Anastasia

I was mad at God on Friday.

I've never actually been genuinely angry at God. Oh yes, I've had those "Really God? What are you doing?" moments, but on Friday, I was raging. It was only for a fraction of my day, but it was enough to draw me away from him and begin to doubt the promises he has already fulfilled in my life and those he will continue to be faithful with.

We had been praying as a small group for weeks that this little baby would be a girl.  In a matter of 24 hours, we found ourselves back at their house, praying that this little baby would resurrect from the dead.

The parents didn't take the doctor's word as the final answer.  They would bring it to Jesus for the next few days and see what he had to say about it.

Everything pointed to a resurrection.  The name they chose twelve years ago: Anastasia, which means "resurrection."  Prophetic words spoken over the couple, and her womb ten years ago.  Encouraging words given three weeks ago, the time the baby supposedly died.  The room full of hopeful prayers that night, as the mother sat with the most peaceful smile on her face.  There was an expectancy and anticipation in that room.  There was joy that overcame the mourning.  There was hope in the power of Christ; the same power that rose Christ from the dead felt so available at our very fingertips.

All for His glory.

We truly believed Anastasia would live.

We truly believed this would launch something huge in our church and throughout the state.

We truly believed this little baby would be born and grow to be a witness of God's power and compassion to the nations.

But on Friday, the heart didn't start.  The baby remained dead.  Three ultrasounds that day, just to make sure.

And I was angry.

"God is still good, but they did miscarry", the messenger told me on the phone.

God is still good, huh?

I didn't believe it.

How come, when Jesus was on this earth, he healed everyone who asked?  How come now, when we have the promise that we will see greater things than these, a room full of Christ followers, declaring new life in Jesus' name shows no results?

How come a plane lands flawlessly in the middle of a river without a single casualty, and then just a few weeks later, a plane crashes into a house with no survivors?

But God is bigger than all of this.  If we understood all of his facets, he wouldn't be God.

I had to put away my anger, and praise him for the boldness he has instilled in our church over the past three years.  The fact that we were able to meet as a group and actually ask him for something so huge is well...huge.  

Bill Johnson tells of his church (which sees miraculous healings and resurrections on a regular basis) that they had to fight to get to where they are.  They saw plenty of failures in the process.  Over the years they have seen numerous babies who have been declared dead in the womb, resurrect from the dead.  But what has hidden in the shadows is the story of one of the pastor's wives who many years ago (before they began seeing regular healings) had a miscarriage, and even after intense praying, the baby remained dead.

But their failures became their victories.  Instead of choosing the path of anger and discouragement, you begin to pray more fervently as you become even more desperate to see his glory.  As you find yourself crying out to God even more, you're able to see his heart clearer.  It's that alignment that reveals His kingdom on earth.

And who knows.  The story isn't over yet.  

No matter what the ultimate outcome of Anastasia's life, she will be a testimony.  The way God rose her from the dead, or the way He used her to instill a strong faith in a small Sunday night church community to ask Him for anything and keep seeking for his heart.

And besides, the fetus is still in the womb.  There's still hope.  

How I regained my faith at a Caspian show

The beauty of instrumental music is that you're not explicitly told what to think or how to feel.  You can simply close your eyes and formulate your own interpretations while the artists silently guide you through theirs.  There are no lyrics that set the tone of the song, or reveal the thoughts of the creator.  Like a piece of well done, fine art, you can listen to the same song a hundred times and it will speak to you in a multitude of ways depending on your season, your circumstances, and your mantra.  Without words, the song is able to organically flow through you, becoming something deeply personal.

With a band like Caspian, the audience is left with an unanimous reaction: happiness.

While leaving the show Tuesday night, my always encouraging and supportive cousin, Eve, held onto her good friend and guitarist, Phil's forearms in the most endearing way.  Through her frosty breath she praised him for a job well done.  "No matter how many times I see you guys play, I am always left feeling happy.  It takes so much talent to play the type of music you play and not make everyone depressed or longing to kill themselves."  Then, she put into words everything my soul was longing to shout but could not articulate. "You instill a deep rooted joy through your music."

Could it have been that my very own cousin was the answer to my pleading prayers I had lifted up just an hour earlier in the basement of that Middle Eastern restaurant?  It was there that I begged God to give someone else the revelation I was having.  It was there that my faith in Him was restored.

I love going to shows.  I love discovering music that is new to me.  But this was a holy night.

During the first two songs I found myself crammed near the stage with my Stoli Raz and seltzer, bobbing my head, closing my eyes, and swaying with the rest of the crowd to the piercing tunes oozing from Caspian's weapons of choice.  

The music was beautiful.  The notes were so tangible that I could have plucked them out of the air as they swirled around me.  

But then I realized what was really happening.

My eyes were opened. 

God was there.

I found myself being so thankful that God created beautiful things like music and that these boys were thoroughly utilizing the talents He gave them.  Whether they realized it or not, they were honoring Him by creating space for me to worship.  It was space that had always been stifled and occupied by other people's voices.  A space that longed for the expression of my very own heart, uninfluenced by anything but Caspian's instrumental background.

My soul sang a new song to the Lord.  First, I whispered quietly into my cup as I pretended to suck up the icy remains.  But soon enough, propelled by the melody, I was screaming out Jesus' name and singing Him love songs. Since God dwells in the praises of His people, I knew He was present in that space.

It wasn't only the notes swimming through the crowd of six hundred that night; it was the Holy Spirit.  Searching. Touching souls.  Waiting for someone to recognize the ultimate source of her emotion and passion that emerges with the aid of the music.  There is no giant schism between the "secular" and the "sacred."  God shows up in the most unusual of places and displays His glory.  He is so desperately after every one of us that He will use every method to wake us up, realize it's Him, and mutually grasp His heart, (even if it's enjoying loud music with an eclectic mix of people, drink in hand, underneath the aroma of falafel and tabouli).

And that's when I became myself again.  I wanted my revelation and my renewed faith in the one true, everlasting, perfectly good God to be shared with everyone.  Like Abraham bartering with God on the edge of Sodom and Gomorrah, I naturally began interceding for everyone within that room, just like I used to do.  I begged that He would show just ONE person that night where her joy and movement ultimately came from.  How the one that is touching her heart isn't Phil Jamieson and his guitar, but Jesus and his Spirit.  Just one.  

I have faith that He heard my prayers.

And I have faith that is where His heart is.

Fog Soup

Last night I drove home through the thickest fog I've ever been.

I couldn't think of a better metaphor for my life.

My average speed was about 20 mph.  There were times when I had to nearly stop, not being able to see 5 feet in front of my car.  Other times the fog would completely clear as if the clouds never even imagined kissing the earth, only to be lost in them again 50 feet later.

As Ian McIntosh played through my car speakers, I meditated on the tears I shed and the encouragement I received moments earlier in my best friend's garage.  The way he's heard me pray, the way he's seen me grow over these three years.  It can't be false, he said.  But still, I want more.  

Oh to be the person that I was created to be.  Completely unabandoned and free.  Dancing before the throne of Jesus.  Going on a daily adventure.  Being confident of His ways.  Persevering towards His voice, even in the fog.

The music permeated the soup and comforted me with truths.  Ian McIntosh's poem set to music, Adoration, related to me the most.

There is a light that shines within me

There is a hope that burns inside me

Deep within my soul, my very existence

There is a being waiting to be freed

A child who knows no fear pain or rejection

There is an emotion all encompassing of excitement joyfulness gladness and love

The creative potential of laughter and the undeniable power of an infant's joy live inside me

Unmeasurable are my limits for I call You Father

Unimaginable my potential for You have called me son

There is someone inside of me waiting to be unleashed

Whom You embrace, whom I long to be

There is an all consuming fire, a light that permeates from my very being

You have unlocked me God

The doors You open no man can shut

I will praise You for all my days for You are good

You have released me God with Your love

You are everything

Haste, haste, to bring him laud!

Every year, without fail, my sister and I goof off at the Christmas Eve service.  I am surprised our parents have allowed us to sit next to each other all these years, but I see they are beginning to get in on it as well.  If you can't beat 'em, join 'em I suppose.

One of our goof off traditions is to laugh while singing "Haste, haste, to bring him laud!" in the sober classic What Child Is This?  Several years ago, I decided to stop pretending the word was "lard" and actually looked up "laud" in the dictionary.  Basically, as everybody in the world except for me probably knew, laud = praise.  Ok, that makes sense, I told myself... but I'm still going to laugh!

Last night my family and I attended the 11:00 service after a fantastic three hour French dining experience.  We were more tired than usual, but still willing to be obnoxious in church.  Things began normally as we eagerly anticipated the chorus to this beautiful song.  We sang it one time through and had our giggles.  On the second round, I got punched in the stomach.  

"Haste, haste, to bring him laud!"

Translation:  "Hurry up and don't wait a single second more to get up and praise Him!"  The urgency expressed in this line finally set in after years of giggling through the command.  My smile seceded.  I wanted to do nothing but dance in the aisles, but the sudden revelation of the meaning of these words kept me stunned in my seat.  The fact that everyone was sitting down as they passed communion would have made my sudden spurt a bit inappropriate as well... but I am ashamed now that I passed up the opportunity to dance like David.  

I felt anxious and excited for the rest of the night.  No, it wasn't because Santa was coming.  I could not wait to get back home, close myself in my room, and praise uninhibitedly and void of distractions.  I realized that this is my calling - to praise, not only immediately, but also with joy, and I could not wait to get it started.  He deserves every ounce of our worship and every molecule of our hearts (Happy Birthday, Jesus!).

As I laid in bed last night, I laughed as I usually do on Christmas Eve.  This time it wasn't due to silliness.  Instead, my laughter exploded from the joy of being unconditionally loved by my Creator.  I fell asleep whispering sweet nothings to Jesus, (which really mean everything to him), wishing I could have stayed awake to bring him laud all night.  

If grace is an ocean, we're all sinking.

Someone prayed for me tonight.  I didn't want it.  But they did anyway.  Turns out I needed it.

It's so hard to ignore the insignificant thoughts.  To focus on the things I know to be truth and the unchanging things that matter.

I still have unanswered questions.  But, for the moment grace is surpassing them all.  

It's comforting, but also a bit scary, to find out that some friends of yours have been going through the same exact thing and have been entertaining the same exact thoughts.  

Jesus is up to something and those against him are not happy.