Silent Saturday

As I wait in the dark silence of Saturday, the day between redemption and hope, I hear a soft whisper or is it a low roar.  It's like the ground is rumbling in Friday aftershock shaking loose all my self-righteousness, reminding me of the blood poured out over my sin, the only reason I stand justified and righteous before the throne.  The sound is beckoning me closer.  And it's assuring me there is more but I'll have to walk away from something in order to find it.  To find more, I will need less. Less stuff, less distraction, less Facebook, less worry, less fear, less of this world, much less of me.  I'm beginning my search, pivoting toward the sound and walking away with less to find more.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.  Forgive me that I thought I was capable of anything good on my own.  I need You, Lord.  Release the fullness of Your Spirit and bring me under His leadership so that I may follow You victorious in full obedience.  Give me endurance to walk with zeal and diligence for Your glory alone.  And strengthen me to lay all things down that stand between us. Lord, bare and in your presence is my soul's cry.  I will do anything. Amen.

Even One

I signed up months ago.  The email came asking for help on Easter Sunday at the 11:00 service.  It wasn’t in an area I would confidently say I am gifted, but I was happy to help.  I didn’t know then what God was orchestrating.  But now I see.  As I clicked send, He grabbed His maestro stick and rose in His compassion.

Weeks passed after my Easter sign-up and through a myriad of events, I was reconnected to the ministry God had laid on my heart months earlier. God had nudged me toward being a Prayer Partner, someone to step out into the aisles during service worship time, to take the hands of the broken and cross the threshold of the Holy.  I started up with the Prayer Partners again just weeks before and as Easter Sunday approached and emails were exchanged to ensure Prayer Partners were allocated among the services, I felt this pressing from the Holy Spirit.  Gentle, yet unwavering… to serve in this capacity at the 11:00 Easter Sunday service.  But I had already committed my time elsewhere and so, I dismissed it.

Easter Sunday arrived and after spending Saturday night dressed up in cute high heels that left my feet blistered, I selected my bright red “Join the Family” serving t-shirt, comfy jeans and cushioned running shoes to join the preschoolers in their too-cute-for-words sweater vests and spring dresses.  In the preschool room, we waited for children to show up.  First, a little boy who reminded me how big and loud the world can be when you feel scared and alone.  His mom was in a rush to drop him off so she could find her seat in the crowded sanctuary and his big brown eyes told me everything.  He was shy, he liked his mom and he couldn’t imagine spending the next hour without her.  He clung to her skirt and in a quiet rebellion, he refused to move.  I walked over and offered my hand.  To my great surprise he took it. Tightly.  Like it was a life boat.  And he held on for dear life for at least five minutes. 

 

 

We finally got two more children, little girls dressed for the occasion, and to my delight, my new hand-holding friend was comfortable to let go and played remarkably with his new found friends.  I watched as the three played in all their imagination together.  Strangers. To each other and perhaps to this place.  But I could see so purely in these children how much we need each other.  This was fellowship at its most innocent and bare.  And it was beautiful.   

Before long, the service had started and our room count was at three.  On Easter Sunday.  At 11:00.  The preschool staff was reeling wondering whether there would be a mad rush or if they should accept this as it.  As I stood baffled, they made the decision that I wasn’t needed and moved our three littles to another room.

The minute those tykes were taken care of, the Holy Spirit gently pressed again, reminding me of those weeks before and how He’d been whispering about the 11:00 service as a prayer partner.

So, about as underdressed as you can get on Easter Sunday, I walked down the hall, grabbed my white Prayer Partner lanyard, and entered the sanctuary.  I quickly found a seat, sang and worshipped and gave thanks to my Abba Father, who allowed me to corporately worship Him with our worship pastor and the choir leading the way not one time, not two times but three times that weekend!   

 

photo source

Prayer partners were summoned from the stage to take their positions around the room and after a brief observation, I filled in a gap along a wall.  It wasn't long before I saw her coming, headed straight for me.  A friend.  And she was broken.  I could see this long before she made it to me.

As she walked up, she smiled through her tears, called me by name and said, “When I saw you, I knew I had to step out.  I wasn’t going to but then I saw you.  Please pray for me.”  And she went on to explain her need.

I prayed.  We left the sanctuary and spoke for a few minutes in the hall.  I offered what I had.  She left and returned to her seat… smiling and claiming she felt better. 

{sigh}

 

{deep sigh}

Humbled doesn’t even scratch the surface here.  A woman, a friend opened her heart and shared a brief paragraph of her story because she felt safe.   And, oh how I wished right there that we would all make each other feel this way.  Safe enough to be two or more gathered at His feet, mess in our hands, strengthening each other to bend together and lay it down. 

That she would have forgone stepping out except that she saw a familiar face in a sea of people… and that this time, God orchestrated me as that face to call someone out of the shadows…  No. words.  Well… maybe a few.

“Who am I, Sovereign Lord, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?  How great you are, Sovereign Lord! There is no one like you, and there is no God but you…” (2 Samuel 7:18, 22)

On a day that calls the masses to the pews, God spoke so vividly to me about the importance of even one. One lost sheep is worth a search party.  One scared little boy is worth a rescue crew.  One broken sister is worth moving mountains for a friendly face to stand out in a crowd. One mess of a Jesus girl is worth sending the broken to affirm the willing.  And only One is worth what little we have to offer and He will feed the multitudes right before our very eyes.

A willing heart offered in faith and He will use it to move heaven and earth for even one, even me, especially you.

Bare.

That’s how we start.  Bare before a holy God.  It’s how He created us.  And He said it was good.  Then, “Don’t eat from this tree”, God says.  But the nature of the human heart desires the forbidden fruit.  Bare and in His presence wasn’t enough.  We were easily convinced there could be more. Only after the tasty morsel is digested do we realize it wasn’t worth it.  And we are left sewing fig leaves and longing to be bare again, whole, holy.  And it doesn’t make sense.  This tension between wanting more and needing only Him. 

We are wretches but we are also chosen, a royal priesthood.  So this holy God who is love had a solution before there was ever a problem. He had a plan all along.  Because He saw it coming.  The bittersweet juice drips down our chins from that sinful bite and it is more than we were made to chew.  So His plan starts to unfold. But it’s going to hurt.  Him. Us.  We go about collecting more so He spends time stripping us bare.  We are ensnared by more.  We need Him alone and more jeopardizes everything.  

But the excess is painful to remove.  And Paul and Peter, they tell us to rejoice.  Rejoice in the suffering.  It’s pure joy. Because it’s the suffering orchestrated by His sovereign hand that is making us bare, more like His Son. The road to bare is marked with suffering but it is the hope of glory. And it’s the only way. 

Our God, He sees us bare already, even as we knit together our coverings, but He wants us to see ourselves that way, living in freedom.  We clench fists and hold tight to more so He pries open fingers, gently.  And nails palms to trees, sorrowfully.  Die to more.  We don’t need it.  Live for Him.  More than we deserve.

And when He strips it all away, layer by layer, we see.  We see Him and we see each other as God truly made us.  No masks.  No fig leaves.  Just a broken, busted people that needs less than we thought but more than we could ever possibly hold with our hands.  What we truly need can only be held by our hearts.  And as we stand bare before Him, we realize how this really is more.  So. much. more.

And just when I think I’m standing bare, I glimpse my reflection. I'm still covered and full of more.  Bow. Pray. This is going to hurt. 

 

Lord, bare and in Your presence is my soul's cry.  I will do anything.

 

“Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners--of whom I am the worst.”  (1 Timothy 1:15)

The Open Door

"So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most."

(Hebrews 4:16, NLT)

"Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ."

(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

The room was quiet and dimly lit.  I studied the space nervously.  Tissue boxes next to comfortable seating.  Kneeling benches barely hidden by standard office partitions.  A space carved out for prayer. And, as I surveyed my surroundings, I wondered.  How many of God’s broken have started down a path of healing in this room? It’s Mother’s Day weekend.  So many wounds to tear open on a day dedicated to celebrating and honoring mothers.  So who of His broken would enter today?  Will their burdens be heavier than any given day?  Will I be strong enough to help carry them? 

Busted hearts break away from the service to enter in this space.  It takes such courage even to step foot in this room, to rip open tender wounds never really healed, to grab a stranger’s hand and cross the threshold into the Holy of Holies. Together.  Because of the Lamb that was slain, the Lion that defeated the grave, any space can be a place to kneel, a place to find rest and hope, comfort and peace. Healing.

This side of Calvary, it’s a name and not a space that opens the door to His throne room of grace.  The empty tomb props it open and anyone can freely enter. Everyone.   It’s funny how the most accessible places are the ones I take for granted.  Why is it the closed doors are the ones I insist on walking through when the open doors are the ones inviting me in?

The first brave one enters.  She is approaching on behalf of another.  Isn’t that why we are all here?  Bearing each other’s burdens?  She’s broken over a friend with an unthinkable story, a friend who can’t come out of the darkness today.  So we bow our heads and ask for God’s light in the darkness. She leaves, returns to her seat.  And I feel better.  Does she?

A couple others enter and leave, with a few less tissues in the box.  And then, the last one. Young, beautifully broken.  She doesn’t enter alone because she needs someone to help tell her story.  Speak the words for her.  There are three of us and we surround them, listen to her ache.  We all take tissues as we commune with the Living God on her behalf.  It’s like we are all being washed as we bear this burden in His throne room, uttering small words to a big God.  The three of us, we each prayed boldly and so differently to the same El Roi, the God who sees us.

Amen. 

We lift heads and the salt tears are cleansing each of us as they fall and I can see a hint of healing in her eyes.  Before she leaves, I whisper words that hold her heart and she grabs me hard in a healing embrace.  Someone I’ve never met before today but we are sisters in Christ, eternally.  And, something about bearing burdens together, coming alongside the brokenhearted, lifting up the contrite in spirit heals the heart of the broken and the prayer warrior alike.  Because you can’t be in the presence of the Healer without being restored.

She needed that.  That’s what she says.  Don’t we all, I think to myself.  This open door, we all need it.  My hurt, my burdens are nothing like hers.  But they leave me just as broken.  And each time I approach on behalf of another, in the presence of God, communing with Him, connecting with Him, I can feel the scar tissue forming over my tender wounds.  Reaching out for another makes me a little more whole, too.

I came to serve and yet once again the blessings were poured out on me.  Maybe that’s why God asks us to bear each other’s burdens.  Because no matter which side of the hurt we are on, we are changed, our hearts scraped clean merely by His presence.  All we have to do is walk past the closed door and straight through the open one.