Surrendering to Sabbath – Week 9

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On Friday, I’m running to catch the handle on the freight train and pull myself up. Walk through the empty car, sprawl out on the worn out seat of the urgent and watch the world blur past. Wait long enough for my heart to slow from swimming in the deep end of my cerebral pool. And watch the horses graze on rest.

And just when I sink in to the comfortable chair of belonging, Saturday saunters in with her dainty tray of service opportunities to seduce me. The smell of money; needs catering to a mind full of self.

” . . . .but I can’t give up my Sundays, sir, indeed I can’t. I read that God made man, and he made horses and the other beasts, and as soon as he made them he made a day of rest, and bade that all should rest one day in seven; and I think sir, He must have known what was good for them, and I am sure it is good for me. . . .” ~Black Beauty, The Sunday Cab 

Courage and conviction, I’ll take some of that. When duty calls you away from good intentions, may you hear the hallelujahs in the hedges. Even Jesus healed on the Sabbath.

“I have not lost my Sunday after all, for the birds were singing hymns in every bush, and I joined in the service.” ~Black Beauty, The Golden Rule 

Did you know that Black Beauty, Chapter 36 & 37 are on Sabbath? I didn’t, until a Sabbath sister told me. You can download the classic read on your Kindle here, it’s free.

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Some reading for your weekend:

Willie Robertson from Duck Dynasty (yes, I’m a fan) shares about the principle of patience and forgiveness that the Robertsons try to adhere to in their lives.  Read why those family dinners aren’t just a gimmick at the end of every episode.

Are you SBNR (spiritual but not religious)? Do you believe in God but not organized religion? Reverend Lillian Daniel questions your self-styled spirituality in this one. It made me think, and I like that. By Kate Blanchard for Salon.

Walking the Pharisee Path to Sabbath – She’s been a lurker for the past eight weeks and then Lisa decided to join the Sabbath Society. I’m so glad she did. Welcome her in the comments.

10 Principles to guide your Sabbath by the Sabbath Manifesto

For more inspired reading click on the links in the side bar under Delicious Reads.

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On Chocolate Cake and Asking for the Dream

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“What about a cake,” I ask Murielle as we push the grocery cart down the baking aisle. “Do you want me to make that chocolate cake for your birthday?”

She smiles the way I remember her with wispy locks and a pacifier plugged in her mouth;  a father of the bride moment for me standing in front of the pudding in Wal-Mart. Except now she’s days away from seventeen. How did I get here, the mother of a teenager?

“Oh, I love that cake,” she admits. “Yes, I want you to make that cake.”

And maybe for some, this is just an ordinary answer by your child to a simple question. But for this mother, it’s a gift. She rarely expresses what she wants because she considers others more important than herself.

The next question from her mouth? “But you won’t have to make the cake until later in the week, right? Will you have time to make it?” It’s typical from her. Thoughtfulness from a teenager that makes my heart swoon and sometimes stomp my feet. It humbles me on most days.

But standing in the aisle discussing party food with my daughter, I see my young self in her countenance. I rarely asked for what I wanted for fear of imposing on others too.

I place a box of chocolate fudge pudding for the cake on top of the snacks we’ve picked out for the party. The bags of favorite candy she thinks her friends will enjoy; carefully calculating the cost with each one as she places them in the cart.

I didn’t give her a budget. Doing this for her is a joy.

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And I wonder how often I do this with my prayers.  Think I’m imposing with my requests, being presumptuous with the ask. When I have a Father who wants me to be specific and tell him what I want. What I need. What I long for in the secret places of the soul. What I’m dreaming of.

This is the Father heart of God. What makes His heart smile; the same way my daughter telling me what she wants brings me delight.

Last summer, after reading the Circle Maker, I began to change the way I pray. Just like Jesus asking the blind men at the gate, “What can I do for you,” I’m imagining my Heavenly Father taking that posture with me.

In August last year, I asked Jesus for a regular place to write in community for my birthday gift. On my birthday, He answered that prayer in a text; a message from an editor asking me about writing regularly for his column. Of course I said yes.  A few months later, when he stepped down to focus his attention elsewhere, I was asked to take his place.

Today, I’m dreaming God-sized, asking Him for things outside my grasp and abilities.  The answer may come over a bite of chocolate cake. If it does, I’ll let you know about it.

What about you, do you have a hard time being specific in prayer? What are you doing that you can’t do without an intervention from God?

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Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose from the prompt: Food.

You can follow my Monday column, Living the Story, at BibleDude.net by signing up here to receive weekly stories written by myself, Kris, Kelli, and Cara.

 

Surrendering to Sabbath – Week 6

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H and I woke up in a hotel room last Sunday, ate room service with his mother at a conference table, and packed up our dirty laundry from the week. I spent the majority of my Sabbath in the car. We sat in silence for the first hour, watching the trees blur while our weary hearts warmed to the sun streaming in through the windows.

We discovered the secret to making biscuits on NPR. I read snippets from Love Does out loud to H. In between dozing off and private conversations with God, I made up stories in my mind about all those shacks out my window in the middle of abandoned patches of weedy fields. For four hours I thought about what I’ve taken for granted about love.

Sometimes you need to be trapped in a car to have Sabbath.

It’s really not as much about where you are or what you do, as it is about harnessing your heart and mind around the One chasing you with abandon all week. He’ll wait for that moment when you stop long enough to recognize he’s been there all along.

And when you do stop, all the questions fogging up the mirror in your mind, they will melt away. And your reflection will become crystal clear in the countenance of His unfathomable grace.

I once heard somebody say that God had closed a door on an opportunity they had hope for. But I’ve always wondered if, when we want to do something that we know is right and good, God places that desire deep in our hearts because He wants it for us and it honors Him. Maybe there are times when we think a door has been closed and, instead of misinterpreting the circumstances, God wants us to kick it down. Or perhaps just sit outside long enough until somebody tells us we can come in. ~Love Does by Bob Goff

Interested in joining the Surrendering to Sabbath Society, a growing sisterhood of nearly seventy that say, “Yes, I’m all in”? Send me an email: shelly@redemptionsbeauty.com.

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Links around the web worth a click:

Barbara Brown Taylor on Sabbath - we initiated Redemptions Beauty Book Club with her book Leaving Church last year.

52 Sunday Suppers – Kristin shares some fond memories of Sunday dinner and her pot roast is “the way pot roast should taste” according to H.

How Midrash Can Change Your Spiritual Life Forever by Margaret Feinberg

What Do You Need to See In Your Life Today by Holley Gerth

Holey, Wholly, Holy by Kris Camealy – a free e-book for Lent when you sign up for Kris’s newsletter.

And just a whisper here: I found out today that I lost hundreds of my WordPress.com followers in the migration of this new website. I would be ever so grateful for your continued presence in this community by joining through email or a preferred RSS feed. Thank you.

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Welcome to My {Not So Random} New Home

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Welcome to my new blog home! I’m ready to take you on the tour of each room, hoping you will feel comfortable enough to help yourself to what you find in the refrigerator afterward. You know, every piece of furniture, paint color, and in this case, every tab, holds a story. If I could, I would stand in the center of each room and share them all with you. All my stories of the way God led me to each decision.

An armoire stands next to the wall in the entryway of my house, a towering piece of inlaid, meticulous beauty like a question hidden underneath your dinner plate waiting to be answered. “How did you get that piece of furniture through the door,” they ask wide eyed, every time, on the first visit through the door.

My answer is always the same, “It breaks down into several pieces. Yes, even the eight foot mirror that weighs several hundred pounds is a separate piece.” It is a beloved wedding gift from my in-laws, one we’ve taken apart and put back together like a jigsaw puzzle in eight household moves.

And just like that armoire, all the pieces in the architecture of this new space come together to create a piece of art; the scaffolding of story holding it up to welcome you into this community.

I called Michelle to ask about designing a new header knowing her skills were way out of my league. Though we share a mutual pastor friend, we’ve never met. She lives in Chattanooga but we felt like next door neighbors after the first five minutes of conversation.

When I told her how much I love this particular design, especially the script used in Redemptions Beauty, she replied with a story that still gives me chills when I share it:

“Since you’ve chosen that particular design, I’d love to share the story of the script that I used for Redemptions Beauty… My dad is a font designer and he based “Petronella” on his mother’s handwriting. I have never used it for any project before, but felt that it was perfect for your blog.
My grandmother lived two doors down from the Frank family in Holland and during WW2 she travelled to South Africa to serve as a nurse. She missed home desperately, so she filled whole journals with daily letters to her sister. Meanwhile, her sister back home was also writing journals. Whenever possible, they convinced various soldiers, doctors, etc. to deliver the books to each other. Petronella stayed in South Africa after the war and, after many years of waiting and much prayer, met my grandfather. She became a mid-wife and delivered all the babies in a small, poor, mountain town for years. After she died, my Dad’s aunt sent him her journals. They are absolutely heartbreaking and beautiful to read. I thought you might appreciate that there’s true heart and much redemption tied into the typography.”

God embodies every intricate detail of our lives, even in the design of a new blog site. He loves in the way that makes our heart sing, our tears pool, and cheeks hot with the revelation of being truly known.

The more I learn of Christ, the more I know that nothing in life is random. The font called Petronella that carries the handwriting of redemption for decades and rests here on my blog, that isn’t random. And your visit here today, that’s not random either. Go ahead, look around and then come back with a friend. We have a lot of food in the refrigerator.

I’m so grateful to Arthur at Outstanding SetUp for his tireless and quick response to all my emails that took my blog from a .com to .org. For Jeff Goins being kind enough to have a conversation with me about next steps for my writing life and Dan King for the way he so generously gave up his time to teach me the technical foreign language of setting up Mail Chimp. I’m thankful for Michelle Newton at Tiny Bungalow Design for making it all look so pretty and for Kandi Pfieffer’s photography skills and her enthusiasm about shooting on a freezing day in the middle of an empty field with a zebra chair!

Linking with Jennifer, Jen, Heather, Laura, and Ann.

Blindsided

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I lived the early years of my life wearing afraid like a worn out sweatshirt hanging off my shoulder. Afraid to come home after school, dreading the descent of the long gravel driveway to the front door of the house hidden in the woods for what I might find inside.

I slept with my head underneath the covers at night sweating off the fear of being alone. Grasped the frayed ends of afraid with one hand cupped to my pajama chest and let my fingers open on brave when I told the stranger that followed my mother home to leave my house.

I walked the hallways afraid I wouldn’t measure up, make the grade, be found out or realize my dreams.

Then I left that sweatshirt lying in a heap on the back side of the dilapidated barn door of my youth. Choosing courage over staying stuck.

I pushed out my chest and held up truth to pages of lies the generations before me believed. And followed my dreams.

Because Jesus didn’t come so we could be afraid. He came so we would have life.

I woke up this morning beside the man who loves me. Kissed the kids I bore. I sat in the stillness, closed my eyes and couldn’t remember the last time I uttered the word afraid.

I’ve been blindsided by redemption.

Joining Lisa-Jo for Five Minute Friday (because it seems like that’s all the time I have right now) for the one word prompt: Afraid.

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Stupid Things Christians Say

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Gathered in overstuffed armchairs of her palatial living room, memories of my mega church, TV evangelist, name- it and claim-it, Midwestern spiritual heritage return like photographs strewn on the hardwood floor of my faith.  A phrase in the book we’re reading together conjures a childhood memory for her. And when she says the words tent revival, a filmstrip of forgotten fragments suddenly reappear in the accumulated files of my mind.

I remember how I lost favor with my boyfriend’s mother when she found out I didn’t speak in tongues.

Remember the Rhema prodigy I bused tables beside, the one who wouldn’t admit to being sick. She was wiping away tears from her flushed face, smiling through sneezes, delivering food to tables with germy hands. Declaring “I’m healed in Jesus name” to all of us gathered in our pie encrusted aprons like a fairy wanding magic dust. Believing that admitting the truth out loud would somehow diminish her faith. Or disappoint God.

****

“You know I’ve gone more than twenty-four hours now without sinning,” he said, widening his oval blues, elbows resting on the glass gun cabinet.

I meandered away from my post among watches and rings for a moment to flirt with the bible school boy in the back of the store. And this is how he greeted me.

Staring awkwardly at steel barrels and the price of ammunition, I waited for the acrid cloud of pride to vanish; the irony of his admonition lost in a haze of spiritual superiority.

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I sit on the front row draped in black, tassel swinging to the beat of my furious foot. Squinting to find my family seated in the nose bleeds awaiting the walk of my destiny. Falsely hoping they are lost among the crowds long enough to miss his speech.

We’ve already lived through the embarrassment. Oral Roberts locks himself in a prayer tower and proclaims that God will take his life if he doesn’t raise 8 million dollars. But he makes it long enough to cancel the scheduled keynote speaker, climb down from the tower and ask for more money from the crowds gathered to watch their children graduate.

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There are triggers from our past experiences that keep our faith from fully forming. Or they strengthen it.

It’s really our choice isn’t it?

Because I can use all the stupid things Christians say as the blue print for why I can’t continue to build my faith. Or use them as stepping stones to excavate truth.

My faith isn’t defined by the breadth of my own experience.   And like good art, deep faith evokes more questions than answers.

As I remember it, I drove my twenty-something self to church the day my legs wobbled down rows of concrete steps, into crowds of strangers gathered on the mega church floor. As I bowed my head toward my folded legs in surrender, I felt a hand rest gently on my back and I began to speak in tongues.

And then I broke up with my boyfriend to pursue God.

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Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. I Corinthians 1:27, The Message

I’m just wondering, what are the triggers from your past that keep you from saying yes to God today?

On Manhood: A Letter To My Son

As we focus on the inauguration of our President and a holiday set aside for Martin Luther King Jr., a man representing courage, I’m thinking about leadership and what it means for me, to parent my boy into a man. 

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What do I need to tell my son about being a man? It’s what I think about as I stare at the single candle flickering in front of my brothers 8 X 10, a tight frame capturing his far-away eyes. Sometimes I know by looking, just a glimpse in the eyes, about the tale of the soul.

The way I knew her marriage wasn’t well the day she walked up to the swivel chair and looked at me in the mirror. The way I knew his heart hurt when he crawled into the passenger seat after school.

My brother’s eyes changed after he drove his mother’s car off the bridge that night.  It was my week of the summer to be his sister in real life.  After I went back home to my mother, the sibling relationship, it became a paragraph in books of stories I never read.

His body crosses into eternal, drugs invade like a thief with a key to the front door. I still remember the boy I called brother in footed pajamas, scooping chocolate refrigerator pie into his mouth at the kitchen table.

The day we got the call about my brother’s death, my son shoved four friends into lake water, blew out candles on thirteen and grew hair in new places.

And somewhere between their two lives, waves a prairie of pages scattered like tumbleweed.  Pages on the wisdom of manhood I’m collecting like a book in my mind to give to my son when he crosses the threshold.

Paragraphs that tell you how a woman will love a man deep, when he stands up for what is right and true, despite the pain of rejection and risk of reputation.

Being honorable to the watching world is more appealing than being honored. Because when you love people more than a big house, your golf score and the size of your biceps, you’ll settle into your spot in the world. The address of Fulfilled spelled out on the mailbox.

When voices shout for you to join the club of doing in order to succeed, there will pages of prose reminding you that success listens to the whisper of being.

Because affirmation, the kind that sticks like gum on the bottom of your shoe, it doesn’t happen with the applause of crowds.  It cheers from an audience of One.

And that One, He wept and asked for help from twelve people with weaknesses, just like you.

I’ll bind the strewn pages of manhood, string them tear stained leather. Slide them into your suitcase when you aren’t looking.  And perhaps when you turn around to wave goodbye, I’ll have the privilege of hearing the mother’s heart song in your eyes. Look into the reservoir that tells the tale of the soul and embrace the silence.

As we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. today, a man with a legacy of courageous leadership, what advice would you give a boy growing into manhood?

A repost from September 2012.