A Covering Love

Today I cared for a remarkable patient. She was unable to talk to me, but her family told me bits of her story. This patient never throws away curtains, clothing, and other things that have stains or rips or worn spots. Instead, she makes heart shaped patches to cover up the spot. As a result, her home is full of hearts--places where she made a blemish into decoration. The time when Jennie spilled juice on the tablecloth, or that Charlie ripped the curtain, are recorded only by the heart that covers the blemish.

Wouldn't that be a lovely way to live? We can allow frustrating people, personality quirks, faults, and annoyances, to spoil life, and rather than seeking to salvage those tough situations and uncomfortable relationships, toss them into the discard pile. Or, we can turn them into opportunities for love to triumph and to beautify life. Each of those choices is like a heart-shaped patch, reminding us of when love gained the victory, and surrounding us, as the years go by, with fond memories instead of aching regrets.

"Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins." 1 Peter 4:8, the Bible

To prove I haven't forgotten about my blog... :)

Hello folks! My apologies that it's been SO long since I posted on this blog (I'm sure you've been waiting with bated breath :). Life has been so busy and so full of lessons that I haven't processed enough to share on a blog, that I haven't been writing or photographing much at all. And I do miss it! So to make up for it, here's a really loooooong post. :( Sorry for being so wordy!
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I was sitting in the dining hall when one of my instructors came in the door. His eyes scanned the room, deciding where to sit. Then he hung his coat on the back of a chair at my table and went to get food, saying, “I’m think I’m going to sit right here, because you look like you’re enjoying what you’re doing!” Unfortunately, I was doing nothing more inspiring than munching on a delicious, pulled-pork sandwich.

But his statement struck me as unusual—is it unusual for people to look like they enjoy what they’re doing?

This little incident returned to my mind during a long drive to Maine. I had been driving for several hours and was accumulating a pile of used tissues as a result of a drippy cold, and was pondering the deep matters of life. I’m pretty sure I did not look as though I enjoyed what I was doing. However, the beauty of the day began to drown out the misery of a snotty nose, and it dawned on me how much of God’s creation DOES look like it’s enjoying what it is doing. This world has been cursed because of man’s sin, and the Bible describes it as groaning while it waits for the day when “the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God.” (Romans 8:21). And yet, have you ever noticed how much of joy and exuberance seems to be hard-wired into nature?

Humans seem to be more capable of apathy toward life, than any other part of creation. Have you ever heard a bird sing apathetically? Rather, the notes tumble out like a hearty giggle. Goats jump on and off of rocks just for the sheer fun of it, often adding another lithe twist and kick in mid-air simply because they can. Horses, dogs, and sometimes even cows, can be seen running through the grass, not because they need to, but because, it seems, their overabounding exuberance must come out somehow!

Even the inanimate things are full of vigor, intensity, and joy. God has built it into the bounce of tall grasses beneath the wind, into the tumbling of streams and the roaring of a waterfall, into the waving of tree branches in a gale, and the crash of waves upon rocks. Why else would He make dandelions such a brilliant yellow, and poppies a luscious red, and young ferns a fluorescent green, and mushrooms an audacious orange? Did God really mean for living to be so mundane and humdrum as we seem to consider it?

Of course, we humans encounter a lot of sorrow and difficulty that the animals and trees never face. We are designed so that our natures will not be satisfied apart from meaningful relationships, with other people and especially with God, who made us to know and enjoy Him. But this should mean that rather than being doomed to a doleful existence, we have been given an even greater capacity for delight and joy—for did not Jesus die in order that our relationship with God could be restored through faith in Him? Therefore, those who have trusted Him can enjoy not just life, but eternal life which, as Jesus described it, is “that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.” (John 17:3)

Why, then, are we not perpetually exulting along with the rest of God’s creation? Why do the rivers clap their hands and the mountains sing for joy (Psalm 98:8) while we go through life with long faces and consider it childish to clap and sing for sheer happiness? There are many reasons, of course. One is that we are too burdened with cares—although Jesus pointed out the birds and flowers as examples of those who leave their needs in God’s hands and live in rejoicing splendor. (Matthew 6:25-29). Another reason is that unconfessed sin fills us with guilt and therefore, and until those sins are brought to Christ for forgiveness, we don’t have freedom in our souls to rejoice.

But don’t you think that often we simply don’t remember to enjoy life? We focus on the few things that are difficult or annoying, and forget about the hundreds and thousands of things that are truly wonderful. That breath, for instance. Wasn’t it great? You didn’t even notice that you breathed, it was so effortless, so satisfying of your body’s need for oxygen.

Sometimes I find it’s a useful exercise to look at my life the way it seems to other people. Have you ever noticed how other people’s lives look so much more pleasant than your own? And it irks you when they say, “You have such a nice home,” or, “How nice of your inlaws, to babysit the kids,” or “it must be so nice to be able to spend that time with your grandparents!” –and you think, “if only it was all as great as it looks.” Well, isn’t it? Isn’t this house a blessing, even though the kitchen ceiling leaks, and the wood stove is hard to start? Isn’t it wonderful to be with my grandparents, even though I do trip over the walker or find Grammy’s stuffed animals in the middle of my cooking area?

But beyond all the stuff I have and the things I can do, isn’t it just intoxicatingly wonderful to be alive, today, seeing this glorious sunshine, alive to see the beauty of another day, healthy enough to be outdoors and to see what fun the Lord is having making the clouds dance in slow motion. Isn’t it splendid to see the snow driven by the wind, to feel the energy of the wind itself, and the gentler vigor of warm sunshine?

And beyond all that, far, far beyond all that, is the glory of knowing that I’m loved, personally and tenderly, by the God Who created all this beauty. There is the intense freedom of knowing that He has put all my sins out of His memory because of the blood of Jesus Christ. The rest of knowing that all my minutes and days are in His hands, to weave them together into something beautiful and joyous and useful. The anticipation that some day soon I’ll see His face and rejoice in union with Him for all of eternity.

And when you start to think that way, it seems impossible to contain the surging of joy and delight that starts from within. If I could draw it, the colors would have to include the whole rainbow and then some. If I could translate it into music, I would need a rollicking fiddle and a laughing banjo and then a clash of drums and cymbals, Tchaikovsky-style. If you could smell this joy, it would be pungent like citrus and cinnamon, and it would taste like them too, only with a dash of zesty pepper and the tang of mint. And how it would feel? Like standing in the wind on top of a mountain (the best place on earth to be, when you’ve had to work to get there), and like that exhilarating gasp that comes when you jump into a refreshing stream, and like sinking your hands into warm, moist bread dough, and like sprawling on a warm, sandy beach, and like diving into a field of fragrant grass.

Really, people, REALLY? Do we have good reason to go through day after day as though it’s not a miracle that we’re alive at all? To plod along as though life is boring and allow the dandelions and squirrels and—good gracious--even the crickets and frogs, to out-rejoice US? I sometimes want to shake myself and any other people who, when we have so few REAL troubles, live life with a long face and a plodding step. If I were God, I would feel as though I had a whole set of pouting kindergarteners on my hands!! Do you suppose, when He has promised to carry our burdens, that He wants us to carry them anyway and allow them to blind our eyes to the furious joy that He’s painted all across our lives? When He has promised to give us deliverance from our sins, does He want us to hang onto them because we are afraid of losing a little fun? Or, when we have confessed and forsaken those sins, does He think it spiritual for us to continue feeling guilty for them, and thus to miss out on the thrills that He embeds into life for those who trust and obey? Don’t you think that He made sunsets to be noticed and reveled in, that He made roses to be smelled and mountains to be climbed and forests to be explored and bird-songs to be listened to?

Don’t you think God WANTS us to enjoy what we’re doing, right down to eating a pulled-pork sandwich?

Worthy

This morning I was sound asleep when my alarm went off. What’s more, I was in the midst of a nice dream, and perfectly comfy in my bed. My first sensation was one of revulsion at the rudeness of the alarm, nagging at me that it was time to be up and going to work.

As I stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom, my eye fell on the devotional calendar from yesterday, which was about the value that Judas Iscariot placed on the Lord—in His eyes, Jesus was worth only thirty pieces of silver. The calendar challenged, “What is He worth to you?”

My mind leaped over the usual, obvious answers—the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself for me, is worthy of all my love, my means, my time, my life. Every Christian knows that, at least theoretically.

Then I thought, “Why, He’s worthy for me to jump uncomplainingly out of bed in the morning!” Duh. He’s also worthy for me to go cheerfully to work, and to carry a smiling face that betrays what a wonderful Savior He is. He’s worthy for me to deny myself a small pleasure for the sake of another person. He’s worthy for me to look dumb by refusing to laugh when other people make dirty jokes. He’s worthy for me to be thankful for the thousands of blessings that flood my life, rather than zooming in on the few annoying things that I have to deal with. He’s worthy for me to do a good and cheerful job cleaning the toilet. He’s worthy for me to wash the dishes. He’s worthy for me to be patient with my hearing impaired grandfather. He’s worthy for me to take good care of the body that He’s lent to me. He’s worthy for me to battle self pity when it comes whispering round. He’s worthy for me to give up my to-do list for the day when interruptions come.

Yes, He’s worthy to receive power and riches and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing (Rev. 5:12)! He’s worthy of the Name that is above every name (Phil. 2:9). He’s worthy of the crowns of glory and honor that God the Father has given Him (Heb. 2:9). Isn’t He worthy of the happy devotion of one of His children, in every area of life? And after all, isn’t an alarm clock a great reminder to begin praising the God who has given us the privilege of waking up another morning?

When the Fog Tore

It was one of the most memorable moments of my summer. One day in June, I stood on top of Mt. Madison in New Hampshire, panting and sweating after three hours of stiff climbing. My friend Andrea and I had started hiking at 5:30, on what looked like a beautiful day in early summer. By the time we reached treeline, cold mist was swirling around us, and the sun was merely a bright spot in the blurry grey world. Now, at last, we were at the top, resting (if that’s the right word to use when you’re fighting to keep your balance and hear one another’s voices in the wind), and enjoying the view of….fog.

Andrea was digging to find something in her pack, and I straightened up to cast another look at where the horizon should have been. Suddenly I let out an exclamation and caught my breath. A slit had appeared in the swirling mist, a tear through the cottony curtain into the blueness beyond. For seconds, I caught a glorious view of mountaintops poking up through clouds, blue sky above them. Then, before I could get Andrea’s attention, it was gone. I shouted something in her ear about how there had been a beautiful view, and she turned to look, but the vista was, once again, only fog. We watched hopefully, eagerly,--and then it happened again, and we both cried out with delight at the beauty and I fumbled for my camera. But no camera could capture that dynamic moment of elation, awe, moving clouds, and clear vision. It tried, and failed.

For the next twelve hours we hiked, hopeful for another rend in the clouds or even a ray of clear sunshine. Once or twice, the veil was pulled away and we could see the panorama of splendor that surrounded us.

The rest of the time, our world was shrunk to a diameter of about a hundred feet, sometimes less, punctuated by hail, rain, and snow. We trudged on from one cairn to cairn, watching for the next one to emerge from the fog ahead. We were never lost—we always knew where we were, where we had come from, and where we were going. We simply couldn’t see any of it.

After that moment of breathtaking sight on top of Mt. Madison, I exclaimed to Andrea, “If that’s all the view we get all day, this hike will have been worth it!” And it was. Because that moment has returned to my mind many times this summer, when all that I could see of the significance of my life seemed no more than swirling mist and dull fog, annoying rain and stinging hail, trudging from one week to the next as I flipped the calendar pages.

2 Corinthians 5:7 took on a new meaning for me, “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” The mountains, the valleys, the horizon, the sun, the blue sky, all were absolutely real, even when I couldn’t see them. The trail lay where it always had, the cairns were just as substantial, the map was just as trustworthy—and in this was our salvation. If we had been following our sight, we would have been lost in no time. As far as we could see, the terrain beyond the wall of fog could have been the Sahara Desert, or the Amazon jungle; we could as well have been at the bottom of a ravine as on top of a mountain ridge.

The promises and purposes of God are quite unchanged, whether or not I can see their fulfillment. The righteousness of God is as substantial and changeless as the mountains (Ps. 36:6), and therefore I do not need to fear that when the fog clears, the light of God’s smile will have gone out. His will, revealed day by day, is steadfastly leading me to the goal that only He can see. The panorama view of the purpose of God for the entire universe throughout all of eternity, is glorious and breathtaking, and when, every so often, He gives me a glimpse of my place in that plan, it sustains me for the next long trek through the fog.

Why the fog, then? Maybe it’s because when there’s nothing else to see, my eyes will learn to focus on Him, the Originator of all things beautiful. When there’s no one else to talk to, when the noise of the wind drowns out the clamor of other voices, my soul is drawn to commune with Him. The beauty of the view would be nothing without Him as its Maker, and so He teaches me to enjoy Him first and foremost. Maybe it’s because the fog is as much a part of His beautiful plan as anything else.

Handfuls of Barley

“Boaz commanded his servants, saying, ‘…you shall purposely pull out for her some grain from the bundles and leave it that she may glean..." (Ruth 2:15-16)

It wasn’t the most efficient way to harvest a field, nor the neatest, nor the most profitable. Yet it was the kindest way. It was the way Boaz chose, when he saw the lonely, hardworking foreign woman bent gleaning in his field.

I wonder what Ruth thought about as she worked? Surely the labor was tedious, and as her back ached and her eyes stung with streams of sweat, she must have thought that her pile of barley was growing very slowly. Then suddenly, among the stubble, not a single stem of barley, nor even two or three, but a whole handful! How gratefully she added it to her collection, and went on with renewed energy. Perhaps, as she continued to find, here and there, these handfuls of barley, she wondered where they came from. Was one of the reapers more careless than the others, too lazy to harvest thoroughly? Then, as she caught up with them, perhaps she saw one of the reapers, and then another, pull from their bursting sheaves a handful of barley and drop it on the ground. And she knew they were doing it for her.

But they would not dare to be kind on their own initiative, for Boaz was no insignificant farmer, and it wouldn’t be good for them to be caught doing a slovenly job. The only answer, then, was that he must be behind this kindness—and indeed she could believe it of him, for he had served her so generously at the noon meal, and provided so thoroughly for her while she worked in his fields. Now she looked for the bunches of barley, and smiled to herself when she gathered them, for they were silent witnesses that he was thinking of her.

I’ve never seen a barley field, but lately I’ve been noticing the handfuls of barley that lie here and there along my path.

The other day at work, I started humming, half unconscious that I was doing it. My patient said, “That’s beautiful. It must be something about Jesus.” I was startled for a moment, and stopped to indentify what I had been humming. It was one of my favorite hymns, the first verse of which runs, “Loved with everlasting love, led by grace that love to know, gracious Spirit from above, Thou has taught me it is so. Oh this full and perfect peace, oh this transport all divine, in a love that cannot cease, I am His, and He is mine.”

“Why, yes!” I said. “It is about Jesus! What made you think so?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I just knew that it was.”

And I smiled, startled by the suddenness with which this handful of barley had fallen at my feet. Somebody was thinking of me.

Beauty "Wasted"

I don’t know about you, but I wonder a lot about what the coming years hold for me. My own head is crammed with ideas; I can only imagine what the infinite God has in mind!

Yet I have to say, so far His ideas don’t seem to be quite as exciting as mine have been. A couple years ago, I could have told you several rather thrilling things that I hoped to be doing at age 24, but which in fact don’t resemble my present circumstances at all. It’s been easy to question the perfection of the Lord’s will, especially when it seems like other people my age are living out my dreams.

Yet I’m not complaining—not at all. In fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way. You see, the other day I got to thinking about roses. No, not the kind that girls dream about, but rather the pesky multi-floral roses that line our fields on the farm. I was walking through the sweetly-scented evening air, and noticed the graceful sprays of roses that grew on the prickly bushes. Each blossom was so simple and yet so beautiful, and arranged so artistically on the branches, which arced so gracefully in the air.

And I thought, how is it that God puts beauty everywhere, even in the most unappreciated—even unobserved—places? A walk through the woods reveals pockets of ferns, illuminated by gently dappled sunlight. It’s quite possible that I will be the only human ever to observe those ferns before they die in the fall. They’re beautiful when they don’t have to be. Even the grass along the cowpath is stunningly beautiful when you stop to notice. Likewise the wisps of cloud in the sky, made to swirl gracefully for no reason at all but that God is the Maker.

In fact, it is hard to think of a single thing that God has made which is not beautiful in one sense or another. It’s not just that God perfectly designed everything for its intended function. That is true too, but He always blends art with science to make His works beautiful. He can afford to “waste” beauty where humans would consider it unnecessary.

I always want to laugh when I see a cell phone tower disguised as a tree. It’s a perfect illustration of the difference between the creations of God, and the inventions of humans. God builds in starry skies, grassy fields, and towering mountains. Man builds in concrete and rebar. God gives the world voice in bird songs, trickling waters, and the crash of ocean waves. The sounds of mankind are beeping alarms, traffic, and phones ringing. This is not to say that the inventions of humans are bad, nor that we cannot produce things of beauty (although the beauty we produce is strangely like an imitation of God’s handiwork). The point is merely that compared to God, our ideas don’t look so great.

That’s why, when I stop to think about it, I’m okay with letting God design my life. There’s always somebody to whisper that obeying God is a confining thing, ultimately leading to less fun and more work. But when I stop to think about it, that idea is positively ludicrous! He won’t forget to put a healthy dose of beauty and thrill into my life at the right times. In fact, when I stop to notice, my life already contains plenty of interludes of delight and just plain fun.

My observation of the lives of other people confirms the idea that God’s way is always best. When He brings about a marriage, it doesn’t just “work,” but is full of delight and thrill. When He plans out a career, it doesn’t just pay the bills, but contains opportunities that are meaningful for eternity. When He directs a life, it’s never average, but turns out to be more full, more significant, and more satisfying than anything we could have thought up. And He makes even the weeds to bear roses.

Just Wanted to Say...

...it's a simply splendid evening out there! I went out to bring in some laundry from the clothesline and was arrested by the beauty of the moment. The sky wasn't yet black, but salmon near the horizon, darkening to a deep blue green, and dotted by a few early stars and the diamond glint of a planet. The frogs were piping a rousing song from the pond, and lightening bugs flashed applause. The silhouette of one of the cows stood sharply against the sky on a distant ridge.

And I looked up at the giant bowl of the sky, and thought, "He loves me!" The one Who created such an orchestra of praise, and conducts its music, loves ME! Now that's a nice thought to pillow my head on as I drop off to sleep.