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.