If Only We Were Squirrels, & Could Sleep These Months Away.

Mid-October in Southern Georgia, a chill has finally taken to the air. I pull my jacket tighter, and welcome it. I welcome the season of thick socks and sweaters, of ear-warming beanies and noose-tight scarves. I welcome the change.

Which is a rarity, for me--I, who, most days, am such a resistor of change in any form. I , who, at the first sign of the season's turning, would often much rather stock up my goods, bury myself in a cave's warm belly, and drift into the sweet bliss of hibernation, than wait out the months among a world made bitter and barren with cold.

But there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven*, and hibernation has never been an option. When our time to be born is exchanged for our time to die, when our time to plant is exchanged for our time to uproot, when our time to search is exchanged for our time to give up, when our time to keep is exchanged for our time to throw away--these are the seasons our eyes strain for color, but are filled instead with only winter's gray.

What we are always forgetting is--how quickly the seasons shift. How soon the pain will pass--how inevitably the frost will melt--how marvelously those colors will be born again--and how deeply we will breathe in, that new and infinite expanse.

*Ecclesiastes 3:1.

Unmerciful Servant, There Will Be Weeping.

Why are you surprised at this, as if something strange is happening to you?

Of course. Of course the Enemy attacks our relationships. Of course he rips apart the sinews of the Body. Of course he snaps the tendons, tears the ligaments, shatters the bones. Of course.

He heard, too, that day God said It is not good for man to be alone. It is the day loneliness became a weapon, isolation a tactic of torture.

And we accept it so willingly. Blame, embitter, hate. Withdraw, retreat, run away. Flinging away our antidotes--forgiveness, mercy, love--far from our sob-wracked hearts.

We'd rather lay down and bleed. We'd rather curl up and die.

If you could hear these words spoken in my heart's voice, they'd be screaming. Dear brothers, dear sisters, have we fallen so far? We claim to follow the Perfect One, the Flawless, the Beautiful, who said of those who crushed Him, Forgive them, for they know not what they do--and yet, we will not fight for our brothers, our sisters? Because of a mistake, because of a sin? Because of our pride, because of our laziness?

We blame our inability to love on the other. I cannot love him, I cannot love her, because they did, they didn't do.

But it is our flaw, Beloved. It is we who refuse to love.

May God have mercy on us.

All In.

I was singing the words, out loud, but I knew they weren't mine. The words were God's, and He was singing them to me.

I'm all in--are you?

It's a common phrase. The meaning seemed self-evident, but I wanted a deeper understanding. So I looked up a few definitions, and found:

at the card table, to be broke (that is, out of money), because you already put all your money in the pot, so you can't play anymore;

having all of one's chips at risk in a single hand;

to be tired out, exhausted, as in I can't walk another step;

To be all in is to risk everything in a single, desperate act--after which, there is nothing left to give. It's what God did when He clothed Himself in flesh and poured out His blood on a nail-pierced cross, an act that spoke more loudly than words--

No more games. I don't want to play anymore. Win or lose, My cards are on the table. 

And here we sit, across from Him in the low light. Utterly broken. Battered, threadbare, weary. Clinging to our last, few, worthless cards. We hold them tightly, afraid of what it will mean to let go. Knowing we'll lose.

So, we prolong the game. Or, we walk away.

But, what if the risk is worth it? What if, in giving up everything, we gain more than we ever could have imagined?

What if we don't understand the rules of this game, after all? What if our defeat turns into the most beautiful of rescues? And in losing, we find our greatest victory?

God is all in, for you. He always has been, since the very beginning. It's your move--your final move--and only two options are left to you: all or nothing.

When I Looked Through Better Eyes Than Mine.

What do I think? I think there are bigger, more beautiful horizons ahead, love. You will paint them yourself, in bold, brilliant strokes, with the colors that even now drip from your fingertips, honeycomb golds and deep-water blues--a hand-printed portrait of your heart's spillover.

I hope I'm close enough to see the mess you'll make. Blossoms of beauty erupting on everything you touch, spreading from your smile that reaches up like a flower to sunlight (stretching higher still). And everywhere you walk, green shoots springing up from once-dirt, cradled in the shadow of your footfalls. I'll smile as they, too, curl their newborn heads toward the sun.

But time is twin to change, and distance more than darkness takes its toll on the eyes. So if I cannot watch as you wade knee-deep in beauty (drifting deeper still), at least I know I'll hear you. Because the sound of glory reverberates for miles, sprouts wings and leaps oceans to enter the ears of the listening. And I'll be listening for you, love. I believe I'll recognize your song.

It will be much different than the faltering, hesitant melody you started with. The colors a blend of something new. But I'll recognize the beauty, love. And I'll know it belongs to you.

When Dying is Gain.

The bitter, holy night that I surrendered, it felt like loss. Dreams, slaughtered on the altar.

(There was no angel to stop me, and all around the thornbushes were bare.)

I did not stay to watch the blood collect in pools, did not wait for it to curdle in the heat of the coming day. Though, when I turned away, that knife-twist of pain--the final heart-spasm of mourning.

(Having not-quite forgotten, yet not-quite the ability to believe: I never give anything to my God that He does not return a thousand times over.)

After years of holding on, it took only a moment to let go. And from that dead seed I buried, in awe I watched a garden grow.

The Sadness That Didn't Belong to Me.

Alone in the kitchen at half-past ten, I was crying out my eyes, the tears long past control, when the thought came piercing through--

I wish I could take all their pain. Bear it myself so they wouldn't have to. So they wouldn't have to.

And then His voice, so quickly after--the clear, deep stroke of thunder following lightning's flash--

I already did.

My heart that night was the heart of the Father. The anguish I felt for the ones I loved, His anguish. And how much more He must feel--to have borne the pain of our sins on His body on the tree, so we wouldn't have to--and then to watch as we reject that gift daily, to walk in the curse instead of freedom, to walk in death instead of victory. I believe He watches, and weeps, with a heart infinitely more broken than mine as He calls--

I took all your pain. Bore it Myself so you wouldn't have to. So you wouldn't have to.

Abba,

This prayer is for them.

They're after Your heart, oh God. Seeking, chasing, longing (after). Hearts after Yours, oh God. Fashioned, modeled, mirrored (after).

Caught up in the tangle of dark before dawn, they do not see what we see. Unaware, quite completely, of their fragrance of beauty. I watch them slip down the mud-heap of lies, and I break as the spark dims to ash in their eyes.

If they could but glimpse: the way their voice sounds just like You, the way through their gaze You come bleeding through.

Call my brothers, call them by name. Consume them forever in Your jealous flame.

Blessed sons of the Most High--the world is waiting for you to rise.