Beach Grace

Peter sat quietly in the handcrafted boat made by his grandfather.  Generations of fishers passed down their family trade, and now Peter was the boat master.  For the past three years, Peter's fishing career had suffered, but all of that would be different now.  It was back to the methodical life of before...

BEFORE JESUS...

SIGH...

The boat lulled softly on the still morning water.  Peter struggled to keep his eyelids from dropping shut.  He hadn't slept soundly the past few days.  He wondered if he'd ever sleep soundly again.  It was Peter's idea to go fishing this night.  Perhaps, routine would be a distraction from the insomnia, the sorrow, the regret.  All night they cast their nets into the cool waters, and not a single fish was taken captive.  Discouraged, Peter thought about the time their nets burst with so many fish that two boats could scarcely hold their catch.  Jesus was there on the miraculous fishing day.  Peter fell on his knees humbled, awestruck, unworthy. That was the day Peter left his nets behind to follow Jesus.

JESUS...

JESUS...

JESUS...

Peter worried a loose wool cord from one of the nets between his fingers as his wandering thoughts betrayed the task at hand.  The sky shifted from navy to light gray.  Clouds mirrored the pink reflection of the sun that would soon break the horizon.  Peter's shoulders sank as he remembered the day Jesus gave him a special name.  ROCK.  Peter the rock.  "On you, I will build my church,"  Jesus told him.  Peter's confidence soared that day, and His heart was overwhelmed with love for  Jesus.  Now, Peter's heart crumbled in shame.  Tears streamed down Peter's sun weathered face.  Things between Jesus and him would never be the same.

PETER THE ROCK...

PETER THE BETRAYER...

In Jesus' darkest hour, Peter told others that he never even knew his friend, master, teacher.  Peter denied.  Peter betrayed.  Peter lied.  Not once.  Not twice.  But three times.  Jesus, himself, had warned Peter.  Peter refused to believe from the depths of his bones that he would ever reject Jesus.  The rooster crowed, and the veil was lifted from Peter's eyes.  On this RUBBLE no church could ever be built.  The sun peeked through the horizon.  The sky was awake in flames of orange and pink.  Peter halfheartedly tossed the net into the sea.  He didn't want to fish.  He wanted to run.  Run to escape the grief,  the pain, the reality of who he was. 

ROCK.  BETRAYER.  RUBBLE.

"Peter, look!  It's Jesus!  On the shore.  Look, Peter.  Look."  Peter's thoughts jolted.  He didn't even bother to see which of the others was speaking to him.  Eyes squinted, he focused his gaze towards the beach.  Was it really Him?  Was it... JESUS!  Peter's heart pounded hard within his chest.  Without thinking, he plunged into the water recklessly.  Each stroke closer to the beach.  Each stroke closer to Jesus.  Peter's palms smacked the water.  His legs kicked fierce.  Maybe he could tell Jesus that he was... that he was SORRY.  Peter's heart ached and his conscience poked wounds.  BETRAYER...  The sting was almost too much to bear.  "What am I doing?  I am a fool," Peter thought.  Madness had overtaken Peter's sense.  Now, it was too late.  He was already halfway between the boat and the shore.  There was no turning back.

Soaked in regret, Peter stood up in the shallow water.  Legs heavy, heart sluggish, he waded the rest of the way towards the beach.  RUBBLE BRACED HIMSELF FOR REPRIMAND.  He would have no words.  No answer.  No explanation.  Jesus motioned for Peter to come.  Peter's heart tripped and stumbled as he dragged himself closer to his beloved friend.  A small driftwood fire was blazing bright in the shadow of dawn.  Drenched, Peter sat close to the fire to chase the wet and chill from his bones and clothes.  A rugged stick, propped on a rock, pierced two hearty fish that cooked over the flames.  Peter's eyes welled up with tears and spilled over his cheeks.  Jesus placed a single index finger over his lips as if to say, "Shhhh, it's okay."   Peter almost lost himself within the deep of Jesus' warm brown eyes, but shamefully turned to look down at the sand...the dirt like him.  Jesus gently put his hand on Peter's knee.  Cautiously, Peter raised his eyes to meet Jesus' tender gaze.  Grace began to soothe regret.  The fish crackled over the fire, and Jesus reached for the stick.  Smiling, He passed it to Peter.  FORGIVENESS SHATTERED SHAME as Peter realized that Jesus had been waiting for HIM.  God made Rubble breakfast, and he would never be the same again.  BEACH GRACE gripped the bones of his soul.   

ALL HE HAD TO OFFER WAS THE RAW BROKENNESS OF WHO HE WAS.  

TO JESUS, IT WAS ENOUGH.

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Could it be that Jesus waits for you to jump out of your boat and swim to Him, so He can blanket you in His love, intimately cook you breakfast, and envelop you in His BEACH GRACE?  All that you are (and you know what you are) melts away in the heat of the fire, in the warmth of His eyes, in the tenderness of His touch.  ALL THAT HE IS BECOMES ALL THAT YOU ARE.  You are you, yet changed.

RUBBLE TO ROCK-NEW... 

Could it be the one humbled by failure, reduced to rubble is the rock on which the church is actually built?

RECKLESSLY ABANDONED TO JESUS, OUR FAILURES AND FLAWS BECOME STORIES... THAT BECOME RELATIONSHIPS... THAT BECOME COMMUNITIES... THAT BECOME THE LIVING-BREATHING-HANDS-AND-FEET-AND-HEART-OF-CHRIST-TO-OTHERS.

This is the ROCK on which His church is built.  True.  Church.

Offer your RUBBLE.
    
IN HIS BEACH GRACE,  TO JESUS...
  
IT IS ENOUGH.



"Now come and have some breakfast...."  (John 21:12)

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The above "fiction" is based on the following scriptures:

Luke 5:1-11

Matthew 16:18

Mark 14:66-72 

John 21:1-14

Dirty Feet and a Grace Wash

OH, THOSE DIRTY FEET.

I can't get them out of my head or heart.  Those stinky dirty feet, cracked and calloused from miles and miles of walking.  Twelve pairs of feet, caked with layers of crusty dust.  Dirt exaggerated lines like a map on the underside, tracking every place the feet had traveled. 

EVERY.  PLACE. 

Other than acts of heart, your feet take you everywhere you go.  Every action, your feet trod the path to get you there.  Every good deed, every kindness. Your feet lead the way.   Every entanglement, every brokenness, every sin, every secret, every failure. 

FEET.  FEET.  FEET.

DIRT.  DIRT.  DIRT.

Those twelve grown men waited for a servant to come and wash their grimy feet, so they could fellowship around the table with Jesus.  Earth from the day's travel evidenced the journey beneath their sandals.  Some had feet more filthy than others. 

ONE...

HAD FEET THE FILTHIEST OF ALL.  

Jesus got up, grabbed a towel, and revealed His servant hands and heart.  He poured water into a bowl, and began to wash the feet of the twelve.  Shocked and dumbfounded, each disciple yielded their unclean toes and heels, and soles and souls to the servant king for a grace wash.  With each dip into water and scrubbing cleanse, Jesus not only washed feet, but hearts.

BETRAYER SQUIRMED.  

JESUS KNEW.

JESUS WASHED MERCY OVER THE BETRAYER'S FEET, ANYWAY.

The beautiful thing about Jesus is that He offers His mercy wash to all.  He never forces us to accept Him.  He wants His love and tenderness towards us to compel our hearts to reciprocate that love.  Some will reject Him like the betrayer among the twelve.  Some will surrender.

I AM A SURRENDERED BETRAYER.

I HAVE THE FILTHIEST FEET OF ALL.

I am salved and relieved that the dirty lines are washed from the map of where I've traveled.  Sometimes my feet still become tired and calloused, dirty and worn.  Sometimes my feet travel places they should not step.  Sometimes.  All the time.  I need a fresh bath of grace from the Mercy Washer.  I need to be re-drenched in His love, re-flooded with His tenderness, and re-affirmed by His grace.  I abandon myself to His cleansing balm, and I am so thankful that He isn't deterred by my dirty feet.

OH, THOSE DIRTY FEET.

Are your feet tired and calloused, dirty and worn?  Have your feet traveled places they should not have stepped?  Do you need a fresh bath of grace from the Mercy Washer?  Do you need to be re-drenched in His love, re-flooded with His tenderness, and re-affirmed by His grace? 

NO MATTER WHERE YOUR FEET HAVE TAKEN YOU, REMEMBER THAT HE WASHES IT ALL.

"Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow."   (Psalm 51:7)

       

Story Pieces

Today I have the honor and privilege of guest posting for my friend, Jermaine Lane.  Jermaine weaves stunning imagery through his poetry, so make sure you check out some of his art.  You will be blessed! 


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Right now we are in life limbo.  To make ends meet for our family, Ironman has been going to local auctions and re-selling items on ebay.  A few weeks ago, he came home with a medium sized box filled with boyhood treasures from one single individual  from years gone by.  The "boy" had written his name on nearly every precious piece.  They were his TREASURES... his STORY PIECES, and it moved my heart so, that I just had to let the sentiment spill into words. 


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"STORY PIECES"

In my hands I hold story pieces...

 belonging to an elderly man I never knew.   

The truth and sentiment of this has gripped my heart in a way unexpected. The story pieces I hold include an old farm game, a cardboard box filled with tattered old crayons from his second grade year- which his mother lovingly decorated his name on the top, a pencil box from later years filled with pens and pencils- his name then neatly scrolled in his own cursive penmanship… and a child's play shaving kit. 

It was the old shaving kit that did it.  It gripped my heart and caused me to fight back tears. 

STORY PIECES.

Perhaps, it's because I can so easily envision my own six year old son playing wholeheartedly with a miniature bar of soap, and a tiny tube of real toothpaste.  Maybe I wonder what this old-man-young was like.  One day, not really so very long ago, he stood in front of a mirror, lathered up his face with the mini bristly shave brush and carved off cream in streaks with his plastic razor.  He combed his hair with the comb, and dabbed on aftershave from the mini sized vial.  I'm sure his mother kissed his "clean shaven" fresh smelling face all over. Little Jerry Lee used up every bit of this shaving kit.  Still, he saved it.

STORY PIECES.

Each item used up.  Each item saved.  A broken comb.  Toothbrush.  Toothpaste.  Three teeny tiny glass jars of aftershave and cologne.  Mini shave brushes and a bar of soap.  Cardboard razors to fit in the plastic razor head.  Little Jerry Lee even cut out and colored a few cardboard razor blades of his own.  Perhaps he used the crayons from his second grade crayon box- the one which his mother so lovingly put his name. 

STORY PIECES.

Story pieces that Jerry Lee saved for 60 years.  Story pieces that meant something to him.  Story pieces that now mean something to me.  Someone, somewhere named Jerry Lee Myers cared enough to neatly save and preserve a few pieces from his childhood.  These were more than "things" to him.  He was saving memories, feelings, warmth, security, love, a piece of home.  Jerry Lee had a tender heart to want to save a precious few treasures, pieces from his childhood, pieces from his beginnings, pieces that founded the man he was.  

STORY PIECES.

TO CONTINUE READING..... CLICK HERE! 

Grateful

Today I have the absolute HONOR of guest posting for one of

             my favorite bloggers/writers.  Tamara Lunardo is one of the most honest, raw, and real people you would ever care to meet.  She hides behind no walls, cuts to the chase, speaks what the rest of us probably wish we could, and loves JESUS with every ounce of her being.  I am blessed that my blog, at least for a day, gets to cross paths with hers.  THANK YOU, Tamara, for allowing a little piece of my heart to be present in your "not so little" corner of the internet.  :)

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My post today is a poem (of sorts) based on the following scripture:



Early in the morning Jesus came again to the temple. All the people came to Him, and He sat down and taught them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and placing her in the midst they said to Him, “Teacher, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery. Now in the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?” This they said to test Him, that they might have some charge to bring against Him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. And as they continued to ask Him, He stood up and said to them,  

“LET HIM WHO IS WITHOUT SIN AMONG YOU BE THE FIRST TO THROW A STONE AT HER."

And once more He bent down and wrote on the ground.  But when they heard it, they went away one by one, beginning with the older ones, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus stood up and said to her,  

“WOMAN, WHERE ARE THEY?  HAS NO ONE CONDEMNED YOU?" 

She said, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said,

“NEITHER DO I CONDEMN YOU... GO, AND SIN NO MORE."

John 8:1-11

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Are you a stone holder, or are you the girl caught in the entanglement of her own brokenness?  It's an honest question, because I KNOW that *I have been a holder of rocks both big and small many times in my life, and I KNOW that *I have thrown those stones more than a time or two, at least in my own heart.  The CRUX of this scripture (and let's NOT miss it) is this:

NOT A SINGLE ONE OF US IS REALLY AND TRULY DEEP DOWN IN THE BONES OF WHO WE ARE A STONE HOLDER OR THROWER...  WE ARE ALL, *EVERY* *SINGLE* *ONE* OF US, THAT BEDRAGGLED GIRL ABOUT TO DIE BY OUR OWN DOING...  WAITING... BREATHLESS... IN THE MIDST OF THE RIDICULOUS, AMAZING, WONDROUS MERCY OF THE SAND WRITER.

This is the perfect backdrop for being "GRATEFUL"....  To continue reading, please click HERE.

The Rootless House

I'm more sentimental than a reminiscent  grandmother wringing out time with needle clicks on rocker runners.  I'm not exactly certain how I came to be this way, although I suspect it has something to do with growing up broken, and longing for the meaning, depth, and belonging I never quite had as a child.  I attach sentiment to things, sadly to a fault, and almost each "thing" we possess has STORY and significance.


To most, it would have been an old oak board, it's purpose all used up.  To me, one small gesture of love would be returned to me, through this board, a thousand-fold years later, and it's significance would cover one of my soul wounds like salve.  A "kiss" from GOD, because...


HE IS SO GOOD AT TAKING THINGS, SEEMINGLY ALL USED UP, AND SPEAKING HIS LOVE, HIS KNOWING, AND HIS HEART INTO THEM. 



It was just a HOUSE.  A roof... some walls...  But to this broken girl trying to plant ROOTS for her family, it was HOME.  Through the years, I tricked myself into believing that I could actually plant those roots, but truth is a sharp reality, sometimes.  The CHURCH-OWNED house was no more than a castle on the beach waiting in false strength for a wave to come. Grandchildren would never be able to return to their parents' childhood home to climb the same maple trees, run in the same fields, decorate cookies in the same kitchen, or "camp-in" in front of the same fireplace.  Reality.  Sharp.  This house would never be ours. We could not truly lay down roots.  Rootless. 



Six Christmases ago, my parents helped us remodel the broken down kitchen ceiling of the CHURCH HOUSE.  During the remodel, an oak board was removed from above the kitchen window to allow more light to filter into the room.  The old board was tossed aside as garbage, but for some reason, I rescued it and hid it behind the washing machine. One short Christmas later, I wanted to give Ironman something he could treasure, a handmade gift of love.  I found the purposeless oak board hidden away, and gave it STORY.  I painted the board red to spring it to life, and brushed across it the words "I HOPE YOU DANCE."  Not before six more Christmases would pass, would I fully realize the significance of this now treasured board.


As time moves forward...


SOMETIMES THINGS YOU WISH WOULD CHANGE... DON'T.  


SOMETIMES THINGS YOU WISH WOULDN'T CHANGE... DO.


Caught in this "change" paradox, after more than a decade of hard ministry, GOD called us to move away for a season of rest.

BUT............

ROOTS!  MY HEART ACHED... AND... SOMETIMES, MY HEART STILL ACHES.  ROOTS!  OUR FAMILY WAS BUILT IN A ROOTLESS HOUSE.



THE WAVE CRASHED THE CASTLE... 



The castle... where newborn babies arrived at their very first home, halls paced to soothe tears and tummy aches, first steps learned, knees skinned,  front teeth lost, wobbly two-wheelers mastered, maple trees climbed.  Miles were swung on an old tire hung from limb and a red porch swing.  S'mores and hotdogs cooked over the fireplace cozy, and overnight slumber parties, just us six, freezing in the wee hours because the fire died down.  Stuffy noses, broken arms, broken hearts.  A baby lost.  Within the walls, a tangle of joy and grief, struggle and victory. 

ALL IN A ROOTLESS HOUSE...

The castle... where we were enchanted under pink cherry blossom snows.  My grandmother's Black-eyed Susans transplanted and adorned flowerbeds with stunning beauty.  Mud pies, sprinkler runs, kiddie pools, toy tractor excavations, baby dolls strolled in buggies on breezy summer days, rain puddle dances wet and free.  Critters found,  tree frog songs, sweet juicy tomatoes, children's laughter from growing up in country wide.  Chalk picture artwork from CHURCH HOUSE to church.  Fire red trees and calico piles of leaves raked and jumped, raked and jumped.  Messages of love written in new snow on parking lot flat.  Snowmen, snow angels, sleds.  Memories that have no words.  Pain and sacrifice. Faith and trust forged true.  A family grown.  A family saved.


ALL IN  A ROOTLESS HOUSE...



THEN IT HIT ME.


God whispered deep.   

"Shanda, my girl, don't you know?  Remember the gift? The board?"   

The painted oak gift board.  From behind the washer HE stirred my heart to make.  A gift from the throw away board that came from the cookie making kitchen where birthday parties were celebrated and Thanksgiving feasts cooked. First bites of Gerber fruits were eaten, and children learned to crack eggs.   

"I see your heart, daughter.  I knew this day would come, and in your gift, I gave you one in return."  

A board?  A PIECE of the ROOTLESS HOUSE.   Mine.  A reminder of how roots grow deep.



ROOTS GROW NOT INSIDE WALLS, BUT INSIDE HEARTS. 



Our HOME is with each other, and our HOME is with HIM.  GOD is our ROOT.  Even so,  God cares deeply about this sentimental girl's heart.  He knew that old board would be a blessing, A PIECE ENOUGH.  Not just a board, but a ROOT from the ROOTLESS HOUSE.   From it, we will continue to build our HOME.


 
Today, I found this note on the back of the board.  "I love you.  Be blessed!  Your Abba wanted you to have this!  Forever, My Love."  PIECE ENOUGH, INDEED... RETURNED A THOUSAND-FOLD...

Oh Daddy, Daddy!  Thank you for the GIFT.  Thank you for the healing balm, the kiss.  Thank you for reminding me how much you love me and care about my heart.  It's not just a board!  It's a root.  I will plant it, and I will MOST CERTAINLY DANCE!

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Inside the closet of her bedroom in the CHURCH HOUSE,  my daughter left a priceless note in permanent marker.

The note reads, "This is Kendall.  I lived here for 10 years and 10 months.  I'm 10 years of age, and I want someone to know I lived here.  KG."


Someday, when she is old enough to understand about ROOTS, and HOME, and HEARTS, and GOD, and DANCE...  I will give her that old oak board to keep and to treasure... forever.