Friday, April 29, 2011

Walk The Line

Busy spring pulls family to the car, to activities galore, to stress to finish well and strong.  Pulls us apart, and I lay on my bed yesterday afternoon for about half an hour weeping with all that we are doing.  What are we doing?  How in all the world is this glorifying to God?

I haven't looked at the whites of the Strong Soft's eyes in days.  The Kind and Compassionate is cracking under the pressure to do well...even at something he loves.  Boy blue is in trouble again for lack of school work, and the Silent Deep fairly groans at early mornings that will still earn him an incomplete as he goes off to boot camp.  And how long since the Kitten and I have just held and held on?  And how much tearing away can the Shoulders and I take?  Before we too, are torn?  It makes no sense.  Nonsense.  World, you spin too fast for me.

When do we sit at His feet?  When do we meet?  Except for the nod in the hall, and silent brooding over coffee in the morning.  I miss them.  HIM.  And I wonder why we do this?  Carry on like this?  And I want to make it stop, make the spinning stop so I can walk a straight line.  The straight line, right?

Here now.  Draw a deep breath, for once.  Be still here...just a moment.  A moment, alone with eyes closed on the face of Jesus.  Oh, Jesus.  Be the God of today.  Of now.  Of all these children.  Of this union.  Of our time left here.  Of me.

As I rush out the door to that place where they cover the grey of all this, I whisper to You, my King.  " Keep us safe.  Help us all to hear You today in the rush of being Americans.  In the rush away from You.  Let Your strong grace keep us.  Keep our feet."

On the line,


Monday, April 25, 2011

By Way Of The Rod

Happy few stand by backyard fire waiting, in early morning,  for the Son.  Waiting for the sun to rise with it's fiery ball of glory and joy and hope.  Especially as we mark the day.  Resurrection Day.  We sing songs to the One we love, all of us, and wonder that He has given us such eyes to see.  The only God to be raised from the dead.  The only God, seen by more than 500 living witnesses after His resurrection.   The only God Who paves our road to freedom.
And pays the toll too.

My Shoulders reads from the Gospel of John.  The story about John and Peter running to the cave.  Remember?  John outruns Peter, but stops to peer in.  Peter charges ahead.  We know Peter.  He would have charged into the cave with one question.  Krissy says it out loud.  "Do I get another chance?"

"Do I get another chance?".  Her mouth becomes unknown bow that shoots arrowed sentence.  Piercing me.  Direct hit.  My heart.  "Do I get another chance?".  I dissolve straight down into tears.  Jesus doesn't mess around.  He knows everything, and we can hide nothing.   We are the blessed and privileged ones when He wields His rod to strike us humble.  To show us who we really are.  To whip out anything unholy in His temple.  To reveal an unforgiveness that I have been holding, fist clenched tight and lifted into His face.  You know, the One Who suffered desperately for all the chances I would need.  Demand.

All the times I have asked Him, "Do I get another chance?", He has taken me, the prodigal, the lost lamb, the missing coin, back into His fold.  The fold of His arms.  With joy.  With thanksgiving.

And I?  I withhold forgiveness?  I put down hope and pick up death?  Walk around with all that?  Make him pay for all the hurt and sadness and living unknown?  "Does he get another chance?".  "Do I get another chance to give him another chance?"

Christ is Risen!  He is Alive!  He speaks to His people through His Word.  And sometimes the words of dear friends.  His Spirit is so sweet that even while He flails our bared backs with His rod, we must cry out in praise and thanks for this great love.   He won't allow this lying slavery that goes on with us.  With me.  His people WILL be free!  Mark it down.

And ask Him for another chance,


Friday, April 22, 2011

Open Prayers For Joshua

Sun setting on golden puddle ponds as I drive down the lane.  Toward home.  Mary is riding her scooter through "Lake Dan", the failed concrete pour for the shop pad.  (Not a flattering name for the contractor, I realize.)  Long fingered hands wave.  Homecoming queen. 

Andrew swings dangerously from a rope anchored to the strength of that cotton wood tree.  Tongue sticking out.  Wild adventures splash paintings on his imagination.  Read the whole story on his face.  In his wild eyes. 

Lucy, the faithful to love, despite her intellectual weaknesses, waits on the front porch.  She rises to greet me.  Tail sweeping the air, smiling.  Happy to see me.  Happy to see anyone.  Everyone. 

In through the door.  Home. 

Daniel stands at the counter making a smoothie.  Making a mess.  He is drenched in sweat.  Running a new hobby.  A new survival tactic.  Depression.  The long winter.  He is built and born to run.  Sinewed body covering ground while feet pound.  All that is the struggle of being thirteen.

The two oldest sit at the table with their heads bent together over pictures.  Her hair light and long.  Blond.  His, dark and strong.  The silent deep.  I will deeply miss.  This.  Them like this.

Snap shots.  Trying to hold these memories because time is so very faithful. To itself.  And I am forgetful of all that I have been blessed to hold.  These dear ones.  This dear life.  I want to cup their faces in my hands and in my heart. 

How will they remember their time here?  How do I let go without becoming a golden puddle pond myself?  Can I smile?  For them?  For him? 

Time is closing.  The book of Joshua is coming to an end here on Lazy Lane.  Never on my heart.  But his bags figuratively lie packed all over the house, and his heart is waiting.  To go.  To be released.  Daily, I see the strain on him to keep his wings folded in.  Down.  To "Obey your father and mother.".  (Thank you, Joshua.)  And yet, soon, very soon now, he will leap from nest of twigs and home and onto the great holding breast of YOU.  The great I AM Who holds all things.  Holds them up.  Holds them together.

Watch the sky from knees.  Wait for all the greatness of God to unfurl in his wings.  To fill them, like the flag he loves so much.  With freedom.  With goodness.  With love.  With hope.  As he circles up on wind currents of YOU, Lord, please, fill his eyes with Your wisdom, and give him Your vision.  Give him eyes to see what is good.  Pure. Lovely.  Beautiful.  You.  Strengthen him to fight for freedom, Lord.  For his own.  For others.  Keep his feet free.  So his wings won't be broken.

Help him to remember You.  Reach for You.  Stay with You.  This beloved son, Lord.  And as You write the pages of his story, will you be kind?  Will you help me to stay in line?  With You?  And will you always remind him, that, despite our great failures and our late starts, and our un-hearing ears, that he is loved?  So dearly loved?  By You?  By us?  Perhaps a fly by, with tipped wings, and him shouting, "That's for you Mama!".  Just so I can wave my blessing, and smile and laugh my love to the sky.  And just so I can feel the wind of his precious wings, like heaven, on my face.

That the next generation would soar in the strength of Who You are,


Tuesday, April 19, 2011

The Scarlet Letter


Sarah playing my heart on the piano.  She is beauty and music in our home.  Creativity and art flow from her fingers.  Coloring the world.  Us.  Making things lovely.  The way she is.

She has been reading The Scarlet Letter for school.  Angry with the ending.  I've been thinking about it  a lot.  You know....

How it is when you walk into a room darkened by silent blanket that smothers all sound?  The stench of death makes them turn away.  Or snicker.  Or mock.  Sometimes their faces fill with hatred.  You arrogant Christian!  Judging others.  Condemning them.  And  they know you.  They know what you have done.  They shake their sad heads that you have fallen so far  from your brain.

"Who does she think she is?  Wearing that letter.  See it stitched in blood on her breast?  That red "C" that that Man put there.  The One Who said, "Go and sin no more.".  The One Who let her off so easy.  (Except for that thing He did on the tree.)  The One she followed to the cross.  To the letter."

You move through the silent room with His feet.  The room that has no oxygen.  Smile His smile.  Reach with His hands.  Try to love the walking dead and breathe the shallow breath of a stranger walking a strange land.  Fish out of water.  The weight of their judgement pulls you so hard to the earth that you feel your lungs collapsing.  They are right, after all.  But for Him.  

You whisper to the heart of Jesus.  "Help me." You straighten your spine.  Lift your chin.  You know to Whom you belong.  He is what makes you.  Makes you strong.

He is the great saving story, and He is the lyrics behind the music Sarah plays on my heart.  Wearing the scarlet letter "C" for Christian.  The letter that has replaced ALL the others.  This  is who I am.  I belong to the Man, and I am carved on His hands.  See those holes?


Monday, April 18, 2011

Princess Again

Little girl sitting in living room chair, sun streaming through open window shades carving lines of shadow on her face.  Breath catches in throat.  Eight years old.  Red dress with two kittens on the front.  My Kitten.  Pink polka dots on sleeves.  Legs crossed so I can see the crotch of her tights stretched taught somewhere across mid-thigh. (tights!)  Bright orange panties.  She doesn't notice.  She reads poetry to me.  Her long, slender fingers cradle the book, and I wonder if she will grow to love words as much as her mama.   Sometimes, she will hold the book up for me to look at the pictures.  She tells me I might be afraid of this one...the one about the woman who has gone for a ride on a tiger, only to return from the ride, "inside".  The tiger is smiling at the end of that poem.  I am smiling at the poetry being read on the inside of me while little one reads.  Words.  She catches their rhythm.  Falls in love with the pictures they paint.  She asks me what the big words mean, then says, "Oh.  I get it!" 

No wonder painter's paint.  No wonder photographer's expose the human face time and time.  Light and light.  I want to hold this moment forever. Keep it.  If she were a statue, I might bow down to her.  And for this reason, the Lord is Lord all.  And I am the god of nothing. 

She has asked me to write a story with her about a knight who falls in love.  I try to steer her away from such silliness and she agrees to title it, Princess to the Rescue.  In the end, even though the prince gets rescued by the princess, my Kitten won't have it any other way.  The Prince must rescue her in return.  This really gets me.  Makes me think.  Contemplate some things.  Ah! Contemplation!
Little Mary has no problem with being rescued by a knight in shining armour.  This girl doesn't even blush at words like "darling"  and "true love" .  Doesn't bat an eyelash at all the romance going on in the story.  The knight confessing his undying love.  The princess returning his love with her beauty and a closet full of dresses that abound in ribbon, labor under lace. 

Why am I irritated with her?  Why do I keep trying to convince her that the princess can rescue herself AND her man?  She keeps turning the story back around so that she is always being cared for, being called "darling" and being cradled in her knights arms.  Did I mention that she is not blushing?  Even as her brothers mill around?  Even as her sister rolls her eyes?  Even as I try to make the princess in our story "strong"?  And why do I feel dirty?  Like I'm stealing something from her?

Is that incurable romanticism planted in us by the Savior?  I wonder.  Does the only One Who can love us like that carve the empty place inside our hearts...all hearts, so that we will be always disappointed with our earthly knights?  Never satisfied.  Really?  Are we meant to get around that notion so that we begin to see our husbands, not as rescuers, but as dear brothers in Christ?  Am I even making sense?  Maybe the Lord wires us to need to be rescued.  To be called "darling".  To find out that only He can do it.  Really.

And what of our knights?  Must they too come to the end of trying to rescue us from our castle keeps of insecurity?  From trying to convince us that we are not dumb or ugly or fat?  What happens when they realize that they will never be enough, never be strong enough, romantic enough or winsome enough to rescue us from ourselves?  Mustn't they then either fall on their swords or on the great saving power of Christ?  "Oh,God, save me from this great body of death!"

Mary redirects the story again.  Back to The Knight Who Fell in Love, and I begin to shift as well.

Savior.  He can move the mountains.
Our God is mighty to save.  Mighty to save.

He is coming again, you know.  This Jesus.  And I believe He will be riding on a white cloud horse.  Suddenly, my precious daughter seems wise beyond her years, and I begin to look, again, for my saving Prince.  Perhaps even today!


Friday, April 15, 2011


I had to sleep on the couch last night making love to a puke bowl.  (That's GOT to be an oxymoron!) The results of last night's popcorn and tears.  A little too much drama for one day, I suppose.  Too much drama for weeks now so I've got to cover my heart a bit.  Just breathe and walk and trust.

I am not even kidding that as I lay on the couch with my face in the bowl, (Okay, who washed this thing?  It smells like spaghetti sauce.), I heard from God.  Why on earth does He do things that way?

Remember that we had it out in the car?  I was furious with Him for giving me this STUPID dream.  A seed planted in unworkable ground of cracked, fissured heart.  Humiliated and dry and infertile.  My life wasted.  In waste land. (Refrains of Jimmy Buffet)  Lips chapped and bleeding from wind blown words that make a difference, how?  And that leave my heart hanging out like clothes on the line, why?  And wasn't life a little better with the whole thing covered?  I just can't get my head on straight.  Knowing the things a Christian is supposed to say.  Supposed to do.  Suppose Somebody gives me a  little help here?  Where is the Water?  So much the better not to have breathed life into my stupid writing than to have given me a taste of what it is to carry something precious.  Precious to me.

Ever really get on a roll with the Lord?  It's like your just this big giant kid taking wild swings in every direction.  I could be a cartoon character.  But can a minivan strewn with empty apologies from children leaving messes be holy?  A holy rolling sanctuary that hears you cry out that this doesn't work and that it's killing you and that He better show up or you're going to die. Hmmm.....

Back to the puke bowl and a tiny, quiet drop from Jesus.

"It does work.  Just a little each day.  You be the words and I'LL be the Word.  So, let's stop flailing about, shall we?  (Even though your flailing is exciting.)  But I do know you, my beloved.  I know that you can not write and throw a tantrum at the same time.  Trust Me.  I won't let you fall.  I PROMISE."

Heaving over the bowl,  (oh precious bowl!) I almost choke because I think the only thing I heard Him say was that He thinks I'm exciting.   Can I be UN-Christian in my speech, please?  That is freaking AWESOME!  And Who is this God, anyway, who speaks to His darling daughters with heads bowed over puke?  Who is this God Who helps us to reach and bend and try?  Again?  So.  Consider this my first entry into the very present freedom journal.

And, Jesus?  You are one CRAZY lover!


Thursday, April 14, 2011


I had a date tonight.  Kind of unplanned.  We went to a movie, but first we had it out in the car.  I love that He waits for me.  That He thinks I'm worth the wait.  He doesn't take my thrashing personally, even though I'm pounding His very chest.  Do you ever do that?  Does it amaze you that I should thrash the One I love?  Just begging for a little wisdom?  Some insight?  Something GOOD?  Hating being bound to my stupid flesh because it doesn't get it?  Doesn't want to?

It's a good thing that you can really let it fly with Him because you know that He loves you.  Understands.  You.  He knows that, later, you're going to apologize for your language and for that ugly temper.  Repentance will be genuine.  His forgiveness even more so.  He knows your heart.  Wants it.  Really, He wants it all.  My heart.  Yours too.

So we sit together at the movies.  Me with Mr. Invisible.  He with Mrs. Broken going for broke in the popcorn.  Just asking Him for a dream that WORKS.  A spark.  Something Holy to hold me.  Down.

By the way, Soul Surfer was worth the time and the money.  I recommend seeing it with your kids or your best friend.

That's what I did tonight with Jesus,


Monday, April 11, 2011

Empty Tombs Full Of Beauty

Spring birds again.  Singing full throated songs lifted to heaven, floating up on air currents, then cascading down.  A splashing fountain.  All around my broken feet.  Heart LONGING for the sun.  And for the Son. 

This is the day that Mari comes to visit,  Bringing precious mementos of a beloved son born into waiting arms of love.  Living a full hour of life before slipping away to Jesus.  Leaving those same craving arms carved out bare.  An empty tomb.  But for the grief that fills them.

She shows me pictures of him.  Shows me the marks his perfect little hands and feet left on a piece of paper. On her heart.  Two blue orbed oceans spill great diamond tears that sorrow down cheeks.  Smooth flesh.  Faintest pink glass.  She is lovely, and I can't stop staring. 

Oh, beauty,
From where do you spring?
From dancing petalled flowers?
Or deepest sorrowing?

I am not alone in this carving.  For the Master is a carpenter after all.  Expert with plane and chisel.  He will make us as He wills us.  And we will to lie under the pressure of His hands.   Trusting His love in it.  He carves.  We hurt.  And we become, like Him.  Beauty.  Despite great suffering.

Losing little boy makes you wonder how in the all the world you can keep drawing breath. Lungs keep opening and closing on the life tincture that sustains.  You wake up.  You live.  You care for your own.  How is it possible that you begin to reach for life again?  Even for a full womb?  Again?

And suddenly I can't help laughing because, of course!  For while the womb may be empty, so also is the tomb!  And there is the power of the risen Christ dwelling in her and in the husband who becomes precious seed bearing love letter tucked into the envelope of her love.  And there is hope for life because they belong to the Giver of life.  And HE resides no more in the tomb.  The power of an empty tomb.  Isn't that what ALL of this living is about?

We stand on the porch saying goodbye.  Dog sniffing all that is just inappropriate and ill mannered.  (Oh, Dog!)  I feel a sort of envy as we hold and sorrow together.   The way HE makes us.  Marks us.  Carves us.  Changes us.  She is the most beautiful creature on the earth, and I hold those blue orbed oceans with my own.  Simply standing in awe at the miraculous work of Jesus on a surrendered heart.  I feel a sort of hope rising. We smile tears, pray that God Himself would open the womb and hem the cervix.  Keep the hidden sacredly closed until full harvest.  She walks to her car, and I stand staring.  Still staring.  At the power of the resurrected Jesus and an empty tomb.

The angel said to the women,  "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified.  He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.  Come and see the place where he lay.  Then go quickly and tell his disciples:  'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you..'"  So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples.  Suddenly Jesus met them. "Greetings," he said.  They came to him, clasped his feet and worshipped him.  Matthew 28:5-9


Friday, April 8, 2011


Thinking of HIM.  His love for us.  His incredible passion for our souls, and His willingness to fight such a battle for our hearts.  Jesus to the rescue!  And soon, Resurrection Sunday will be here, and what has my heart done to get ready?

As our household labors under the burden of grief, how does my heart prepare?  I feel like the disciples falling asleep in the garden because I'm just flat tired.  Weary of grief.  Grieving is exhausting.  I reach for His hand and know that I am held by God, but for that, I would lose hope here.  Hear?  I would lose hope and crumple into a ball at the bottom of my bed and pray that all the world would fall on top of me.  Crush the life out of this great death that hangs off me now.  Oh, God, be merciful to your servant.  Be kind to this tender-hearted girl who is trembling.  Crying out.  For help.  For comfort.  For salvation.  I remember...
I was driving the kids to music lessons sometime last year.  I was upset in my spirit that I was not growing.  Changing.  I MUST be changing and growing, or I am dying.  A born again still born can not be, and I was vexed beyond words.   Frustrated with myself and with God. 

And why in that moment, should He choose to speak to me?  Little brat child having silent, bloody tantrum in the car?

"My Child, if you could see all that is happening in the unseen world.  Right now.  Your physical body would cease to exist.  It would instantly DISINTEGRATE, and you would not have life, or breath, or children, or this car.  With out ME.  With out my sustaining power and might, all the earth would be laid to dust in a moment.  Why are you worried?  Why are you thrashing about, dear one?  I hold all things together.  Am I not capable of holding you as well?  Your children?  All of this?  Who do you think is really in control,  child?"

Then silence.  Did the Risen Jesus just speak to my heart?  And what do we make of these Words, dear friends? Is the God Who ROSE FROM THE DEAD not enough?  And is the life He hung on the tree not enough?  I ask myself.  Did He not say, "It is finished?"  And is He not holding all of us together?  Right now.  In the valley.  On the mountain.  Wherever He has you today?

Do we walk as children who are truly held in the very hands of God?

"I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence comes my help.  My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.  He will not suffer your foot to be moved: He that keeps you will not slumber.  Behold, He that keeps Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.  The Lord is your keeper;  the Lord is your shade upon your right hand.  The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night.  The Lord shall preserve you from all evil; He shall preserve your soul. The Lord shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore."  Psalm 121

Let us lay back on the holding arms of Jesus.  Let us be held.  Let us trust in the strong right arm of God, and the eternal saving grace of this Jesus.  Let us live.



Thursday, April 7, 2011

In The Bare Open

Spring singing.  Children laughing.  Souls leaning into God.

Andrew out in the mowed down, burned out corn field while Amy drills him on the Saint Crispian's Day speech.  He is crying.  She is determined.  I am praying.  I don't know who will come out the winner of this one, and it could destroy them both.  Help Amy to win, Lord!  Let Andrew be broken for once.  FOR ONCE!  Let him come to the mowed down, burned out place of his soul that can only be filled by You.  Jesus.  Reach down to make Him great, or sit down on him to crush all that is pride and hard necked stiff.

Give Amy, oh dear Amy, the strength to stand under his dark shadow.  Strengthen her NOW, dear God, to crack the nut.  It's not about the speech.  It's about his heart.  The unbroken, unbending, crust around the heart.  Do I not understand it?  How I do!  We think it a protective layer, but find, in TRUTH, that is suffocates the life.  All life.  And Jesus, I know that You are out to WIN.  To win US!  To win my son.  The stubborn one.  Oh, Amy.  Go, Amy, you dear hearted girl.  As determined as him?  I stand at the window and watch.  Pray.  My heart is out there in the corn field too.  With both of you.  So let Jesus be reckoned with here.  Now.  And may the empty place in my beloved son be filled with the Son.  May this be the day that running and digging and covering ends.  For Andrew.  For Me.  For ALL of us.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Freedom Fighting

Little tree.  Today there are what look like little cocoons hanging off every branch.  Thousands of little leaves hidden inside fuzzy sleeping bags.  I think how much it reminds me of the body of Christ.  All connected to the Vine.  Branches covered with new life and waiting to bear much fruit.

Things are hard in the house right now.  Hearts are breaking.  Consequences being lived out.  Responsibilities with skin on being laid across young backs.  Acceptance.  Resignation.  Struggling to see the light at the end of the hurt. 

And we know that butterflies must struggle to be free from their hiding place.  From their sheltering home.  Their wings don't work properly if they are helped, so in the pain, a mama has to learn to be quiet.  Shhh...silently watch and pray as a beloved child experiences heart break beyond a pen's describing reach. Hush.  When heart is howling.

Can a Mama trust God to be enough in the desperate hurting moments of her children?  After all, we are so far beyond kissing those owies better.  Spider Man bandages making barely bleeding cuts heal as we wink and smile.  No.  Wish it were so.  But no. 

We must struggle through to be truly free.  From sin.  Will we trust Jesus to get us there?  Do we have the strength in leg trunks to stand?  It?  The pressure?  The crushing pain of bare obedience?  Do we trust that His boundaries are good?  Protection.

And I?  Am I "man enough" to allow the teaching boards that will come across the bare behinds of my children?  Are you?  Am I ashamed of what mine have been?  Have they not been the greatest means of this passion I have for Him? The Saving One?  "She who has been forgiven much.  Loves much."  I do.

We don't want them to hurt.  And yet, they must do so.  They must.  And mamas everywhere must partake in their suffering as well.  Yet another opportunity for us to flee into the arms of the One Who knows and understands.  The One Who watches and sees.  All of it.  We fall on the bare spot in the carpet by our beds and wipe our leaking faces on the quilts that covered conception.  We pray that they will all find their way.  To HIM.  To Jesus.    To the only One Who can be light in hearts darkened by pain.  To the only One Who can make them truly free.   He is the way into the cocoon, and He is the way out.  He is the One Who makes their wings, and He is the One Who fills them with color.  Beauty.  He is the way.  He is the truth.  He is the life.  Oh!  That they all would reach for HIM!

"I am the light of the world.  If you follow me, you won't have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life."  John 8:12


Friday, April 1, 2011

Between A Hard Place And The Rock

Sun rise setting the world on fire with living gold.  New mercies.  My son takes me by the hand.  To the open door.  We stand and listen, together, to the birds singing spring.  Beautiful.  God's promise of rebirth in a love song.  Lyrics from the psalms.  Don't rush.  Close eyes and let golden light filter through eyelids while the birds serenade hope.

The day brings tough news.  Heart breaking news.  It is in the hard places that we must be caught by the Rock.  Cling to Him.  His help wraps around us, a quilt of promises, and He reaches for our hands.  Will we bless Him in the desert?  Will we thank Him for the suffering?  The sorrow?  Allow Him to use it to conform us into His image?

Think of birds singing songs of hope.  Think of Philippians 4:6-9.  " Don't worry about anything; instead, pray about everything.  Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all He has done.  Then you will experience God's peace, which exceeds anything we can understand.  His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus."

There is something deeply holy in walking this way with Jesus.   We can be tucked and hidden away in His love while the world falls apart all around.  The sense of His delight in us allowing Him to work the hard thing in and out is precious.  To be still.  Intimate.  Intimately aquainted with Him here.  To stand while the world is pulling out our beards.  Spitting judgement.  How else can we identify with what Jesus laid on the wooden line?  To suffer such brokenness.  Such deep failure.  My humiliation becomes a secret, silent gift.  Just between the Lord and me.  Nobody here but us, in the quiet places that only He knows.  That only He can redeem.  We are like two hands folded together in prayer.  His big hand.  My little one.  A perfect fit, and to be layed so low feels good.  Feels right.  Feels God.