okay. I'll do it anyway because love runs deeper than chocolate and roses.

All I Have Is Yours

Last night as I made final preparations for our birthday celebration (in other words, I finally wrapped Terry's gift that had been hiding in my closet for a month), I wondered if I had gotten my twin the right thing. I purchased two books for her, but later I found another one I liked, and I bought it for myself. Would Terry have liked that one better? Too late to change my mind. My book is already sitting on the living room shelf for all to use, and Terry's is wrapped in sparkly paper waiting for the moment when she opens it.

So I brushed aside my mild worry with the words, "All I have is yours." Does it matter what I give my twin? Any book I give her, she'll share with me. Anything I keep for myself is hers to use. All I have is hers.

This is exactly how the father of the prodigal son felt as he welcomed home his wayward boy. He threw a party and gave him gifts, but the older son stood outside and pouted.

"Where's my party?" he asked.

"You are always with me," the father answered. "All I have is yours. It's only right to celebrate because your brother was lost, and now he's found."

God's gifts to me sometimes come wrapped up in pretty paper like the book I'm giving Terry. Sometimes He throws a party and presents them publicly. Other times He quietly places all His possessions on the living room shelf and says, "All I have is yours, Jen. Use it whenever you want."

As I celebrate my birthday and the beginning of a new year, I hope I don't get distracted with wrapping paper and bows. May I notice all of God's gifts and reach out in faith to use them--they come from my Father's heart.

When the Holidays Hurt

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As an avid C.S. Lewis fan, I've stored up gems of wisdom from this most quotable author. But as 2017 draws to an end and I prepare to close the cover on this chapter of my life, no great quote comes to mind. Instead, I'm tempted to follow Lewis's example and write in the margin NA, an abbreviation he reserved for books that he intended to read Never Again.

Many of my friends have lost loved ones this past year. They don't complain, but there is no hiding the pain in their eyes. They swallow hard to keep the tears from choking their voice, and they bravely face a holiday season that I'm sure they wish to skip.

Other friends are dealing with serious illnesses, suffering from a failed marriage, or feeling numb like me from the busyness of the season and endless responsibilities. Has the Christmas spirit passed us by? I don't think so. Our pain and helplessness don't drown out Christmas—they draw us into the true heart of Christmas.

On that very first Christmas, Jesus didn't gaze down from heaven at lights and tinsel on trees. He didn't smell the aroma of perfectly baked cookies and say, "That looks like a nice place to live. I think I'll go there."

No, He saw the pain of broken relationships, bitter hearts and selfish attitudes, religious leaders who were too proud to care for the poor, and the downtrodden who knew they were powerless to help themselves. Jesus saw the darkness and pain. He shuddered at the evil, then whispered to listening hearts, "Don't be afraid. I am coming."

If sorrow engulfs your heart this Christmas, if tears roll unbidden down your cheeks, you haven't missed out on Christmas. Your pain is the reason Jesus came. We may not feel His presence, but He asks us to reach out in feeble faith and trust Him. He promises never to leave us. Never Alone.

"Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel (which means, God with us)." Matthew 1:23 (ESV)