Broken Alabaster Boxes

Last year I mourned Christmas passing me cheerfully by in Minnesota. I missed the snow and cold. I missed caroling where you weren't wearing flip flops. I missed the Christmas parade and our community Christmas supper. Christmas cookies, special time with family, the festive feeling in the cold air. Instead I had palm trees, a hot sun, and something that felt far from Christmas.  This year I do not mourn my absence from Minnesota Christmas. Rather I mourn the absence of that Christmas, the long-held traditions that made it Christmas for me. It's bitter sweet. While it tugs to know that others are celebrating without me, the thought that those traditions aren't even taking place leaves me feeling empty. Thinking of lock downs and Covid leaves me feeling strangely stark and bare. Almost as if Christmas has been stripped away.  We say we are celebrating the real meaning of Christmas, but are we as much as we think we are? When our cozy little safe places are stripped away, do ...

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want." The familiar words roll off my tongue as I sit in Ms. Doreen's board house. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters." There's so many memories wrapped up in this passage. Reciting it to my grandpa and receiving my $1 prize. Family devotions. Sunday morning sermons. And now another memory added. Sweating in a poor Grenadian home. "He restoreth my soul." My grandpa and my father both describe the soul as your mind, will and emotions. When He restores my soul, He restores those three things.  The battle of the mind is very real. I've seen others cave in the fight, recently the mother who shot her son, then herself. Sickness in the mind is very powerful. But He can restore it. My will. What I want to do, or don't want to do. What I get passionate or excited about. What drives me. And when I have no will, no passion, no excitem...

91  He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. 2  I will say of the  Lord , He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. 3  Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. 4  He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. 5  Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; 6  Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. 7  A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. 8  Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked. 9  Because thou hast made the  Lord , which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; 10  There shall no evil befa...

In Time of Trouble, Say: He brought me here.  I am in His keeping.  And this is His time. -Andrew Murray 

Five faces uplifted. Five pairs of ears listening, at least they were suppose to be. Together in the morning for classroom devotions, I told them of 2 friends, both from bad homes. Brothers who worked with me. One works hard, loves his family, and is looking to better himself despite life's circumstances.  The other, is experimenting with drugs and alcohol, hanging with bad characters, and wreaking havoc in his life.  And I contrasted the two. Who will go far? Who will succeed?  And when we prayed, the young voice leading out, lifted up James in prayer to Him Who cares.  He Who looks down on our classroom.  And on James. 

"It was now dark, and Jesus was not come to them." They could not see Him.  Could not sense his presence.  He was not there. They thought. It was dark. The darkness was real. Not hypothetical.  Not imagined.  Real. And they wondered at His absence.   They forgot. Forgot His faithfulness.  His trustworthiness. Because they could not see.  Because it was dark. But He was there.  He knew. To Him, there was no darkness.  No uncertainty.  No questions. Him they could trust. But they did not always.  And I do not always.  It is a choice.  A choice to trust that He will come in the darkness.  Every time.  

"Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees." Glances around the circle of disciples. Confused. "Because we have no bread? Because of our physical need, this concern weighing on us for bread, for nourishment, for physical security?" But Jesus. "How do you not see? How do you not know? "The breaking of bread, only five loaves, the feeding of thousands. "This I did. "The providing for of the physical. "I will provide bread. Do not fret over that . " "But the leaven of the Pharisees. Sin. Attitudes. Pride. That beware of. "This is not a warning to worry over the simple physical. To clutch and stress and worry over something so minute. "But rather, I ask you to seek me. To, unlike the Pharisees, come to me with a heart empty of pride and self and stress, and know Me. "Not to clutch at the physical bread. But to reach out and touch the real Bread. "And as you touch, as you parta...

God never calls us beyond humble obedience to something greater. He never calls us beyond patience, humility, dying to self, kindness, righteousness. He never calls us to places where we are the star and never again must die. His way up is always down. The way closer to Christ is always death. Sanctification is always work. And those great obediences? Those great things you long to do for Him? There's the apostle Paul, stoned and shipwrecked. There's John, alone in the aisle of Patmos.  There's Corrie Ten Boom in a concentration camp. There's Jim Elliot floating dead in a river with an Auca spear thrust through him. There's Christ, hanging naked upon a cross. The great obediences? These, our examples. These our patterns. There will always be humble obedience before us. The choosing to die. The giving of self. The breaking of the will. And only then there is life.

I thirst. The anguished cry descended over the crowd, emitted by the tortured Man suspended.  I thirst. The cry of humanity.  To the Samaritan woman He had said, If you drink of me, if you drink of the water I give you, you will never thirst again. Yet in His humanness He thirsted.  He the Creator, yearning for water.  He the perfect, infinite God,  humbling Himself and asking for a drink. Acknowledging His physical thirst.  He Who spoke water into existence, asking for the life-sustaining liquid. He Who does not call us to unthirsty lives, but calls us to acknowledge our needs. Physical and spiritual. To humbly say, I thirst. And drink of the cool water of relief. 

"I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger...the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world." I am the bread. Eat of me. The sustaining bread I call you to share is my flesh, my life laid down for the world.  Eat of this death. My death. And your death. My death for sins. Your death to self. Share what I have done for you, this bread, this death, and live. Eat of me, and I will be everything you need. Truly, life-sustaining bread. Filling every hunger. Quenching every thirst. As you continually eat of me, you will continually be filled, and never need hunger again.  This is not a idealistic whim. It is not some mystical illusion. It's truth. Obey Christ's call. Do your duty. Glorify your God. Die to self. Carry your cross. And you will be eating of His flesh, imitating His life. Not simply acknowledging Him, but obeying Him. Not looking at Christ, but being los...

When someone in your life is controlling and critical, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. When your sister forgets to ask you about your life and your struggles in the long listing of her own, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. When someone thinks they know what is best in your decision and does not understand your circumstances or choice or your wrestling to walk wisely, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. When they scorn your faith and question your God, what is that to Thee? Follow thou me. When others think you walk in joy only because your life is easy and you never struggle with discontentment, what is that to thee? Follow thou me.   When others praise you for virtuous things, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. For it is Christ. Not I. It is His glory. Not mine. And my duty is to walk in obedience to Him. And as I do that, I can rest. For I am following Him. 

A picture shows what the composer chooses. Evening light streaming through dining room windows on a quiet kitchen. Children, happy at their play. A picturesque slice of cake and a cup of coffee curling steam. It tells the story that is framed. You as the observer can not see behind the lens or know the mental noise in the photographers mind even as he shoots the serene scene.  Unmade beds in the next room, the same evening light falling wearily on them, remains unseen. Family turmoil just after the perfect photo shoot goes uncaptured. Mental worry and stress of the coffee drinker is not recorded. You only see the picture, framed for display. You only see the beauty, for the real is edited.  My desire is to stop seeking to arrive. To arrive at a beautifully, clean home. To arrive at finally finishing everything. To arrive at a leisure life with peaceful coffee. To arrive where there is no struggle to trust Him who gives the hard. Rather, I wish ...

There are times in life marked by intoxicating joy and fulfillment, days where you felt your hand was truly clasped in His. You knew Him. He was there, conversing with you. And it was blessed. Looking back, you see those times of joy and fulfillment as times you were close to the Saviour. And when your heart hungers, you seek the joy and fulfillment, hoping to find Him. But joy is elusive. The more you grasp at it alone, the more it is simply not there.  And you think, "I knew Him when I had joy," and seek all the more. But He is standing, waiting. Not for you to seek and find joy. Not for self-fulfillment. Not for the pursuit of peace. But the pursuit of Him. To be given for Him. To be broken by Him. And to be full with Him. So full that the search for joy is lost in obscurity. No longer needed. No longer searched for. No longer pined after. Because you have found Him. And He is giving more than you can hold.

They toiled in the sea. Heads bent. Sweat trickling.  Lungs aching. Rowing.  Forever rowing. If only to reach the land. Then the cry of one at a sight. That of something moving upon the surface of the water. Advancing towards them. "A spirit." Fear shivered. Terror chocked. Defenselessness mocked. Nothing to save. No hope for the stable. Grasping for the rational. Then a voice, Known so well. "Be of good cheer!  "It is I. "Be not afraid." A collective gasp of relief. Terror and panic melting. The thing they feared the most was but the Master. The storm, a gift of mercy. The tumult, a touch of grace. The fear, unfounded. It was only Christ. And all was well on the sea.

She came with her box of spikenard and, without reservation, poured it all on the Master. In this pouring out, was good stewardship considered? Was it used wisely? The disciples didn't think so. "Why was this waste of the ointment made?"  They couldn't see. Nothing done for God's glory is a waste. This pouring out, it was the best way to use this precious ointment because it was used for God. It was good stewardship because it brought the most glory to God. The monetary expense was irrelevant as the ointment was poured out. The goal was worship, and the object was attained.  Christ was of that much value to her, that the cost of pouring out was irrelevant.  And that is worship.  Worship can not be measured. It's simply given. Worship is not accomplished. It's a lifestyle.  All of life should be worship. Anything, done out of obedience, submission, and love for Him, is worship. Hanging laundry, done for God, is worsh...

Children, crying out in agony, Bruised, broken, tormented. Haunted eyes, crushed souls, And we cry out,  "Oh God, have mercy." Then to our surprise, He makes us the vessels of that mercy. He gives us these broken children. And what we find covering the violent hurt, Is bellowing anger, Blantant disobedience, Frustrating behaviour. We prayed that God would show them love. Yet our sincerity is tested when God says, "Will you?" Our dedication evident, When our lives are riped apart and chaotic, To make room in our homes for the broken. "You say you ache for the broken, Now show Me you truly care." It becomes much more real. Much more sacrificial. It's no longer idealistic, No longer simply a nice idea. It's an aching, giving, hard love. And He wants us to be that vessel. When God takes that child, And places her in your family, And sa...

He wants me to live in joy. The fact that where I am may be hard does not limit God from offering the choice of joy in that hard place. "Glorify Me, and walk in joy." I can see a mother and wife turning her little bits of service into beauty and glory, but me? In my black, dusted in chicken breading, headset firmly planted, smelling of grease, peering out of tired eyes. Me bring glory? There are times I struggle to see the practical giving of glory in this.  But truly, He wants me to do this too for His glory. To whirl smooth shakes, sometimes in frantic haste. To scoop endless fries. To pour steaming coffee, and graciously clean up the mess made by fumbling, aged hands. To make one more burger, and then another, and then..... To struggle through my last till of the night and drop a wad of cash in the night deposit at 10:30. To smile at the person reeking in their stench. To love that one in rebellion under me. To ask the rejected coworker about her inter...

Your eyes are haunting. Trapped. Your life ugly and in shambles. Broken. Drugs and alcohol are your companions. Fear and anxiety peer out along your path. Depression intwins it's arms through yours. Haggard. Hopeless. Haunted. And me? I come into your life smiling, Innocent of so many of the evils that have walked in your life. Simple of the weight of evil. And I'm your friend. Yet somedays I ache because I cannot understand. Your walk so different from my walk. Your life plagued with weights I cannot comprehend. My walk full of hope. Yours full of those without hope. My life walked with those who give their lives. Yours with those who take their lives. I ache because I have so little words. I cannot understand. I have never lived a life like yours. I have never walked this way. Would I live any differently if I had your life? Would I carry any less bitterness or hardness? I feel so empty. I have no answers. No solu...

In reaching to the hurting lost there is a danger. A danger that perhaps I will become like them. Immersed in the bitterness, the selfishness, the sin, At times I feel surrounded in darkness. Yet perhaps harder than myself being in that darkness, Is seeing a brother or sister shining their light in the thick of the dark. I ache because I understand the temptations. I cringe because I know the tug. Even though I understand it’s their battle, I want to pull them away, protect them. But I can’t. I want the darkness to abate. I want to know they will not fall. Yet how can light shine unless it is faced with darkness? How can Christ make a difference if they do not tell? I worry about them in the darkness they face, But yet I think myself able to face my darkness. Am I more able than my brother? Do I truly think I can walk and not stumble? So I pray, for me and my brother. Not to be strong, But to see more...

I actually wrote this earlier this summer. Yet it still leaves an ache when I read it. "Father, help me be faithful!" A young man came into work early one morning. Throughout his entire order he was constantly moving, restless. He could not be still for one moment. As he walked across the yard with his completed order, he zigzagged, unable to walk in a straight line. The phrase came to me, "a soul in torment." He didn't look much older than me. Already cracked on drugs. He seemed tortured, unable to get away. "Oh Father, have mercy on his soul." And then a cheerful man in drive-through the same day. And talking to him, he said he's perfectly healthy, except his head, the inside, his soul. "Jesus can heal that," I thought, but I hesitated, and didn't say it. I missed a wonderful opportunity. I had the chance, yet I left another soul in torment.