All I need

There's a song I learned a year ago that I didn't sing again until this summer when I was back at Zenith, the high school church camp I've been worked at and been involved with since 2001. And I hadn't thought of it since mid-June until this yesterday, but it's been blessing me in quiet and soothing ways. In some ways I've felt like I've been walking around stunned or shocked since Monday, but I'm beginning to see that humbled is a much more accurate word, I think, for my state of being. Yeah, I know, that's a bit vague, but that's what I've got for now. And the lyrics from that song that are running through me.

I'm beginning to understand
What it means to be Yours
What it means to know You
What it means to be known by You
So many things still unclear
So many answers I'll never know
But one thing I'm starting to see
Is You're all I need

All I need is You
No one else will do
Nothing is so true
As my need for You
I cannot explain
The way You've filled my heart
It makes the truth so plain
That all I need is You

Thin Places

I'm disappointed that I'm going to miss this year's Zoe Conference in Nashville; from what I read on Mike Cope's blog recently about what Randy Harris is going to be speaking about, I'm going to have to get the CDs. Mike referenced Randy's thoughts on thin places, an idea taken from Celtic tradition. Basically, from what I read on his blog, it's a place where the gap between heaven and earth seems to be quite thin, that the separation between the two shrinks. There were some great places mentioned in the comments from that entry and it got me thinking about my own thin places. As I journaled last night, I came up with about ten. I won't list them all, but here a few of them:

Conference room at Nordeste Palace Hotel, Fortaleza, Brasil: On our campaigns to Fortaleza, we'd usually finish the day with singing in a conference room with concrete walls and a tile floor. Though only 15-25 of us would be in there, our songs echoed like a chorus of ten thousand angels.

Radnor Lake, Nashville, Tennessee: This state natural area was a quick five-minute drive from Lipscomb's campus and right across the street from Otter Creek's old building. I spent many afternoons walking its trails, thinking, praying, reflecting, and dreaming.

Skiing in Colorado: I've been skiing at Breckinridge, Durango, and Winterpark and I loved skiing the trails (or making my own trail) through the trees. It's hard to beat gliding across the snow with the wind in my face, a blue sky above, sunshine on my back, and tress all around.

Once again, patience strikes and proves to be the great venture and virtue that it's advertised to be. Looking back over the past couple of weeks, I can now see some of the workings of the Holy Spirit in and around me. There's a renewed sense of purpose and strength available to hope. It would be nice if hope were a casual option, but it's not for the faint-hearted. In a world that offers everything but fails to fulfill or deliver, hope is a treacherous endeavor. To hope to prevail, to achieve, to go beyond present circumstances, to improve, to merely make it through a day or week or situation takes an energy and strength often not available after the regular rhythm of our lives. To truly hope is to go beyond what is seen, which is why it necessitates a strength from outside ourselves. Living with a constant perception (which actually is our reality) that we are not in control allows for this; my attitude often keeps this from being true within. Though God's granted each of us responsibility and power, it's within the context of being planted by and in him, like a tree that flourishes by a river. So, I write to myself, stay planted, stay grounded, stay rooted. Trust beyond self. Dare to hope.

Dirt

Pastor Bill has been walking through some of Jesus' parables on Wednesday nights recently. A couple of weeks ago I caught the tail end of the Parable of the Soils -- the tail end because I forgot what time things started at Capstone and was quite late. Anyway, I went to the high school small groups tonight on the invite of the youth pastor and they're studying through the Gospels. Tonight's passages contained Matthew's account of that same parable, so I've had it on my mind quite a bit recently and need to process through it a bit in writing, so here it goes.

I forget where I initially heard this analogy, but the idea of the soils being a cyclical representation of my heart has been the word for me through this parable. Mostly, I think, because of the first soil; I've felt hardened in a lot of ways the past month or so, with an unusual edge to my thoughts and attitude. I think all my traveling caught up with me and the exhaustion I felt contributed to this; I also think it's been a ripe time for Satan's attacks, which are another factor. Not only at church, but in conversations with a variety of people, I've felt like my eyes have been narrowed, my brow furrowed, and a sour expression has taken hold of my face (more so than usual...hahaha). For whatever reason, I haven't felt receptive or open.

Until a few days ago. Until the difference between condemnation and conviction was again explained to me. Why I was able to hear this and not other things, I don't know, but I'm thankful, so thankful. Condemnation is what Satan speaks to our hearts, it's the poison he scatters. In our sin, in our wrongdoing, his words and thoughts lead to destruction of heart and mind, to heavy loads of guilt and despair, to us living without the confidence of who we are in the sight of God. Conviction, instead, is what the Holy Spirit prompts; it leads to repentance, to change, to the recognition of grace and forgiveness. Jesus speaks mercy into our failings, pulling us up from them to his glorious standard. Our strength cannot do this; only he can lift us up by our bootstraps. His forgiveness leads to healing and redemption, to a renewed confidence in how great he is, that in turn allows us to shift our trust from ourselves and upon him. He lets us breathe and rest, fully embraced by a love that continues to crash upon the shores of our lives.

I don't like admitting mistakes, sins, wrongs, or failings. And this plagues me because confession opens the door to this described conviction. I played all of this out in my head, but until I confessed with friends, none of this occurred. But a possibly greater revelation from this has been how much I treasure what and who others think I am. It's almost as if I try at times to create an image or impression so good/holy/whatever that will force me to live up to it, ensuring a certain type of character within and without. In the end, that leaves a person hollow, dry, and empty.

I don't know how long or consistently this has been going on; regardless, it's still a place -- and a good one, at that -- for Jesus to meet me. I'm rid or being rid of a lot of junk, leaving plenty of space for him. Things are getting set right within; the gifts he's given me are being placed and shaped for holiness not selfishness. The plow has been and will keep tilling that hard, crusty soil into a rich, fertile, welcoming ground. The parched little tree that's been me is being replanted by the river of life -- the great, continuing salvation work of our Lord Jesus. Constant redemption, continued transformation.

The Seattle trip was quite a success; I'm about recovered from the fun. I met up with eleven of my friends: three are living in Seattle and eight flew in from San Antonio. We went to Mt. Rainier National Park, several parks around the Seattle area, Chateau Ste. Michelle, Pike Place Market, the Science Fiction Museum, the Experience Music Project, and many wonderful eateries and restaurants. It was very refreshing and encouraging to be around my friends again. Here are a few of the pictures we took from the weekend:


A jump shot at Mt. Rainier National Park


The group (minus Chris, who hadn't yet arrived): Bill, Ericka, Sara, Chad, Becky, Malachi, Cretia, Christy, Sarah, John, me


Christine Falls


A few of us in a tree at Ste. Michelle


Jump shot outside Elliot's seafood