The Return of Fullness

Wooden floorboards creak under my bare feet. The sound should be comforting, but it’s not how I remember it. There’s hollowness where there used to be richness.


I look around the living room of my childhood home. My reading chair is gone. So is the grandfather clock that sat behind it. My parents haven’t sold the house yet, but it’s on the market.


So the house sits quietly. It waits for the return of fullness.


And, as I stand in the stillness, so do I.


There’s an emptiness in my chest. A longing for a relationship I don’t have. A lament for ones I’ve had to let go of.


I look at the mantle above the fireplace. The dark marble is bare, but it’s solid and strong—like the rest of this nineteenth-century house. The house was here long before my family filled it, and it will stand long after we have left. I know this room won’t be empty forever. It will be filled with laughter again. It will echo with music.


If I can trust the solidity of this house, how much more can I trust the solidity of the One who created me?


I close my eyes and breathe deeply.


“Lord,” I pray. “Restore me to fullness. In a way that you see fit. In your timing.”


I open my eyes. The room is still sparse. The ache inside of me is still heavy. But I trust that God is greater.

Inextricable

I’m helping my parents with yard work. The ground under my shoes is soft from May rain. The weeds have taken advantage of that. They’ve claimed sidewalk cracks and flower beds.  I crouch down and pull a handful of leafy green from where it does not belong.

“Would you mind trimming the vine on the arbor?” my mom asks. She’s raking up the remnants of fall's leaves. “You always do a great job with it.”

I throw the weeds into the wheelbarrow, then find a pair of hedge clippers. I look at the arbor. It’s covered by a tangled mess. I can see coarse, brown vines on the inside of the arbor. They are thick from years of growth. But on the outside of the arbor, hundreds of thin green shoots have grown in every direction.

“Whoa,” I say. “This trumpet vine is out of control.”

“It’s unruly,” my mom says. “Remember when I first planted it? You trained the vines around the arbor as they grew.”

I nod. Then I begin to prune. Wild vines fall to my clippers.

As I choose which shoots should stay and which should go, the iron arbor begins to show through. The metal was once black, but now it’s pocked with rust. I reach a place where part of the arbor has completely rusted away.

“Uh, Mom,” I say. “This arbor is standing on three legs.”

She peers into the opening I’ve uncovered. “You’re right. But look why it’s still standing.”  She points at the old, brown vine that is twined around the post. It is wound so tightly that it holds the broken arbor in place.

After years of wrapping around the arbor, the vine has become a permanent part of it. The vine is inextricable.

That is how I want Christ in my life. I want Him to be incorporated into everything I do. I want Him to be apparent in the words I speak, the actions I take, and the thoughts I think. I want Him to be inextricable from me. Because I know that when things fall apart, only His strength can bind me together and keep me whole.

I set the clippers down. “I'm going to let this vine grow,” I say. “The arbor’s stronger this way.

Then, instead of trimming vines, I begin to weave them in and out of the arbor.

The Weight of Words

“I’ve been to every thrift store in town,” I say. I lean on the kitchen counter. “I can’t find an old Scrabble game anywhere.”

“Why are you looking for Scrabble?” my mom asks.

“I want to put magnets on the back of the tiles and use them to write quotes on my fridge.”

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the room. When she comes back, she’s carrying a dark red Scrabble box. She sets it on the counter. The top of the box is layered with dust, save for the places her hands held it.

“This is yours,” she says.

“That’s the game Grandma Mary gave me,” I say. I shake my head. “I can’t use those tiles. I don’t want to ruin them.”

“Grandma Mary loved words,” my mom says. “I know she’d be happy for you to use the game this way.”

I open the box.

The wooden squares inside bring back memories of ninety-year-old Great Grandma Mary teaching me how to play Scrabble. Her hands shook from the Parkinson’s as she placed tiles on the board. Grandma Mary was brittle but brilliant. Her vocabulary was unmatched. She could play words far beyond the comprehension of my ten-year-old mind.

But the best part about Grandma Mary wasn’t the words she played on the board. It was the words she spoke to me.

Grandma Mary was an encourager. She spoke words that built me up. Words that made me feel special. Words that let me know I was loved.

Grandma Mary has been gone for over a decade now. But what she taught me about encouraging others will always be with me.

I close the lid to the box.

“You know, I think I will use this set for my magnets,” I say.

Because every morning, when I open my fridge, the Scrabble tiles will be a reminder for me.

A reminder of a kind lady who loved others.

And a reminder to use my own words to build people up.

* * *

1 Thessalonians 5:11 (NIV) "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing."

Words from the Cross Part II: I Thirst

I’m preparing to dye Easter eggs with my family.

My mom is boiling water in her stock pot. Cardboard cartons of eggs sit nearby.

I help the younger boys set an assortment of cups on the table—juice glasses, tumblers, and coffee mugs. We fill them with vinegar, and the boys drop dye tablets into each one. The tablets fizzle while color stretches through clear liquid.

Isaiah drops a tablet into a Superman mug. He leans over it, sniffs, then crinkles his face.

“This stinks,” he says. “Why does the dye smell like that?”

“It’s the vinegar,” I say. I lift the mug up and hold it out to him. “Want a sip?”

“No thanks,” he says. He sticks out his tongue.  “What do people use vinegar for anyway?”

“Cooking and cleaning.”

But, as I set the mug down, I think of One who did drink vinegar. While Christ hung on the cross, He asked for a drink.

I thirst.

After thirty-two years in a human body, the Son of God had one last request—a sip of water. But instead of giving Him that, the guards offered Him a sponge full of vinegar. He had come to die for them, and they refused to meet His most basic need.

How striking that Christ gave all for those who would give nothing.

I am like those guards. I have nothing to offer Christ but bitter imperfection. I was clearly and completely undeserving.

How striking that Christ would save me despite my sin.

So I lift a prayer to the King who was crowned with thorns.

Jesus, thank you for giving eternal life to those who only offered you vinegar. And thank you for giving me undeserved grace.

The Way God Sees Me (Guest Post)

Recently, I had the opportunity to collaborate with a new friend, Joyell. She’s a fellow blogger, and her blog,  Small World, Big God, shares stories of how God shows up in everyday life. I’m honored that she invited me to be a guest writer this week. You can read my post here: https://swbgblog.wordpress.com/2019/04/10/the-way-god-sees-me/

Words from the Cross Part I: Why Have You Forsaken Me?

I’m at the rock-climbing gym with my friend, Xuan. He’s been teaching me everything from technique to climbing lingo.

“This is great,” I say. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I enjoy unusual hobbies,” he says. “Climbing, spelunking, stuff like that.”

My chest locks up.

“Have you ever been spelunking before?” he asks.

He doesn’t know. He hasn’t heard that I once spent over twenty hours trapped in a cave.

“Once or twice,” I say.

It’s warm in the gym, but I shiver.

For a moment, I’m back in the cave. My body is pressed between cold, slick stone walls. My face is caked with mud. I struggle to unpin myself. My muscles burn, but I go nowhere. I’m utterly, completely alone.

It’s been seven years. But there are still things I don’t understand.

Why did God allow me to be trapped?

Why did He wait almost a day to rescue me?

Where was He in those hours of darkness?

Those questions bring to mind some of the last words of Christ.

My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?

I’m immediately humbled. 

Because I was never alone in that cave. And, in the end, God rescued me.

But when Christ uttered that cry, He was completely alone. His Father had turned His face away. He did not rescue His Son.

All of that was necessary for my salvation. Christ had to bear the full punishment for my sin—complete separation from God.

So why can’t I trust that the One who gave all would never abandon me? Why do I carry around these doubts years after my rescue?

“You should try to climb this route again,” Xuan says.

I dust my hands with chalk and approach the wall.

As I grip the rough handholds, I thank God for remaining with me while I was pinned against those smooth walls years ago. And I thank Jesus for dying on the cross two millennia ago so that I will never be separated from God.

Fouls and Forgiveness

My Dad and I are at the NCAA tournament. Nevada is playing Florida. We’re only four rows from the court—close enough to hear sneakers squeak against the wooden floor.

“Close game,” my dad says. “Either team could win this.”

The clock continues to count down. As it does, the crowd tenses, and the players get more aggressive. Their movements are sharper, and their plays are quicker.

Florida has the ball. The players pass it amongst each other, circling the basket. Then, the ball is passed to the player closest to the hoop. He springs into the air to make the shot, and his defender mirrors him.

The two players come in contact mid-air, and a whistle pierces through the stadium.

“That’s a foul,” my dad says. “It might cost Nevada the game.”

The players begin preparing for the free throw. They form lines of alternating blue and white jerseys.

Foul.

I can’t help but think about that word. In the context of basketball, the word foul has been stripped of its power. It’s synonomous with “contact between the players.”

But in any other context, the word carries weight. Foul is used to describe things that are rancid, filthy, and rank. It isn’t a term we throw around lightly. It describes the worst of the worst.

The word foul reminds me of sin. Sin is everything that is impure, unclean, and immoral. But how often do I sanitize sin? How often do I justify my wrong thoughts and actions?

My sins aren’t as bad as other people’s.

Nobody’s perfect.

I’m a good person.

I diminish my own wrong until my sin has lost its weight. But minimizing the weight of my sin diminishes the saving grace of Christ. Jesus didn’t die because I make little mistakes. He died for me because the penalty for my sin was complete separation from God. He cleansed me of all foulness and made me righteous.

The ball arcs through the air and into the basket. The free throw was perfect. My dad was right—the foul might cost Nevada the game.

But I’m so glad that, because of the sacrifice of Christ, my sin won’t cost me a thing.