...but what for?

I'm passionate about being healthy. Believe it or not, I enjoy researching health food (real, whole foods like fruits and veggies, raw dairy, grass fed meat, chia seeds, the list goes on), GMOs, and herbs. I love working out too. Then sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself - and wonder. Here I am, completely wrapped up in healthiness and becoming the best I can possibly be..... but what for? To what end? In a word, why?

Why do I spend so much time learning about "healthy food?"
Why do I eat salads instead of sandwiches?
What's the reason behind the hours I spend working out?

Today I didn't like the answer.

Why do I chase a healthy life? To be beautiful and to live long and to feel good about myself of course!

And I say I'm passionate about Jesus and about His work but today that wasn't what I saw. I'm His child, yes. But I am still far from perfect. That's why He's working on me, sanctifying me.

Today He uncovered my motives and I've got a feeling that's what He'll be working on for a while.

Child, be passionate. Chase health. Be strong and beautiful and wise. But do all that.... to My end. Do all that... for Me. Let Me be your reason. Let Me be your "why."

So yeah. This could be a long journey, because God's got some serious motive-habits to melt away in me. It's probably good to start with some concrete goals:

I will research and learn about health - so I can teach others and improve their health, pointing them to Christ - the true Healer - all the while.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition....
I will pursue excellence in my fitness so I can be strong to help others and to spread the Gospel. So I can point to Christ as my strength.
...or vain conceit...
I will eat healthy, real food to be an example of the self-discipline that comes from walking in the Spirit. Also to live the longest, most productive life I can in order to chase God's calling on my life with energy!
For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline.

On Posting, Shards, and an Artist

What do I really have to share with you guys?

Just fragments of a stumbling story, sanctification slowly breaking through the cracks of me.

Sometimes I wonder if my words really make a difference. I mean, I know God is working everything out for a glorious purpose. But what if He wants me to close this chapter and get on with life? Because I really don't write much on this blog.

I have this notion that it takes too much time.

That I need some lightbulb-revelation flecked with gorgeous word pictures if I'm going to ask you to read my posts.

But now that I think on that a bit, I don't think that's the truth. God was pleased with the poor widow's offering of two small coins and not with the rich people's heaps of money. Because she gave all that she had.

Yeah. I don't have much - sometimes my spring of words is all dried up. But God hasn't closed this blog's door yet so He must still be crafting a masterpiece. And these words are still paint on His brush.

So I'll keep writing. But instead of hoarding my coins until I've got a decent offering to bring, I'm going to start giving all that I have. Like the poor widow.

Just the little lessons. Short, honest, messy things. I'll be offering up the bits of this sanctification story as they emerge, smudged and worn like my journal that time I cried as I wrote.

So I'm going to stop trying to bring great offerings for God, trying to help Him out by teaching you some important lessons. I'll leave that to the rich people. This is now God's studio and you'll be seeing the chipped and broken things - all I really have to give.

Because God? He's fantastic at making stained glass. You know - that gorgeous art made of fractured misfit shards. 

Yes. A stained glass studio. My life is the broken being made beautiful. And God? He's awesome so He's both the artist and the very light that will make me shine.

Getting My Wonder Back

I lost it.

Somewhere on this journey, laying forgotten on a battle scene or behind a pride-monument of something I've achieved...

My wonder disapeared.

I didn't know it was gone, just that life was a shade darker than it used to be. It took some subzero temperatures to shock me into seeing it was gone.

It happened last night as I was talking to God. He mentioned that I didn't have a desire to play in the snow this winter like I used to. Images of sparkling white, of hills flying under my plastic sled, and of red cheeks and noses flashed through my mind. It was true. This year I have stayed inside and shuddered at the thought of donning snow pants to face the cold. This year I wanted to be comfortable. I had my excuses lined up and ready to fire. 

 

Why don't you go for a walk outside?

It's ten degrees! Are you kidding me?

Child, it's ten degrees. Go, see what it's like! Listen to the snow squeak underfoot and taste the raw air.

 

Go make that phone call. 

Umm no. I'm comfy right here on the couch, thankyouverymuch. And remember how I hate talking on the phone?

What about doing hard things? You know you'll be ecstatic once you call her. 

Hey. Stop moping around and go do something on your to-do list.

But I'm bored. And I don't feel like doing anything - too much work.

What's that? Isn't action the cure for boredom? Stop idolizing your comfort level and do something worthwhile with your time. Find joy. It's more lasting than comfort, my child.

 

Well. My life sounds fulfilling.

Last night I decided to find my wonder again. I told God that today I would do something just for the wonder of it, like a little kid. 

Once I said yes to God, He didn't leave me struggling to follow through. A single crack of obedience released a flood of wonder-fullness. 

It started with the sunrise. Only this morning the sun did not rise. It shot upwards in a stream of wildfire gold. As if directing its light in a single beam toward heaven, the sun was crowned with a light saber of glory. As I watched, a pillar of fire seemed to rise among the barren trees to the east. Wonder hit me full in the face. It was back! 

 

But wonder didn't stick to the sunrise. It tore through the house, following a sunbeam to light up my breakfast bowl of fruit, crystallizing strawberries in glory. Wonder held my breath in my throat.

                                                    

I found it, guys. Today was brighter, calmer. I smiled for no apparent reasons. I talked to God more. It was a wonderful day.

A wonder-full day.

And you know what? I'm going to chase wonder again tomorrow. Join me, yes? Let's toss comfort aside and run head-long after this wonder. 

Like a kid, tearing downhill on a sled - eyes sparkling like the swirling snow.

Let's stop worrying about the cold and find wonder instead.

On the Edge | Conversation

Some of you may know that I work as a trail guide. I get to spend a whole hour with strangers on horseback in the middle of the woods. Most of the time these people respect me because I know more about horses and the trails we're taking than they do, so it's a perfect opportunity to have some good conversations. You know, about God and life and such. 

But they're strangers. 

And I'm terrified of talking to them, to tell you the truth. But. (deep breath...) Today I'm stepping out to the edge. I'm going to make a concerted effort to hand my fear to God and start a meaningful conversation with someone on a ride today. You can do this too! Even if you aren't on horseback, make a point of stepping beyond the small talk today and showing someone you love them by talking about things they need to hear. Ask them how you can pray for them, or tell them about what God has been teaching you lately. 

For some of you, this will be easier than it will be for me. But let's take a deep breath, step out, and make a difference today! 

*Update*
God completely blessed my socks off. You know how scared I was about this? Well, I prayed about it a bit, but I honestly didn't expect God to make it any easier than I imagined. But He's God, you know? He doesn't live in my expectations. 
I started talking to a girl behind me on a trail ride, wracking my brain to bring up something about God or church without sounding awkward. It wasn't working, so I ended up just chatting with her about the horses. She asked me if I knew the story behind any of the horse's names, so I told her about one story I knew. Then I remembered the ponies named Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. I mentioned them, but it took a second for my mind to adjust to the glaring opportunity staring me down. 
"Do you know the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego?" I asked, fully expecting her to know it. 
She didn't.
And then God convicted me and worked everything out at the same time.
See, I know the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. But not well enough to rattle off at a moment's notice. So God convicted me to learn that story well, as a tool in future conversations. 
But He worked everything out anyway.
When I mentioned that the story was in the Bible, the girl told me that she was actually reading through the Bible! This led to a conversation about her Wednesday night church group and about the Bible. 

God showed up, guys.

He showed up when I was terrified but when I stepped out in faith anyway. 

That. was. awesome.

My life right now

Life's a bit crazy for me right now... here's what I'm up to! 

How to Turn This Shaking Life into Something Crazy-Beautiful

Sometimes my life seems to hang by a thread. This life - the one life I've been entrusted with - grows thin and shaky. Devoid of the fullness Christ died to give me. I struggle through my days, hoping circumstances will change. Because then my life will be robust and full. If things were different, I'd be happy. If things were better, my life would be worth so much more. 

Sometimes I look down and tell God that this thread I'm dangling from isn't enough. That it won't hold me, this fragile leaf of a life. 

Sometimes I squeeze my eyes tight closed when the wind spins me in crazy circles and I wish for calm. 

But in those moments of fear, I don't see the kolidescope of colors flashing around as I twirl dizzy. With eyes closed and wishing, I forget that Christ is holding me. I forget that this life, it's Christ. And Christ isn't a spiderweb that is likely to snap. 

I gave my life to Him, and now He's asking me to throw open my arms and laugh along with the winds that spin me to see God's grace all around. He's asking me to forget how thin my thread of a life looks and to remember that Christ gives me abundant life - because He is life Himself - and all I need to do is open my eyes clenched tight and see it. To forget my fear and live with abandon. Right now. 

I have to remind myself that abundant life can't be found in tomorrow. Abundant life wouldn't be life if it was in the yesterday, dead and gone. So somehow, I need to keep finding Christ's life - abundant, vibrant, giddy with joy life - in the now. 

Because this life...

is beautiful.

White Flag

I started a post on surrender, trying to force the words. How silly of me. And when they didn't come I laid my head down, dejected. Useless. Then in the quiet I heard a voice.

True surrender is not doing what you think I want you to do.

An authentic white flag is the exposing of yourself. Surrender is the abandonment of all self-preservation in the presence of one more powerful than you. Surrender is, in essence, turning over your own life and will to someone else's hands. 

Because when I surge ahead, living my life like I think God wants me to, I'm still living my own life.

When I obey His leading only when it is comfy or cool, I'm just fitting obedience into my life whenever I want to. 

No. Surrender doesn't look like that. Surrender looks like turning in my old life in exchange for the new. Surrender means dying to what I was so that Christ's resurrection power can come to life in me. 

Surrender is most definitely a kind of death. But what kind of a God would call His followers to present each moment as a waving white flag? A good God, that's who. Because my God - the God who calls me to daily surrender - has a better life to give me. I've learned that when I give up my life to Christ, He gives me His life in return. 

When I surrender, it is no longer I who lives, but Christ in me. 

And that's what a white flag is. 

A humbling, 

uncovering, 

dying of myself 

so that one more powerful than I can live.

Some broken red stumbles

    Why did I ever think I had it all figured out? Like I had some answers that would pour out like miracle salve on anyone who read my words? 

    I'm finding that it's not gonna happen. This blog might help someone, but it will more than likely be me - a place to bleed a bit on some pages and wipe away the splatters so it looks like perfect red lettering, marching politely across the screen - so I can smile incredulous at the beauty that doesn't look like me.

    I'm scared, I think. Scared that if I left my raw wounded letters stuttering through sentences... that it would turn you away. Because since when did raw bleeding stumbles heal the hearts of the wounded? 

    But wait a second. They did. 

    How could I forget that my heart was healed, my life made new, by Jesus' blood dripping red? What kind of irony is this? That the raw hurting of one would pour healing on another? 

    If someone figures this all out, just let me know. 

    In the meantime, I'm back to my own bleeding. I've got struggles, you know - lots of them. I have daily inward battles concerning my eating, for example. I'm not anorexic or overweight, but the inside of me is wearing away from the corrosive idol of food set up in my heart. 

    I just love it too much, plain and simple. I realize that I was crafted to be a worshiper - God made me to have a burning desire for Him and His kingdom - but somehow I keep pushing Him aside and putting pizza or ice cream in His place.

    So right now I'm begging God. Begging Him to knock over the idols in my life and set up camp Himself. 

    Because I know I'm a worshiper. 

    A passionate, emotional being that runs on a fuel of driving desire. 

    And if I'm not wildly desiring God? 

    I can't run on empty. So if He is not my driving force, something else will be. And this old insatiable desire for food - it doesn't fill me up, leaves me stranded, guilty, hungry, again and again. 

    So I'm begging, begging God. These idols are awfully heavy, and could you please knock them down? Cause I can't....

    And fill me up, Jesus, with your agenda. Give me a desire and a tangible goal - something to strive towards - to drive me to joy. Give me orphans to love, things to make, cards to write... anything, Lord. To keep me worshiping, worshiping You and not food.

    Because I know I'm a worshiper. A worshiper begging God. 

    And the words run red, struggling raw, and I realize it's not the broken itself that heals others. The spilling hurt is only the vessel through which God's resurrecting power flows. 

    Just like at the cross. 

    So I don't have it figured out, and if you want pretty words all in line, don't come here. I'm fixing to keep pouring raw and open, because I believe in a story about a God who used the red flowing pain of a man to heal the broken-hearted. (Luke 4:18, Isaiah 53:5) 

Hurts and a Masterpiece

    I just saw a quote on Pinterest from Ernest Hemingway. Write hard and clear about what hurts. All right then; I'll write about something that hurts. It hurts 'cause I've sat here on the couch for a long long time, thinking I should be writing, I should be running, I should be doing school. 

    The slow motion falling I feel when I eat too much chocolate, when mom said she wishes she could iron out the worry-wrinkles, furrows covering the "should be's" and "what if's" and "why me's" of my brain. 

    It hurts to spend my days chasing a perfection that was never meant to be; holding up a shimmering mirage of beauty-perfection beside the clunky realism of 1,440 minutes each day. 

    What hurts is having a growing, unraveling to-do list and a sniffly nose all at once. 

If perfection is so perfect, then why does it hurt to look into its depths? 

    But I've been aching to say this, to heal the hurt: God is sovereign. If something should have happened, it would have. God knows I could have been running today while I poked and proded my heart on the couch to find life-words to bleed onto this blog. But in God's perfect plan, I didn't run. 

    To heal this huting holding-up comparison I need to rewire my brain. To remember that God's perfection doesn't look like world-perfection and skin-beauty and crossed off to-do lists. God's perfection is happening, unfurling, growing in me. Each moment is beautiful, a gift from God. But unless I see the moments for what they are, I will continue to seek a hurting perfection I've conjured up.

    A masterpiece. That is what my life is becoming. And all those little bumps and the strange dabs of color?

That's where the beauty comes in.

Because God's perfection is not a world-perfection. 

God's perfection is a masterpiece.

Mr. Hemingway, I'll write about what hurts; I'll write hard and clear. But I'll also write about the masterpiece that's blooming from the big-ness of my God in the soil of my hurts.

Awesomeness Outside My Comfort Zone

    If my friend was standing in the middle of the road about to get run over by a semi, wouldn't I run screaming at her and push her out of the way?

If a girl I knew had a week to live because of a new type of cancer and I discovered the cure, wouldn't I tell her and her doctors about it?

    But what if one thing that is worse than getting mauled by a semi is spending an eternity in Hell?

And what if something worse than dying of cancer is living until the end of time away from the presence of God?

And I've been letting them die. 

  .....and then I went to Dare2Share. My life has been permanently changed. Tell me, friends. Do you not think this video is awesome?

    Yes, he was at the conference! Plus two other fine speakers. There were at least five skits (very well done, by the way) and I'm thinking about four worship/concert sessions with Desperation Band, including cool flashing lights and everything. :)

    After they pumped us (over 3,000 teens) up and equipped us with tactics and advice, we hit the streets. To witness. 

    Boy, was I scared. I mean, knocking on a strange door in a strange town handing out batteries for smoke detectors and asking people if they needed prayer? I can only imaging how crazy we looked. But in the end? It was worth it. Ten times over. One sweet lady with a kid peeking through the door had us pray for her sick mother, then thanked us profusely and hugged all three of us who were standing on her doorstep. 

    After the first few houses, my trepidation fell away and I found myself eagerly looking towards to next house. Something was working in me, because I am not an outgoing person. Like, I don't even like to knock on doors of people I sort of know. By the time we ran out of batteries, I was pretty pumped up. I would have been content to keep going for another hour! It was awesome, guys. And it was awesome in a God - type of way. 

    Back at the conference center, I learned (at least) two more amazing things. 1. God gave me a mustard seed of faith to partner with my brother and sponsor a little boy from Ecuador through Compassion (!!!!!!!!! I love him already!!!!!!). Faith because it's hard to pledge a monthly sum of money when I only have summer jobs, but faith says God will provide. 2. I love it when guys lift their hands in worship. There is something in seeing a strong young man with his hands outstretched to Jesus and his head bowed that really touched a chord in my heart. I've decided my husband will have to be an all-out worshiper like that. :) 

    Dare2Share pushed me out of my comfort zone. But there, outside Ariel's comfy bubble, I found a new type of comfort - that of trust. Once I let go of the railing and stepped out in faith, I knew the only thing holding me was Jesus' hands. So I clung to them and that was what made my experience awesome. 

    I'm going to witness again, friends. Soon, I hope! I've got a plan brewing along the lines of Valentines Day cookies and messages about the love of God to hand out to strangers. :) I'd appreciate your prayers!

Strong in Grace

Paul's words caught me, tugged at my heart this afternoon as pages fell open to 2 Timothy 2:1. 

You then, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus. 

How many times have I judged someone's strength by their outward appearances, or the witty replies of their minds? 

How many times have strong ones crumbled, fragile as dust, behind doors slammed shut or feet pounding away? How many times have the strong ones felt weak standing against comparison's dark army? How many times have I thought myself strong for scaling a hill only to find a sheer rocky cliff awaiting me?

So the strong ones are weak, and I wonder how I can be strong. But the strong I need, deep down inside, is not the strong of this world, but a Jesus-type strong. 

And the Jesus-type strong is grace. 

Years ago my ballet teacher told of feathery light movements, steps so soft and effortless looking - grace embodied. Peel back the feathers, she said, and underneath there is always strength hard as iron. Because grace is strong, and strength is shown by grace. 

The strongest kind of strong is always and only embodied like Jesus, grace Himself. 

Strong touched the lepers. Strong spoke with and loved sinners of the worst kind. Strong endured physical pain and torture without calling down vengeance from heaven. Strong hung dying a criminal's death and said, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." 

Strong was grace. 

But the strongest kind of strong - this strong in grace? To the world it looks like weakness. Why are ballet dancers often portrayed as frilly, wimpy girls twirling and standing on their tippy-toes? Why are grace, vulnerability, and forgiveness thought of as qualities of a weakling? 

The answer is simple, spoken by Jesus himself: "If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you." 

So to become truly strong - in grace - I must choose to disregard the voice of the world, of those who are strong without grace. And I'm making that choice again today, to shine strong on the inside by grace on the outside, touching the lepers in my life, loving the sinners, hanging forgiving when others do me wrong. Today I'm choosing to be strong in grace. 

How about you? 

Operation Skittles

I've had an idea rolling around in my head a lot lately. It's an idea of community. Of encouragement. Of accountability. Of the body of Christ. 

In a few words, it's Operation Skittles. Before you label me as crazy, let me remind you that girls can get rather nonsensical at times. And I'm a girl. With girlfriends. So when three of us girls got together and started an unofficial accountability club, it was out of the question to christen it something normal. If you get my drift. ;) 

So my two best friends and I did something totally abnormal, maybe even absurd, for three teenagers. We got together to talk about our God lives. I was thrilled to know that I had two sisters in Christ who cared enough about each other to just randomly come over and let down their comfort bumpers, to 'fess up, and to get real about our daily temptations. 

I don't know how long we talked, outside on the white glider swing. One by one we cracked open the doors to our hearts and let each other in. Because sometimes, friends, our hearts get sick and heavy feeling. Sometimes the best way to loose the chains is to share our burdens, like it says in God's word.  So I listened. To temptations and sins and battles and uncertainties. And I hugged, eyes welling full of the hurt one was feeling. And I talked, like the others, sharing my burdens too. God seemed so real in those moments, because I felt Him in the miracle of troubles shared and evaporated. My heart grew light, filled with bubbling joy, peace, and trust. Cracking open our hearts let the trouble fade with sharing. Cracking open our hearts let in God's light. Then, with smiling hearts,we laughed, and imagined, and fantasized... about what our futures will hold. 

When the shade finally turned cool, we repaired to my room where we wrote our daily temptations down, each keeping the struggles of the others. That hurt, a bit. Letting others in on the sins I battle daily, and giving them permission to ask about them later... that stings at first. Because I know I won't always have a good report. Those sins they wrote down to remember are my weakest areas. But you know what? In order to heal a wound you need to clean it first. And that hurts. In the end, though, it's always worth it... the discomfort is always overruled by the healing it brings. 

So I'm hoping with a strange hope that my girlfriends stay true to Operation Skittles - that they keep me accountable, out in the open. Because I know that it will bring healing and make me stronger in the end. So I'm praying that the girls bring on the interrogations next time we meet! 

I want to challenge every one of you to get excited about Jesus, about the body of Christ, and about accountability. How to get excited, you ask? Make another Operation Skittles! 

I hereby challenge you to connect with one or two Christians you are close to. Talk on the phone, face to face, or by email. Let your secret fears out. Push past the comfort zone and find the growing zone. Tell each other your struggles and temptations. Write them down and keep each other accountable! And give it a name! Operation M&M, maybe? Or Operation Gummy Bears? Oreos? Name it something sweet to reflect the reward it will bring!

What name did you choose? How will you connect with your Christian Cohorts? 

I'd love follow ups, too - were you able to open up, and how did it feel? 

Lemons

    So, folks. Life. And lemons. But mostly life. It happens to all of us, and it's happening to me right now. The lemons part, I mean.

When summer is faded and frantic I try to make more of family evenings and every sunrise...

When I'm dragged always down by temptations I bow to, then straining ahead towards the goal is fogged by guilt from the enemy...

When school turns scary next Monday and I host a tug of war for brains vs. ease to play...

(Those are flashcards, btw. sigh.)

    When little sisters ask patient, if I'm "doing my b'og" and this blog-love of mine turns all goopy and mucky, skeeter filled and humid. It's a blog, not a bog, my mind whisper says, and I tug a foot out of sucking, thirsty mud. My foot escapes, but boots must be tasty, or juicy, or something. I teeter, a one-booted crane, then topple and fall.  Sometimes, sometimes one step forward doesn't put me three steps behind. In my life, a step can leave me floundering, right where I am, covered with filth, mud-tied to the ground. If you dissected my mind-body right then and there, you would find a lemon or two rolling around in my head.

    Sometimes God gives me lemonade, ready-made when I write. He pours His words into my awe-struck mind, and when I read His words, taste the sweetness, the lemonade gives me chills. 

    But ready-made is meant for ease, for enjoyment, not growth. Ready-made is too effortless, too sweet for a girl growing strong. So this week when I found a pile of lemons rolling around in my brain, it was hard. This week words didn't flow easy-sweet, and I puckered up inside. Two tries, no lemonade. 

   

   The first time I tried to write all I got was four sentences and a presiding sense of melancholy. (Seriously, friends, it was basically my word of the day. Ask 'lil sis.) Trial número dos remained stuck somewhere between the truth and a lie, words that came from my mind but got mushed up so's I didn't know if I agreed with them on a page. Confusion, basically. 

    I tried, you see. I tried to whip up some ready-made. Twice I tried. 

But those tries, they were a knock off of what I longed for, God's ready-made. Two batches poured down the drain.

    Then God tapped my shoulder and soft smiled at me said, Ariel, blogs turn to bogs if what you write isn't what you are, what I've made you, put inside you. I'll give you words, but they may be small, yellow and sour. Ready-made isn't for growing strong girls. Here, have a lemon. Fresh-squeezed is refreshing - hard work, but refreshing.  So I wiped off my pucker and stammered out words of life, of lemons, of blogs and of bogs. And He made it lemonade. 

    Hard squeezed is different than ready-made, yes? Well, it felt different, to squeeze instead of pour. But now I'm stronger, after squeezing out my life, real, sour life out into the open. And now I know when ready-made is too sweet for my growth, I've got to swallow my pucker and squeeze out words of life, real and sour as it may be.

    Sometimes sweet doesn't cut it. Be real, girls. Use your lemons, sour as they may be, and trust God to do the magic making, the transformation to lemonade. If He gives you lemons, it's likely that He's fixing to make you stronger. Take on those hard things in God's power. Brace yourself and fight temptations in Jesus' name because your life, life to the fullest, depends on it. 

    Lord, just keep the lemons rolling in! This was the most awkward post I've put my hand to, but I know you've got a reason. Lemons. Wow. Boy would I have laughed if someone had told me the next post would be about them! So awkward. :P 

    So, girls, have you had an experience like this? When you totally let down your hair (that means you were completely real, not caring what others thought) and experienced God's power to transform?

    Lemons. Where to next, Lord?!?!

Sand and Surrender

    One of the best things, the best of all the fantastic times I had at family camp last week, had to be when we threw rocks into the lake. It's really quite hard to describe the spiritual brevity and freedom of those moments, but I'll try my hardest to make your heart understand.

    We'd just listened to a sermon. It was a fine sermon, like all the ones I digested last week, but the fact is that often I have trouble getting any solid nutrition out of sermons. I nearly always feel convicted, encouraged, inspired, or all of them together during any teaching on God's word. But then the speaker steps off the stage and the information and inspiration slip quietly out of my mind and heart. 

    This night, this sermon, was just tip-toeing out of my heart as we trailed out of the youth chapel and followed our leaders to the water's quietly lapping edge. My mind was just going with the groove I'd worn, doing it's job and "moving on" to "normal" thoughts. 

    We sat down, shoeless, on colorful beach chairs in two rows on the beach. 

The sand hugged our feet as Dutch (camp names, you know) picked up the already fading lesson we thought had been dropped forever by Ambush five minutes before. Ambush had talked living real, sold out for God. He showed us his testimony, about how he had lived as a "Christian" for so long before he truly knew the God he knew so much about. 

    As he started talking, Dutch pulled the retreating sermon back into view in my mind. It was that to live real a body's got to get rid of the fake junk inside. Jesus cleanses, we knew, but fake junk has a way of imprinting in the human mind, reappearing time and time again. And it's hard to live real when fake has a home in your heart. 

    So Dutch's words were Jesus's words, that sometimes we need to clean house. Sometimes our hearts need a deep cleaning job. And sometimes in order to make it a true deep cleaning job it's got to be from the inside out. So outside, Dutch said, we could wash our feet, our hands, our face. Symbolism, it's called; this mirror of the inside and out. 

    Dutch showed us another mirror, of sins thrown as far as the east is from the west, into the sea and never to be seen again. Rocks with sharpie words mirrored sins, and the lake shimmered forgotten and forgiven. Dutch said we could hurl them, our sins into the lake. Never to be seen again. Then Dutch stepped away and a huge awkward monster of silent fear took precedence. Who wanted to go first, to openly wash of our sins or make a splash of hurling them into the waters? No one, of course. 

    Finally, boldness showed up in the form of a 13 year old boy, asking "where are the rocks - I'm gonna need a lot!" The awkward  monster slunk glowering away, as boldness multiplied. But me, I sat smugly still as one by one others stood in obedience. Honestly, my mind was blank for a while of sins I could write on rocks, but I knew God was doing something when I looked down and saw my bracelet - surrender - and felt an undeniable twinge. 

Seconds passed, and sand shuffled under feet and rocks plunked quietly, calling. The words came, of course. Pride. And Selfishness.

    I gathered myself in a deep breath, then stood and moved with obedience, head bowed like all the others. Two stones plunking wasn't as satisfying as the freedom of sitting back down, head up and with a heart so full I could hardly smile. My heart welled up, liquid, almost, as I watched obedience shuffle and plunk and splash and cleanse. 

    I've never seen a group of teenagers so quietly respectful, so humble, with their heads so lost in Jesus-clouds. 

    That night is something I won't soon forget. Ambush's message made a lasting crater in my heart because I acted on it. I never would have thrown pride and selfishness into the abyss of forgiven and forgotten past if Dutch hadn't snagged Ambush's message on its way out of my mind. And we never would have obeyed if one brave soul hadn't asked where are the rocks? And I never would have shuffled sand, head down, if the Holy Spirit hadn't moved surrender from my arm to my heart. But that night had Jesus written all over it. So it all fell into place, and now my bracelet is more precious to me than when I paid $5.00 for it. That bracelet has Jesus written all over it. 

    Some of you girls reading this were there with me. Did it make a different impact on you? 

    If you weren't there, have you ever had a similar experience?

Radical

    My job is amazing. I work at a Christian horse stable, so in a day's work I can do anything ranging from de-worming a hundred horses, to scooping manure, to leading trail rides. I love it, but once in a while I catch the blues, the foggy sleepy brains, or the curse of the dragging steps. Working outside with the horses is lovely (I sometimes imagine myself a true cowgirl... sensitive enough to detect a horse's thoughts, but strong enough to lift countless saddles and innumerable shovelfuls of manure. Her only enemies are the horrible horseflies and dreadful deer flies. Her constant companion and partner is her trusty steed... but I digress; maybe I'll write a whole post about my fancies someday, hmm?), but it also lends itself easily to the whims of weather, fatigue, and grumpy horses. And my mood, I'm sorry to say, tends to fluctuate with the circumstances. 

    Typically my first trail ride is pleasant. The hour passes at a reasonable pace, and the surroundings and my horse are fresh and new. But then I have to go out for another hour, or maybe a third. And I get bored. Or tired. Or my horse is bored. Or tired. Or driven crazy by ruthless insects. And as I struggle to get my impatient mount to stand still and wait for the newbies behind me to catch up for the fifteenth time in the hour, my polite cowgirl facade wears thin. Sometimes I feel more like an outlaw than a Christian cowgirl. Sometimes the patient, kind instruction I'm there to give doesn't come. Sometimes I just want to leave the poky horses and their riders in the plentiful dust behind me. 

    Then I remember: these people paid $30.00 each for what may be their once in a lifetime, first and last,  much looked forward to trail ride. Almost every one of them will be sore afterwards, and some will be sunburnt, scratched, and dirty. They were willing to sacrifice so much for an hour on my trail ride. 

    And Jesus, He called me to a radical life. He called me to love the unloveable, to give till it hurts and then beyond. He said if someone steals one thing from you, to give up the next to them as well. He said to give time and advise, patience and love to these people. He called me to a radical, beautiful life.

    Still, it's hard to remember. And even if I do remember, it's hard to do and be what I don't feel. Radical isn't what comes easy. Radical is Jesus-breathed. So those times I feel like an outlaw? Those are times I'm listening to my old boss, the outlaw cast out of heaven. 

    Yesterday, on my ride number two, outlaw whispers breathed discontent my way as I noticed yellow leaves strewn on the path. Clouds settled over my heart as I listened to the outlaw's mutterings about how sad I am that summer is breathing it's last. 

    I'm so thankful for the Holy Spirit, because at that moment an alarm went off in my heart, where He lives, and shocked me into listening to a radical Jesus-whisper. He reminded me that watching fall emerge through a frown would make me miserable. The radical Jesus-whisper told me, crystal clear, that the way to stay cowgirl sweet was to find beauty. He sent me on a radical scavenger hunt of an hour. 

    Through radical lenses, I saw and counted 100 beautiful things I never would have seen with clouded outlaw eyes. My heart gasped time and time again as I beheld beauty I'd never noticed before. Leaves and rocks and stumps and flowers took on whole new dimensions of gorgeous awe. Even though I'd ridden those trails countless times, I can honestly say that was one of the most beautiful rides I've ever had, merely because I took the radical lenses Jesus had been holding out for so long.

    My heart glowed peaceful sweet, the clouds blown away by beauty radical. Yesterday, on my ride number two, I found my cowgirl sweet spot. Yesterday, I found beauty radical. 

    I can hardly take credit for this blues-busting idea of searching out beauty, of counting blessings. In the beginning, it came from God. Then I've been reading about it here, where Ann Voskamp shares beautiful words about eucharist, which is a neat way to say "thanksgiving".

    Do you have anything you always try to do when you know it's time to let go of the grumpies?

The Battered and Beautiful

    Yesterday I had a friendly debate with an atheist.  I'm still trying to let my brain digest that fact.  You see, I'm not a debater.  Especially not with a man, and especially not about a potentially explosive subject.  But I did.  He told me he was an atheist, and started asking questions about my faith.  I answered, and came back with questions trying to shake his firm stance.  It was one of those things I just couldn't let go.  I had to defend my faith, period.

    Friends, defending your faith is hard.  His questions and statements weren't overly tough, but it was his attitude that shook me.  My brain was whirling from his enthusiastic comebacks to my questions.  This guy wasn't interviewing my faith in hopes of hiring it; he was merely making conversation.

    Even if he wasn't buying it, I had to keep talking Jesus.  Even if my words bounced off his heart, I was the only Bible he would see that day. 

    I prayed a couple times during my debate, that God would give me the right words to speak.  I had hoped God would blow his mind with some undeniable truth from my mouth, but it didn't happen.  To me, it sounded like The Athiest was winning the debate.  Still, I had to keep talking Jesus - if it had to be in my own lowly faltering backwards way, so be it.  Because I was the only Bible he would see that day. 

    If God didn't give me an amazing speech, my unprepared comebacks must've been better - from a God's eye point of view.  I can't see it now, but in God's plan he didn't have Ariel blowing the mind and heart of The Athiest towards God.  His plan probably sounded more like Ariel trusting God to get her through her first witnessing experience.  Because sometimes our Bibles are battered and torn.  Sometimes we underline the wrong verse and accidentally rip a page half out.  The book we love the very most shows both our triumphs and our trials.  
Friends, I urge you; don't hide your Bibles.  Don't wince when The Athiests in your life stare at the crayon scribbles in Genesis or the flimsy spine falling apart.  Because you are the only Bible they will see today.  Don't hide the truth because it sounds a little rough.  Because God speaks, believe it or not, through battered Bibles.  They are the most beautiful kind, because those are the only Bibles they will see today. 

The God behind my heartsfire

    Slightly bewildered, I scratched "start Bible study for 
girls" in a square marked for March of the year I would be nineteen
years old.  A five year plan seemed pretty far-fetched to me.  At fifteen
years old, I was starting to test out of classes for college, and was trying
to pull together my life purpose in order to decide on a degree.  After some
prayer and further incredulous scratching, I soon forgot my five year plan.

   My life calling became an afterthought as the days slipped by and
untrodden distractions became worn paths.  The idea of a Bible study faded
into a mist as I took step after shaky step, eyes blindfolded, hands
groping.  It was hard to walk forward without a destination, and I often
cried out to God, asking where He was taking me with this journey - this one
life I was given to live.

   One Wednesday night, months later, my wondering and groping pulled a fantastic stunt by God's power and became wonder at God's plan and a heart gasping at the brightness in front of my unveiled eyes.  Casually, my little sister mentioned that she and two of her friends wanted to have a Bible study.  My heart remembered, and beat into flame a new hope.  How often, may I ask, do you catch wind of three girls itching for a Bible study of their own accord?

   What she said next tossed a wave of extremely flammable material into my heart's fire.  The girls, she said, thought I should lead their Bible study.

    The glow from my blazing heart illuminated the old forgotten dreams.  I saw
that they were beautiful, matured, and ready to be pulled off the shelf and
put to use working for God's glory. Then in my new glowing heart, I felt
what cannot be described - God sent a wind of His peace.  I nearly exploded
with joy and disbelief, coupled with a presiding sense of extreme
thankfulness and awe at a God who is indeed faithful to work everything for
my good and to the glory of His name.

   When I recorded my skeptical dreams and goals, I felt so incapable of
fulfilling them.  In my own way I entrusted them to God by throwing up my
hands and telling Him that if he actually wanted me to follow through with
my half-hearted plans, He was going to have to make a way.  Being the
amazingly fantastical God He is, He took me up on that little mustard seed
of faith I offered Him and now I squint up at a spreading tree, throwing up
my hands again in trust.

   This time I'm trusting Him to keep the fire in my heart going.  I'm
trusting Him to be my only inspiration as I plan and organize His Bible
study.  I'm trusting Him to give me words that resonate with these girl's
hearts. 

   This time, though, my mind is etched with the fire He lit and the
tree He grew. 

   And this time I'm expecting so much more because I know what
He has done and because He is the Great. I. Am.