Reverie

© Elise Grinstead 2012

Oh, to hope, to place
trust
in You who sees, in You
who holds strongly, faithfully
bearing strength,
wisdom and
power beyond our days--they are
finite
and weak, bearing
lackluster devotion--our efforts to
sustain ourselves, and
we fail again, and
again.

Oh, to surrender, to have
faith
in You who knows, in You
who carries gently, tenderly
bearing mercy,
grace and
peace beyond ourselves--we are
weary
and restless, lacking
stillness in quiet--what is needed to
replenish ourselves, and
to hear You, only
You.

Oh, to praise, to swell with
love
for You who gives, for You
who births kindly, wonderfully
bearing justice,
revelation, and
compassion beyond our means--You are
beautiful
and Holy, meant to be
revered in worship--our whole selves to
begin and
end in You, only
You. 

Hands

© Elise Grinstead 2012

There are no muscles in our fingers. The muscles reside within the palm and wrist, and our fingers know to move as if it were a marionette puppet being controlled by strings. While the fingers are separate, their systems are intertwined and they come back to the source of muscles in the palm and wrist. These fingers that can do so much—they seem self sufficient, but they are not. They rely on a created system of power outside of themselves, yet connected. About a quarter of the motor cortex in the human brain (the part of the brain which controls all movement in the body) is devoted to the muscles of the hands.1 These extremities of our bodies do so much, but they are reliant upon the systems that govern it.

The things that are delicate—by my own nature, I will crumple them and handle them roughly. The things that are heavy and weighty—they will slip from my fingers and fall, for I do not hold them with the strength that I ought.

If I curl my fingers around the things placed in my hands, I constrict the freedom of gratitude to swell from what the Lord has given and ordained. I desire there to be endless praise and thanksgiving for what He has chosen to give or not give, and these fingers must always lay at rest ready to be lifted up to praise. He is the bearer of all things.

I do not wish to hold responsibility that I assume upon myself. That puts me in the position of being a self-governor and ruler, and within my own flesh, I do not have the longevity to sustain it.

I do wish to be a good steward of what God has placed before me, with whatever and whomever He deems good and/or necessary. With that, I trust His sovereign rule and His supplied grace, strength, and wisdom to fulfill it. His longevity will never cease, and that is a well from which I may drink without end.

The hands, under the Lord’s rule, often bring healing and relief to others and a surrender of self to the Lord. The hands, under self’s rule, often bring pain and suffering to others and a master of self instead of the Lord. A hand can bring a healing touch or a destructive swipe. The hands can build and the hands can destroy. The duality of the governance of the Lord versus the governance of self is so apparent.

If something or someone is placed in my hand by the Lord, I trust He also gives His wisdom in how to handle it—even if it should propel me into the very depths of who He is in order to do it.

And then, there are the hands of the Lord. The hands of the Lord are mighty to save. They are gentle in grace. They are giving of mercy. They are swift in justice. They are embracing in love. They are perfect in their giving and taking away. The hands of the Lord bear His every characteristic and they are the bridge between us and Him. They are how He reaches and touches us, if we should need such a metaphor to help us understand His spirit within us.

As I myself am surrendered to the Lord, so He is the system that should govern me—every part, but in particular, these hands. And I, a sinner being reformed, continue to learn to relinquish control over governing myself; the effects of which are so noticeable as these fingers crushing delicate things, dropping the weighty, or attempting to hold in my own wisdom that my fingers curl and suppress thanksgiving and surrender.

1 http://www.eatonhand.com/hw/facts.htm

God Grants the Growth

© Elise Grinstead 2010

It was the summer of 2006. I parked my car in the alley by the side kitchen door to that church in Santa Monica and opened the back. Boxes and bags full of food items of the meal I planned for the day made it through the frame and onto the stainless steel counters of the kitchen. Sorting through the items, I either organized them onto the countertops by dish or placed them into the industrial-sized refrigerator/freezer until it was needed. I looked over the recipes and set forth a course of action for the next 2-3 hours. Large pots, pans, cutting boards, knives, tools, and more emerged from the cabinets as I set about preparing, one task after the other. The kitchen consisted of just me for over two hours each day, Monday through Friday—and an hour of silence in planning and two hours of grocery shopping solo preceded it. It was a quiet summer, one both I reveled in and questioned. “Why did I sign up for this job, if the purpose of this summer is mainly to minister to people? Why so many hours alone in this seemingly solitary endeavor? What is the purpose behind this?”

Night after night, the routine happened with as much clockwork as 20-something-year-olds can muster. My assistant would arrive about an hour before dinner was to be served, followed by a team of 4-6 people trickling in at 5 p.m. asking “what can I do to help?” as I would dole out responsibilities like getting the plates, taking bowls and dishes of food to the serving tables, making the lemonade in the beloved yellow drink dispenser, and more. And then, around 5:30, the masses would start trickling in—table after table filled until we reached our count of over 60 students for dinner. The blessing would be spoken and dinner would be served. I would eventually eat myself, being a sticky, hot mess from the often 90+ degree kitchen and engage in some conversation. My peers had been out through the day across the city of Santa Monica, working jobs such as at McDonalds or Gap, or took classes at the local community college. What was it that we had in common? We were all college students, gathered together in the city of Santa Monica, CA, living in a “retro” motel together for 10 weeks, with the aim to grow in our relationships with the Lord and be ministers of the Gospel to the community who did not know Him.

Dinner was typically the first gathering of these people for the day, which would be followed by the evening session or activity. It was a cornerstone of the day, of sorts, since our other meals were on our own. I remember the buzz of energy these different people brought and contributed to the whole. The church auditorium resembled a high-school cafeteria, albeit with a bit more maturity. Forty-five minutes or so would pass until it was time to clean up, with a team assigned to do so every night. Again, I would dole out responsibilities. The nights that we had leftover food usually went to a select few males who had bottomless stomachs. The evening activity would come, and then around 9 or 10 p.m., we would head back to our motel. I was often exhausted and turned in early in order to do it all again the next day. I slept soundly while others participated in late-night activities in the alleyway, made ice-cream runs, or snuck into the cemeteries. And the quietness would cycle again.

There was one moment towards the end of the summer where I finally saw the purpose behind it. I was putting the last of the food on the table when everyone else was seated, and I looked out at my peers. I heard it quietly and firmly:

“Elise, you are ministering to the saints. Even the providing of the most basic needs—dinner—enables them to do what I have before them this summer. And, you are equipped to do so. This is good. Embrace it. This is purposeful for you too, in that you learn to serve in the quiet ways and learn to hear Me better through it.”

It’s interesting to see how those small, yet profound moments can set a course for the rest of your life. The last six years have brought much cooking and baking, in the forms of dinner parties and invitations, treats for co-workers at work and classmates, and even the simple nightly tasks of dinner on the table. It has evolved locations from house and large apartment kitchens in San Luis Obispo, the parents’ kitchens in Colorado, and now small apartment kitchens in Brooklyn. It is a joy, and I enjoy seeing people satiated and content—but moreso, I love the fellowship that is brought when people gather together over food in the home setting.

And, it still leads me further into food and hunger as a whole. I continue to pray and seek the Lord’s timing on when to venture forth into assisting a small orphanage/AIDS resource center in Uganda in developing partnerships for their monthly food needs for the orphans under their care. I have been involved with them for a few years now in a small way, and I believe the Lord has encouraged me to see what surrounds me here in NYC with resources and people, potential partnerships, and how that can be extended forth to multiply in Ugandan dollars. Their need is so relatively small on the US scale, but tremendous on the Ugandan level.

With one element—food—there is vision in past, present, and future. The seeming small things that seemed insignificant at the time, the Lord deemed purposeful and continued to lead and speak through it.

…

For those of you who read this blog regularly or over the years, you probably know by now that I love writing. It is something I have done for a long time and believe I will do for a long time. That too, has been something I have felt the Lord asking me to be diligent and faithful with. I haven’t known all the reasons why or what it will look like, and I still don’t fully. But there are glimpses, and there are pieces revealing. I shared some lyrics with our worship director at our church back in February, and he ended up sharing them with some other songwriters he knew. One of them contacted me a couple of months ago saying she read through them and one of them really stood out to her and she wanted to put it to music. We have since met with her twice and it has been a beautifully encouraging process. I am thankful for her talent and her heart. I am thankful for my husband being a wonderful bridge in the process between me as a writer and her as a musician, offering much needed critique and suggestions. The process has forced me to revisit times and lessons of four years ago and critically think about what God has taught me since then—what do these words mean today? What can they mean for others? What needs to be spoken through this? I am excited to continue forth in this process and see what the Lord does through it.

I read through this passage over and over, and I continue to be challenged and encouraged in it:

What then is Apollos? What is Paul? Servants through whom you believed, as the Lord assigned to each. I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth. He who plants and he who waters are one, and each will receive his wages according to his labor. For we are God's fellow workers. You are God's field, God's building.

According to the grace of God given to me, like a skilled master builder I laid a foundation, and someone else is building upon it. Let each one take care how he builds upon it. For no one can lay a foundation other than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ. Now if anyone builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw— each one's work will become manifest, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed by fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done. 1 Corinthians 3:5-13

We are all servants, God’s fellow workers, doing the labor He has put before us to do. There are different things we do concurrently, and also others we do successively. God has appointed it, and He will bring the growth He deems for it through our laboring in it. We can trust and know that our individual tasks come to the collective whole of what God desires, and that the timing is in His control.

Yet, it is crucial to remember the foundation laid beneath us—always steady and unshakable—Jesus Christ. In knowing this, we should take care to build with the things of worth, with intentional work and care taken into it. We are wise enough to know which elements will stand in longevity, and which will fall away quickly at the first sight of a storm. It often takes time to build something of worth—for those things are more rare and precious.

I think of these truths outlined in this passage, and I think of the examples the Lord is encouraging me with in my own life. I am reminded to carry forth and be faithful in what has been put before me, taking care to build wisely with it, even if it may seem insignificant in the present moment. The things that are substantial take time, but God grants the growth and makes it what He desires it to be.

"Questions are all that matter."

Even as a child, I never remember fearing or dreading becoming an adult. I had much interaction with adults as I grew up, and was blessed to have many advocating for me, loving me, and being there for me in various ways. I’ve always been more of an old soul. I was never much for imaginary games or, later on, many of the fads or obsessions my peers involved themselves in. There was never really anything intimidating to me about entering the adult world—I started my own business at age fourteen designing and importing custom soccer balls for Colorado youth teams—and I have worked since. I’m grateful to the parents that I have that encouraged and enabled me to be able to do anything, and supported me throughout the whole process.

Therefore, I can’t exactly pinpoint if there is a moment or period of time when I officially became an adult. Some say it’s when you leave home for the first time; I moved to California for college when I was 18. Some say it’s when you’re working full-time; I first did that for a summer when I was 18, but this last year has been the first full year of working full time. Some say it’s when you get married; I was wed at 23. Others say it’s when you’re financially independent and self-sustaining; that has been in the last two years.

But then there are those other things that people talk about that show signs of being an adult. For example, throughout my entire life, my parents have talked to me repeatedly about when I make a mistake, to just own up to it, without giving a reason or excuse why. That has been an aspect of maturity I have lacked, and am just now humbly growing into this year. Then, there’s times when someone close to you is going through a difficult time, and unknowingly you are thrust into this position of being one who has wisdom and understanding, as they seek your eyes and mind for answers or comfort. One that has stayed with me lately is that the world is not as black and white as I used to think it was, and there are many answers I do not have or cannot reach.

I finished a novel this week that has some haunting lines resounding in my heart:

“I’m not normally so impressed by young writers. Altogether too self-consciously clever, too pat, too neat. Creative nonfiction is particularly repulsive—blurring the line between fact and fiction in a world already unable to distinguish one from the other. Your piece, however—it was nothing but a list of questions and doubts. No attempt to provide any answers. A lament, really. You were painfully aware of your limitations—and played to them in a way that was rather interesting…Questions are all that matter. The answers don’t belong to you.”
-The Writing on My Forehead, pgs 222-223

As a child, it seems that the answers we know are either concrete or elusive—those that are elusive are attributed to the statement that “you’re just too young to understand.” That statement bears with itself this premise that one day, when the question comes up again, the answer will be able to be understood. I think this is perhaps true. But what I am tending to find is that for all the lingering questions finally answered in adulthood, more meaningful and also, more difficult questions arise.

As a child, we have limitations. Yet, adulthood does not mean a lack of limitations—instead, like the questions, there become different ones. And adults—bewildering knowledge this would be to a child—we’re still trying to figure things out. Sometimes we masquerade ourselves in a blanket of confidence and other times we are painfully aware of our limitations that cannot be hidden. There is never a pinnacle to which we summit in completion of knowledge, and there are always more summits that surround. Therefore, we work at it each day. We work with our fellow men, sometimes in triumph, sometimes in sufficiency, sometimes in trial, and sometimes in failure. This is being part of the human race, something that we cannot escape, save for death.

Throughout our life, there seems to be this inevitable strain. Questions will go unanswered. Circumstances will transpire that we cannot make sense of. We will be thrust into positions that we are ill-equipped for. The responsibilities of life can be heavy burdens at times, and sometimes feel as too much.

Yet, we have this Shepherd, this great high-priest who has walked before us. He overcame what we never will be able to. And, by faith in Him, there is rest in the lack of answers. He is enough. It seems trite, but it is profound. Out of all the questions, can there be an overarching answer? An answer that does not fit within any comfortable bounds, but requires trust and faith in His wisdom higher than ours, His ways not always understood—but ultimately good? Yes, I believe this to be true; I believe the gospel as true, and as I venture forth in adulthood, it is only reinforced more.

“Questions are all that matter. The answers don’t belong to [me].” The answers belong to God, and only in His perfect wisdom, does He know whether it’s best for us to know or not. There will be a strain as we strive to understand but also seek to trust in His sovereignty with what we don’t. We are never going to arrive at a point of completion in this life—but we can strive to know and trust more fully the One who, in Himself, is fully complete.

“God does not give us overcoming life— He gives us life as we overcome. The strain of life is what builds our strength. If there is no strain, there will be no strength. Are you asking God to give you life, liberty, and joy? He cannot, unless you are willing to accept the strain. And once you face the strain, you will immediately get the strength. Overcome your own timidity and take the first step. Then God will give you nourishment— “To him who overcomes I will give to eat from the tree of life . . .” (Revelation 2:7). If you completely give of yourself physically, you become exhausted. But when you give of yourself spiritually, you get more strength. God never gives us strength for tomorrow, or for the next hour, but only for the strain of the moment. Our temptation is to face adversities from the standpoint of our own common sense.

But a saint can “be of good cheer” even when seemingly defeated by adversities, because victory is absurdly impossible to everyone, except God." -Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, August 2nd

This is the City: Reflections on One Year

Rockefeller Center Gardens, May 2012 © Elise Grinstead

A week later, but in the same spirit...

Today [July 9th] is our NYC one-year anniversary, and the city has tried to throw its punches at me to see what I have grown to handle in a year. Activating debit card for purchasing subway card—check. Walk the walk to the station under a nice, cool overcast sky, only to shortly be overwhelmed by a lingering stench during my entire walk that actually made me want to hurl (that doesn’t happen much anymore, I have a much stronger stomach)—check. Arrive at subway station to find unusually long lines for the Metrocard machine, then go to another part of the station to purchase card from another machine, only to find out that all machines cannot process credit cards at that moment—check. Surrounded by ire people who are wondering how the world functions without credit cards being accepted—check. A trip to Duane Reade to the Chase ATM—of which I am not a member of, but there are no Wells Fargo ATMs in Brooklyn—cash withdrawn, and back to the machines—check. Seeing that the machines cannot give change and I do not want to put $20 into a metrocard due to my tax-exempt debit card that I should be able to use for transit—check. Then to the booth with an actual person (yes, they exist, for all of us who rely on machines far too often!) to buy two rides with $5 of cash—check. Card slid, through the turnstile, onto the train, and a seat to boot. Ahhh. Then, one stop in, a guy who definitely has a body odor problem and no apparent use of deodorant decides to stand in front of my seat, arm stretched out to reach the upper railing with his pit aimed perfectly at my face. Wonderful. I arrive at my destination and walk to the subway exit where a woman lost her balance on her ridiculous platform shoes, causing her to flail, whack the girl in front of me in the face, causing that girl to fall back into me, all the while platform shoe lady just keeps on walking like she didn’t touch anyone. Oh, the density of this city.

But, today is a year into this adventure of living in NYC, and the difference between today and a year ago is that I hardly flinched at the events of today as they transpired. A New York City resident assesses the situation, reacts quickly, and moves forward. In many ways, that’s how you “survive” here. A year ago, I would have been in the crowd of ire people (hopefully not ire myself), wondering how I was supposed to get on the train if I couldn’t buy a metrocard. And about said woman falling into my arms—I just pushed her back up again and kept walking—and she did too. We didn’t say anything to one another. Oh, anonymity. And the difference between today and a year ago is I just laugh at its events instead of them causing me to wonder what I am doing in such a crazy place. This is the city, and this is where I live.

Today I type in an air-conditioned office under a makeshift “tent” draping over my cubicle walls to block the fluorescent lights above. I am surrounded by pictures of places and people far away, and it does not accurately reflect what this year has brought. There have not been green hills after the rain. There have been green meadows in Central, Prospect, and Brooklyn Bridge Parks. There have not been fallen leaves on a rural county road. There have been buttloads of leaves up and down every street, roof, and building, even into the summer. There have not been wide expanses of sky at the top of mountain summits. There have been buildings stretching across the horizon, or at least in my immediate view almost every day. There have not been visits to California oceans—though there are New York ones. The picture of Morro Rock I took a couple of years ago that flanks me to my left—it makes me recognize a picture of it on one of our book jackets, as it is a setting for a mystery published by HarperCollins. There are ties—yes—but the elements of familiarity are vastly different than what I have known for the better part of my life.

Upon hearing we live in the city, people who live in places not New York have common reactions: “Oh, that must be so exciting, romantic even!” “Isn’t it expensive?” “I don’t think I could live there, but I would come visit you!” “How big is your apartment, really? And how much do you pay for it?...What?!? That much?” “You’re really far away from your families, huh?” and so on. These thoughts and questions have also crossed my mind at different times.

Almost three years ago we began to consider such a move. Looking back, I can better see how faithful the Lord is and has been. We moved here a year ago without jobs lined up—just a three month sublet, about three months of savings, a moving truck half full of belongings, and a trust that He was leading. Within five days of moving here, I had my first interview for the job that I now work at today. God provided work for John too—building up somewhat inconspicuously to the elusive architecture job he was blessed with in March. We have developed friends, a rich community, and are growing into a neighborhood we love. We have an apartment with our own furniture and are self-sustaining. We have learned the ways of this city relatively well that we no longer feel out-of place on a regular basis. Each and every one of these, in their whole and its individual pieces, truly is by the grace of God.

A year later, I realize that I probably would never have picked this place to live on my own. But, the Lord led John, and consequently me, here. The moments of tension in being here are fewer and further between, but when they do come, I am reminded of how thankful I am that this being here is not of me but of God. He has deemed it good that we are here. He has provided. He has brought many things into fruition already and He is giving vision for the future. And ultimately, I want nothing less. I want nothing less than being intimately acquainted with the Lord in many measures and ways as a result of being here. I want nothing less than what He has deemed good and worthy. I want nothing less than learning to see this place through His eyes, and learning to love its hordes of (often) lonely individuals like He does. I want nothing less than the weekly strain on my back of being here, because it reminds me to bend low before my God and remember my position before Him.

I want nothing less, nothing easier—because if I did, I would only be left to wonder what I am fearful and hesitating to embrace that is of Him and not of me. Daily, I need the Lord in this place. But daily, I can also see the Lord magnified in this place. Humbly, I seek to play a part.

This is New York; this is Brooklyn. This is the city, and this is where we live.

June 27, 2012

It’s one of those days where different circumstances mired together create stark realities and muddled thoughts and emotions. On the date of today, June 27th, John and I are remembering our two-year anniversary. We were able to celebrate this past weekend and rejoice in God’s goodness and faithfulness over this last year and two. I grow evermore thankful each day for the Lord’s provision and blessing of John in my life, and the refining tool marriage is.

Yesterday, I received news at work that a colleague of mine is being let go due to company restructuring. He has worked for this company for over 25 years. He has a wife and a 15-year old daughter. The world of business and profits gets infinitely personal at times, as people make up the life-blood of a company and they are more than just a collection of statistics, productivity, or relevance. Yet, it doesn’t change the reality. My heart aches with the feeling of defeat he is feeling, as I watched him walk out yesterday with head low and shoulders slumping, on his way home to break the news to his family.

And, in national news, my hometown of Colorado Springs is fighting an out-of-control fire. It jumped the ridge yesterday and doubled in size last night, threatening thousands of homes and destruction imminent. I know many of these people; I’ve been in their homes; I’ve driven these curving roads; I remember these mountain faces of which I saw almost every day for 19 years. The fire rages. There is a smoke plume over 32,000 feet in the sky from it. The weather has been brutal for a week now, setting or coming close to records of high temperatures and low humidity levels—and relief does not appear to be in sight for the next few days, save for a thunderstorm possibility today that could actually make things worse.

Usually, the initial response in this is to pray. And, I have to some extent. Yet, more often, I’m left sitting in the presence of a God who I know to be infinitely personal and also dramatically powerful. Times like these of goodness, hardship, and tragedy all at once usually try to claw their way to their own answers to their own questions, Why the goodness of the Lord in my own life in marriage while others struggle with it? Why do the young, versatile people get to keep their job while one devoted to the industry and company must leave? Why an out of control fire in a beautiful place in weather where God could send rain and relief, but there is none so far? Yet, there often aren’t situational answers to these questions.

Several weeks ago, I wrote to a friend dealing with a death to someone close to her in the same week her sister was getting married. I wrote of how when pain and tragedy happen in the midst of praiseworthy things, it creates a seemingly irreconcilable conflict between the two. Yet, both of them, in their own ways, reveal the glory and need of the Lord at the same time. The Lord is all powerful, but He is merciful. And the Lord can make beauty out of the most desolate things and places—redeeming and making new what seems at present to be lost or destroyed.

Today, June 27th, 2012, I stand humbled at this infinitely powerful God whose ways I do not often understand, both in the blessings and in the tragedies. But today, I also rest in the presence of this infinitely personal Lord who has made a way to relationship with Himself because He has lived this life too, and died in our place for we can never save ourselves from ourselves or this uncertain world. Today, there is a more present need to embrace the fact that we do not always understand the ways of the Lord, as His ways and thoughts are higher than ours.

But He knows. Every day has been ordained by Him. Everything that happens, He allows to happen, for His purposes, not our own. In the uncertain, He is certain. And ultimately—in all things—with Him it is well.

Rings

Photo Credit: Ben Leshchinsky  Originally appeared here

In early June, there was a day of heavy rain in the NYC area. On my walk to work that morning from the subway, I got quite soaked from the waist down due to the downpour that opened up and instantaneously started flooding the sidewalk and casting raindrops at a 45 degree angle. It was just going to be one of those days, it seemed. At the end of the workday during my commute back home, a double rainbow appeared over Manhattan. I saw tweets and got text messages from people seeing it on the news, but I did not see it myself. That fact did not surprise me. It is harder to find obvious beauty here in this city, both literally and figuratively. If I had seen the rainbow directly, its blatant beauty would have caught me off guard as I would not expect such in a place like this.

John and I are coming up on a year of living here, on two years of being married. And in the last month or two, there have been some hard moments of the realities of living in this place. I have felt disillusioned, stretched beyond what I would like. We are no longer new in this city, yet we are still beginning—seemingly stuck residing in a tension. It was hard to see, to have a vision for this place that would involve me in it. And like being under the presence of a rainbow that was ever present, I could not see it myself.

To be granted vision, to be granted hope, to be granted relief in what feels to be longsuffering—these are the things I pleaded to the Lord for, as I was in need. It came in great measure over this last week. The written and spoken words of those who have gone before us in ministry and life here in Brooklyn again reminded me and brought new light to the privilege I have to be a part of it, even as it is hard. The gatherings of two or more—like it has occurred many times over this year—yet in these times I could see through the Lord’s eyes, not the situational blindness of my own. These people are not strangers any more. The walking and commuting together, sharing in pocket conversations that hold the rhythm of the train doors and passer-bys. The weekend trip to visit my brother that provided a relief and respite from the busy pace of the city, only to have the city welcome me back when I arrived. The confession of a mistake made to coworkers and receiving their grace, and in that honesty, a deeper trust and relationship forged. Laughter shared through email conversations with my boss about dragons drawn with chicken feet. The gathering of people in living rooms and large rooms to eat, pray, and celebrate. The speaking of plans for a new church community in this becoming beloved place and the people within it now and those yet to be.

And yes, I do know them. And they do know me. It reminds me ever so of how the Lord knows me, that He knows the deepest desires of my heart and how I connect with Him. Through quiet places and solitude, yes, but more so now, I find it through the rhythm of living life with these people, all in its messiness, vulnerability, laughter, and shared experiences, whether planned or spontaneous.

…

I think about a ring. I think about a covenant. I think about two years gone by and what has been established within it. I often pause in thankfulness to not be doing this alone, but with one the Lord has given me to that walks alongside me from the dawn of the morning to the darkest moments of the night, day in and day out. We draw strength from one another in those moments where one is weak and the other strong. In those moments where we both are weary tired and flesh fail, we reside together and run to Him together in it.

I know the Lord grants strength for whatever He puts before us in whatever stage of life we are in, but I am ever grateful that part of the strength He has granted has come in the form of my beloved as we do this side by side.

And as I think about this ring, I think about the importance of ministering within it. John is the one to whom I must lay my life down for on this earth first and foremost. He needs to be my chief concern and the one I seek to serve and lift up. If I minister within this ring and covenant well, all those who fall outside and around it will be the better for it. The fullness within will permeate the boundaries and radiate outward, but emptiness will allow porous holes and things/people within it that should never reside there.

As I think about this earthly covenant, I am again reminded of the heavenly parallel, the covenant with the Lord. I think about the rainbow that I did not see, but there was testimony and evidence that it existed. It is an everlasting reminder of the covenant God established between himself and all flesh on the earth (Genesis 9). It points to the fullness that we have not been forgotten but always remembered through all time, to the point that He sent his son thousands of years later to die in our place so we would never again perish on this earth or eternity.

I once again remember the love of the Lord and how He knows me best. How He desires more for me that He chooses to show me his love tangibly not through a reminder I am familiar with (a physical rainbow), but rather a more recent covenant of marriage. Even further, a more recent encircling of community, a diverse ring of those I may not have handpicked but God has chosen to be around me. In a year’s time, I am beginning to see the beauty of the completion even in a beginning. The creation of a circle or ring always leads to and is intended for fullness. A rainbow too, is a complete circle rather than a half, but only being at a perspective height mirroring the Lord’s do we see that. That is a humbling fact not lost on me.

Though there has been great comfort and encouragement provided in what the Lord has allowed me to see within these various rings not a rainbow over the last couple weeks, I will still carry the reminder of the rainbow covenant within. The Lord’s faithfulness may not always be seen fully as we only see from our horizon points, but its existence is full and complete in every way.

He, not I

Boston Public Library © Elise Grinstead 2012

 
“What matters supremely, therefore, is not in the last analysis, the fact that I know God, but the larger fact which underlies it—the fact that he knows me. I am graven on the palms of his hands. I am never out of his mind. All my knowledge of him depends on his sustained initiative in knowing me. I know him because he first knew me, and continues to know me. He knows me as a friend, one who loves me, and there is no moment when his eye is off me, or his attention distracted from me, and no moment, therefore, when his care falters. This is momentous knowledge. There is unspeakable comfort—the sort of comfort that energizes, be it said, not enervates—in knowing that God is constantly taking knowledge of me in love and watching over me for my good. There is tremendous relief in knowing that his love to me is utterly realistic, based at every point on prior knowledge of the worst about me, so that no discovery now can disillusion him about me, in the way I am so often disillusioned about myself, and quench his determination to bless me.” –JI Packer

In the first few months of living in NYC, there was a lot of listening. I feel these past few months have been more full of talking/responding. These past few months have been full of looking to abide in the Lord, resting when He allows, praying prompted or not, and moving forward in faith as He calls and leads. If the resounding lesson had to be wrapped up in one statement, it would be “I trust You. There is never any reason to doubt You to be any less than who You are. I know You.”

Yes, I know the Lord, and praise Him that I do. Praise Him that by His grace and strength, I may leave the elementary teachings of the Lord and move on toward maturity (Hebrews 6). Yet, in all the attempts to defy the culture’s manner of seeking to know and gratify the self, still it trickles in.

“I know the Lord.” And, I seek to understand myself better through the Lord’s eyes. It all sounds good—and even right—yet I am missing the deeper point to reach. It should not start with I or me. It should start with Him. My perception is so limited. Why should I start with myself and seek feebly to grow it? Why do I not start with Him who knows me and seek Him first instead? Out of that pursuit, I can trust Him to reveal what He will and what He deems worthy for me to know. I can trust the discernment given by the Holy Spirit in my words, actions, and thoughts. As I seek Him first and abide in Him, it is there full life is found, a fount never running dry. My thoughts and life should start and end with Him as the source.

Too, in my relationships, it should not be about what I think I know of this person or what I assume. It should be about seeking the Lord’s wisdom and revelation of who He sees this person to be. My perception is so limited. Why should I start with myself and seek to understand out of me? Why do I not start with Him who knows others and seek Him for understanding first instead? Out of that pursuit, I can trust Him to reveal what He will about that person and what He deems worthy for me to know. I can trust the discernment given by the Holy Spirit in my words, actions, and thoughts about that person. As I seek Him first and abide in Him, it is there fullness of relationships as they are designed to be are found, driven by the One who knows us both fully. My relationships in my life should start and end with Him as the source.

“Do I turn to what God says or to my own fears? Am I simply repeating what God says, or am I learning to truly hear Him and then to respond after I have heard what He says?” -Oswald Chambers

I pray that I would seek to listen and then respond. It is this stage of growing into maturity that I must grow more consistent in. This relationship with the Lord is not just a recitation back to Him of what I know Him to be. He is unchanging. My faith can always rest secure in Him. I am the sinner. I am the one always changing. This relationship with the Lord is dynamic in that He desires to refine me, shape me, lead me, teach me. If I only speak and not listen, I am a broken record, never moving onto further depth.

Yes, I know the Lord, and praise Him that I do. But now, let me seek to listen, to hear, to be willing to let this concept I have of self be changed according to His measure—whether it be small or great. He knows me. In his book all my days are written, every single one of them (Psalm 139:16). As I seek to truly hear Him, then may my response come after I have heard what He says, not before. If he chooses to be quiet, then too, in His quietness I may trust (Isaiah 30:15).

Within

Harvard Bridge, Boston, MA. Supermoon May 5, 2012 ©EG

Father, I see what You have given
and while thankful I am, still I long to know
this deeper sacrifice, this secret to living
amidst this world that is not to be our home.

Father, again You cast the vision
and while I see, still I long to know
this dream you’ve given, all in Your wisdom
as You say to await the appointed time to go.

Father, again You say to rest in Your presence
and while I know how, I still look around
at what I can be, and of what I can do
instead of heeding Your spirit when it leads me out.

This is the tension between
the here and now and the there and then.
I can be stretched to the brink
unless I lie down and let You win.
It’s not a fight for my life but one
to not give in, to less than what
You have proclaimed and all that lies within.
So while I wait, may I trust
that You know and You mend.
Let me hold on tight to Your might,
Your strength, and Your hand,
and find the peace that resides
when I believe and let You be
my Master
and my Friend.

Nine of Hearts

© Elise Grinstead 2011

I am immersed in a sphere, a world full of words…spoken; written; left unsaid; narratives; statements; of the body; and more. My days are filled with reading of the typeset, the curvature of lips, language natively foreign, visual. My nights—chronicles play of things both said and unsaid, actions done or yet to be. Always, the ticker clack of brain synapses like typewriter keys are active all around me.

I read these voices ever still. The voices of spoken and written words of co-workers, husband, family, friends, community, strangers in this city. Yes, I read these voices ever still. The voices of a relaxed or tight face, a bounce in step or a slumping down, a turning away or a turning towards. I read these voices ever still. The voices of authors famous and unrealized, access easily granted into the lives and minds of others. I see and I hear in greater measure than I have remembered before.

And in spite of these ears that do not hear much, my world is sizzling live. So much so lately, that I am past the point of being coherently aware. All of these distinct hues of words have been mixed together to where they are past recognition of their initial state, and they now muddily display. It’s all just so much. In an effort to make a distinction again, I go to another source of language, a purer hue than what I left behind. That too, eventually gets pushed into the rest into its eventual muddled state, and somehow I am right back where I started while also being further in than I ever have been before.

I have lost the memory of my own voice. A temporary self-amnesia seems to have set in, in which I remember what I see and hear around me, but I do not remember myself. I do not recognize the sound of my words. And in the effort to find it, I try out many, waiting for one to resonate and click and fall into place, as if it were there all along and I did not know it. In the frustration of the search, I instead force what I think others expect to hear and believe me to be while I push my tests into a muddled state.

If you were to tell me my voice is the nine of hearts in a deck of cards, well, they’re flying about in the air around me, a mixture of face-up and down—seemingly no order—and I’m pulling and regarding…it is still yet to be found.

And even then, will that nine of hearts possess the essence of what my voice should be, is meant to be, will be?

See, the irony is that I know you, I see you…your bluffs are not deceptive to me. You hide behind an intricate pattern but your true self lies on the other side. One of fifty-two…unique, but not infinitely sole. Am I that too? Do I read more clearly than I think I come across, even as this voice struggles to find itself?

In the midst of this search, a dear happened to tell me about the time she remembers getting to know me. She pegged me as one “who would speak so freely and with such depth and passion about her relationship with the Lord. It seemed like everything she said always tied back to God. She seemed so sure of who she was.”

It sounds familiar; it does. And the words of Isaiah resound in my head over and over again…”Do you not know? Have you not heard?”

“Do you not know?”

“Have you not heard?”

Resound, may they pound, may they break away at the glass that is this sphere that within I am contained…to set free these other words, these clubs, diamonds and spades…that around me they may settle and those meant to remain may…leaving the hearts face-up until I find that elusive nine of which I am told is mine, my voice given by Him who has all say…

To then, hear, O Israel, the Lord Our God, the Lord is One…this chosen race.

To love the Lord my God with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength…these commandments to be upon this nine of hearts as I talk, as I walk, as I lie down and get up…

These then I shall bind to my mind and tie as symbols to my hands; these I will write on the frames of my house and on my gate…

To hear, to love, to remember, to know, to have heard. And somewhere in that glorious power of this Lord who shatters all containment and glass prisons…

There He holds my voice.


*Scripture from Isaiah 40 and Deuteronomy 6

Have You Not Heard?

© Elise Grinstead 2012

"Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood since the earth was founded?

To whom will you compare me? Or who is my equal?

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one, and calls them each by his name.

Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.

Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom."

 Embrace this: The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are His everlasting arms.

"You, bring in your idols to tell us what is going to happen. Tell us what the former things were so that we may consider them and know their final outcome. Or declare to us the future to come, tell us what the future holds, so we may know that you are gods. Do something, whether good or bad, so that we will be dismayed and filled with fear."

Remember, we know little. You do not have His power to pronounce what was, is, or is to be.

"See, the former things have taken place, and new things I declare; before they spring into being, I announce them to you."

Incline your ears, and hear…

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert, and streams in the wasteland."

Lift up your eyes, and behold…

I am the Lord, Your Holy One, Israel’s Creator, your King.

Isaiah 40:21, 25-26, 28; Deuteronomy 33:27; Isaiah 42:9, 43:18-19, 15
Italicized words added by Elise Grinstead

Expectant Spring

Last week, a late evening, we strolled home under a warm starry night, the city calm in its bustle. We first saw it several yards away, this stirring, this carrying of white petals up and around, to and fro, until it came closer and swept around us completely. Strong in its scent and presence, we could not escape lest we walked through it, and even still the remnants remained. There were petals in hair and on clothes and a somewhat unsettling thought of what this could perhaps mean—it was meant for us in that moment.

This has been a spring unlike many others…an early spring in certain types of expectations. It has been a laboring spring in the tasks before us. Most of all, it has been a full spring in the fullness it has brought and the beauty revealed…constantly reminding us of the necessity to live in this present moment.

Four weeks ago brought the first blooms of those pressing forth from the ground…yellow daffodils and deep purple crocuses. It brought the first wave of very warm weather and this thawing not just of body, but of heart. There is just something about winter for me…it is much easier to fall into fear and doubt, yet spring reminds me that there is life and all things are made new, even as they must push forth from the ground to do so. Four weeks ago brought my best friend to our shores, a reunion after nine months of not seeing one another in person. Those three days were full in all measure: fullness of honesty, of love, of laughter, of community, of memories, of dreams, of hope, of tears, of being fully known. We walked this alive city over bridges, into little pockets, underground, with stairs, and on roofs. On the third day we sat on the rooftop and ate lunch in the warm sun, overlooking the city and water, and in that moment, I was soberly aware of how the fullness of life is through the fullness of God. When fears are confessed, its hold is broken and truth can take root and bloom, bursting forth from the stubborn ground like the crocus in bloom. Blessed it is to do it in the presence of another.

 

 
Three weeks ago brought the first major beginning blooming of trees, the visible hint that this world was going to change, though the anticipation had begun a couple of weeks prior. It brought the first venture out of the city for me since we moved here (with the exception of Colorado at Christmas time), on a women’s retreat with our church. We went to upstate New York on charter buses, late on a Friday evening. When we were almost there, the buses made a wrong turn and therefore, got stuck on narrow lakeside roads with hardly any margin to turn around. Early action because of anticipation is much like that, I imagine—instead of waiting and being sure, our actions leave us mired and further behind than we were to start with. We finally arrived and descended the bus’s steps, and I was overtaken with the fullness of the crisp mountain air smell and its stillness. We loaded our belongings into our cabins and went off to worship at one hour til midnight, bodies weary and minds tired. And there—the fullness of God was found—when we are lost to ourselves and left with only a response. In knowing Him, there is overwhelming gratitude and praise. The next day we awoke to thick fog and utter stillness, perfect time to still ourselves, removed from the always-moving city, with a rememberance to rest. There was conversation plunging deeper into the depths from the height of a deck tower above the lake. The fog burned off early afternoon to reveal a vividly bright blue sky and the further enjoyment of the mountain spring. The evening ended with a million stars above us and a fire we encircled around…to remember that both near and far, His light is with us. 

Two weeks ago brought the beginning of flourishing of the flowering trees…magnolia trees in particular. Rich, strong, and large blooms stood upright from their branches, all united in stature and glory. I walked the garden grounds with my mother, delighting in this seemingly foreign land’s paradise. A gardener herself, she was the perfect companion for such a jaunt. There was stillness and rest in the warm sunshine that day, with eyes to see and cameras to capture and remember. We walked our neighborhood over that weekend and explored this part she had not before seen, this portion of Brooklyn we have called home since December. There were two hard days in there for me, riddled with fear and complexity of emotion. I stubbornly attempted to keep it down in an attempt to fully enjoy our time together, but as the opening of flowers on trees reminded me, there is beauty in the openness of vulnerability, especially with one of whom’s roots I bear. She is my mother, and though our physical days with each other are far between, she has walked this life longer than I and has known me since I was in her womb. I need not be afraid or feel the need to be strong…and this I need take heed of with my Lord also.


Last week upon my mom’s departure, the trees all seemed to begin bursting forth, one after the other, bringing a new fullness of life and many things to see and take in. My responsibilities seemed to explode also, and the hours of work quickly racked up. I was sidelined at home one day with a fever, and it was then I gained vision for what things can be in the future with work…knowing that this season of busyness and bursting forth is likely in preparation for another. In all that I had to do, it was a constant fight to remember to take joy in what and who was around me at the moment, and in the work that I do, to take joy in it also…You can behold life as all joy or you can believe life is all work. Or you can become the joy in all your work. (–Ann Voskamp). 

 
This week, this holy week, has brought an awakening of sorts, a release of some burden and a fight not to take on others. It has brought a reminder that life is constantly evolving and changing, and God governs it all. He knows when to set things in bloom and when to make them fall away, only to bring new life. As we now walk this neighborhood, beginning to brim with its full canopies of green, I remember the starkness of winter and the apparent shelter walls all differentiated from one another, yet connected. We as humans are like this—we build and hide and forget that we are not alone. Yet, these canopies of green bring us out and knit us together once again.

At the end of this holy week, I am left struck with the irony of the process of spring…these uncommonly seen crimson red blooms first in their places only to descend a short time later—scarlet red blood full of life running through our Savior’s veins, only to be surrendered in defeat. Then, the multitude of small, pure white petals bursting forth in clusters and groupings, and even as they fall they still possess life, like the cloud we walked through the other night—the resurrection of Jesus, our sins forgiven, purity brought forth through redemption, given for all, always inviting in deeper still. And now, we are in the life of green, new life given, to be taken in and experienced as we walk these city streets slower—yes, this life, given by the Lord, our days held in His hands…to remember once again we are made new in Him.

And by His blood, His redemption, we walk these canopies of life together, knit in the power of his life, death, and resurrection, shown so beautifully in a New York Spring.

Mosaic Altar

Pikes Peak, Colorado. August 2010. ©Elise Grinstead

Gather the stones…gather those that have already been given, those coming, and those to come. Know that each bears its own identity, entity, and memory…

Gather the stones of prayers cast long ago and recently…of prayer in the beginning of marriage, for two to be bound together as One. Remember the prayer for the leading into the next place of dwelling, a city seemingly impossible to reach. Remember the prayer for provision in the practical and intangible ways of getting and being there…jobs, finances, community, housing, adjustment, and more. Remember the stones of prayers given for others…for relief, relationship, and restoration. And remember the stones that do not blend in like many of your prayers, but those that stand out as gems—the ones strikingly noticeable because they bear faith in their bold asking. These are ones of specific note, jewels from the times when you fully trust Me to be who I am.

Gather the stones of blessings given and received long ago and recently…blessing of a sister friendship sustained and thriving over the distance. Blessing of a new community of diverse individuals bound together by the Spirit. Blessing of a life built and established in a new place. Blessing of a marriage and partnership. Blessings of continued provision. Blessing of visitors from near and far. Blessing of the Body of Christ living out as it ought; yet seeking to grow. Remember the stones that do not blend in like many of your blessings, but those that stand out as gems—the ones strikingly noticeable because they spoke to your heart deeper than the others. These are ones of specific note, jewels from the times when you can fully see that I love You more than any other will.

Gather the stones of dreams created near and far. The dream of written words sung; written words read and influencing. The dreams of a career three years in the making now coming to a tipping point. The dreams of creating and contributing. The dreams of expanding our family. The dreams of serving sacrificially in a significant way. The dreams of healing and restoration in that which cannot hear. Remember the stones that do not blend in like many of your dreams, but those that stand out as gems—the ones strikingly noticeable because they are the hardest to hope for. These are ones of specific note, jewels because they require all of Me to be in it.

Gather the stones together; they cannot be separated from the whole. Gather these stones; they are not meant to be carried on your own. Gather them and keep bringing them, all together as they form as one.

May they make up an altar in which you give all to Me. And, in that altar, may you see the beauty of the stones, a mosaic creation that only a surrendered life can bring.

Place in Order

Lily ponds, Brooklyn Botanical Garden © Elise Grinstead 2011

Place in order
this love, this affection of
self—
and selfish things.
Place it upon the shelf,
high out of reach, out of
sight—
and visible means.

To now relinquish
this control, this possession of
life—
and slippery rings.
To now submit outward
beyond feeble hands, a deceptive
heart—
and conflicting feelings.

To surrender brings
bestowal of grace, endless reserve of
mercy—
and a humbling.
To surrender means
to deny self, turn away and
embrace—
the Holy Being.

Cylinders

All rights reserved by ►CubaGallery

The two were there on the subway bench—just like countless others who had sat in their place before. Yet, they were different. They carried awestruck joy in their disposition as a private moment was shared in a very public place. A roll of paper emerged from her bag, possessing five black and white images in a sequence, all a little blurry while still identifiable as to what they were. He took her hand and traced her fingernails, one by one, as they traded glances between each other and these images self-evident of the new life that is to come. It was all optimism, all wonder, all joy, all pure hope on display. As they descended the subway car, he took her carefully with his arm on her back, guarding her with his life—the one who carries the shared life they will be bringing forth in months’ time.

...


As the morning’s steps are traced once again, the path of ten minutes by, there are innocent babes bundled up and ported on wheels. Slightly older young blokes and misses propel themselves to their destination with a push off one foot and a gliding platform holding the other, all with their watchful caretaker following closely behind. There is one in particular—dare I call her self’s favorite—that tries to defy her previous high of reached speed every morning. She hurls down the sidewalk, leaving her mother exasperatingly far behind her, but her mother seems to bear consolation in that her little one is fearless. Still, there are others more cautious, like the little lad who needed his mother to hold his hand down every step in the passage to the subway, all while bearing a Toy Story helmet with Buzz Lightyear on it—presumably one of his favorite idols of whom he wishes he could be like, but is not there yet. By those charged with care, there is such patience on display even if a straining reach is what achieves it.

...

Almost everyday, his hope seems to parallel that which is in the crate set upon the corner bearing his possessions…tattered, scattered, bearing little substance beyond the scraps of the meal begged for the day before and the cardboard sign on which his life is laid bare with just a few words. Some days, he stands, hunched over in the path of those who pass through, hoping that he will be noticed and seen. Other days, there is resignation to simply sit and be ignored. Is he not too a son? Or maybe even a father? With an aching heart, this self wonders if there are others who see him, and most of the days, the heart continues to ache. Yet then, that one morning as self’s steps led up to his corner, a man of dignity in the world’s eyes met the one without for a moment and gave an offering to provide for his needs, all while the eyes locked and a shake of hands was shared. Strikingly evident, this man of dignity in the world was also one of dignity of heart.

...

A pane of glass set in brick and mortar tucked away in the intimacy of self’s street—today the shades descended, revealing three generations behind. A dinner table up to the window ledge, set with the bodies of young boys eagerly peering with wondrous eyes at the sights passing ever by. A mother and grandmother observed and watched while conversing themselves, only to detract the boys’ attention for a moment in order that all could burst forth with a peal of laughter, one that comes from the gut and a lightness of heart. A simplicity in youth, wisdom, and old age, all intertwined for those few moments that remind us that we are not so far apart as we think we are.

...

For once, the heavy sights recede a while…for now, there are no crashing waves of a slap across a child’s face, a cursing mouth of a parent, an ignored cry of plea by a helpless one, a continued neglect of the displaced—known one made invisible—on the same corner everyday. For today, the bubbles of isolation make contact with another, causing them to shatter and be now exposed. To this, we remember…we all rise and fall together; we are gathered mist that will return again to its own ring, only to be set forth once again to become cylindrical and rise with a blow of air.

Measured Recklessness

Statue at Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, 2011 ©EG

You are stronger and more fragile than you ever mean to be.

In a given moment, you may be blissfully aware of your strengths, painfully aware of your weaknesses, or ignorant to one or the other or even both.

So often you live your life as your own. It is easy to do this when triumphs, blessings, and growth roll your way. Invigorating. Exciting. Blissful.

Yet, in the next moment, it all can change—circumstances conspire that creep up slowly or fall heavily as if the weight of the world were suddenly dropped. It is then you remember there are so many things out of your control. Change. Sickness. Loss. Death. Visible signs that this world is not yet fully redeemed. And then, it creates times when you wonder if it ever will be. Painful. Humbling. Sobering. And there are other times when it's incredibly convicting that you are not who you wish to be. Despite all your best actions and intentions, still you fail, still you fall short, time and time again. You are left wallowing, discouraged.

And you wonder, does anyone know?

Does anyone know exactly what you feel, what you are going through, what you are thinking? You have those moments of encouragement, when it seems someone is able to empathize, right? But the other times in between seem to be filled with words being spoken to you, noise in the situation in which you find yourself in…

Empty words.
Idle words.
Repetitive words.
Trite words.
Hurtful words.
Or a complete lack of words.

It sometimes seems to drive the point further home that you might have to try to figure this out alone. Yet, alone? Relief and dread come instantaneously. If then, there is no one, then there must be someone? At least One who knows, who hears, who understands, in a sea full of others who don't.

But where can He be found?

...

I look around...no one yet. I wander to find...nothing yet.

I listen to hear...hear...and I hear...

"Incline your ear, and come to me;
hear, that your soul may live;
and I will make with you an everlasting covenant..."

That my soul shall live? An everlasting covenant, made with me? By whom?

"Oh, seek me, I the Lord, while I may be found;
call upon me while you are near;
Forsake your wicked ways and unrighteous thoughts. 
Return to me, and I will have compassion on you,
and I will abundantly pardon." 

There is One near, full of compassion and forgiveness? Oh, the thought of this...I am moved to consider...

"My thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways.
As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts."

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven
and do not return there but water the earth,
making it bring forth and sprout,
giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,
so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.


Do you believe that I sent this word for you?


I desire you to know Me, to believe that I wish you go out in my joy
and be led forth in my peace.

That when it seems that no one knows or understands, you can trust that I do. 

That when it seems the load is too heavy and the burden too great, I can carry it.

That when it seems you are a lost face in the crowd, you see that I see you. 

That in the times of despair and loneliness, I will cradle you.

That in the times You are wrong and fall short, I will give you discipline, yet with grace.

That in the times of great trial and strife, I will stand with you and fight for you.

That in the times of your joy of greatest measure, I will rejoice with you.

I know your heart, my dear one. I know you, and I will always hold you. 



So how then, shall you live?

Trust Me recklessly. 

Excerpts from Isaiah 55 throughout

Abide

At our church in NYC, we are going through the signs of Jesus in the Gospel of John. This week, we are going through the miracle of Lazarus being raised from the dead. In our community group, we were asked this question: "Martha has two interactions with Jesus where Jesus asks specifically if she believes Him to be the Christ not only as Savior for eternity, but for the here and now. Have there been times when circumstances have prevented you from believing in Christ for the here and now?" Some thoughts and reflections have come in the days since.

Living for the here and now asks us to reside in uncertainty of circumstances while abiding in the certainty of Jesus Christ.

We try to hold the realities of uncertainty at an arm’s length. We avoid the questions that ask us for answers we do not have. We avoid placing ourselves in situations where we do not know what to do. Simply put—we avoid situations where we do not feel we have a firm sense of control. This may work to an extent, but in full measure, it always fails.

For who here, on this earth, knows all there is and is to come? For who here never resides in a moment of uncertainty? There is no one—except the One who walked this earth long ago, fully God and fully man, and through His resurrection, we know He lives on and He knows.

This brings the necessity of abiding in the certainty of Christ. As surely as the resurrection happened and reminds us that Jesus lives on through the promise of the Holy Spirit, so we must choose to abide in the certainty only a choice of faith can bring.

Yet, there is a tension in residing and abiding. We are asked to embrace an uncertainty visible to us while placing our faith in a certainty that is not visible in the same way. And, it further asks us to embrace change in our circumstances that may never be forseen with our own eyes, and with it, to trust that God is sovereign and good with or despite it. We do not know His thoughts, His plans, and His ways. But, we can trust in what He has chosen to declare and make known, and walk with Him daily on the path where He may give further revelation in time.

Through Him is the path to righteousness. Through Him is abundant grace. Through Him is the promise of new life, not just upon the death of our earthly bodies or upon His second coming, but in the here and now.

The other day I went to an art exhibit that displayed Eastern Mediterranean relics from during the transition to Christianity in the 3rd to 7th century AD. There were many beautiful and incredible pieces…from large mosaics, ivory carvings, full head sculptures, coinage, and more. Yet there was a piece that stood out to me more than any other, as I walked by it.

An altar.

An altar from a 3rd century church, where the Eucharist was given upon. Body and blood, bread and wine. A reminder of the transformation of fully man and fully God connecting us through the death of His flesh those who were separated from Him. This was used over 1800 years ago, and it exists today. A beautiful symbol of the steadfastness that remains in this faith, this faith centered around this person, this death, this sacrifice.

This resurrection.

For to find our life, we must lose it, to find it once again and always, in Him. And part of losing our life means having the willingness to embrace uncertainty while embracing His certainty. It means not holding things and circumstances uncomfortable at an arm’s length, but rather living in the tension of residing and abiding.

He is Jesus Christ, the son of God. He is the One who came into the world. He is the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Him, though you die, you shall live. Do you believe this? (John 11:25-27).

If so, it is profoundly simple.

Abide. 

"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. 

These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. John 15:1-11