Tiananmen, Tiananmen, Tiananmen...

The images are burned on my eyes now- I see them constantly- sleeping and waking- the faces of those people on the square- wide eyed, pathetically innocent enthusiasm- grim determination- anger- hope and hopelessness. Thousands of Chinese faces, Chinese voices, crying out for progress- for freedom- for impossible things.
I guess I’m a sucker for lost causes and dead heroes. Maybe with China burning in my blood like a fever, it’s inevitable that Tiananmen should shatter my world.
But I’m trying to organize my thoughts, because I think it’s more than that- and I think that whatever’s tearing me into pieces right now has universal elements that you all should consider.
Tiananmen, Tiananmen, Tiananmen. The movement on the square two decades ago was more than a revolution. It transcends the political realm, though the millions involved may never have known it. It was a symbol of human striving towards… something- of that wild bird impulse which can bear, and bear- and then, suddenly is free, standing in defiance of tanks and trucks and automatic weapons, unable to back down- weeping, terrified, furious, but beyond retreat.
And yet, if revolutions are the goal- if an overthrow of power- or even new liberties are all that’s accomplished, this eternal hope can only end in eternal hopelessness.
Movements end. Revolutions are crushed. The saviors of the people today are their oppressors tomorrow. Nations rise and fall and are forgotten. The dead at Tiananmen are just that- dead. One man stood unarmed on a Beijing street, blocking the progress of a line of tanks, and yet, the man is gone, and the tanks rolled onward. To be an icon may be wonderful, but when beautiful emotions and symbolic status accomplish none of what you gave yourself for, then surely, nothing could be emptier.
So when I weep for Tiananmen, I am not grieving for a movement. I am weeping for millions of people who reached out for something- something- and who were flung bleeding back into their prison. I am weeping because I know they could never have satisfied their longings by overthrowing Deng’s government, by gaining the liberty they demanded, or by grabbing the attention of the world. I am weeping because true freedom- freedom which cannot be suppressed, whose voice cannot be stopped with bullets, whose hope cannot be destroyed- is found in one man only. Jesus Christ.
And when I am moved to tears by this- by the pointless suffering of millions in the nation that has all of my heart- by the crushing of the people who are bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, life of my life, it is not only because they are pouring themselves out at all the wrong altars- because they are giving their lives to dead idols and screaming their petitions into silence- it is because THEY DO NOT KNOW! They are living in a cave with no view of, any whisper of the sky. Oh, I know Romans One. They have the clues to God’s existence before them. But God is adamant that, although this leaves them no excuse, this is not the way in which they will learn to know Christ.
How will they hear? Us. His body. His ambassadors. We are to be the image of, the action of His love. Certainly He would want to include the most populous nation on earth in that mandate!
So I ask myself the question: ‘What am I doing for China?’ and the answer is unsatisfactory. I can’t go yet, though the longing is terribly strong just now. I have access to a limited pool of Chinese students and professors here, and yet, I can PRAY. I can fast. I can petition. I can refuse to be silent about the sufferings of these people. I am not giving nearly enough time to doing so now- but with His help, I hope to change. Will you do the same?
The facts of Tiananmen cannot be erased. One generation silenced. Another woefully deceived. In the United States, our generation is ignorant, passive, and often indifferent. Millions of Chinese victims, both in history and today deserve recognition and support, so I am determined now to educate myself as much as I can, and to be a voice for China here. Will you dare to be informed? Will you dare to speak out? It matters- it really does.
And more than anything, will you go? If not to China, then to the Chinese in America! If you don’t know any, find them. Start studying Chinese. Make contacts in the expatriate community. Those of us attending secular universities, especially, have tremendous responsibility! God has brought the world to us. If we aren’t living and sharing the Good News here, I doubt we’ll be much use anywhere else.
If China is such a tearing pain for those of us who love her, imagine how God, who created these precious billions, who paid their ransom in His own blood, must yearn over them! Dare to share God’s heart for China! Dare to give yourself for China! Thousands are dead- imprisoned- destroyed because of Tiananmen. The taste it leaves in my mouth is grief. Hopelessness. Finality. But a new generation is coming of age, and a new hope may arise if we are faithful.
Are you willing to bring the revolution of Life? The Truth that can NOT be silenced? The Light that cannot be quenched in the darkness of a prison camp or the smoke and chaos of a massacre? The Life that will never be reduced to a twisted young body tangled in its bicycle, bleeding the blood of a nation?
If you are not, who will? If I am not, who will? If we, the slaves of Christ, do not proclaim Christ, who will? The people rise up, and fall down, and gunshots rattle near the ‘Gate of Heavenly Peace’, but we who carry the peace of Heaven in our hearts are silent.
This must change.
This MUST change!

Fragrance of 'The White Rose'

"The real damage is done by those millions who want to 'survive.' The honest men who just want to be left in peace. Those who don’t want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes. Those who won’t take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. Those who don’t like to make waves—or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honour, truth, and principles are only literature. Those who live small, mate small, die small. It’s the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you’ll keep it under control. If you don’t make any noise, the bogeyman won’t find you. But it’s all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn."
— Sophie Scholl


"I know that life is a doorway to eternity, and yet my heart so often gets lost in petty anxieties. It forgets the great way home that lies before it."
— Sophie Scholl

"I will cling to the rope God has thrown me in Jesus Christ, even when my numb hands can no longer feel it."
— Sophie Scholl

How can we expect fate to let a righteous cause prevail when there is hardly anyone who will give himself up undividedly to a righteous cause?"
— Sophie Scholl

"Isn't it a riddle . . . and awe-inspiring, that everything is so beautiful? Despite the horror. Lately I've noticed something grand and mysterious peering through my sheer joy in all that is beautiful, a sense of its creator . . . Only man can be truly ugly, because he has the free will to estrange himself from this song of praise.
It often seems that he'll manage to drown out this hymn with his cannon thunder, curses and blasphemy. But during this past spring it has dawned upon me that he won't be able to do this. And so I want to try and throw myself on the side of the victor."
— Sophie Scholl


"Many people think of our times as being the last before the end of the world. The evidence of horror all around us makes this seem possible. But isn't that an idea of only minor importance? Doesn't every human being, no matter which era he lives in, always have to reckon with being accountable to God at any moment? Can I know whether I'll be alive tomorrow morning? A bomb could destroy all of us tonight. And then my guilt would not be one bit less than if I perished together with the arth and the stars."
— Sophie Scholl

"Just as I can't see a clear brook without at least stopping to dangle my feet in it, I can't see a meadow in May and simply pass by. There is nothing more seductive then such fragrant earth, the blossoms of clover swaying above it like a light foam, and the petal-bedecked branches of the fruit trees reaching upward, as if they wanted to rescue themselves from this tranquil sea. No, I have to turn from my path and immerse myself in this richness . . .
When I turn my head, my cheek grazes the rough trunk of the apple tree next to me. How protectively it spreads its good branches over me. Without ceasing the sap rises from its roots, nuturing even the smallest of leaves. Do I hear, perhaps, a secret heartbeat? I press my face against its dark, warm bark and think to myself: homeland, and am so indescribably happy in this instant."
— Sophie Scholl

"It was a sunny day, I was carrying a child in a white dress to be christened. The path to the church led up a steep slope, but I held the child in my arms firmly and without faltering. Then suddenly my footing gave way ... I had enough time to put the child down before plunging into the abyss. The child is our idea. In spite of all obstacles it will prevail."
— Sophie Scholl

"Who would have thought it possible that a tiny little flower could preoccupy a person so completely that there simply wasn't room for any other thought...." ~
-Sophie Scholl

"The sun still shines." "God is my refuge into eternity."
-Sophie Scholl (these statements are both reported as her last words before her execution on February 22, 1943

The quotes above are a sample of the writings of Sophie Scholl (one of my biggest heroes), a young college student (having formerly been a member of the Hitler Youth) who was murdered at the age of 21, along with her elder brother, for their role in the German resistance organization known as 'The White Rose':

The Ashes of Our Idols

I thought about Exodus 32:20 a lot this summer. Assumptions, friendships that I'd centered myself on collapsed, and when it seemed like all my ideals were in powder at my feet- were a choking taste in my mouth- I couldn't help but be reminded of the Israelites' experience.

Picture it- sunrise in the desert. Cold sand rolling beneath your feet. Perhaps a carpet of grey mist lurking at the base of the towering, rugged peak of Mt. Sinai. Rocky outcroppings lit to gold as the sun looms on the horizon. Scarlet streaks burning across the lightening sky. Behind a newly built altar, the crude figure of a calf, molded of fine, heavy gold, glints in the icy morning light. People threading their paths like spectres through the rocks. The bellowing of terrified livestock. The sick-sweet smell of blood as the ritual sacrifices are performed. And then, the smoke of thousands of cooking fires rising across the camp as the day of feasting begins. It says in verse six:

"...the people rose early and sacrificed burnt offerings and presented fellowship offerings. Afterward they sat down to eat and drink and got up to indulge in revelry."

Hundreds of drums thump and echo among the rocks. Long wailing notes are blown. A shower of music jangles from tambourines. Bare brown feet dance rythmically, pounding the sparsely planted earth. Laughter rings out from swaying leathern tents. Children chase each other gleefully in the open spaces. Eager, loud, excited masses mill about.

Moses struck this holiday crowd like a tornado.

Exodus 32:19-20
"When Moses approached the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, his anger burned and he threw the tablets out of his hands, breaking them to pieces at the foot of the mountain. And he took the calf they had made and burned it in the fire; then he ground it to powder, scattered it on the water, and made the Israelites drink it."

Sooner or later we always 'drink' the consequences of our sin. Israel tasted the bitterness of idolatry right down to the last of its very literally bitter dregs.

I wrote the following poem this summer, intended to be from the perspective of a young Israelite woman in Moses' camp:

They poured the shimmering stream into the mold
I watched, in nervous awe
To see in that bright rush of molten gold
The dimming of the Law-
The flash of seeming power-
In that hot brilliance, pleasure taking shape;
The form of my desire.

I watch the fire
Flare up and die, recalling how he came
A thunderclap from God, a storm of rage
And sick disgust- the crash of broken stone
That shattered my hard heart- his words of scorn-
A flicking lash which all at once laid bare
My vain pretensions, and my childish fears.
I still can taste
That terrible, glittering draught of molten shame;
It mocked me with its gleam
Oh God, my God!
The ashes of my idol are bitter in my mouth.

Asleep in the Light

This was written by John Zumwalt, a Taiwanese missionary who is now a church planter in Oklahoma and the director of Beautiful Feet Boot Camp. You may not agree with everything he says here, but I found this article very thought-provoking and convicting:

"Watch out for little boys named Samuel. Little Samuel had his hand raised, and he was poised to answer the question. My wife, Jamie, and I were in Sheridan, Wyoming for a weekend of meetings. One was a local Christian school's morning chapel service. As we talked to the kids about Taiwan, I watched Samuel's eyes light up with what I thought was normal excitement about the exotic and far away places, but now I think that there was something more.

As we explained the daily fear that the Taiwanese experience from "ghosts" and evil spirits, the children began to understand the Taiwanese people's need for Jesus. I talked about the idols that were made of stone and wood which sat in the temples never moving, and how the priests would beat on drums or bang on gongs to awaken their god. I then asked the children, "Do we have to wake up our God?" "NOOOO!" the children yelled back (Ps.121).But Samuel had his hand held high . . .

Quietly he said, "No, we don't have to wake Him, but sometimes He has to wake us." Suddenly it wasn't Samuel, the boy, talking to me, but God speaking through Samuel, the prophet.
Prophets come in different shapes and sizes, and different levels of obedience. Take Jonah for example. He heard God's command to go to Nineveh, and yet he ran . . . as though there was some place to run. Who can flee from the presence of God? As the story unfolds, he tries to hide in a ship going the wrong way, and God sends a mighty storm. The waves were towering and crashing upon the ship enough to alarm this sea-hardened crew. In sheer terror, they began to make offerings and sacrifices to their gods, begging for mercy and protection. As the storm raged, they grabbed all the merchandise that they were hauling, all that was to be their source of profit, and cast it overboard trying to help the ship stay afloat. Still death was imminent. All this while the prophet of God, the one who knew the Maker of the land and the sea, the wind and the waves, slept unconcerned in the hull below.
Have you seen the planet lately? I have. I've watched as people smash spiked balls into their faces and slice their backs open with swords, all in honor of their idol. I know of children's summer camps to which parents send their kids just for the purpose of becoming demon possessed, so they can then return back home with profit potential through healing, fortune telling or demon exorcisms. I've read of cyclones smashing into Bangladesh killing hundreds of thousands in one blow. I hear of entire ethnic groups wiped out because of hatred and others starved to the brink of extinction. All of the world's peoples are caught in the giant storm of life. It inevitably signals their death. In sheer terror, they rush to worship whatever deity they have, sacrificing and begging for survival. All of their cries go unheard and unheeded, so in greater desperation they throw everything they own and care about to their false gods, and still the storm rages unabated, destroying young and old alike. And those who know nothing about Jesus, those who have never even had the opportunity to hear of Him, die; fifty-five thousand of them every day fall into eternity without Jesus.


Jonah was asleep in the hull. The captain came down and roared, "Is now the time to sleep?" Our Captain is calling to the Church today in no uncertain terms, "IS NOW THE TIME TO SLEEP? I gave you the commission to go, yet you run, covering your ears with petty concerns and little ambitions for your own well being. You get into a vessel of your own choosing for a destination of selfishness. But I gave everything, left security and My comforts that you might have life. Why then do you, who call yourselves by My Name, refuse to rescue the perishing? Why do so many Christians honor Me with their lips, but refuse to imitate Me with their lives? With half the world knowing nothing about Me, is now the time to sleep?"
Some years ago a minister was traveling in a car; his wife and a young son, a boy eight years old, were with him in the front seat. They were traveling through hilly country, and the road was wet. A car going in the same direction passed them at a terrific rate of speed. As they came over a hill, they saw the car again, just as the young man driving it lost control, and it turned across the highway. Coming from the other direction was another car, also traveling at a high speed, and it crashed into the first one. In a moment the highway was littered with debris and with the torn, broken bodies of the occupants of both cars.
The little boy saw the catastrophe. He became pale as a sheet. He did not speak a word the rest of the way. In fact, none of them did. They had nothing to say.
When they arrived at their destination, the parents were disturbed at their son's nervousness. They put him to bed. Ten o'clock came; then eleven; then twelve; then after twelve-and still the boy remained awake.

His father sat beside him, trying to calm him, and said, "Sweet-heart, won't you try to sleep?"

Suddenly the little fellow's emotions overcame him. He burst into tears and said, "Daddy, when people die, can we sleep?"

It seems we can. Like Jonah we seem to sleep without regard to the terror the unreached peoples face. Because we are in our eternal security, we have nary a thought as to their predicament. We sing Sunday after Sunday about the great salvation that is ours and only occasionally, and begrudgingly at that, give a week over to "them" and their concerns. Keith Green, who passed away in 1982, said it best, "He rose from the grave! And you can't even get out of bed."



One day, while I was not sleeping, I had a dream. Some would call it a vision. I was standing on cracked and dry earth that stretched out before me like a giant plain. The sun beat hotly on me as I surveyed the three figures in front of me. You have seen them before: three starving boys. Victims of a famine. Crouched weakly on the ground, all three were in desperate need of life-giving sustenance. The reddish hair, the protruding belly, (all tell-tale signs of malnutrition) struck an eerie contrast to the skeleton-like bodies, too weak to lift a hand and chase away the flies that crawled about them.
Each of the three boys had a plate. On the first boy's plate was an unbelievable sight. It was piled high with food. Roasted chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, carrots, peas, bread and more. So much food was on this first boy's plate that some of it had spilled off and was now on the ground around the plate. It was literally full and overflowing. The mystery was that although he had plenty of food to survive and regain health, the boy was still starving. It looked to me as though he had not eaten anything, though if he wanted to, he clearly could.
On the second boy's plate was a healthy serving of food. It wasn't a pile like the first, but enough to sustain the boy and provide his body with all the much needed proteins, vitamins and nutrients. But just like the first boy, the second boy wasn't eating. There it was: everything they needed for life! Yet, they would not. Instead, they sat there getting worse with each passing moment. It was then that I noticed the last boy.
I don't know why I didn't look to him sooner, but he was the last boy on which I fixed my attention. This third boy was dying, even as the first two were. He also had a plate before him, but there was no food on it. There wasn't even a crumb. It was empty. I looked at that precious third child and knew that he didn't even have a chance at food. His dark eyes looked back at me and still do.

I suddenly knew that I was not alone in this vision. Jesus was guiding me through it. He stood behind me and gently touched my arms as He spoke, "Who will you feed?" I looked down at my hands, and in them I had food ... not a pile ... only enough to give to one of the boys. All three were starving, but the first two had an option. They could choose to eat. The third boy had no option. As it stood right then, he would starve to death without ever having a chance at food. My decision was obvious. My food would go to the third plate.
The third plate. I think that most of us look at it last or give it last place on our priority list. I know of many well-intentioned churches and individuals who will talk about it, but they never practically get around to seeing any food getting to the third plate. Somehow it all ends up in the first or at best the second plate.
Am I talking a mystery to you? Let me speak clearly. I quote Oswald Smith, the founder of Faith Promise, when I say, "What right do we have to preach the Gospel to anyone twice, while there are those who have yet to hear it once?" How can we continue to turn a deaf ear to the cries of those who are looking into a night with no dawn, a future without hope, an eternity without Jesus. Dear friends, Jesus always places us between Himself and the multitudes. His command is still the same, "You feed them." "

(This article is an adaptation of a sermon by John W. Zumwalt.)

Waiting for the Lilies

"The girl looked round her ravaged garden, seeing only the torn soil, and gaping hole where her Rose had bloomed, and feeling the fearsome smart of her gashed hands.
"I am not sorry", she said- but wept.
That night, her head throbbed with a leaden ache, and the tears came even in her sleep. She seemed to wander through a terrible maze of dreams, and always awoke grief-stricken, and with a keen sense of loss. It was as though she had held the world in her hand, and watched it trickle through her fingers and out of reach over, and over again.
And yet, the morning dawned at last, and she awoke to find a delicious perfume wafting through the garden in an almost tangible cloud. She sat up and looked round- and there, at her feet, and all throughout the garden, were springing up tall, graceful lilies of burning white, with starry glowings of gold in their slender throats, and a sweet, spicy fragrance breathing from every flower. There was an irresistible sense of GROWING in the air- she almost expected to find herself shooting upward as rapidly as the lilies. A strange, joyous melody began to play through her head (which did not ache now at all!)- and then words came, until at last, the song went like this:

'Awake, awake, O Northern wind,
And come, O Southern breeze!
Blow now upon my garden- send
To Him that holds its keys,

My garden's fragrance, spread abroad,
So that He will make haste-
My garden's gate's unbarred for Him-
Its choice fruits He must taste!'

Within an hour, the lilies had blanketed every bare space in her garden- all but the crater which had been the Rose's bed. This lay as darkly as ever amid the white sea of flowers. But she thought of the terrible scars in the Master Gardener's hands, and so, was content to have it left so, a 'wound' upon her garden- blooming there like a crushed and broken blossom from the sunless land of grief and thwarted hopes.
And so things remain.'"

I wrote these words several months ago in my entry 'The Gardener and His Servant'.
It has been a long while, and there are still days when I feel like nothing will ever grow in the 'garden' of my life again. The lilies bloom for elusive moments here and there, and are gone, leaving the torn and gaping soil desolate. It seems, some days, that I have been waiting all my life for lilies. Will the lilies ever take root and stay?

Today, Autumn rushed across the campus in a blast of cold wind. No 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness' was this afternoon, but something wild, and sad, and fiercely elemental. I suppose it captured my imagination because, just now, I feel much more attuned to Autumn than to any other season. Not the burgeoning, tingling hope of Spring, the lazy happiness of summer, nor yet the bleak despair of winter, but wistful, vibrant, half-regretful Autumn, savoring its memories with cool-misted wonder, and packing them away for eternity between golden leaves.
I walked out to the 'Secret Garden', an old homestead near the campus. All the trees were tossing their heads in preparation for a storm. Yellow walnut leaves swirled across the gray, racing-clouded sky and over the wet fields and wet gray road like snow in a snowglobe. When I reached the homestead, I stepped through dark blue, rain-drenched cedars, across the silver-pearled grass to the gnarled pear trees.
The best pears in the world grow here- tart and electrifyingly intense, spurting juice in your mouth like nectar. And they taste so much better when you look up and see them hanging in clusters, gold and brown speckled glopes framed in shining green leaves, and reach up through the wet branches to pick them, with cold raindrops shaking down onto your face.
As I stood in the drenched grass, munching my pear, I began to turn this thought over in my mind: 'Fruit trees bear their fruit in season.' I know that's kind of a 'duh', right? But it's so true! This Spring I reveled in those same trees with their fluttering wedding-cake profusion of pink and white blossoms. That was the season for budding, for flowering and pollination. I watched them, cloaked modestly in green, looking like 'ordinary' trees during the summer, while the tiny pearlets swelled and slowly began to ripen. I have stood beside their shivering, naked silhouettes in sober desolation during the cold months. All of these phases are necessary and good to the pear tree. Why should I rebel against the 'seasons' in my life?
Maybe this is not the blossom time for me. Maybe the fragrant, lily-brimming moments seem few and far between. Every garden needs its Winters as well as Springs. Flowers are not the goal- fruit is. God promises in Galatians that 'at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.' Therefore 'let us not become weary in doing good'. Let us not break our hearts for dead roses or elusive lilies. I am not intended to spend the energies of my heart in waiting for the lilies, but rather to spend my life in eagerly expecting my Savior, loving Him with heart, soul, mind and strength! I am shaken and humbled by the power of that truth.
The God who conquered death and shattered the power of the grave- who paints breathtaking landscapes and wrenches me to tears with the beauty of His skies loved you and I even before the foundation of the world! In Him I am a new creation, a lovingly designed Eden flourishing again beneath His skilled and tender hands. I accept the plans of my wise Gardener. 'Now the Lord God had planted a garden...' (Genesis 2:8). Who am I to doubt that His garden will bring forth its fruit in the proper season?

John 15:1-4, 16
'I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you....' 'You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit- fruit that will last....'

That promise is a 'lily' that will not slip between my fingers. And when He comes, then, oh THEN what a riot of flowers there will be!

The Currents Of His Grace

It was far past midnight. We stood, speaking with quiet, nearly hysterical intensity in the lighted doorway, Mrs. Sims, barefoot and in her night gown, short white hair rumpled about her drawn, tired face, and I, sunburned and pajamaed, exhausted from a day of teaching clubs. The conversation began with an offhand question, and suddenly became a bewildering torrent of only half realized ideas and concerns. The whole summer- no the past two summers seemed to have been building up to this point, to the things being said in this still room, in that sleeping house.

The phrase kept cropping up between us: "We just aren't REACHING them!"
The 'them' referred to was the kids we had been ministering to. The 'we' was CEF, and more specifically our 5 Day Club team for that week.
We talked for several hours that night. We continued to talk and pray over the next few weeks, as we kept on encountering situations that confirmed our convictions.

I won't try to write here about the happenings that precipitated this late night/early morning conference. I probably will never write about some of it, because, well, some things are very, very complicated. But to put it in a nutshell, we felt (and I am convinced that we are right) that many parts of the way we minister with CEF are unrealistic and ineffective- that change is imperative, and that the means for the beginnings of change are in our hands. We felt that we were seeing very little fruit in our ministry to the children, and that (I can only speak for myself here) it could largely be traced to an arrogant or lazy habit of prayerlessnes. I don't mean not praying at all, I mean praying half-heartedly, as a last-minute formality. Seeing the presence, and consequences of that sin in myself was heart-breaking. We also were concerned by the rigidity of the 5-day club material, and the fact that it was leaving devestating gaps in the understanding many Biblically illiterate (and sometimes wholly illiterate) children were piecing together of God. But we also realized, with a dawning wonder, that what we saw of the situation was not the whole, or even a fraction. Spiritual forces were at work in us, and in the hundreds of children contacted this summer, of which we are utterly unaware. We are terribly blind to God's working, to the wonders He performed beneath the deceptive surface of Appearance. Reality was progressing on a plane almost wholly out of our reach- a plane whose height and majesty we could never have dreamed of but for His mercy and graciousness.
I visualize it as a river, or perhaps a sea. When you stand within sight of a river, you can see its surface glimmering- perhaps guess at some of its currents by watching seams and whorls catch the light, but you really can't guess at all that's happening beneath its surface. Even by jumping in and attempting to swim it, you would only encounter a few of the currents and obstructions in a wild rush of sensation. You would have no clear idea of the whole, of all the hidden things in the water. Life is like that, and I clung to the image while I was teaching.

I also wrote this, after that late night discussion with Mrs. Sims:

'We are but tiny ripples on the surface of the sea. We appear a moment and vanish again in the eddying water. But beneath us are stirring great and mighty currents whose force we cannot fathom, and whose depth and power are beyond our farthest imaginings. We look about us at a physical world where spiritual pictures are barely traceable, and beyond the reach of our own nature. Our blurred sight, and prisoned brains strain toward the concept of majesty which is indescribable and inconceivable. On occasion we feel, oh so faintly, the power of the Spirit of God at work in us- but we cannot see it, touch it, or hear it. It is merely (gloriously!) an almost subconscious sensation, crashing in upon the dull little boundaries of our physical existence. It is a thing we can neither explain, nor create (in ourselves or others)
It is even more rarely that we are allowed to glimpse the action of God in someone else. And yet- and yet- when my own life seems as dry and infertile as a desert- when the hearts of those around me seem impenetrably hard, or hopelessly shallow, still, those great and mighty spiritual forces are working, somewhere, deep beneath the surface.
It is irrelevant that I cannot see them now. He Who emblazons all eternity with the story of His glory is faithful, and will show as much as is necessary of His depths. Until then, I must rest in the knowledge that my identity- the things I see, hear, and touch, are but ripples on the surface of His sea- that my deepest knowledge hardly reaches the shallowest beginnings of His majesty and grace.'

What a truth to exult in! I put the idea into a poem a few weeks later, after driving over the Missouri river at sunset:

The river poured in mellow fire
Its sunset broadness round the bend.
On either side, the hills rose up
In swinging treetops; at the end
A wide horizon swelled to meet
A landscape like a rumpled sheet-

A sheet of darkly ruffled leaves,
And water spreading in an arc
Of shining gold, and silver whorls
That glimmer through the creeping dark-
The river's shining surface hides
Strange depths of darker things besides.

So much of life is darker still
Than that which grapples far below
The molten river's gleaming face-
Things swim there that I cannot know
By watching here upon a bridge
Or long black outline of a ridge.

And currents move and work unseen
Mere ripples show a mighty gain-
Deep sludge is stirred, and ancient bones,
Beneath the dimpling of the rain;
My wavering vision strains to trace
The deeper currents of Thy grace!
Where work Thy Spirit, and Thy Word?
Enough to know Thou workest, Lord.

The Good Hunger

There is an ache, a longing, a void, which should be ever present in me, and which I all too often lose. If only I could always say, as Amon Wilder wrote in 'No Language But A Cry:

'I have a heart that cries to God
Abandonedly across the blind
Imperfect avenue of mind,
I have a heart that cries to God...

I have a heart that cries to God
Immediately and must dispense
With faltering through the world of sense,
And calls across the mind to God.'

But, instead, I have a heart that says "What should I cook for dinner tonight? Can the grocery budget be stretched any tighter? How many more phone calls need to be made? Which child was supposed to be on dish duty for lunch?..."
And when I'm not rushing around the house playing Martha, I too often throw myself into the garden, or an art project, or the center of a book. Some great, haunting, hardly definable question keeps rising in me, to be hastily pushed down. I told my mother last week: 'There are just some things I need time and space to think through', but this isn't really the issue. The problem is that there are things I'm using every available shred of time and space to AVOID thinking about.
And in all of that turmoil, where can God reign? Where is the good hunger, the crying out for Him?
Mercifully, after periods of terrible dryness, resentment, and confusion, He has restored it, but I still feel, many days, like I'm tiptoeing through a quagmire of impossible questions, and even more impossible answers.
I wrote this last night:

The Promise:

"You weep as one who had a right to weep.
So state your case."
'It is but this:
I cannot love Thee, Lover, as I would.'
He laughed then- such a laugh
Of sorrow and mirth- exulting tenderness-
"You weep for that?
Child dear, did you but love me as you can
You could not love.
Nor long to love at all!
But you do long-
You yearn, you ache to love.
Whence does that yearning spring,
If not from Me?
My daughter, if I have
Planted My love, and will to love in you,
Caused it to grow, tumultuous, in your heart
It is because I know
How to complete, perfect it,
And will bring
Our love to lovely flowering in My time
Until, as in Love's last extremity
I served my Father, and humanity,
You too shall love!"

It is a promise to hold to, even when this, written a little earlier, seems far more descriptive of my state:

'And Love- Torn, broken, bleeding Love
In me.
Has not that gushing wealth of blood
Has not the anguished hue of red
That was Thine own.
But is a sickly-pale, anaemic thing
Shrinking from all its wounds
Quaking with dim fears, with a horror of pain
Peculiar in a soul too craven, flaccid
To suffer mighty agonies at great events.
It is as though
They'd pierced my side- those haggard men with spears
Looming through lurid sunset, swirling fog-
And drawn forth not a rush of blood with water
But water, trick'ling, with a tinge of blood.'

High calling- Low response:

This morning- the family scrambling to grab breakfast and make it out of the house by 8 am. Suitcases strewn everywhere, as we arrived home from St. Louis last night. Squabbling children, worried parents, stress you could cut with a knife. It seems to be the story of my life these days. To top it all off, I entered the kitchen this morning to discover (unfortunately not before I'd stepped in it) that someone had thrown up all over the floor (which Lex JUST scrubbed) during the night. Ah, how I love Lysol... :-D All of the children swear they have no idea who got sick or how this unfortunate occurrence occurred. The dogs and cats are not releasing any statements at this time, but we have a detective on the case... ;-)
Yeah. Life is messy. And boy, is it EVER messy!
Andy Kauffmann, a missionary, and aquaintance of mine once said though: 'When you live in the mess, you learn to cry out to the King!"
I haven't been learning this 'crying out to the King' business very quickly. Crying- yes. Crying out- no! Self-pity is so insiduous, and creates the ultimate 'Slough of Despond. Lately I've been uptight, emotionally volatile and brittle, frustrated with everything. And it's not because circumstances are truly intolerable, it's because I, in my determined self-will, have been intolerant of circumstances.

The Christian walk is such a beautiful thing on paper. 'We rejoice in our light and momentary troubles', 'What is seen is temporary, what is unseen is eternal', 'Just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also, through Christ, our comfort overflows.' 'Take up your cross and follow me.'
Such a high calling is ours! To walk and love and suffer with an all-sufficient Savior! But the minute this doctrine leaves the realm of theory, I am tempted to enter the realm of 'rage and pout and sulk'. Oh, I know better, but I do it anyway! It seems that everything in human nature wells up in resentment when desires are balked, troubles are piled on, and things cease to go 'according to plan'. MY plan, of course! :-P
Such a high calling we are given. Such a low response seems to be within our grasp. God says 'Surrender these things to Me', and all too often we whine 'But I CAN'T!' (Which is usually code for 'But I don't WANT to!' ).
Fortunately, He can, and will, where we are incapable.
God, give me the humility not to whine, or snap irritably my protestations of 'I can't do this!', but instead, to come humbly, say brokenly 'I can't do this.'- longing and hungering to see YOU do it IN me. Believing that it WILL be done, regardless of the tumult clamouring all around.

A couple of paragraphs in 'Still Higher for His Highest', by Oswald Chambers, convicted me deeply this week:

The Snare of the Sentimentalist, Worldly Sorrow, and The Deepest Longing:

"Lord I will follow Thee, but..." The wish ought to be followed by immediate obedience. I must take the wish and translate it into resolution, and then into action. If I do not, the wish will translate itelf into a corrupting instead of a redeeming power in my life. This principle holds good in the matter of emotions. A sentimentalist is one who delights to have high and devout emotions while reading in an arm-chair or when in a prayer meeting, but he never translates his emotions into action. Consequently a sentimentalist is usually callous, self-centered and selfish, because the emotions he likes to have stirred do not cost him anything; and when he comes across the same things in the domain where things are real and not sentimental, the revenge comes along the line of selfishness and meanness, which is aways the aftermath of an unfulfilled emotion."

"It is a terrible thing to say, and yet true, that there is a sorrow so selfish, so sentimental and sarcastic that it adds to 'the sin of the city'. All sorrow that arises from being baffled in some selfish aim of our own is of the world and works death. Those who sorrow over their own weaknesses and sins, and stop short at that, have a sorrow that only makes them worse, it is not a godly sorrow that works repentance. Oh that all men knew that every sentiment has its appropriate reaction, and if the nature does not embrace that reaction it degenerates into a sullen sentimentalism that kills all good action."

"You are getting tired of life as it is, tired of yourself as you are, getting sour with regard to the setting of your life; lift your eyes for one moment to Jesus Christ. Do you want, more than you want your food, more than you want your sleep, more than you want anything under heaven, or in heaven, that Jesus Christ might so identify you with Himself that you are His, first, last, and forever? God grant that the greatest longing desire of your heart may begin to awaken as it has never done, not only the desire for the forgiveness of sin, but for identification with Jesus Himself until you say, "I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me."

Oswald Chambers pulls no punches, but he's truthful. And I recognized far too much of myself in the 'Sentimentalist' he describes. Do I also identify in that all- consuming, overwhelming, overcoming hunger for Christ? Not always.
So, Lord, where I fail to desire You, 'desire in me'.

Something Like a Summary:

How do you put a year into words? How do you take the pieces of it and stitch them, as you would scraps of fabric for a quilt, into a unified whole? How can I tell you about the year that was the best, and worst in my life, when there's so much to say- when all the darkest and brightest things are too precious, or too tawdry for me to give to you? I don't know. I've been trying for a while now to think of something like a summary. Something that would tell you enough to be worth saying, without saying too much. And it comes down to this: I can summarize my year quite well. This is all that's worth keeping from the twelve months that have elapsed since I graduated from high-school last May:

God is sufficient.
God is merciful.
God is powerful.
God is glorious!

Now, I realize that's a pretty generic summary, and although it's all you really need to know about my life up until this point, there are all sorts of things you DON'T need to know that I rather feel compelled to share with you.

I had my last final today, began packing to move out of the dorms, and spent some time with friends I won't be seeing much of this summer. Have you ever had days that, from just looking at the bare details of events, you know should have been good, and yet they were... not? This was one of them. The only truly lovely thing I can remember is walking through the chill of grey morning and listening to a robin calling in a cataclysm of sweetness. How can such a small song slice the air so?

The rest was deeply tinged with bittersweetness. I suppose, if I had to give today a name, I would call it 'wistful'. I dread the endings of things, and to have such a great season of life ended is disconcerting. Foolish as it sounds, there's a deep ache in it. I seem to be putting the semester's labor, and ideals, and dreams away into boxes in more senses than one.

So what is it, like, this packing? Well, first, the walls are stripped- photographs of family and friends, missionary prayer cards, poems and Bible verses on sticky notes- all are pressed between the back pages of my scrapbook, now, along with the memories that overwhelm me when I look at them.
The 'covenant stones' come down too- the once rain-drenched leaf that I placed on the Altar one black night, and its song:
'O Lord, I wish Thy way.
And when in me myself shall rise
And wish for something otherwise
Bring sword, and slay!' -Carmichael

The other, small leaf, white as bone that I found nestled in the lush new grass, reminding me of Aline Kilmer's poem. It has a story too:
'The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of our God shall stand forever!'

The locket, which opens upon the stern question: 'At what point is Jesus Christ not worth it?'

The slender red twig, plucked from a hedge on a rainy day when I stumbled through the field in a haze of confusion:"As for God, His way is perfect... And if His way be perfect, we need no explanation."-Carmichael

The great, cruel thorn, broken from a locust branch: "All Christ's life was a cross and a martyrdom; and thou seekest for thyself rest and joy?"- The Imitation

All of these nestle now in the bottom compartment of my jewelry box, along with other mysterious treasures. As I pull off the last of my pictures and trinkets, I feel the friendly walls receding into blank, inscrutable whiteness. The ceiling rises silently away from me as the room grows in emptiness. In my heart lurks a feeling that is almost grief.

Next, heroically, I attack the bookshelf. Now, you must understand- I am an unashamed bibliophile! I came to college with a loooot of books! Due to a random combination of gifts, text-book hoarding, and used book sales, I now have even more books- many of them large and heavy. So this book packing is still a bit tricky. Especially since I keep stopping to read them, trying to decide what to leave at home, and what to bring back with me next fall...

That is where things stand at the moment. I will have to finish the job tomorrow.
But I have to finish this summary tonight. After tomorrow, I will never again walk down the hall to Leaverton 2018 C. I will not sleep- or lie awake puzzling over life- on that hard, slippery blue mattress with its striped sheets. I will not sit typing at this desk. I will not sing in that shower. I will be gone so completely that I might as well have never come. And when I think of this- that tomorrow I will walk out of this room for the last time, a flood of detail sweeps over me, and the tears are springing to my eyes again. Not so much for the room, but for the life I lived in it. For the friends who've come and gone here- the things I've learned here- the lessons burned on my heart here. When I leave tomorrow, my last physical connection to all of these things will be gone forever. Something- I hardly know how to say what- will have ended, and vanished into memory, or, perhaps, forgetfulness.

On Monday, during the storm, I was sitting cross-legged on the bed with my notebook, trying to explain my feelings about the semester's close. This is what I wrote:

"I see the wind-tossed maple tree just outside my window- its leaves bunched like wet, green ruffles, fluttering with a wild and frantic charm. And all that great expanse of sodden grass, stretching away into a dark wall of trees. Rain falling from the grey sky to lash against the grey road. A pooling of glimmering, cloud-reflecting droplets on the pane. These are the things that bound my world today. I dare not think beyond them- the helter-skelter of the bookshelf, Shakespeare leaning in drunken cameraderie on George Bernard Shaw- 'Jane Eayre' jockeying primly against Maugham's 'Complete Short Stories' for space. The crazy, childish colors in the quilt Aunt Caroline sewed. Papers strewn everywhere. Lightning flashing from time to time on the prisoning walls. Thunder rumbling, like a crescendo of percussion, in time with Ralph Vaughan Williams' 'Folk Song Suite for Millitary Band'. Here is the last safe, famliar place in the world, and I am leaving it forever in two days. For what? For a farther venturing into yet another unkown? On Wednesday begins the mad transition from one reality into another. If only life had some halting places! Spots like stepping stones, on which one could pause and consider the next jump. But it doesn't work that way, and still the stately, mysterious procession of Circumstance continues its intricate dance.
So what can be said about this year? There were days of miraculous strengthening- days when I felt too ill and tired to walk across the room, and yet was able to walk all over campus- days when my heart was trampled to pieces- when I was torn in half by my own uncertainties- when I was drained dry and wrung empty by the world's hunger, and yet, somehow, when God opened the opportunities for sharing, He gave me what I needed to give as well. I learned things- both in and out of the classroom. I caught glimpses of a Love so burningly exalted above mine that I could only fall to my knees before it.

There were those special, piercingly sweet moments- the week I was sunk into discouragement and self-reproach because people kept on talking about what a 'good person' I was, and how 'moral' I was, with never a word of Christ, the consuming passion. I was convinced I must have failed utterly as a missionary, that whatever I was doing had only drawn attention to my own efforts rather than God's power, and was depressed and broken to tears over it for days, pleading for transformation; then a girl, not a believer, but a seeker, came to me needing encouragement and a hug, and after we'd prayed together, and cried a bit together, she put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye and said: "You are the only genuine Christian I have ever met in my life. I don't know if what you believe is true or not, but you live it- and you don't just do good things, either, I SEE your God in you. I SEE Him in your face. I see you doing things that you could not possibly do on your own. You have wisdom that none of the psychologists and specialists they took me to knew about. You have been loving in a way no person could be, and I know that your God is powerful in your life, and truly your Lord."
I was dazed. I knew, all too well, that what she said was not true. There was so much sin in me of which she was unaware- so much pride creeping into my efforts. There had even been frustration and lovelessness toward HER that God had been rooting out of my heart. But I WANTED to be the person she described- and moreover, my agonizing doubts about my ability to be light in darkness, and plead the cause of Christ rather than my own merit suddenly fell away. It didn't matter how weak and clumsy I was- she had seen Christ in me! Surely He could show Himself through me to anyone else as well! That was one of the glory days.
Another came when, as, under a great deal of stress and discouragement, I was feeling that I didn't 'fit in anywhere', that there was no ministry or work that I was really 'suited' for, and I wished desperately that God would show me what I was able to do, not even daring to ask Him for the explanation of it all- and then, my TESL professor took me aside and said, "You were created to teach children. It's in your blood to teach children. God gave you an instinctive gift for teaching that I have encountered very rarely. Don't give up!" It answered so few of my questions, and yet, it was just the thing I needed to hear in order to get through the disappointments of that week.
I could talk for hours about God's faithfulness this year, about the things He is teaching me. There were days when it seemed His training was too harsh- even days when I resented it. But, seeing the year in review, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the humbling, for the heartbreaking, for the cutting away of the human supports I leaned on, and of my own self-sufficiency. At the beginning of my first semester, a friend sent me an article about Samueul Rutherford. Here is what Rutherford wrote while imprisoned for his beliefs:
"If God had told me some time ago that He was about to make me as happy as I could be in this world, and then tell me that He should begin by crippling me in all my limbs, and removing me from all my usual sources of enjoyment, I should have thought it a very strange mode of accomplishing His purpose. And yet, how is His wisdom manifest even in this! For if you should see a man shut up in a closed room, idolizing a set of lamps and rejoicing in their light, and you wish to make him truly happy, you would begin by blowing out all his lamps; and them throw open the shutters and let in the light of heaven."
After reading that, I went out into the field and prayed, "Lord, blow out all my lamps!"
I didn't know what I was asking. I don't know if I could have had the courage to ask such a thing if I had. I don't know, even now, if I have the courage to continue on with it- this grinding process of lamp-extinguishing, and I have only tasted the edges of an answer; God is very merciful in His dealings with my weakness. But I will close my freshman year with the prayer that began it: "Lord, blow out all my lamps! I would see Thee in all Thy radiance!"
This drab dorm room- my haven against storms and attacks for the past eight or nine months is the lamp which will go dark on Wednesday. A new set of roots are being torn up.
Yet I finally realize, marvelling, that it is a place more soaked in prayer than tears. That my memories of this once faceless room- returning on Wednesday to facelessness- are more of unimagined glory than of unimagined pain. And I know too, in this brief flash of perception, that there could not have BEEN the glory without the pain, the prayer without the tears, the victory without the breaking. It is finished, and He was sufficient! And I? What can I be but thankful for His chastening love? So let the years come!"

The Undiscovered Country:
'Lord, for the erring thought
Not unto evil wrought:
Lord for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.
For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer:
For pain, death, sorrow sent
Unto our chastisement:
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.' -William Dean Howells

Jottings and Meanderings:

For anyone who leads an incredibly boring life, and would therefore like to read the rest of the poetry that was scribbled into odd corners of my notebook during this year- this post is for you. I thought of giving this some really impressive title, such as 'The Complete Unpublished Works of Sharon L. Moore', but I fear, gentle readers, that you will see all too clearly why the various artistic efforts of 'Sharon L. Moore' remain unheralded and unpublished! So, here they are, a scrambled collection of jottings and meanderings, to be enjoyed or ignored as you please:

Lamentations 3:22

And yet- (O praise Him for that yet!)
I call this promise to my mind
Though every hope I may forget,
Still happiness in this I find:
By His great love we still prevail
For His compassions never fail!

3 A.M. View From My Window in January: ( That sounds impressive! :-P )

A dreaming haze of pale azure
And golden lights rests on the snow;
Dark tree-shapes cast a blue allure
Where shadows stretch along the glow
Of sleeping ice and frozen street.
They strain, elongated and slim
From deeps where tree and shadow meet;
Arch past the realm of shade and dim
To burst in brittle lines of bloom-
Strange fragile bones of gilded blue-
A skeleton of flame and dew-
Shivered to powder at a touch;
No living hand can finger such.

The Question:

And what is Love? I found it at His hand
When every other love of mine had failed
And left me crushed- do not misunderstand;
I did not come to Him a supplicant
For grace or tenderness, but rather, railed
Jeered, spit into His face- wholly rebelled,
The more He wholly loved- I never meant
To rest upon His strength, and yet He quelled
Hatred in me, and spite, and He has nailed
The gate between us to the side until,
My Love, He could cross over unto me
And bring His captive over into Him!
My Life, My God, Belovéd! dwell and fill-
Work, praise, abide in me- hads't Thou not moved
The walls that parted us, I had not loved!

~~~~~
But here I stumble at the rim
Of dizzy heights; my prayer will be
Since I lack strength to cry to Him
'Lord, cry in me!'

Lord cry in me, I cannot call
My eyes burn, ache, but do not see
My God, I cannot come to You at all
So come to me.

Lord humble me, chasten and rend
My knees are stiff, and will not bow.
I have not any love to give,
Love in me now.

Lord pray in me; my heart is cold.
Replace the stone with flesh and fire
I cannot yearn for You- then Lord,
In me desire.


An Informal Sonnet:

The saying goes, 'Love does not dominate;
It cultivates.' My face is hot with shame
To think of all I've gilded with Love's name
That did not bear Love's Spirit, or its trait
Of self-forgetting- how can I but blame
My soul-corroding pride, or too much hate
This seething love of Self that did create
Such lovelessness, which childishly I called
My 'love'? Was that indeed such 'love' as I
Thought worth receiving? Thinking now to buy,
And now to grasp- which sought to elevate
Itself, and not its object- love that mauled
The very name of Love- O, God create
THY Love in me, that I might imitate!

~~~~~~~~~

A rushing murmur is the creek;
The quail burst from the grass a whir
Of stuttering wings- the things I seek
Are but a ripple and a blur.

I may cup water in my palm-
I cannot cup the greenish pool
Nor every golden light and stone
And mossy branch that makes the whole.

I may pluck feathers from the grass
Or let the wind rush past my arm
I cannot pluck the speeding birds
From out the wind; their wild alarm

Their frantic wings, and wilder flight-
Are beyond reach of touch or sight
Neat-patterned plumage, coat of gloss
But flashing memories of loss.

A rushing murmur is the creek;
The quail burst from the grass a whir
Of stuttering wings- the things I seek
Are but a ripple and a blur.

~~~~~~~~~~

"And so they melted all their gold
And cast it in a bovine mold
Where now their offerings they bring
To bow themselves before the 'Thing'.

And when by prophets they are governed
Yaweh as their lawful Sovereign
All that the silly creatures crave
Is, "Kings, like OTHER nations have." "

History has not treated kindly
Israel, she who followed blindly
Hand-fashioned gods, and sinful men
For this was wrong- but then again,

We of today are not much better-
Israel balked when Yahweh led her-
Still the ancient impulse lingers-
We want a god in reach of fingers.

Man, who cannot see much beyond
Himself, forever must be fond
Of asking ('if it's not too much!')
For gods that he can see and touch.

Man, who must play the ages' fool
Chafes at his wise Creator's rule
Favors abuse and subjugation
Under a human domination.

Well may we laugh at Israel's blunders
Yet, there come moments when one wonders
Why we should deem ourselves exempt
From this we treat with such contempt.

Moderns, eschewing wood and stone
Hunger no less for gods their own
Humbly exalt, with reckless vanity,
Struggling and sorrowful humanity.

Often we fill our 'obligation'
Toss God some phrase of approbation-
Rarely will foolish man commence
With worship and obedience.

Humans instinctively disdain
Life underneath their Maker's reign-
We're glad, of course, that Christ would die
But will not call Him Adonai.

From the beginning we've colluded
Plotted and schemed (myself included)
For the illusion of control
Over the sorry human soul.

Lord if I come now, brokenhearted
Back at the point from which I started
Sickened to death of self and sin
Will you receive me yet again?

Lord, I'm afraid I still am fighting-
Even this moment, as I'm writing
Longings to throw off bit and bridle-
Take to myself another idol.

Knowing from trial that the conclusion
Surely will shatter my illusion
Still I go hungering to find
Solace from one of 'my own kind'.

Help me to keep to this decision:
Though far beyond my hands and vision
Vast though You be, though broader, higher-
You will I make my sole desire.

Every heavy hanging minute
All of my life, and all that's in it
Loneness, bewilderment, and pain-
All that I am is Yours again.


View From My Window On a Blustery May Afternoon: ( :-P )

A flash of butterfly-winged
Leaves- in a lime-bright whirl
Like a storm of stars
Flutter between the mystic gaze
Of an April sky and me-
Sunlight bursting
In fiercely yellow blooms
Sprinkled in glints across
Leaping ripples of grass-
I lean
Into the boisterous air,
Past the thrust of the wall, and
The decorous bounds of the window
To catch
The glad heels of the romping wind
Painting the gold-green world
Cerulean blue.
The horizon
Rushes before me- a barricade of towering trees
Stamping and tossing their heads
In their earth-bound fury
Of root-anchored, green-swelling
Impatience- the world swings upward, then down,
Patterned with billowing shadows.

~~~~~~~~~

The night was a slavering Thing of shadows
and fever- the pillow hot with it. Night
was a claustrophobic weight- a smothering of darkness
a suffocation of darkness like blankets
Heaped upon blankets- Life, Sound, Wind, Liberty, Light and Coolness
Were words from another realm whose meaning jarred
Upon low-ceilinged, black realities. Parched lips muttered
And cracked with soreness. Fought to draw air
in- gasping with flattened lungs- then silence.
The nightmare prospect of years stretched in a grim line
Where leaden feet must stumble.

It was some writhing hours later I stood
A cold, broad plain stretched out before me, rose
A slope. Where sparks teemed in the stillness- flung
Wonder into a gaping sky- then music soared
Passion and tenderness, eagerness, loveliness
For You came gladly singing, Morning Star.
Beginning and end for me- You, never begun nor ended.

Your promise brightens on the clouded rim
Of earth- dawn sweeps horizons, and I gaze
At that white creeping radiance- a glow
Lights up my farthest sight- the whole world lifts.
It turns its head to catch the throb of drums
And pulsates as the sunrise, thundering
Rolls crashing past the black-edged wall of hills
And over greyish fields- the promise holds-
Eternal, Morning comes.

The Echoes of His Peace

'And now I hear Thy mighty "Peace, be still,"
And wind and wave are calm- their fury, froth.
Could wind or wave cause Thee to break Thy troth?
They are but servants to Thy Sovereign will;
Within me all is still.'(Amy Carmichael) :

Those are the wondrous moments in life. Not when the water is a happy, playful, breeze-ruffled thing dancing along between myriad sun-glintings, but when the waves rise up in a great grey rage, and strike like walls- when the wind is a roaring beast, and the depths swell, and billow, and crash over with irresistible force- and then, miraculously, are quelled. It must be worth years of storm-tossing to feel that glorious storm-halting once!

The past few weeks have been a hurricane. I just felt driven helter-skelter before an icy blast of inadequacy, and hurt, and betrayal, and, anger, and rebellion. I didn't know the world could really be such an absolute howling wilderness, and that one could keep smiling, and studying, and chattering away as though nothing were the matter.
Pride was in a fury, and idealism was struck to the heart. Was it possible that I could really be SUCH a miserable failure as this? Were people really so corrupt and untrustworthy? Would I ever have the grace to love them as unselfishly as I wanted to? Did I really WANT to love them at all? Was there any point even in trying? I was writhing in the grip of absolutely poisonous emotions- and I hated the feeling- and I couldn't stop it, or see more than a few inches beyond pain.

It simply went on like that, until I was teetering at the breaking point. Life was a seemingly endless round of dully staring into space, of crying, of lacking the emotional fervour to cry, of praying listlessly in circles- knowing I was stung only by a hundred 'little things', and suffering as though they had been great and terrible ones. It's awful to feel oneself grieved beyond logic and reason- no one watching from the outside can sympathise or comprehend it.

And then, one night, kneeling through the crashing wonder of a thunderstorm, I talked and sobbed it all out with God in rain drenched hopelessness at the Altar Place. And I woke up the next morning, and it was... gone. I hardly recognized myself. I had been frozen before- often unable to feel at all, but this was not freezing or numbness- this was PEACE! Pulling the blankets closer around me, I curled up beside the window and looked out. The tawny-grey lace of branches and twigs on the nearest tree- just beginning to be touched with green at the tips (it is a tree that steps cautiously into Spring) were jeweled with with dangling rows of diamond droplets. The bark of the farther tree was black with rain- the asphalt was shining with it- puddles were flashing at me here and there. A wild panorama of green began to rush past- lush, joyous emerald grass- a great canopy of treetops rising in the near horizon- a silvery cascade of paler green falling over the closest maple. And the sky was soft, gentle, awash with clear grey light- the whole scene singing exquisite morning-ness! I was so glad! I think I learned all over again what gladness is!
Beautiful God! Beautiful morning! As though the Maker of all THIS could be at a loss to guide me, and the people he'd placed about me! I was laughing- happy, childish, unsarcastic laughter, and it was unspeakably good. It has been good ever since- transcending final projects and impending finals- stress, worry, and discouragement. Peace is such a glowing thing- and suddenly, all the love that I couldn't manage at all is overflowing almost effortlessly in generous fountains of grace.

It sounds so strange- is such a miracle, to me! I've felt gradual change before, but never a sudden, utter transformation like this. I only know that a faith which was completely impossible to me when I went to bed was mine in abundance when I woke up- has stayed, like a weight of brightness on my heart all week. At first, I only began to know, as an accomplished fact, that joy was a thing entirely independent of happiness- and then I found that happiness follows on the heels of joy! Every truth in the world was suddenly new-minted. Circumstances are unchanged, but life is far, far, better than alright! And He is glorious!

A few months ago, at the rocky beginning of the semester, I jotted this verse down (during math class, of course.)

He laid a hand upon my inner gale.
One sighing splash denotes collapsing waves,
Then all is still.
And silenced is the clamour of my soul-
Its plunging- frenzied, wild,
Rests calm within the chambers of His will,
Is chambered in the circle of His calm.
No other sound intrudes upon us, save
The waters, breathing like a drowsing child,
And rocking in the echo of His "Peace!"

I'm still a little bit dazed by the stillness. It came so suddenly, and stayed so completely. But since the echo of Christ's "Peace, be still!" is still throbbing here along clear, rainbow lines of light- like the sun bursting through rain-slicked glass- why, what can I do but radiate peace as well?

A Small Beauty

The sanctuary- which does double duty as our pastor's house- was hushed. Skirts rustled. A shoe scraped. Two throats were cleared. It was the 'prayer' part of the service, where we share concerns, and then take some time for everyone to pray as/if they feel moved. We were all waiting, in the throes of an awkward pause, for SOMEONE to feel moved- begging the silence to break. Then Mr. King stood up in the back of the room. He said:

"We thank You, Lord, for this 'small beauty' we live in. We thank You for showing us a small beauty, so that we can conceive of a bigger one. We thank You for Your promise that one day, there will be no more 'small beauty', or pieces of beauty, but only Your great Beauty transforming all."

I love that thought, and that wording. It's true- we live in 'a small beauty'. Sometimes, I just feel so drained and weighed down by the ugliness surrounding me- by the ugliness WITHIN me, for that matter, that I forget there is ANY beauty in the world! At other times, (and it happens often in Spring!) I'm so carried away into ecstacy by the beauty burgeoning and blossoming everywhere that I can hardly conceive of anything superior, nor feel strongly enough my need of it.

But we live in 'a small beauty'. Not a complete one. Beauty in patches. And it would be as terrible to not see it at all as it would be to see nothing else. Only the recollection that fractions of an infinite beauty are the most- and least- that we are able to see can guard us from either extreme.

So I just content myself with writing poetry about it in math class... :-)


I watched the rippling fires
Of rumpled grass; flame tumbling over flame.
The wind blows up a silver blaze, whirls higher,
Extinguishes in green; begins the game
A second time; goes dancing through the trees
And meadow, painting with a silvery sheen
The ruffled leaves, then swiftly as it came
Is leaping back; advances and retires
And spreads the fields in sighing green again.

The breeze falls slack-
Drifts in shaded hollows of the wood.
The sun begins to shine in earnest- heats
The meadows with a flood-
Of heavily rippling warmth- a skylark sings
Above the panting field; a lone bird beats
A path into the glaring sky, its wings
A whir of silence. She and I, we stood
Welded to noon-stillness of sluggish blood
Limp fingers linked in drowsy wondering
At Summer burning through a veil of Spring.

The Moon Is Round!

I was skimming through Jim Elliot's journals last night, and found, under the entry for Dec 26 these cryptic words: "The Moon Is Round!"
An explanatory note in the margins, written by Jim's wife, Elisabeth, explained:

"This refers to an experience which Jim told me about years later. He had been depressed, doubting the sovereignty of God. The moon seemed to show him that there is wholeness, that all things are complete in Christ, even when they appear to be partially shadowed."

How often things 'appear to be partially shadowed'!

And yet, even when I look at the dark sky, and see only a dim white sliver of the light and beauty I hoped for; even when I look at my life, and see only a miserable thread of the glory or satisfaction that 'ought to be' present (or nothing at all!) it should not be a cause for despair.
The wholeness, the fullness, the glory of the moon are not lost or extinguished. Only 'partially shadowed'. And shadows cannot alter the reality of the things that are.
When we gaze grief-stricken on a world where 'nothing makes sense', where 'everything goes wrong', where 'everything under the sun is meaningless', we must keep in mind that we are looking at vast shadows, and seeing only wee snatches of realities. "The Moon Is Round!" Darkness may seem to halve it, or obliterate it entirely, but it is still there, unchanged, as round and massive as ever.

My favorite song at Chinese fellowship (partly because it is one of the only ones accompanied by an English translation) is 'The Sun Above The Clouds.' The gist of the song is: 'I walk about sometimes and see the sun shining brightly, and at others cannot see it at all. But this does not mean that there is no sun, only that clouds are getting in the way. I will still be joyful because I know the sun is there, whether I can see it or not.' And then, the chorus basically says: 'No matter what the clouds do, the sun does not change. Ah! It stays the same!'

The sun, the moon, the Son, His power and love- they stay the same. No matter if our view is sometimes limited.

So, if you're feeling overwhelmed by shadows, or lost in clouds, remember: The sun above the clouds is still shining, untouched by the lower things. And, 'The Moon Is Round!'

Where 'there was not any wall':

It seems to me that this year has been far too full of crisis. The family has vaccillated between medical emergencies and financial emergencies, sometimes throwing in both at once for good measure. Less than a year after our last move, we are considering moving yet again. Some days, I feel like a puppet being jounced about on a string. People, governments, and circumstances outside of my control seem to be running the show, and it's really, really scary!
But that's only a 'seems like'- and seemings are nothing!

Here is the reality:

Psalm 18:28,30-36
"You, O Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light." " As for God, His way is perfect; the word of the Lord is flawless. He is a shield for all who take refuge in him. For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God? It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You give me your shield of victory and your right hand sustains me; you stoop down and make me great. You broaden the path beneath me, so that my ankles do not turn."

Psalm 31:8-9a
"You have not handed me over to the enemy but have set my feet in a spacious place. Be merciful to me, O Lord, for I am in distress;..."

Psalm 33:9-11, 13-22
"For he spoke, and it came to be; he commanded and it stood firm. The Lord foils the plans of the nations; he thwarts the purposes of the peoples. But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of his heart through all generations." "From heaven the Lord looks down and sees all mankind; from his dwelling place he watches all who live on earth- he who forms the hearts of all, who considers everything they do. No king is saved by the size of his army; no warrior escapes by his great strength. A horse is a vain hope for deliverance; despite all its great strength it cannot save. But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love, to deliver them from death and famine.
We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord, even as we put our hope in you."

Have I put my hope in Him?
If I have, is there any earthly reason to give stress and worry a foothold in my life? Faith doesn't say "LORD???? What are you THINKING??? How could you let these things happen to us? Where is this going? Why? Why? Why?" Amy Carmichael summed it up neatly: "Faith never questions why."
Faith is not fearful, nor resentful, nor rebellious.
Sometimes it appears to me that the world is a total mess. Completely crazy, completely rotten. Out of control.
And we DO live in a fallen world, full of messed up people doing messed up things and making stupid decisions. But NEVER out of control! He who 'forms the hearts of all' and 'considers everything they do' is Sovereign. All things are working together for His glory. He is the Deliverer, and His love is unfailing.
It's just that sometimes, deliverance seems far away, or, when it comes, is nothing like my expectations. Oswald Chambers wrote:

"The things that happen do not happen by chance- they happen entirely by the decree of God. God is sovereignly working out His own purposes. If we are in fellowship and oneness wih God... we will no longer strive to find out what His purposes are. As we grow in the Christian life... we are less inclined to say, "I wonder why God allowed this or that?" And we begin to see that the compelling purpose of God lies behind everything in life, and that God is divinely shaping us into oneness with that purpose. A Christian is someone who trusts in the knowledge and wisdom of God, not in his own abilities."

It's true- but sometimes I forget, or at least, drift away. Then I find myself where I was this morning- drooping Mondayishly in math class, battling the throbbing beginnings of yet another headache, and scribbling sub-par poetry in the margins of my notebook.
Here is this morning's effort:

'Time placed a chain of silence on my tongue
Binding my weary thoughts with rings of steel;
A weight of leaden armoring which hung
Massive and grim, too dense to fear or feel
beyond- Tomorrows writhed throughout the cell-
Whose heavy doors shut out the clear Today;
Only three scattered bars of sunlight fell
From miles above, to waver, not to stay.

Dizzy, I heard the rushing far below
Of angry waters- ringing in my ears
Came doubt, and pain; futility also-
The torrents grew, and were the roar of years.

My God- I cannot see beyond this wall
The window, too, is high and out of sight.
No key of mine can turn the lock at all
No flame of mine could penetrate this night..."

Here, I stopped, wondering dully what I was trying to say- and suddenly realized that I did not need to find an ending for my poem, because Amy Carmichael has written it already:

But "...a light shined in the cell.
----And there was not any wall
----And there was no dark at all
----Only Thou, Emannuel!"

There IS not any wall! Nor is there any darkness! Nor is there any prison of Despair, save in my own fevered brain. There is only Him.

My friend and teaching partner, Maggie, shared this with me yesterday:

"Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of its strength.” - Charles H. Spurgeon

Do fear and worry accomplish anything? If they are, as they were this morning and last night, undermining my confidence in God rather that driving me to Him for comfort, they are destructive, and should have no place in my life. We can say with the Psalmist 'my times are in Your hands' because He is ABLE to keep our 'times'- our dreams and our tomorrows.

So, contrary to the ferment of 'what if...' and 'it seems like...' thoughts attacking our brains, we should maintain this attitude:

"I have set the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will rest secure." (Psalm 16:8-9)

And may 'the God of peace' give us His peace!
Amen.

If this is love...

She stood in the doorway, fingers rattling nervously over the keys of her phone as she typed a text message, face tense, a few mascara streaked tears wandering down the soft brown of her cheek. She wasn't talking to me, but to her best friend who was in the other room.

"I just don't get it", the girl choked. "It didn't used to be this way with him and me. I never thought this would happen to us."

I'd never seen her so subdued. The girl talking is one of my suitemates- her best friend is the other. Usually, Kiki is brazen, brassy, carefree- impossible to embarrass or disconcert. She laughs at things which would offend or grieve anyone else- I would have said that NOTHING was sacred to her- yet here she was, weeping all over her carefully applied makeup, convulsively toying with her phone, arms folded as though to shield herself from hurt- or to hide a wound. Maybe the coarseness, the shrillness are a front- a bold face against all the inexplicable terror and cruelty of life? Perhaps that hardened exterior is really a protective shell enfolding a sensitivity I was too dull to guess at? Perhaps...
Do we ever really know anyone? Even the people we live with?

But she was still standing there, stammering out through pauses a rather hysterical jumble about the issues she is having with her boyfriend. Then, at the end, as I was leaving for class, she said something that I don't think I'll ever forget.

"Love aint s'posed to be like this. He say he love me. Well, I say, if this is love, I DON'T WANT IT!"

And something in me, which had been hard and unforgiving towards them both, melted in a rush of anguished pity. I longed to jump into the conversation and tell her all that was burning in my heart. But, instead, afraid of 'meddling', afraid of 'offending', afraid of being rejected yet again, I walked out the door, and off to class. I don't know quite what else I could have done, and yet, there is so much which I desperately wanted to say to her at that moment. I don't know if I even have words for the feeling, but I will write it here:

" 'If this is love...', you said. Do you know what love is? Have you ever felt it? Ever seen it? You know about shootings. About abuse. About discrimination and betrayal, about drug dealing, and streets where no grass grows, and skies without stars. But love- love? Do you know about that? Would you even recognise it if you saw it?
'If this is love...' But, oh, Kierra, Kierra, that isn't. I don't know what's gone wrong for you, I don't know why you're upset, but I can tell you that what you're describing isn't love. Not that I'm an expert- and yet, I KNOW Love- and He is nothing like that. May I, can I show you what LOVE has to say for Himself?

Exodus 24:6 '...The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin.'

1 Chronicles 16:34 'Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.'

2 Corinthians 13:11 '...And the God of love and peace will be with you.'

1John 4:8 'God IS love'

So who is Love? HE is love!

But WHAT is love?

'This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us....' (1 John 3:16)

'Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.' (John 15:13)

'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails... (1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

'...Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up....' (1 Corinthians 8:1)


Kierra, does that sound like any 'love' you have ever experienced before? I know I'VE never received it, not from the dearest people in the world- but it overflows from Him! It's His nature, His identity!

Maybe you don't think you deserve it, and of course you don't. No more do I. Yet, still, He gives anyway, and gives, and gives!

'THIS is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.' (John 4:10)

'But God demonstrates his own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.'

'If this is love...' you said. If you had any idea what love is, and where it comes from, such a statement would be ridiculous. Perhaps what you're embroiled in is 'romance'. It might be 'relationship', or 'admiration', even 'friendship' after a fashion, but love? No! Never!

Of course, romance, admiration, and friendships can be remarkably pleasant. You know that as well as anyone. They have ups and downs, though- sometimes, even fall completely apart! Where do you go then? What can you cling to? Who stays near you?

There is a verse in my Bible, marked with a date, and with the still stinging memory of heartbroken tears:

Isaiah 54: 10 'Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you.'

I read that verse now, and I cannot fathom what it was to me at the moment I marked it, and held onto it for dear life. I remember the confidence that swept over me- that the things happening all around, and the things that MIGHT happen, and all the millions of things I don't understand were NOTHING in the face of His unfailing love, and His covenant of peace, and His compassion for me- for my weakness and brokenness, nearsightedness and confusion!

Do you really want to replace the overwhelming peace and comfort of that passage with the temporary 'fix' of a movie or a new dress?
Do you have anything better?

Hosea 6:3-7 'Let us acknowledge the Lord; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth. What can I do with you, Ephraim? What can I do with you Judah? Your love is like the morning mist, like the early dew that disappears...I desire mercy [Hebrew 'hesed': right conduct, loyalty.], not sacrifice, and acknowledgement of God rather than burnt offerings. Like Adam, they have broken the covenant- they were unfaithful to me...'

'If this is love...' But of course, it isn't. A shadow, perhaps. A cheap imitation, at best. It won't ever satisfy you. Won't sustain you. Won't last. His love- the love of the one Who IS love- is entirely different.
The best we have to give of ourselves, either to God, or to the people around us is love that is like the morning mist- which trembles into nothing at a ray of sun or a breath of wind- like dew that is vanishing almost before it is fallen.

That is not the kind of love He is offering you. That is not the kind of love you are hungry for.
Proverbs 19:6 says: 'What a man desires is unfailing love...'
And Psalm 33:5 assures us: 'The Lord loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love.'

Amy Carmichael once wrote:

"It is a safe thing to trust Him to fulfill the desires which He creates."

Do you think the Creator could not know that His creatures desire unfailing love, and cannot be content with less? Do you think He expects that beings created for eternity could settle for love that does not endure forever also?
Nothing of the sort is true. He has given us a gnawing hunger for His kind of love- for the love that only He can give. And He WILL give it, if only you will let Him!

He doesn't want you to go through the motions, to make more effort, to clean up your life. He isn't primarily concerned with your cigarettes, or cussing, or promiscuity. Because you could turn your back on all of that, and still it would mean nothing at all. We've all failed Him, from Adam on down. We've turned our backs on love, TRUE love, even while we were crying out for it, frantically trying to fill up the void.

Kierra, He wants YOU- your heart- pitiful, corroded as it is! Holiness- sanctification- those follow. They're terribly important. But it's not the point. You, your goodness, your badness, are irrelevant. You'll never be good enough to win His approval. You'll never be bad enough to forfeit His love. God isn't primarily concerned with the language you use, or the drugs you put in your body, or who you're sleeping with. Because, until your heart has been opened to a deep, consuming, operative faith in Christ and His atonement, it's irrelevant! He doesn't WANT you to 'clean up your act', or 'get your life back on track'. He wants you to fall before Him, broken, and let HIM do what needs to be done.
And that is love- the continuous pattern of our brokenness, and His redemption.
Are you very, very sure that you don't want it? Anything else will leave you here, right where you started, weeping in anger and disillusionment; forever nursing wounded affections and wounded pride. And that's a pretty miserabe place to dwell in.

So, '...Let us press on to acknowledge Him...'

And someday, I hope you will say to Him:

'Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its ardor unyielding as the grave. It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away.'(SS 8:6-7)

THAT is Love.

'...I pray that you... may have power... to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge- that you... may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.' (Ephesians 3:17-19)

Daisy Chains

"No calamity so touches the common heart of humanity as does the straying of a little child. Their feet are so uncertain and feeble; the ways are so steep and strange." -William Sydney Porter

I guess a lot of people would think it odd that I spent three hours today browsing through the children's section of our University Library.(or, perhaps, as I do, think it odd that a University has a children's section at all! :-) )

I KNOW that a lot of people thought it odd, because I got some extremely strange looks from students at tables, and even passers by. Personally, I maintain that, considering the general eccentricity of your average college student, they should not begrudge me a few hours with Child and Young Adult literature during the peak of mid-term frenzy.
But, be that as it may, to put the concerns of these narrow-minded folk at rest, I will hasten to explain that my hours with Amelia Bedelia, and Bill Peet, and a staggering selection of 'folk tales from around the world', etcetera were for the purpose of completing a mid-term in my TESOL class- I was hunting down read aloud fodder for my 22 imaginary second graders, in order to finish designing a lesson plan on Critical Thinking and Reading strategies.

So, I see nothing to peculiar in the fact that I spent my afternoon with children's books, in the library. Nor in the fact that I enjoyed it. But, even I have to confess that there is something a bit unusual in the fact that a large portion of this time was spent curled up between two aisles of books crying.

There is a certain, rather morbid class of books which people are always writing for children, which probably has some technical name of which I am unaware. Were I going to name it, I think I would title this genre something lke 'A Child's Garden of Coping Strategies'. Maybe you have never seen these books? I will try to explain.
I encountered them for the first time at the age of or seven or eight, in the Lee's Summit library, where I was wandering about after a reading program.
As I crawled blissfully from shelf to shelf, a title caught my eye. I pulled the book out, and began to thumb through it. I was riveted, with a sort of shocked fascination. It was horrible! All about a little girl whose parents fight, and then get divorced, and how she has to live traveling between two houses. Of course I knew, in a sort of vague, theoretical way, what divorce was- but this was just AWFUL! How could things like that happen?
So, trembling, I shoved the 'awful book' away, and pulled something else from the shelf. That's when I discovered the 'coping genre'. Because the next book was supposed to teach children about death, and help them come to terms with it. When I looked more carefully, I found that this whole section of shelf was full of books about children dealing with abuse, divorce, lost pets, grandparents with alzheimers, loneliness, bullying, betrayal, sickness, etcetera.
"Weird." thought I, and moved off in search of fairy tales, and animal stories, pretty pictures, and adventure- REAL children's books.
After that, I nearly forgot about the 'coping books'
Reading to siblings at the library, I occasionally saw them, but we always passed them by.
Until I blundered into the Children's Section today.

It started with a shabby brown book entitled 'No Time for Me', about a little boy named Tim. Tim's parents both work outside the home, and never have time for him and his sister Lydia. But they have promised to take him to a baseball game on his birthday, and he is counting down the days. Until they tell him that they've decided to go on a business trip to Hawaii instead! Tim, unsurprisingly, has a meltdown. The rest of the story chronicles Tim's attempts to deal with the letdown, and his parents' (belated) attempt to make amends. His father (thinks) he (might) be able to eat breakfast with Tim on Wednesdays. His mother agrees to come home an hour earlier (most) Thursdays. Tim takes what he can get.
I think there's supposed to be a happy ending, but I couldn't find it.

The next book was even worse. It's about a little boy who hates Father's day. Why does he hate Father's day? He hasn't got a father. This one is memorable, mainly because so wrenchingly pathetic.
It tells, in first person, the story of a little boy making a Father's Day project in class, for a father who left so long ago he can't remember. By the time I reached the third page, I was crying. The child's teacher is insisting that everyone has a father, and that the little boy should just mail the card he's decorating. And the child points out that he doesn't know where his father lives.
He adds wistfully to himself,
"Of course, everyone has a father. They tell me I have a father. But I wish I had a father I could KNOW."
Everything in my heart was shouting "Oh, but you DO! You do!"
The book ends with the child putting this father's day card away with all the others he's made over the years, concluding,
"Maybe someday he'll see them, and know that I love him."
The moral of the story, according to said 'coping book'?
'It's ok to be different.'
Even as a secular coping strategy, that's pretty lame.

Which is maybe why I couldn't stop crying once I'd started. Because, for that child, and for so many others, there is a well-intentioned but blind author attempting to apply a band-aid to the unmendable depths of the human heart, and no one- NO ONE to open sympathetic arms, to share the miraculous truths of Psalm 68:5 and 1 John 3:1

"A father to the fatherless... is God in his holy dwelling."

"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!"

I continued to read- not just the infamous experiments in applied child psychology, but the ordinary children's books. There were lovely, laughing ones, (Did you know that Tolkein wrote and illustrated an enchantingly ridiculous story called 'Mr. Bliss'?) and sweet ones, and folk tales, and illustrations in everything from watercolor to collage. Many brought back memories- we are an extremely book oriented family, and read EVERYTHING aloud together, so I grew up on a wide variety of children's lit.
Some, too, were just sickening. Like 'Daddy Has A Roomate', about a little boy whose parents get divorced so his Dad can move in with his boyfriend. Worried? Don't be. It's ok (the book tells us) because Mommy and Daddy and the Boyfriend all agree that this new word 'gay' they are trying to explain to the child, means just an 'extra kind of love', and 'love is the best thing in the world.'
By the time I'd reached this point, I was sick and dizzy with a sort of headache-induced nausea. Palmistry, reincarnation, witchcraft, animism, ghosts, idolatry, Humanism, Buddhism- was there ANYTHING not being fed to little minds?
I tried to imagine the confusion facing a child who attempted to find answers about life in such a place. And television, the more common source of information, is even worse!
But, then, where else can they go? To parents who never learned? To teachers? To peers, equally confused? Will no one stand in the gap? No one?

Here's what Amy Carmichael had to say:
"...At my feet a precipice broke sheer down into infinite space. I looked, but saw no bottom... only unfathomable depths... Then I saw forms of people moving single-file along the grass. They were making for the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms, and another little child holding on to her dress. She was on the very verge. Then I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next step... it trod air. She was over, and the children over with her. Oh, the cry as they went over!
Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All were blind, stone blind; all made for the precipice edge. There were shrieks as they suddenly knew themselves falling, and a tossing up of helpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went over quietly, and fell without a sound.
Then I wondered, with a wonder that was simply agony, why no one stopped them at the edge... I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals. But the intervals were far too great; there were wide, unguarded gaps between. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, quite unwarned...
Then I saw, like the picture of peace, a group of people under some trees, with their backs turned toward the gulf. They were making daisy chains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reached them, it disturbed them, and they thought it rather a vulgar noise. And if one of their number started up and wanted to go and do something to help, then all the others would pull that one down. "Why should you get so excited about it?...You haven't finished your daisy chains. It would be really selfish," they said, "to leave us to finish the work alone." ...
One child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink of the gulf; the child clung convulsively, and it called, but nobody seemed to hear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the child went over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-off bunch of grass...
Then came another sound like the pain of a million broken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of great darkness was on me..." -Amy Carmichael

Daisy Chains... are so many things. Why is it that the Church in the U.S. is, as a whole, more concerned with new carpet, and lighting fixtures, and the latest sound systems, than it is with discipleship, with discipline, with the sacrificial commitment to reach human souls? Why is it that your average Christian is expending so much of his energy agonizing over political battles, and elections won or lost (or even football games won or lost!), yet gives so little of himself to battling principalities and powers, and winning human souls? Why is it that in America, the wealthiest nation in the world, we have money for new cars, exquisite home decor, and namebrand clothing, yet can only spare a few dollars, if that, to support those who DO wish to go out and serve? Why do we have time for televisions, and computers, and magazines, and newspapers, and a staggering range of hobbies, yet only moments to spare for studying God's Word- much less for actually teaching it to others- even less for building the relationships, for investing the interest and affection which make God's love a visible reality?

It's a hard question to ask- and, although sometimes I'm desperately frustrated- long to grab the American church by the shoulders and SHAKE it into wakefulness- the truth is, I'm equally guilty. As sinful people in a broken world, none of us will ever do 'enough'. I'm willing to bet that Peter and Paul and all the rest of the Apostles made mistakes, missed opportunities, lost focus, and got sucked into the seductive pastime of daisy-chain weaving at some points in their lives. And those guys were SOLD OUT to God. So, our chances at perfection are somewhere below nill.

BUT WHY ARE WE SO SATISFIED WITH THAT?

I sat weeping among the children's books because of all of the loose ends in the picture the world was painting, because of the crushing weight of those millions of lives, shattered from their very beginning, because I sit in class with those children every day, and pass them in the halls, and for most of them, it's too late. Oh, I know- it's never over till you're dead. But there is a spiritual deadness and hardness that increases over time. And in so many of the people around me, I see that a window which was open ten, fifteen years ago, when they were facing the world wide open and full of questions, is now tightly shut. Who can say when, if ever, it will open again?

But I was also crying because of the deep, heartbreaking realization, coming yet again, that my own hands, on a day to day basis, are filled with daisies, and my fingers, with the force of long habit, are weaving stems and leaves in and out, in and out, as though nothing on earth were more important! I cried for the thought of that child, falling into endless emptiness with nothing but a grass-tuft to cling to, which, had I been more faithful, might have stood safely on the solid ground of Truth. There is no balm for this kind of ache. But, neither is there any 'if' in God's Kingdom!
There are only the present and the future. What will I make of them? What will you?
It remains to be seen. I pray that God will show us the gaps to stand in, subordinate the thundering, importunate 'WHERE?' to the stern discipline of 'HERE!', wherever 'Here' is.
What terrifying, wonderful responsibility it is to guard the gaps for little folk whose "...feet are so uncertain and feeble...", to stand where "...the ways are so steep and strange.", to serve a God who said: "I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children."(Matt 11:25) "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." (Mark 10:14) "From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise." (Matt 21:16).
I cannot begin to comprehend it! We follow a King who not only

'clothed Himself in vile man's flesh that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe." (Donne), but who

"...took the children in his arms..." (Mark 10:16)

Most days, I just feel a huge aching in my heart because MY arms aren't big enough. I can't reach far enough. I want to hold them all, shelter them all, and instead, am constantly letting go, watching their lives brush against mine, and slide away again.
And yet, in Texas, shattered by the pain of 'deserting' a truly special group of kids, and not merely saying goodbye, but of sending them back at the end of the week into brutally abusive and hopeless homes, I realized that even though my arms AREN'T enough, even though I can't protect them, can't train them, can't LOVE them the way I long to, HIS arms are eternal and limitless- His power to protect, His faithfulness to shape and instruct, His love and comfort are an unfailing source.
And even though I only have a week, or five days to impact them, HE has a lifetime!

It seems to me, in this precious moment of clarity, that for a God not merely so mighty, but so tender, we can afford to let go of our 'daisy chains'; the thousand everyday, useless things that fall to ashes, or less, at the least searching glance from Eternity, and hold to- or rather be held BY- the One "in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge." (Colossians 2:3) [You will NOT find 'the treasures of wisdom and knowledge in the Children's section of MWSU's library.]

"For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be the glory forever." (Romans 11:36)