Identity Crisis

March is a big month in the life of our family. With our two oldest boys being born 5 days shy of 2 years apart, there is one week each March where a whole lot of growing up is done in not a lot of time. On March 12th, I had a 3, 4 and 6 year old. By March 18th, I had a 3, 5 and 7 year old. For a lady who’s perhaps just a weeeee bit sentimental about the idea of her babies growing up, this is a lot to take in. (If I’m sentimental at the mere idea of my children growing, then I’m a flat out mess in face of the reality of it.)  I’m still breathing deeply to help cope with the situation.

I know what you’re thinking and I get it, alright? Children grow. It’s an inevitable and obvious part of life. I knew when I got them that they would grow bigger with each passing day, so is it really all that life-altering that they are doing what I knew they were going to do in the first place?

Actually, yes.  It most definitely is.

Sure, I knew in some vague, hypothetical way when that first baby was placed in my arms that eventually that baby would turn into a full-grown man.  But to actually see it happening right before my eyes?  I mean who, as a parent to a newborn baby, is able to see themselves -at that point in time- as a parent to that baby when he is a full-grown adult?  WHO HAS THAT POWER?!  So while, yes, I knew they would grow, I had no inkling of what that entailed.  No clue that they would grow in such massive leaps and bounds. I could not have fathomed how having a child would so deeply affect the way I experience the passing of a lifetime; How having a child would so intensely alter my perception of each imaginable increment of time.  Seconds have felt like days and years have seemed nothing more than a few short moments strung together.

Quite frankly, the notion of time has long since eluded me (I mostly blame The Wrinkle in Time series for this), but I don’t even know how I’m supposed to deal with this incessant passing of time now that I’m a mother. I have a 7 year old. How did that happen? I’m not a 7 year old’s mom. I’m the mom of tiny babies and toddlers. The mom who manages the mass chaos of having 3 boys in less than 4 years. The master mom who nurses the baby, opens the 2 year old’s juice box, and puts the 4 year old’s tennis shoes on as he returns from being sufficiently perfectly supervised (by me) at the Chick-fil-a playground. I can do all these things simultaneously and with ease. That’s me. I’m that mom.

But this little scene right here? I can barely stand it.

Why is my tiny baby son riding a bike with only two wheels?!  What neglectful parent bought him a bike ramp for his birthday?  Thank God someone at least had the sense to put him in a helmet (I bet that was his mother). Yes, my tiny baby son is now 7 entire years old now, and I’m afraid the mommy-era may be coming to an end. I have this image in my head of my mommy-self being left in a trail of dust barely visible in the rear-view mirror of a car traveling onward at break-neck speed.

All this growing begs me to consider, who am I going to be in this new stage of life? What happens to the baby-mama me? I was so dang good at the baby-mama part! I don’t mean to boast or anything, but I kinda rocked the infant stage. Babies don’t scare me. (Ok, the first baby scared me maybe just a little but not for long.) I had stellar advice on the infant stage from moms who went before me – such gems as “As long as he’s crying you know he’s breathing which means he’s obviously still alive”, and “Don’t worry, he won’t remember any of this”. Those 2 pieces of advice alone got me through most every baby-to-toddler situation my three little men threw at me.  Yeah, I pretty much had that stage down. That was a stage of life in which I thrived – as if I were somehow built for it.  So as that stage comes barreling to a close, I sometimes find myself not recognizing who I am.

Who is this woman without a baby on her hip? This strange woman who has time to do things like bathe, paint her nails, wear jewelry and make new friends? I barely recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror. Wait…Are those skinny jeans?  WHO ARE YOU?! We swore with all our might that we would never wear those things!  The other day I wore a patterned head scarf and big, hoopy earrings (gypsy-chic, if you will) and a friend of mine told me that I looked so cute she almost didn’t recognize me. She emphasized this by saying it twice. “Seriously. So cute. I didn’t even recognize you.” (Umm, thanks?)

But I get it, I barely recognize myself.  Wasn’t it just last month (year?) that my daily uniform was confined to maternity jeans, black t-shirts and spit rags? (breast-feeding chic, if you will.)   I’m obviously experiencing some sort of identity crisis at this junction in my life.  Too late to be a quarter-life crisis (thanks for nothing, John Meyer)…it couldn’t possibly be a mid-life crisis quite yet…So, what?   I’m looking at maybe a three-eighths life crisis?  Do life crises even come at the three-eighths interval?  Is this even possible?

Or maybe it’s not a life crisis at all.  Maybe it’s just a mama crisis.  A dear-lord-what-do-I-do-at-this-new-stage-of-motherhood crisis.  So once again, it’s time for me to re-learn some of the truest truths.  It’s time for me to focus intently in on the only one who never changes.

My identity as a mama of littles may be in crisis, but my identity as a follower of Christ holds strong. The sands of time may be shifting predictably beneath my feet, but there is a rock just below the surface that stands firm.

As our family evolves, my role in it will morph and adjust to meet the changing needs of my guys.  It has to.  But my main purpose as a mama will always remain the same:  I will continually point my children to Jesus.  The methods will no doubt change, but the message will not.  When they were infants, I pointed them toward Jesus by holding them tight.  As their physical, mental and emotional abilities grow, much of pointing them to Jesus will involve my letting them go. (Thus the bike ramp, people).  

I may have to wrestle a bit with my ever-changing identity as their mama, but I suspect that as time marches on I’ll somehow adapt.  I’ve seen evidence of this in my friends whose children are now preteens and young teens. I see no indication that they hole themselves up in the house all day, sobbing over the lost infant and toddler years of their young while their practically adult children are in school all day every day.  Surely, I will not be as strong as they. Surely, my heart will crack into a zillion pieces when all my babies leave me and I will die.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I’ll just keep on keepin’ on, looking back in gratitude for the good gift of time that God has given me, and forward in eager expectation of the stage that comes next.  All the while, totally rocking that gypsy-chic look.

Pour out your heart like water before the presence of the Lord!  Lift your hands to him for the lives of your children…Lamentations 2:19

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So happy to be linked up today at #TellHisStory

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Listen to Your Mother

I remember the overwhelming feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach as I boarded a plane to Venezuela my sophomore year of college. In fact, I can still recall exactly what I was thinking as I looked over my shoulder to give one last goodbye to my mama as I climbed aboard, “This is the stupidest thing I have ever done.” Months prior, I had signed up for a study abroad program that landed me in South America for 6 weeks during the summer of 1999. It was the first time I had ever gone anywhere by myself. At the time I registered for the course, it seemed like a brilliant idea:  As I flew away from everything and everyone I knew that day, I was terrified. It was the scariest thing I had ever done.

Funny how the scary brings out our brave.

I learned a lot about life in general and myself in particular during those six weeks abroad.  Lessons I’m still re-learning as each year pulls me further and further away from that first scary thing I ever did.

I learned that I was capable of doing things I never thought I could do.
I learned that comfort breeds stagnation.
I learned that the world was a bigger and much more varied place than the little corner of it that I inhabited.
I first began learning that I could trust God.
I learned that you should never drink shots of gin in a bar in Venezuela (still thanking God for that little nugget of wisdom).

Needless to say, it was an amazing, perspective-shifting experience. On the plane ride that returned me home at the end of that six week jaunt, I reflected on how terrified I had been in the first place.  How I almost called the whole thing off.  I promised myself that day that I would never stop doing terrifying things. That I would never say no to something because it was out of my comfort zone. That I would refuse to avoid things simply because they were different or unknown. That from time to time I would actually seek out those scary, uncomfortable, risky endeavors so that God could grow me in the way that He can only grow you in those uncharted territories.

Two weeks ago, I walked into an audition {audition?!} with a story I wrote about motherhood. I was terrified. I fumbled through my reading. My hands shook with nervousness. I stood when I should have sat. I laughed at the wrong times and forgot to laugh when I was supposed to laugh.  It was a mess.  I was a mess.  As I returned to my car after the audition that day, I thought, “I can’t believe you just did that. That you just auditioned for something.  That was kinda a disaster.” It was a disaster.  But disaster or not, I was glad I did it.  I remembered how all those years ago I had promised myself that I would never stop doing scary things.  That audition was scary.  I can only assume the actual show will be terrifying.

I am thrilled to do this next scary thing. If you’re anywhere in the area, please consider joining us – the cast of Listen to Your Mother Southeast Texas – this Mother’s Day Weekend as motherhood is given the microphone.  We’ve got mamas telling stories about being a mama, non-mamas talking about their own mamas, and a host of other stories all centering around the topic of motherhood. Bring a car-full of mamas with you and call it a girl’s night out. I’d love to see you there!

This time, I’m doing my scary thing in front of an auditorium full of people.  What could be scarier than that?!

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In God, whose word I praise, in the Lord, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can man do to me? Psalm 56:10-11

A People Marked by Remembrance

Ash Wednesday. I shuffle in a few moments late and take a seat in one of the back pews of the Episcopal church. I’m clearly a first-timer. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do in an Episcopal church service. Unfamiliar with the customs of the denomination, I fear sticking out like a sore thumb. I quickly scan my surroundings so I can gauge what to expect. I see Bibles. Ok, feeling good.  Bibles I know. Other books – a hymnal, no problem there; Book of Common Prayer, hmm…heard of, definitely…pretty sure I can figure it out. Kneeling rail in front of each pew, seems self-explanatory. Everything looks mostly…normal. I begin to relax. “It’s a church.” I tell myself. “A church. You can do this. You know church.”

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I do know church. Just maybe not as well as I thought. After over a decade of church attendance, I was a little caught off guard by how hesitant I felt visiting an unfamiliar denomination. I was reminded of how all churches felt to me in the beginning – foreign.

I didn’t grow up a part of a denomination. As a child, church attendance wasn’t a part of our family life even on the occasional or obligatory basis. I had no inclination toward one type of church over the other because I had no idea whatsoever – all denominations were equally unknown. A girl growing up in a suburban city of the Bible Belt, where there is a church on every corner, had no idea what was going on inside any one of them. When I became a Christian later in life, church long remained part of the equation that completely mystified me. In fact, I did my best to try and get around it. I remember thinking, “Lord, if there’s a way that we can keep this thing that we’ve got going between just you and me and avoid the whole church business, then could we go that way? Please?”

Yet try as I did to stay away, the Lord inevitably began pulling me in. So in I went. Although I didn’t know quite what to expect, I was certain I wouldn’t fit in: Church seemed to me to be a place for the people who were raised there. But there I was, an outsider coming in – not even knowing enough to know how to fake it. The fact that I so love His church now is a testament to how forcefully the Lord moves through the imperfect people who love Him:  I haven’t met even one perfect person in the years since I first began attending – not even the ones who were raised there.  It turns out I fit right in.

The longer I have been in church, the more fascinated I have become by it’s long-held traditions. Baptism, Communion, Advent, Lent. As an outsider, these traditions were always so strangely curious to me (maybe even a little weird). But, just as a decade ago the Lord began beckoning me into His church, these last few years the Lord has been beckoning me deeper and deeper into the traditions of His church.  As a young Christian I had always been put off by the rote nature of tradition.  I now feel somehow stabilized by it. My faulty assumption early on was that because these traditions were religious, then they must have been lifeless.  I associated such tradition with Jesus’ words to the Pharisees

 “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead people’s bones and all uncleanness. So you also outwardly appear righteous to others, but within you are full of hypocrisy and lawlessness.” Matthew 23:27-28

Jesus could levy such harsh criticism against the Pharisees because He had insight straight into the heart behind their actions.  My criticism lacked such foundation.  Their religious acts were lifeless, but they didn’t have to be.  By throwing out religion, I was throwing out the baby with the bathwater.  I’m not sure if my beliefs stemmed more from ignorance or arrogance, probably a little of both.

As God has been full-on attacking some of my flawed thinking in regards to the church, he has been correcting the notion that the observance of such church tradition is necessarily dull and defunct. To the contrary, these traditions are packed full of the collective heart and wisdom of the generations of believers who have come before. Some of them dating back to the very first believers who actually heard these words come out of Jesus’ mouth, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

Remembrance would be a trait that would mark the people of God.  And these traditions serve the necessary function within the body of Christ of teaching us to remember.  They remind us to remember.  Jesus took the wine and broke the bread, saying, “Do this in remembrance of me.” (Luke 22:19)

IMG_7389Remembrance. Back to Ash Wednesday.

It didn’t take long for me to begin picking up on the call and response format of the service; A truth is uttered by the officiant, a response is given by the people.

Truth.  Response.  Truth…Remembrance…Response.

Within the context of the service, the truth spoken by the officiant triggers remembrance in the people, which elicits a response from the people.

God’s people are a people marked by remembrance.  So on Ash Wednesday the Reverend reads from the Book of Common Prayer: Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the earth: Grant us that these ashes may be to us a sign of our mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Savior.

As each believer in the sanctuary makes their way up front, we are marked with ashes on our forehead and these words are spoken over us…

Truth:  “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

I make my way back to my pew and sit down.  Just behind me, an old man rasps, his breathing heavy, labored and uneven.  The truth resonates.

Remembrance:  I begin to remember. {You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.  James 4:14}  {“All flesh is like grass and all its glory like the flower of grass.  The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever.” 1 Peter 1:24-25}

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Response: With that elementary fact remembered, the playing field is suddenly so level.  You and me, we’re both flesh and bone.  Whether Baptist, Methodist, Episcopal or Pentecostal.  Stay-at-home, working, or working-from-home.  Tall, short, slender or curvy –  we’re all made of the same stuff and one day our earthly bodies will disintegrate right back into it. It may not be the most glamorous view of life, but it does a pretty good job of reminding me that it’s not about me. And it’s not about you. We’re nothing but dust.  It is only by His gracious gift that we are given everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Savior.  So this Lenten season let’s be bold enough to lean into remembrance – remembering the path He took to bring a people who were once so far away, so very near.

Remember that you were at that time separated from Christ, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world.  But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. Ephesians 2:12-13

 

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Linked up today at #ThreeWordWednesday

 

 

The People of the Cross Look Towards the Cross

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“Mama?” Jacob whispers, “Can you come help?”

I was awakened at 4am by a coughing 4 year old boy who had accidentally wet his bed. I’m aware of his little presence at my bedside before my groggy consciousness can put my surroundings in their proper place. Blurry-eyed, he and I shuffle down the hallway together and back to his room for fresh pajamas, a clean blanket and medicine for his cough. He’s all fixed up for another several hours of sleep. I get sweet kisses and one last hug. With Jacob back in his bed, I head back down the hall towards mine. I settle back in to rest, but can’t find it. My thoughts start bouncing off the sides of my brain, colliding and reverberating until finally, they begin resonating. You see, I tend to hear the Lord best in the dark. Just as you can see the light most starkly against a dark sin-stained backdrop, you can hear the light most clearly against the pitch black backdrop of the dead of night. And at 4am on this Tuesday, February 17th, the darkness of the world is blaring full blast.

As I lie in bed looking for sleep, I am haunted by the knowledge that on the other side of the world 21 families feel the heavy weight of this broken world to the point that it crushes the breath from their lungs.  They ache, they long, they mourn, and in my nice, comfortable bed with all my family tucked in tight, every one of us safe and sound, I somehow feel less safe than I ever have before. But it’s not the palpable hate of the executioners or their assurance that there is more to come that has pulled the safety net out from under my feet – oh no, we must never give them that right.  To the contrary, it is Christ’s love that beckons me into the deep, roaring waters of the dangerous. Against every instinct of mine to stay in the shallow area of belief where it seems safe, he calls me out further and further. His voice is so clear amidst the chaos. He beckons, don’t stay where it’s safe.

You’re not safe where it’s safe.

Our idolatry of safety is putting us in harm’s way.

In a world where the darkness presses in tight, who among us doesn’t long to be safe?  But we mustn’t make the mistake of mistaking safety for security.  Safety is an illusion that doesn’t exist.  We claim to have the right to feel safe in our homes, in our schools, on our streets. We buy hand guns (I’m in Texas, y’all), install security systems, practice lock-down drills and move to the best neighborhood we can afford in the hopes that those provisions will keep us from harm. But by guarding ourselves with all these safety measures, we’re building a wall we can’t see beyond.  We’re contributing to the illusion that safety exists.  We hide our eyes from evil, but that does nothing to hinder it’s existence.  Is it possible that as a people, we have confused our longings?   Maybe we long for more than safety – more than just a temporary shield from the flesh and blood dangers of this world.  Maybe our real longing is for security – an eternal protection against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness (Ephesians 6:12).

We must not confuse the two.  Playing it safe will never bring us security. Security is only found beneath the banner of His perfect love and there is no safe way to get there:  The security of His perfect love can only be accessed through the cross.  The cross – the antithesis of safety.  No matter how we try to sanitize it and normalize it and intellectualize it, the cross refuses to clean itself up. It is not a shiny, gold charm worn on a dainty chain or a silver James Avery ring. It is rough and wooden and soaked in the atoning blood of Christ.  Those who trust in the cross must not dare try to make it more palatable than it actually is.  There is no security in a cleaned up cross and if safety is what you’re seeking you won’t find it there.

Don’t give up your security in Christ for safety in this world.

There was no illusion of safety for those 21 men whose lives were taken on Sunday, but rest assured that at this moment, they stand eternally secure because He who hung on the cross refused to play it safe.  In the wake of their deaths, the people of the cross look earnestly towards the cross.  Tomorrow, on the first day of Lent, the people of the cross will stare hard, refuse to look away, and intently dial in on the road that led to Calvary.  We remember the thorns, look close at the nails,  examine the spear that pierced His flesh.  We give not just a passing glance, an occasional thought, or an obligatory devotional on our way out the door, but a prolonged concentration on the necessity of the cross in bringing resurrection.

I don’t know where your heart is towards Christ this season of Lent.  But maybe you’re a lot like me.  My faith wavers, my affections ebb and my walk sometimes feels so downright feeble and clumsy.  I struggle and I yearn and I long for the comfort of safety, too.  But this Lent season, I’m going for broke.  For 46 days, I’m setting my eyes intently on the cross.  I’m trusting that He’ll meet me there in all my imperfections and waverings and misgivings.  Encouraged by the lives of those 21 who loved Him, even to death, I’m leaving the shallow safety of the shore.  What might He do in us these next 46 days if you joined me here?

 

 tellhisstory-badge I’m linked up today over at #TellHisStory.  Go check out more of God’s stories there!

Love’s Labors Lost

Today’s the day. Today masses of people ponder one of the most precious gifts God has given with more intensity than on any other day of the year. Today people ponder love. Say what you will about the necessity or validity of this commercially produced and sponsored holiday.  Perhaps you’re a Valentine’s Day hater like myself, or maybe you adore everything about February 14th – heart shaped pancakes and all. Whichever way your sentiments toward this holiday lean, the net effect the day has on each of us is the same, it begs us to consider love.

And because love is so certainly a gift worthy of consideration, I decided to lay my cynicism towards Valentine’s Day aside so I could do just that. While I was at it, I also gave some thought to why this particular holiday – a holiday built around the notion of love – has always given me such pause.  The conclusion I’ve reached is really quite simple: Love can be downright terrifying.

Even from a very young age, I never carried any illusion that love could exist without the strings of heartache attached. I didn’t have to look any further than my immediate surroundings to see the interconnectedness between love and loss. My little family was crushed beneath the weight of the lost labors of love. Divorce, division, brokenness. The after effects of my parent’s separation can still be traced to this day. Battle lines were drawn, allegiances were formed, possessions were divided and the house was sold. As my parents’ relationship dissolved, I looked on as twenty years of their love’s labors were lost.

And that wasn’t lost on me.

I came to fear that I would lose in that same way. That I would work, invest, plant and labor in my affections for another person, only to end up with a loss.  I couldn’t find a way to guarantee against this happening.  In fact, it seemed much more likely than not.  And that terrified me.  This predicament is not mine alone: it is universal in it’s scope. It’s been a consistent theme throughout the story of mankind since almost the very beginning.  So much so that you can feel the weight and devastation of the lost labors of love all throughout the gospel narrative.  Not just between husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister, but much more significantly, between man and God.

Adam and Eve turn from the Lord God their creator at temptation’s first beckoning call, and it seemed as though God’s labors of love were lost.

The Israelites neglect the God who freed them from the bondage of Egyptian slavery, and it seemed as though God’s labors of love were lost.

Judas betrays Jesus into the hands of those who would kill him, and it seemed as though God’s labors of love were lost.

Peter denies all affiliation with Jesus, and it seemed as though God’s labors of love were lost.

Yet despite the consistent turning away of this people from their God, there remains an undercurrent of hope all throughout the gospel story – a promise that one day love will win.

And I will give them one heart, and a new spirit I will put within them. I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh…And they shall be my people, and I will be their God. Ezekiel 11:19-20

No matter the betrayal, the passivity, or the idolatry committed against Him, God’s labors of love would not lose. So bent was our God on bringing a hell-bent people home, that he would enter into death to redeem them there. And God’s motivation?

For          God          so          loved           the         world, that he gave his only Son… John 3:16

Love.

Despite all the times love’s labors were lost on us, God continued on in His pursuit of us. Until finally at the cross, love’s labors won.

So, yeah, love is a costly endeavor.  And you and me?  We’re never guaranteed a win when we love another person.  We’re all flawed and fallen, carrying suitcases of baggage behind us, and sometimes the best we can do is just limp right along.  People leave and betray and deny each other and we can all be so fickle in our affections.  But there is something about loving another person that teaches us something about His love for us.  And His perfect love, which never loses, is able to cast out our fear of love’s labors being lost.

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February’s Four-Letter Word

Today I am guest blogging over at Houston Moms Blog!  I just love this city-wide mama resource and couldn’t be more thrilled for the chance to pop in over there.  Click here to get to HMB and read my thoughts on February’s most controversial four-letter word. Don’t forget to share your own thoughts on all the Valentine’s Day hype in the comments section below the post on HMB.  I’d love you to hear your thoughts on this topic.  See you back here real soon!

 

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On a Wire

I watch as this guy on tv walks a wire across the Grand Canyon, of all places. From where I sit on my couch, 43 feet above sea level, I don’t envy his journey one bit. He dangles 1500 feet above the rock hard earth with nothing but a 2 inch wire separating him from the fall. No harness. No net. Wind whipping wildly about him. He nimbly traverses each tedious step and I think, “Well, isn’t this a metaphor for life?” A series of carefully weighed steps over the great unknown, where one false move could un-do you.

That’s the feeling I’ve been fighting and it’s turned me into a make-shift tightrope walker. Only in my mind I’m balancing a stick stacked with spinning plates, too.

But the part of me that knows the truth says there’s something about my feeling that doesn’t ring true. I realize that my perspective has been tainted. I’ve been battling a lie that the enemy is bound and determined to get me to believe. “You’re fragile,” he’s been insisting. “So easily broken,” he lies. “Your situation is tedious. Precarious. Slightly off-kilter.  Careful how you proceed, my dear. I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for a fall.”

Everyday is a battle of weighing truth against lies. And when I tether myself to the enemy’s lies, living life is like walking a tightrope.  There is no grace.  The margin of error is nonexistent.

I turn up the volume on the tv and play the clip of this dare-devil tightrope walker once more. And then I hear the word that brings the whole crazy scene into focus. That guy hovering over the Grand Canyon keeps repeating one word over and over again.  Jesus.  He says it again and again, “Jesus.”

Jesus is what keeps our tight rope walk across the grand canyon of life from being one false step away from certain demise.

The sound of Jesus’ name coming out of that tightrope walker’s mouth opens my eyes to how intentional the enemy has been in his deception.  He’s been hard at work since our story began turning God’s good truth into lies.  While it’s true that I may be fragile in this garment of flesh and bone, and oh so apt to take a tumble, there is nothing fragile, precarious or unsteady about my situation. I am His.

Because I am His, I don’t have to live this life like it’s some sort of  tightrope walk. As if one false move could un-do me. Where my flesh fails, His grace abounds.  When I derail, His presence remains.  My fragility becomes an asset instead of an embarrassment because when I am weak, He is strong.

Just yesterday I told my friend, who’s walking a tightrope of her own, “The road we’re on may be narrow, but thank God we can walk it with thick, clumsy steps.”

That tightrope walker, Nik Wallenda, knows well the risk he’s taking every time he ventures up on that wire. His great-grandfather fell to his death while walking the same rope back in 1978.  But I gather that Nik also well knows the anchoring truth that once you are His, there is no fall so great that it can take away your life.

 

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