TIM E HOLDER

I got mad this week.  I got mad and I vented to and at God.  I was already on edge and I guess I didn’t even realize it until it happened. 

I rarely ever lose my cool.  The last few months have been hard and I have worked to trust Him and stay surrendered and stuff down frustration, fear and well, frankly a HUGE lack of understanding His plan, intellectually knowing it is perfect and knowing that He is working, because He promised, for my good. 

I was cleaning the house and knocked over my iron and a piece of it broke off.  I just thought, “great…yet another expense I can’t even think about replacing.”  A few minutes later I bumped a desk and knocked off a glass figurine that was given to me as a gift which shattered. 

That was it.  I screamed.  I cried and even uttered a few not so well chosen expletives.  I pointed my finger and poked the air, blaming Him for not meeting my needs.  I was tired.  Worn out from trying to wear the right/stoic face in front of a Father who knows my heart better than I know myself.  This went on for about ten minutes.  Of course I felt regret and guilt after I collapsed on the couch.  And I apologized over and over for my lack of faith, and maybe a little fear, remembering that He didn’t have a problem offing a bunch of wandering, whining Israelites over an embarrassing manna and quail incident.  I wanted an answer right then.  I wanted him to fix my problem right then.  Tired of the struggle.  I have grown enough through this struggle and it’s time to rest.  So fix it.   

I have a friend who told me about a time when one of his sons was younger, maybe 7 or so.  A long planned trip was coming up for them, father and two sons.

A much anticipated trip to a nascar event.  It was all they talked about for weeks.  The day before they were to leave, the younger son came down with a horrific stomach virus and the trip was forced to be cancelled.  

When my friend walked in to the bedroom to break the news to his sick son, he was a little shocked by the reaction.  As sick as he was, the little boy jumped up on the bed, begging his dad to change his mind.  When he was told that he was just too sick to go and this was the best thing for him, he ran to the end of the bed and began to scream and cry and beat his fists against his dad’s chest, yelling the unfairness of the decision and the unfairness of his father. 

When his little body grew weak from fever, he collapsed into his father’s arms and wept.  My friend knew how hurt his baby boy was, physically and emotionally. So he took the pounding.  He told me later that he was so willing to take the punches because his boy chose to come to his dad instead of the enemy.  He chose to go to the one he knew he could trust.  He chose the one who would understand.  He chose to pull in close instead of running, hiding and isolating.   I realized that my old self would have done all those weak, foolish things…run, hide, isolate.  Although I was still sorry I was angry, I was also relieved I instinctively took it to the One who gets me and knows my love for Him is true and honest.  And honesty is what He loves.  And I still knew he has a plan.  And I will continue to wait on Him…with Him.  

Sunday at church my pastor gave the call for the offering.  He spoke about real trust and about the one place in scripture where The Lord told us to test Him…to try Him.  To see if He wouldn’t open the storehouses of Heaven if we tithe. 

I haven’t been able to tithe lately.  It drives me crazy.  I honestly love the feeling of giving ten per cent of my income.  It just hasn’t made sense to give when I am already in the hole. Yet the Holy Spirit tugged at my heart.  Six dollars was in my pocket.  Literally all I had to buy gas to make it to Wednesday when I get paid.  When the bag passed me, I prayed, “Here I am Lord…the widow with her two mites.  I don’t know if I’m offering this to further your kingdom…or doing it to prove to myself that you are true to your promise…or to show you that You can trust me with more.  I don’t need a jug of oil that doesn’t run empty…but my gas tank could use some help.”  Maybe a combination of a couple or all of those.  I watched the bills fall, slow motion, almost like I could still grab them before they disappeared into the bag.  I was afraid.  But I was okay with that.  I’ve learned that doing something courageous has very little to do with fear.  Fear is just an emotion.  Courage is an action.  

Tonight, a man I’ve never met or even heard of got hold of me and said he and his wife were coming back from Ft. Smith and asked me to meet him at a gas station just off the 430. We shared friends in common so I wasn’t worried.  When I got there, he blessed me by making my mortgage payment.  And then he took my car over to the pump (I didn’t tell him I was low) and filled my tank.  Then he said they stopped at Wal-Mart on their way in and bought a gift card so I would be able to get fuel when I needed it.  He blessed me again.  And they were gone.  I sat in my car, hands gripping, head leaning against the steering wheel and I cried.  Feeling His big, warm, safe arms wrapped around His ragamuffin son.  

Matthew 11:28-30. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Matthew 18:2. “For an answer Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in.  Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me.”

I feel certain, he took into account how bratty His kids can, from time to time, be.

If you should ever hear me, for some random, arbitrary reason yell out, “ANFRACTUOSITY,” don’t be alarmed. Anfractuosity is merely the act or state of being anfractious, which is an adjective meaning “full of bends and curves…intricate windings.”

There are absolute, turning on a dime moments or experiences in my life when I know change just happened or I can sense something is about to. Many times, it is part of my journey that I have no control over. Sometimes it is totally due to user error. But, a shift in focus is inevitable.

The past few days, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the anfractious paths our lives tend to follow and I wonder how much of it is due to mere circumstance and how much of it is the direct hand of God. I have lately been living in a statement my pastor made in one of his recent teachings. “The message will always be consistent, unchanging. But, the methods should always change.”

Twists, turns, curves, bends…anfractuosity. Even with a never-changing message that is clear and sharper than any double edged sword, I never stop being surprised by the unexpected, serpentine bends and curves in the road. I wish God would give me a heads up when something is going to change. If He would just yell, “PLOT TWIST” so I could have adequate time to prepare. Then I could handle it all on my own, all myself, and not have to depend on Him. As if that ever works.

Psalm 139 says, “Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day,” . He always knows. When I spend my time trying to do it all on my own, it’s easy to forget that He is actually on my side and knows what’s best for me, has a plan for my life that was laid out by Him before I was even conceived, knows when I want something, even when it’s ministry oriented, but still not His best for me. He knows when it’s time for me to let go of my dream, even if it’s wonderful, because His plan is better, and in the long run, will fill me more and leave me more fulfilled. He will sustain my gifts and grow me into that plan.

A couple of years ago I prayed hard about a volunteer position that might possibly open for me in Celebrate Recovery, a ministry I dearly love, and frankly, saved my life.  But, I couldn’t get past the feeling that God wanted me to grow in a different place. I wrestled for weeks. Finally, I heard Him say, “Give up what you think is good, for what I know is better.” When I finally let go, when I finally surrendered, I felt such an amazing peace and freedom. Real freedom. I was giving Him room to do something new. And now, a couple of years later, the door of that ministry has reopened and i find myself in a position of cleared space and time and hearing the Lord say, “now it’s time.”  Anfractuosity. 

I sent a copy of a story I penned a while back to my sister, Jacqui. She actually uses Facebook as social media. Go figure. She never reads long stuff, including mine. She is one of the many Jack Russell Terriors in my life. Once she gets her teeth in something, she just doesn’t let go. She texted me back about 2 hours later and told me to go to timeholderblog.com. She started a blog site for me.  A new adventure began because I cleared out space and gave Him room.

Just when we think we could never love anything more than using our gifts just as we always have, we need to be ready and prepare for anfractuosity. He will change us and He will use our gifts for His glory. There will be a bend in the road, a new key turning in a new door, a shifting season. The key is allowing our hearts to be surrendered and allow our methods to change to display His unchanging message of hope.

David wanted to build the Temple. God told him it wouldn’t be his to build, but his son’s. I feel certain that David must have felt disappointment. But, God’s plan for David was better. I feel certain that part of the reason David didn’t build the temple is because it was through his line that the Savior of the world would come. And rather than the linage of Jesus being from a “man who built a temple,” the ancestry of Jesus would be from a “man after God’s own heart.” That was a major plot twist in his history that David thought would be his legacy. He gave up what he wanted to receive what God knew was best. Anfractuosity. 

Another way I’m trying to escape the traps of human conditioning is to change my view of change. If I expect change, my knee-jerk reaction is to think, “I have to lose something for change to happen. What will I have to give up?” Maybe that’s why so many people hate change. I think the word itself has bad connotations. Maybe that’s why so many are afraid to give their hearts to Jesus.

What if we looked at it from a different vantage point. What if we made Isaiah 43 our catch phrase instead of “change.” Isaiah 43:19 says, “See, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up. Do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and springs in the wasteland.”

He’s doing a new thing. What if we allow him room to do a new thing in us instead of changing something. Maybe we do have to give up something we love so He can give us our new, best dream. It makes it far less scary for me to think of the adventures of life as new things, rather than having to change. “He’s doing a new thing.” To me that says it all. He’s doing it. And it’s new. And it’s going to be fresh water in a wasteland. Sounds like an oasis to me.

Anfractuosity is not about how steep is the mountain, or how sharp is the curve. It’s about the excitement of what is just around the next bend. And what is the next part of my story that He is about to reveal for His glory.

As exciting as the “new thing” can be, it can still be a roller coaster of pain and heartache before we get to fresh water. I have two precious friends I’ve known for more than 2 decades. Leah and Sam. We all went to church together. Sam was the youth minister and Lean was married to the Senior Pastor. At about the same time, they all felt called to move into different seasons of their lives. I was completely against it. I did NOT want them leaving. I tried to blame it on them not hearing clearly from the Holy Spirit. Truth be told, I just didn’t want them leaving me. My protests went unheeded

Leah and her family moved to eastern Tennessee to do a church start-up and Sam and his family moved back to Nashville, where they were originally from. Only a few years into leading their new church, which grew to about two thousand members, it was discovered that Leah’s husband was having an affair. This was not the first time her husband manufactured lies to cover his actions. I was even a victim of his lies, stories of gruesome, abusive events in his life, blatant lies used to elicit sympathy to cover his actions.

Leah, wise enough to set specific boundaries,  trying desperately to save her marriage and keep herself safe at the same time, boundaries which her husband was, in the final analysis, not willing to keep,  Leah moved back to Nashville with her kids and was finally forced to file for divorce. Sam struggled with many health issues, culminating in several strokes. He lives in a retirement village now, divorced, only in his late 40’s.

Leah wrote: “Sam continues to digress. He appears to be displaying symptoms of dementia or Parkinson’s,  maybe?  No official diagnosis and the symptoms are there. He reminisces about times at Little Rock and speaks longingly of you. The stroke has left him in a frustrating state. He recognizes his cognitive functions are lessening all the time and it scares him. So I ask for your prayers on his behalf!  Beth and the kids rarely come to see him (I have no judgement, she is doing the best she can) and his heart is heavy…he longs to see his kids. He aches to be with them. That is more than understandable. So if you ever come to Nashville it would be a gift for you to visit with all of us. Especially Sam. Beyond that I ask for prayers on his behalf. Love ya Tim.”

Soon after, she sent another message: “So I’m struggling and feel great terror about finances and being alone. Will you pray for me? Judge signed the decree on March 26th. I thought legally things weren’t complete for 30 days after. Mark’s  understanding is that it’s done and the 30 days is a formality. Either way I’m grieving and feel something between fear and terror. I need Jesus! What’s so strange to me is that for around eight weeks now I’ve seen deeper sorrow from Mark over minor things and grace towards me at a level that I just haven’t seen for many, many years. I thought he might want to reengage yet he never said anything. I finally realized this was his quiet way of saying goodbye. Which is very sweet and I’m grateful and I want things to be different and they’re not. It’s difficult to know what is an emotional stirring versus a real change. And either way it’s too late. It’s done. It’s over.  My miracles are used up. And to be honest I recognize that it’s not about miracles. It’s about accepting the things I cannot change. This is a tough one to accept.”

I processed for a few days before I was able to respond. My heart was broken for everyone involved. I love them all and grieve deeply for their many losses. I look for the “new things” in all this. I wasn’t sure what to say that would help. So, I spoke from my heart, what I know to be true.

“I don’t know that the “terror” you feel is anything abnormal. It may be that any kind of great, traumatic change brings up the F cubed instinct, (fight, flight, freeze). You are brave. You always have been brave. I am trying to remember back when I was finally forced into coming to grips with the choice, my choice, that my earthly existence was to be alone, without a significant other, partner, spouse (whatever the culture calls them now). It wasn’t easy. And I think I originally kind of railed against that reality. It was hard to grab hold of the idea that Jesus is going to have to prove that he is really enough. He is, that’s true enough. But, as amazing and surprising as he is, I don’t feel him physically hold me at night. I don’t get to throw my day at him while we grill out together. He’s not there to nuke a can of chicken noodle soup when I’m sick. We don’t laugh till we cry over the goofy stuff the dogs or mutual friends get into. I do talk to him all the time though, and hope an answer or response will be “felt.” I do hear him. Very clearly. So, I think, even if it’s occasionally been a bit unconscious on my part, I’ve been forced to look deeper, seek Him on a soul leve more intimately, purposefully plan out time to spend with him.  Sometimes, that rationale doesn’t make living alone any easier. but, sometimes it does. Everything is a season. That is pretty much my mantra nowadays. I can look back and safely say that every circumstance, experience, crisis, crisis of faith, broken promise, need, failure, decision, right or wrong has somehow always managed to come to an acceptable resolution. Not always, very rarely in fact, the perceived purpose I would have chosen. But, in hindsight, always right. And I’m still standing. Leaning into the almost constant winds of change has made my roots stronger, me more durable and bendable, resilient. It’s all, everything, just another season. And somehow it works out. And sometimes, at night, when I turn out the lamp and crawl under the covers, if I look really hard, I catch a glimpse of his eyes.”

Leah wrote back: “Some of it has been brave and some of it has not been brave. Some of it has been a lack of trusting God! Yet even when I didn’t trust God the way he asked me too, He was still watching and waiting and guiding and covering and all consumingly loving me; all in the midst of my disbelief and my belief!!  That is an amazing God!! I hung out with Sam today and though he won’t recall the words I read to him from your message, in that moment, that pivotal, powerful moment, he said, as I read, ‘I catch a glimpse of His eyes,’ he said ‘oh wow, I can just be still , finally,  and focus and reflect on that.’ He got it!  And it was powerful to him!! Thank you for creating a powerful moment for me. Thank you for creating a powerful moment for Sam; Thank you for creating a powerful moment for all of  us together!!!”

How do we get through and survive the “anfractuosity” of this life? Jesus is ahead of us, peering with perfect precision around the next curve, the next bend, preparing the way. And we get through it together. The “powerful moments for all of us together.”

May his grace be evident with every turn, every bend, every curve you navigate.

And may the anfractuosity of your life be “all new things.”

The practice in Israel was for all relatives of a conquered king to be killed. This tradition insured the safety of the newly seated king and kept them from being killed by the descendants of previously dethroned royalty.

King David was in a dilemma.

After having spent several years battling neighboring nations, and soundly defeating them, he was finally able to grieve the death of his beloved friend, Jonathan, the son of King Saul. Jonathan knew that one day, David would be King. and because of the covenant he and David made with one another, knowing that David would never harm him or his family, he asked David to promise that once he became King, David would take care of his descendants. And of course, David promised.

After Jonathan’s death, David asked if any of Jonathan’s family were still alive. His heart was to show kindness to them. Mephibosheth, whose name meant “from the mouth of shame,” was hiding in Lodebar, a barren, dry, brown, lonely village to the east of the Jordan river where he lived for many years.

He was five when his nurse fled with him after the death of his father and grandfather for fear of his being killed by the new King. In her haste, she dropped him and he was rendered lame in both his feet for the rest of his life.

Imagine his horror when King David’s soldiers showed up at the home of Machir where Mephibosheth was living. Now in his thirties, the anxious fear he must have lived with for decades was finally at the front door.

Taken to the very throne room where he spent his childhood, Mephibosheth must have concluded that one of the possible outcomes for his eventual death was about to come to fruition. How many times did he practice his death in his dreams? How many ways did he imagine he would be found out by the King. And here it was. He recognized from a very early age that this moment was not only possible, but inevitable.

He fell on the floor of the throne room, face down, when David entered. What must have been going through David’s heart when he looked down on this crippled man. He said, “Mephibosheth.” And how David’s heart must have broken when Mephibosheth looked up and said, “Yes sir.” David surely saw the resemblance of his dearest, most trusted, covenanted friend, Jonathan in the eyes of this panicked, confused young man.

Then David said words that Mephibosheth never, in all his imaginings of this moment ever allowed even enter his consciousness. Instead of watching the sword fall in his last moments on earth, Mephibosheth heard the one who held the continuance of his days in his hands say, “Mephibosheth, don’t be afraid.” I’m not even sure the relief of his life being given back to him was the first thing that registered in his brain. All the years of knowing he would die by the king’s sword was violently exorcised from his thoughts. Because his first words were from disbelief, rather than gratitude. He stuttered and stammered and said, “Who am I that you would pay attention to a stray dog like me?”  Almost as if he were admitting, “wait a minute. You’re supposed to kill me.”

But, David chose words of life instead of words of death that Mephibosheth, just like so many of us, expect to hear. I can’t even begin to comprehend Mephibosheth’s response when David returned to him all the land and everything that belonged to his father and even his grandfather, King Saul. And when David ended that meeting by telling him that he would eat at the King’s table for the rest of his life, Mephibosheth must have felt like a dog with two tails.

Proverbs 18:21 reads, “The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat it’s fruit.” There is no neutral ground here. No disengaged, disinterested, noncommittal, isolated rock to stand on. This scripture says words either bring life, or death.

And if I’m honest, I can’t say that I spend a majority of any day deliberately making a choice to disperse life over death. That’s not to say that everything I dish out has to start with “Jesus loves you.” Or that I have to end each phone call with “In accordance with prophecy.”  It doesn’t have to announce to anyone that I am spiritual by saying, “Have a blessed day.”

What it does mean, I think, is the meaning of the word life, which in this instance is Zoe, which means eternal life, God’s life. We have been given eternal life. So it just makes sense that we should be speaking with an ever ongoing, eternal mindset. And our words to others should be seasoned with that mindset.

I am always amazed that many times, when I give encouragement to someone, or a word of hope, they respond as though they don’t deserve it. Or they feel guilty about receiving a compliment. And I have even received affirmation from people who seemed uncomfortable giving it, almost as though a kind word leaves them weak and vulnerable.

Recently, talking to a friend, they recounted a conversation they were having with an employee. They were getting frustrated with the employee for not doing a project the way they would have done it. First I asked if the employee was given direction on how the project was to be done. The employer said “no.” I asked if the project was completed. The answer was, “Yes.” Then I asked how the employee took the criticism. They said, “not very well. What would you have done?” I told her, “I have been thinking a lot about my legacy and how I would like to be thought of when one day I’m gone. I’m not talking about at my memorial service. But, even now. The legacy that I leave on a daily basis. I  would have told that person, ‘Good job. You finished the project. Thank you for getting it done.’

I’m learning that doing something my way is just another way. Not the only way. That my way is not necessarily better, just different. And what I might think is a better way, is still not the only way. It’s just my way. If the project gets done, it’s done. No matter whose way it gets done. Doing it my way will not make either one of us a better person. But man, what gratification I get when I get to tell someone, “great job.”

What does our living legacy look like? Are we dispersing ZOE life? Or death? Every thing we say, everything makes a difference.

Everything.

We will either ride the popular wave of uplifting ourselves, or we will disrupt the status quo. Most people won’t get it. We will leave them feeling uncomfortable but uplifted, confused but questioning. Some will feel vulnerable, not having been given a reason to take a defensive stance.

I want this process of feeding life instead of death into people’s lives on a far more regular basis. I believe we are chiseling our tombstone epitaph every moment of our life.  It doesn’t matter what is actually etched on our tombstone. What we pour into peoples lives, even a stranger, is what will be read on the tombstone that really matters. 

I was given one of those moments a while back. Only this day, I specifically asked for it.

It was a rainy Sunday morning. A VERY rainy Sunday morning. I was singing a solo that morning at church. I woke up a little past 2am and found my electricity out. I decided that if it was still out when my phone alarm went off, I would pack everything in my car and go to the vet clinic where I work, take a shower and head in to church.

When the alarm went off, the electricity was still out. So, I turned on my phone flashlight and gathered everything together, after taking the dogs out in the pouring rain. Then I made 3 trips to the car. It was literally like taking a shower every time I walked outside. Finally, everything was loaded. I got in the car and just as I started to turn the key in the ignition switch, the porch light came on. I sat there in a short lived  state of “postal” before I got out of the car and made three trips back into the house with all my clothes and toiletries. Finally, on the way to church, I was still trying to settle down and I asked the Lord to help me to not be a distraction today. But, give me the chance to bring life to someone by my words.

After church, I decided I would stop at Kroger on Cantrell and get some stuff for lunch. There’s a red light at the corner before you turn right into the parking lot. This particular day, the red light was blinking. I assumed it was because power was out the night before. And I was relieved to see lots of cars in the parking lot as I pulled in, letting me know the store was open.

I went in and grabbed a hand basket and spent about 30 minutes gathering my avocados and stuff for guac (I was having a hankering).

Going down one aisle, there was a young man, obviously doing family shopping, with a cart full of  kid-friendly groceries. I needed to get past him and asked him to excuse me. And he graciously did.

A few minutes later, as I approached the self-check aisle, the same guy was there and I heard him say, “No way.  Are you kidding me?” The little lady there said, “No. I wish I was.” To which he replied, “Well, what am I supposed to do?” She looked tired and said, “You can go to the customer service desk.” I glanced up and saw a line of people at the service desk. Apparently, this line was for lodging complaints. I jokingly said to the guy, “Are you giving her a hard time?” He looked at me, trying to hide frustration and said, “I hope you have cash.” 

“Why?”

“Because every credit card machine in the store is down.” My first reaction was to get my back up like a spitting cat. But, then I remembered the prayer. I hate it when that happens. So not fair. I wanted to be mad. And even the other guy refrained from exhibiting frustration. He must have shopped for at least an hour. He asked, “Why didn’t they announce it over the intercom?” She said they did. But, it never happened while I was in the store. The other guy said, “What should I do with all this stuff?” She told him to just leave it and someone else would take care of it. He left and then she looked at me. Her shoulders were squared, her jaw set, ready to be defensive. I just looked at her and said, “I feel so bad that someone is going to have to put all this stuff back on the shelves. But, I know it’s not your fault. So don’t think I’m going to be one of those people that try to make it your fault.” Her shoulders just drooped as she tiredly said, “Thank you.” 

And then I drove to Wal-Mart and got all the same stuff cheaper.

The next day, I was recounting what happened to a friend and she said, “Well you were a lot nicer than I would have been. I would have told her they wasted a half hour of my life and there should have been notes on the door in big red letters and there should have been people standing at the door telling people that the credit card machines were down. That would have been a total waste of my time.” And I said, “Yeah, that may be right. But, the bottom line for me is that I know if that lady remembers that moment, she will know that in some small way, I may have been the only chance of her seeing Jesus that day. And if she saw something different from the rest of the crowd, then that’s to God’s credit. I want that to be my legacy. And besides, it just felt good. I didn’t walk away feeling like I needed to be justified or stand up for my rights or have a “guess I showed them” moment. It may have taken thirty minutes, but I learned something. So it was worth the time.”

That’s what I want my legacy to look like. Today, what will my legacy be? I have a busy week ahead of me that could get stressful. Will I speak words of death? Or will I choose to leave others with words of life? Have you been given the opportunity today to treat someone with undeserved respect? Or will you avoid their eyes as you insist on having something done your way? My challenge for you and me is that we feed someone words of life today. Make a deliberate decision. We may not see the chance because we are so used to just responding without thinking. 

1 Peter 3:10 “For whoever would love life and see good days must keep their tongue from evil and their lips from deceitful speech.” There’s no neutral, drab or flat colors to it. Words either bring vibrant, active responses that resonate eternity, or they are passionless, monotonous, indifferent platitudes that blend in with the rest of the world. If you pray for the chance to give life today, you will get it.

I’m betting very few people will actually say “pepperoni and cheese,” but the question still remains.  “What do you want on your tombstone?”

So, lately, as I’ve been reading stories from my Bible, I have been concerned about my personal definition of the word HOPE.  I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say most people in our society and culture equate hope with not much more than a characterless wish that some life experience will turn out for the best…or ALL life experiences will turn out for the best. 

If hope is only a verb, wanting something to happen or be the case, it seems to be passive…a sort of mamby-pamby, tasteless admission that although I absolutely do believe God’s promises are true, the best I can run toward is an uninvolved, apathetic sort of weak-kneed, armchair faith that can really expect nothing more than the idea that God understands my limitations in the belief department and loves me anyway.  “I hope heaven is real.  I hope I get to spend eternity there.  I hope The Lord is true to his promises.” 

Based on what I believed of hope, I couldn’t connect folks of faith in scripture who were inspired by the Holy Spirit and wrote about their hope.  How could they have walked and talked with God and Jesus and only have “hope” (a wish) that they would finish the race in His presence?  It just didn’t work for me.  It almost seemed disingenuous to say I “hoped” or “wished” for things I can’t see when the reality is that I KNOW they are real.  As real as this iPad I’m writing on or the the grass I love to feel beneath my bare feet.  Even more so.  There are times when I could almost explode from the reality of life unseen and promises yet to be unwrapped. 

So how was I to reconcile what I knew to be true with what I thought was a correct definition of a single word…HOPE!!! 

One day The Lord, very clearly said to me, “Is hope only a verb?”  I immediately sat down with my Bible and began looking at scriptures where the word is used.  I began reading them with hope as a noun.  WOW!!!  It was as if the skies burst open and blessing after blessing fell into my heart. 

HOPE is not static.  It is not flat or spiritless or wavering.  It is moving.  It is unpredictable.  It is a strong and confident expectation that what my heart KNOWS is true and real will one day be seen with my eyes.  “My HOPE is that heaven is real.  My HOPE is that I will spend eternity there.  My HOPE is in Jesus.”  It has made all the difference. 

Although hope is a noun, it is extremely active.  It calls me to be alive in every moment.  Hope is a land…a green tree…the place I pitch my tent…it is not a dream. Check these verses out…use the noun…not the verb.  

 Lamentations 3:28-30 When life is heavy and hard to take, go off by yourself. Enter the silence. Bow in prayer. Don’t ask questions: Wait for HOPE to appear. Don’t run from trouble. Take it full-face. The “worst” is never the worst.

Matthew 11:21 Before you know it, his justice will triumph; the mere sound of his name will signal HOPE, even among far-off unbelievers.

Romans 15:12,13 People of all nations, celebrate God! All colors and races, give hearty praise! And Isaiah’s word: There’s the root of our ancestor Jesse, breaking through the earth and growing tree tall, Tall enough for everyone everywhere to see and take HOPE! Oh! May the God of green HOPE fill you up with joy, fill you up with peace, so that your believing lives, filled with the life-giving energy of the Holy Spirit, will brim over with HOPE.

 Colossians 1:5 The lines of purpose in your lives never grow slack, tightly tied as they are to your future in heaven, kept taut by HOPE.

Hebrews 6:12 And now I want each of you to extend that same intensity toward a full-bodied HOPE, and keep at it till the finish. Don’t drag your feet. Be like those who stay the course with committed faith and then get everything promised to them.

Hebrews 6:18 We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised HOPE with both hands and never let go. 

 Acts 2:27,28 I saw God before me for all time. Nothing can shake me; he’s right by my side. I’m glad from the inside out, ecstatic; I’ve pitched my tent in the land of HOPE.

And listen to this one, those who have only “wished.”

Job14:7-9 “At least there is HOPE for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and it’s new shoots will not fail.”

 I believe the power of prayer cocoons us in safety as we individually or corporately petition God. I believe prayer is an energy field that repels darts of the enemy from puncturing our faith and our passions, even our dreams.  It’s one of the reasons I have dogs. I love walking around the house talking to God. So, if neighbors chance to see me dancing or singing or just talking, they will think I’m playing with my pets. I believe that connection with our Father God, and our best friend, Jesus, should be the most natural,  commonplace, normal thing we do.

So, I asked The Lord to give me more opportunities to live out my “hope.”  The ‘realness’ of hope. Not just a wish. Then a conversation happened at work and I was propelled into one of the most “normal” adventures of my life.   I was working the cash register at work at a Christian bookstore.  The book “Heaven Is For Real” was on sale.  One day a tiny, little lady, probably my age (YOUNG) came through the line.  I, as per protocol, asked “Would you be interested in purchasing Heaven Is For Real for five dollars today?”

She looked up at me and smiled, “No thank you.”  There was a slight pause, then she said. “I know heaven is real.”

What I learned earlier in the week was forefront in my mind. “Yes, ma’am.  Me too.”

She looked me square in the eyes. “I’m going to see it very soon.”

Every energy synapse in my body began firing at warp speed.  The air around us was literally electric with spiritual activity. I wanted to take my shoes off. We were on sacred ground. My focus shifted immediately from what I THOUGHT was an unusual experience to a confident expectation of the truly natural. 

“Really?  How can you be sure?”

She spoke quietly, as though she didn’t want to cause anyone in hearing distance to be uncomfortable. “I have esophageal cancer.  I have very little time left.  I am moving into hospice next week.”

I chose, more than probably prompted by The Holy Spirit, to live that moment in the secure assurance of hope.

“Wow…you know what?  I have a friend who died just a couple of months ago from that same thing.  He’s home now.  His wife, one of my dear college friends, Vicky, died several years ago, too.  I love knowing they are together now.  And I love knowing I will see them again.  When you get home, would you find Chris and Vicky Dell and tell them I said “HEY” and I can’t wait to see them?”

She looked up at me and tears filled her eyes.  It was as if the reality of her bright future, filled with a secure and real  and substantial and tangible hope, suddenly crystalized for her.  She wasn’t scared.  She didn’t have to be.  She suddenly realized there was then and always would be work for her to do.  She was important. 

I asked her if I could pray with her.  I asked the other folks in line if they minded waiting for a moment or two.  They all said no problem.  I walked her to the end of the counter and we held hands.  I thanked The Lord for the opportunity he gave me to meet this precious lady that I knew I would see again.  I thanked him that His promises are true.  And I thanked Him for the hope of heaven.

When I finished, she looked up at me and said, “Chris and Vicky Dell, right?”   

“Yes ma’am.  Chris and Vicky Dell.”  

“I will find them.”

And I watched as she walked out the doors into the sunlight. The vacuum, the feeling that nothing else in the world was really real, that anything was more significant than that single moment was gone. But, the sweet aroma of what it feels like to be in a position of real normalcy…the standard of how I should live my life was overwhelming. Suddenly, the curtain between the natural, and what I always felt was the supernatural were far less defined. I felt as though she was going around the corner to a really cool, very familiar restaurant where we’d never been yet. And I knew my friends were already there.  I am certain that when she got there, she found my buddies and said Hi for me. Maybe over a meal at that cool little restaurant. I hear the Master Chef preparing the meal is amazing…far beyond 5-star, since he is the one, after all, Who created the entire star system. I am certain I will see her again.  That is what is normal. That is where i have pitched my tent.  That is my HOPE.

Hope is feeling the grass of heaven beneath my earth bound feet.

Spouting Horn Beach Park, near Poipu, on the south shore of Kauai, is a blowhole that can, depending on the tide and surf conditions, shoot a ferocious spout of water as much as 50 feet into the air. This impressive, completely natural ocean attraction can be viewed from the top of a hill, with guardrails and warning signs offering protection to keep tourists from wandering too close to the perilous spouting water and subsequent mighty, surge of equally dangerous water as it swirls back through the hole into the ocean below.

When I was there, however, the “ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK” sign was nothing more than a “green light” to me. A “welcome” mat. Honestly, I don’t even know why they put up offers of advice like that when I’m around. It’s like a dare. I don’t walk around looking for adventure like that. But, if it’s put right in front of me, what am I supposed to do?

At this particular time of day the tide was low and the ocean level was way below the rim of the lava shelf. So, down the hill my friend Tricia and I trotted, I, sporting my 4-hour old flip-flops and straw gardener’s hat.

No waves were flowing over the top of the shelf to wash us close to the blowhole. And I knew I could back up far enough from the geyser when it blew to miss the churning, foaming maelstrom of water as it receded back down the hole.

Trish and I were between the blowhole and the ocean, exploring the sharp, serrated, ancient lava formations when I glanced up and saw fellow tourists waving at us from atop the hill. I thought it a kind gesture from folks I didn’t know, so I did a body builder pose, suspecting they were taking pictures of us, when I noticed more than one of them were not waving, but instead, pointing behind us.

I turned just in time to see a massive wave, much taller than the lava shelf bearing down, a mere handful of seconds from us. It must have been a freak mini-tsunami from some earthquake off the coast of Tasmania.

I screamed for Tricia to hold on to anything. I laid back on the lave floor, planted my feet as firmly as I could against a small incline in the shelf, slammed my eyes shut, took in a deep breath and waited.

The wave hit full force at the same time water gushed up the blowhole no more than 15 feet from me. As the wave subsided, the rushing and groaning sounds from the torrent being sucked back down the blowhole began and I found myself being pulled along with it. I felt my feet come off the ground, out of my flip-flops and I dug in as hard as I could. I have a distinct memory of some bouncy shrieking going on. I have decided to remember it as concerned sightseers atop the hill.

When the water finally slowed down, enough for me to know I wasn’t going to go down with it, I was less than a foot from the hole, pretty much straddling it, watching my brand new gardener’s hat whirlpool out of sight. I actually started to grab for it before I heard Tricia yell, “LEAVE IT!” I never knew what happened to my flip-flops, but I have my suspicions. All I know is that my feet were cut to shreds by the dried lava and the rest of my stay on this beautiful island was a little severely sensitive.

I’ve been told the blowhole is actually a sort of safety valve, much like the old steam engines that release steam if the equipment gets too hot or pressurized. This safety valve keeps the equipment from exploding or causing damage to the machines or injury to people around it.

If the blowhole were not there to release energy, the constant pounding of ocean water underneath the dried lava would have slowly disintegrated the shelf, causing it to break apart and fall into the boiling ocean below.

So, the safety valve itself became the attraction.

A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to some praise music.It was Kare Jobe singing, “Forever.”

“One final breath he gave As heaven looked away The son of God was laid in darkness. A battle in the grave. The war on death was waged. The power of hell forever broken. The ground began to shake. The stone was rolled away. His perfect love could not be overcome. Now death where is your sting? Our resurrected King has rendered you defeated. Forever, He is glorified Forever, He is lifted high. Forever, He is risen. He is alive, He is alive.”

And then that old, beautiful, familiar feeling took over. It has become almost a motor response for me when I experience something that draws me closer to what I truly believe heaven will be. When my body becomes responsive to an encounter with Jesus that can only be experienced because I know His Holy Spirit resides in my heart.

The closest earthly event I can compare it to is being in the front car of a roller coaster as it reaches the pinnacle of it’s slow, rhythmic, clickity-clack climb. I always try to position myself in line so that I am in the first car. And that moment just before I hear the release of the brake and the car begins it’s insane plunge back to earth.

In that moment, the rush of adrenaline is at it’s peak. The exhilaration and anticipation tightens in my chest and moves up into my face. I, through sheer determination, let go the safety bar and raise my hands into the air and take in the deepest breath I can manage because I know that at this point, there is not one single thing I can do to get out of whatever happens next. The only thing I can do is enjoy the ride.

The car slowly crests the hill, I look down at the curved track far below. I inhale again…and scream.

The car comes to a screeching, abrupt stop. And my eyes fill with tears as I beg my fellow travelers to get back in line for one more turn. Pretty much what I did and do when listening to praise music. I fill completely up with the maximum amount of joy and anticipation and expectation my body can withstand until it can’t humanly hold any more and i begin to cry with the promise of heaven.

I have finally figured out that tears are our safety valve. I’m absolutely convinced that the Lord gave us this earthly escape mechanism because our bodies can’t contain the magnitude of eternity.

Paul pointed it out in 1 Corinthians 2. “No one’s ever seen or heard anything like this. Never so much as imagined anything quite like it—What God has arranged for those who love him. But you’ve seen and heard it because God by his Spirit has brought it all out into the open before you.”

I believe God created us to long for heaven and the release of our limited capability to physically praise him the way we so long to do.

I know for me, the day I was standing in my living room with my hands raised, screaming, “Forever He is risen, He is alive,” my heart was about to explode with sheer, crystal joy, and I didn’t want the thankfulness and love I felt for him in that moment to stop, and the final expression of my worship was with tears. It was a small reflection of eternity. The safety valve.

We weren’t made to experience here what we will experience there. Our bodies can’t contain it. So, he gave us tears.

One of the most moving pictures of this expression of the safety valve is in Luke 7. “One of the Pharisees asked him over for a meal. He went to the Pharisee’s house and sat down at the dinner table. Just then a woman of the village, the town harlot, having learned that Jesus was a guest in the home of the Pharisee, came with a bottle of very expensive perfume and stood at his feet, weeping, raining tears on his feet. Letting down her hair, she dried his feet, kissed them, and anointed them with the perfume. When the Pharisee who invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man was the prophet I thought he was, he would have known what kind of woman this is who is falling all over him.”

Jesus said to him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“Two men were in debt to a banker. One owed five hundred silver pieces, the other fifty. Neither of them could pay up, and so the banker canceled both debts. Which of the two would be more grateful?”

Simon answered, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most.”

“That’s right,” said Jesus.

Then turning to the woman, but speaking to Simon, he said, “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.”

Then he spoke to her: “I forgive your sins.”

That set the dinner guests talking behind his back: “Who does he think he is, forgiving sins!”

He ignored them and said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”

The picture of the “sinful” woman’s even being in Simon’s house is worth noting. She came ready, prepared to see Jesus. If supper was to be at 7:00, she was there at 6:45. She brought the perfume with her. It was not a last minute decision. She knew who Jesus was. So, before this supper, she must have heard him speak healing and love to the hurting and forgotten. She probably followed him from a distance, fearing that he would shun her, as everyone with any amount of dignity and integrity would. She was not stalking a stranger. She withstood the scornful, “what are you doing here” looks from the others reclining at the table. Because it was tradition for the host of the party to have the guests feet washed and dried, she didn’t bring water or a towel. So, thinking she would finish the “welcome” by anointing his feet with oil, she might have been surprised when she saw his road weary feet. Covered with dust from his travels.

But, her heart was too full to allow this to stop her expression of thankfulness. As she knelt in front of this one, the only one who didn’t look down on her, and in fact, only showed compassion, all she could respond with was a full heart of gratefulness that her earthly body couldn’t possibly contain. Thankfulness that she would never be able to fully express the way she so wanted to. She never spoke a word. Her love poured out in the only way it could humanly respond,

Her safety valve became the attraction.

She wasn’t weeping tears on Jesus’ feet to make it clear how sinful she was or how wretched a person she knew herself to be. I believe her tears were from a body so filled with thankfulness and repentance and newly realized acceptance, a life filled with hope, maybe for the first time in her life, forgiveness, and a sense of self. No woman of her status would dare do what she did. Only a life filled with adventure in the kingdom of love.

I feel certain that one day, when she met Jesus in heaven, he gave her two gifts of her tears. He opened his great ledger, and pointed to a specific place and time in history where he recorded her tears on his behalf when no one else chose to even wash his feet. And second, a bottle, who knows, maybe made of alabaster, where he saved every single one of her tears, her safety valve, which she shed for His glory. And she was able to express her true heart with the realization that she was finally home.

And with the fullness of love and acceptance that would ring for all eternity, she was able to exclaim, “My beloved is mine. And I am His.”

Proverbs 14:4 says: “Where there are no oxen, the manger is empty, but from the strength of an ox come abundant harvests.” Now, I’m not calling my friends oxen, although I could stand to lose a few pounds. this scripture jumped out at me as I prepared this lesson.

Yesterday was a perfect day. A few childhood friends decided to get together to celebrate our 60th year of life. At least 45 of those years we have known where we all were and known what was going on in each other’s lives. I moved back to Arkansas in 1994 from Los Angeles and we have made it a point to be together as often as possible.

I live in Little Rock, and struggle with chronic fatigue which forces me to slow down and rest, totally against my nature. Judy lives in Conway and has been band director in Greenbrier for 30 years. She has cataracts, which means that after surgery, she will never have to wear glasses again. Sherry works for the literacy program in Searcy and also facilitates adoptions for an agency there. She survived a heart attack, but lost more than 100 pounds in the recovery process. Billy lives in Clarksville and is in the transport industry. Billy has no major maladies yet, as he doesn’t turn 60 until next week. We shall wait. We shall wait.

We ate cheeseburgers at Market Cafe in Bald Knob and recounted ancient tales of growing up in Searcy. All topics are open for discussion. Except, due to our advancing age, our one and only concrete rule is that we will never discuss bowel movements. EVER!!!

Because a few, not all, but a few of us grew up in excrutiatingly dysfunctional homes, this group of friends was our safe place. We were all in band together, so there were plenty of travel stories. One trip to Six Flags over Texas. I think we were all juniors at the time. Billy and I were in line for a roller coaster, long line, and decided, intentionally, to get into a heated, although completely fake, verbal argument. We decided to have this disagreement in a foreign language. Neither of us speak a foreign language. So, for about 15 minutes, we held this group of complete strangers spellbound as we spewed forth a red faced, verbal, nonsensical assault on each other.

Later in the day, we were in line for the Spindle Top. A big barrel of a ride where everyone walks in and stands against the circular wall. The barrel starts spinning and at some point, centrifugal force takes over, the floor drops out from under you, and you are plastered against the wall. Billy told me he rode this one before and he knew a really cool trick. Work up a big mouthful of spit. The moment the floor drops, let ‘er fly. It will shoot straight across the barrel to the people directly across from you and they will be so concerned with the floor dropping out, they will never know who did it.

So, as the door to the barrel closed, with probably 30 people in a circle against the wall, I began the job of collecting. I mean, I made sure this was going to be one epic spit ball. As the barrel began to slowly spin, so did my anticipation. The dude, straight across, probably 25 feet from me, was going to be very surprised. The floor dropped, I spit.

My face was an immediate bowl of soup. At first I was so shocked I couldn’t do anything but stare at the dude across from me and wonder how he could be completely dry. Trying to raise my arms to wipe it all off was futile because the force of the room caused me to slap my face instead of the intended windshield wiper action I originally intended. There was nothing for it, in the end, but to weather it out till the ride ended. Except for hearing the people on either side of me, yelling, “Eeeeuwwww,” I glanced to my left and saw Billy, strategically positioned, about 5 people away from me, laughing hysterically, and slapping himself in the face, trying to wipe tears from his eyes.

Growing up in a small town like Searcy, we were accustomed to being really creative with our shenanigans. I will save the stories of the time Billy and I snuck into the drive-in in someone’s car trunk for another time.

After our burgers, we decided to go to my mom’s retirement village for a few minutes. She was beside herself. Some of these friends were unseen by her for 40 some odd years. What a blessing to watch her grab them and hug them and kiss them on the cheek. It was marginally magical to watch them all get caught up and enjoy each other. I thought about heaven and all my friends and family who are already there. This was a taste of what that will be like. To sit in each others homes and get caught up on our lives and how we would make plans to spend the next few milleniums hanging with each other and Jesus.

It was Bingo time for Mom, and there was one more stop to make. There is one other friend who lives in the same retirement village as mom. Fayetta Murray. Our Jr. High English teacher. So, we traipsed up to the third floor and got completely lost. Found wings A-C, but had to walk our cheeseburgers off to find wing D. Finally, found the room.

I knocked and heard “Come in.” I opened the door and saw Miss Fayetta propped up on her bed reading. She looked up and said, “Tim Holder? In the flesh?” I said, “Okay, we are NOT going to invade you. But, I have a surprise for you.” She hopped up and I turned around and ushered in everyone. She looked at them and said, “Bill Townsend. What a sweet face. Judy Lance and Sherry Treat.” Of course Judy and Sherry have different last names now. I said, “We all got together to celebrate our 60th birthdays.” Miss Murray said, “Well, guess what. Yesterday, I turned 92.” Sherry said, “I turned 60 yesterday.”

We sat down to talk a bit. Now remember, Mrs. Murray is 92 years old. She hasn’t seen Billy or Judy or Sherry in probably 45 years. She remembered that Billy lived across from the football stadium. She then proceeded to remind Judy that her dad worked for AP&L. We sat for a good while and told stories and laughed. Then it was time to leave.

I looked across the room and saw this precious lady who I know loves the Lord. And I smiled and said, “Miss Murray, we’re here because you made a difference in our lives and so many others and we want you to know that you are important.” She smiled her humble, sweet smile and said “Thank you.” What I really wanted was for her to stand up and glide through the room, waving her arms up and down like a butterfly, exactly the way she used to do down the halls of Ahlf Junior High school in 1970. We took a selfie, held her sweet, brittle, fragile hands in ours, and left.

Realizing we forgot to get a selfie with Mom, we went to the cafeteria to find her. Apparently, bingo time in a retirement village is very serious business. When we walked in, everyone’s face was buried in a card. I think I may have seen sweat on a couple of furrowed brows, even the ones with strikingly cotton candy blue hair. Some use Checker chips as markers. But, others used glistening red jewels as their markers, the kind of glass you find in the bottoms of vases filled with plastic flowers.

We were attempting to be quiet as we looked through a very crowded room for mom. Of course, she was in the exact center of the room. I stealthily took the lead as the four of us traversed the tables and chairs to get to her.

More and more heads looked up to see what the unwelcome intrusion was. I’m reckoning I would have the same feeling of dread if I were at the White House and accidentally stumbled into the situation room during the Cuban missile crisis. The two young girls calling out the numbers they picked out of a rolling cage looked at us with an embarrassingly fake and condescending smile.

Not to be deterred, I kneeled down by mom and said “Sorry, we forgot to get a picture.” The guy at the next table yelled, “BINGO.” Mom shoved her card away. At first I thought she might be mad. And she was. Not at the intrusion. But, because she lost. The guy at the next table began calling out his numbers, “B-23, G-16,” as if he would lie just to win a pill separator or the ever popular chip clip.

Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me down close. B and Sherry and Judy all jumped in and we got the picture.

Just to be rebellious, the lady next to mom said, “Hey, let me take one for ya.” She snapped it, looked at it, puckered her lips and said, “Not bad. Except I chopped her head off.”

We left and went back to Sherry’s house. Spent a little more time processing the day. We haven’t fully figured out what was so special about our group. Was it generational? Was it being in band together? Was it a small town dynamic? Was it a combination of some or all of those things? One thing we do know for certain. It is most definitely a God thing.

We are not oxen. But, they are part of my herd. We do know that the memories we build together now and the memories we’ve spent a lifetime building will never be lost. I’m thankful for technology and I can take really good pictures with my iPhone. But, the most important, the most substantial pictures I take are heart pictures. I took plenty of those yesterday. C.S. Lewis said, “A friendship is born when one man says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'”

The four of us friends, and a few others who couldn’t make it yesterday, are not alike in so many ways. But, somehow, when we were just kids, subconsciously on our parts, but certainly not God’s, we chose to look for similarities in each other instead of differences. And that has made all the difference. It brings home to me the truth that God never meant for us to live this journey alone. He is very deliberate in telling us that two are better than one.

Lewis also said, “In friendship, we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years’ difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another…the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting-any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” can truly say to every group of Christian friends, “Ye have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.” The friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.” Think of your friends. Be deliberate. If you haven’t already, start taking heart pictures. They are eternal.

By the way, while we were at Sherry’s house after this magnificent day, I got a text from Mom, “YAY!!!! Y’all brought me luck. I bingo’d right after ya’ll left. Big ole package of bite sized pretzels.”