The Un-ignorable Awareness

One of the oddest things that happens when you learn a new language is that you lose a

little corner of silence. When you are in a crowded room and someone is speaking a foreign

language, it disappears into a din of indistinguishable chatter. Once you learn that language, you

simultaneously gain an ability to distinguish meaning in the noise, and lose the ability to turn off

that awareness. It used to be mere background noise, and now it is not ignorable. 

During my first days in Thailand, I sat smiling while my Thai friends chattered amongst themselves, sounding

much like ducks quacking to me, and having about as much meaning to my untrained ears. Now,

if I walk into a Thai restaurant or Thai market, I hear every detail about the shelf-stocker’s

mother-in-law’s car that needs to be repaired, and the waitress’s dislike for the guy sitting at the

corner table (how dare he send that Yam Moon Sen back twice!) I can’t not listen. I can’t not

understand it. The smiling silence is gone, it’s not even an option. I cannot un-tune my ears to

this station, for better or for worse.

      It’s the same with football. I didn’t realize how deeply I’d submerged into my new

football culture until I was eating at a local Mexican restaurant with a friend. The big screen

television in the corner was showing a college game. She was telling me details about her

upcoming wedding, and I was listening, but I couldn’t help hearing each play as it happened, on

the screen right behind her head. I nodded in response to a charming idea for favors- he snaps the

ball- fourth and three...the whistle blows...first down! She asked me if I thought the pewter

ribbon was a good match and I thought about it- Can’t believe they called a time out- now! She

debated between the silver and the pewter- and number 11 rushed the A-gap...and he’s down!

“Oh!” The beer glasses thudded on the bar behind us, and every guy in the room exclaimed in

unison. My friend’s blue eyes grew wide in shock, staring at me. I guess I must have joined in

the unison, too. It was at that moment, that I realized I could speak Football.

I wouldn't listen to country music if my life depended on it. Until it did.

I never thought I could be so happy to see a Walmart! 

March 2, 2012. Marysville, Tennessee. I drove through 3 tornadoes- taking shelter at a mall, a chapel on a hill, a Sonic drive in, and a Walmart- eventually reaching my destination of Nashville at 2 A.M.- 3 hours before my plane left. A grey-bearded cowboy prophet at an abandoned gas station told me to go forward- don't slow down or stop for anything- and I could outrun the storm. He also told me to tune into the storm watch: on the local country radio station.



In one bizarre day, my God led me through three crazy storms, and a few times I was pretty sure I might die. "You drove over THAT bridge darlin'?" In my rental car, the only car on the unlit road, just me, Jesus, and Kip Moore, singing me all the way to Nashville-interrupted by the constant beeps of the Emergency Broadcasting Network- straight through the storms. Going forward.

I kind of love him now.

No, really. Yeah he's a cocky cowboy singing about girls and whisky- but that's not it- this song repeated over and over and over on that drive- hammering into me my need for my God, my desperate dependence on his love- and He met me there, and He loves me- drowned in that, I'm unafraid.


  "The floods have lifted up, O Lord,
    the floods have lifted up their voice;
    the floods lift up their roaring.
  Mightier than the thunders of many waters,
    mightier than the waves of the sea,
    the Lord on high is mighty!"
-Psalm 93:3-4

"Set me as a seal upon your heart,
    as a seal upon your arm,
for love is strong as death,
    jealousy is fierce as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
    the very flame of the Lord.

Many waters cannot quench love,
    neither can floods drown it."

Song of Solomon 8:6-7

I'm loved like that- no room for fear. 

And this, is totally a worship song to my God:

...Cinderella?

I walked up the narrow, steep staircase leading to our downtown office door this morning, surprised to find an abandoned shoe. A man’s shoe. An athletic man’s shoe. Laced up, and everything. Unmatched. Unpaired. Unaccompanied. Just sitting there- or standing there. Can shoes sit? I don’t know. Four steps down from our locked, glass door. It was pointed up. Towards that door. Alone. Like me. Was this a sweet practical joke from one of my odd and endearing friends? As I unlocked our door and saw the smear of blood on the porch, I figured probably not. You should have heard the cop’s questions on the phone. Poor guy, who gets calls like this? So there’s this Cinderella shoe, I mean, you know, like there’s one shoe, on our steps, and there’s blood. I don’t know if it’s even worth calling, but I just thought you guys should know. What do you even do with that? We don’t know. We just lock our doors and text our friends this odd photo and somewhere out there, is a man with one size 11 shoe, and a dream in his heart. 

I'm a good girl, I am.

"The difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated. I shall always be a common flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me like a common flower girl, and always will. But I know that I shall always be a lady to Colonel Pickering, because he always treats me like a lady, and always will."

 -Eliza Doolittle

My Fair Lady. Last night I was delighting in the poetic prose and insightful quips of this classic musical (and, ok the fabulous costumes and the undeniable charm of Audrey)- and aching at the shocking similarity of turn-of-the-century Covent Garden, London and the red light streets of Chiang Mai. Beautiful, broken girls- with a song in their heart, longing for home. I know these girls. I love these girls. I want them all to have homes somewhere, far away from the cold nights on the street. I want them to know that they are beautiful. Wait a minute- I'm not in on good behavior, I have been saved off the same street- I was once outside, and have been invited in. Carried in. I know us girls. I love us girls. I want us to all have homes somewhere, far from the cold nights on whatever street we live. I want us to know we are beautiful. Because He is beauty itself, and He is alive in us. 

Suddenly something struck me. And it wasn't a pair of slippers. 

I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you! 

*It's the gospel!*

Not the impostor gospel that oozes out of every pore in many churches around the world, and especially in America. You know, the one that is Henry Higgins and avails itself to the flower girls of our world: promising to secure "them" a dignified place in society (and chocolate), throwing a few coins, and then heading home in taxis, congratulating itself on its generosity. Any common flower girl can spot this fraud from the curb. 

Self-righteousness is hilarious in the scene where Eliza attempts to defend herself, screaming in her filthy, ragged clothes- "I washed my face and hands before I come, I did!" And I realize how dumb I look to God when I get caught trying to justify myself before Him. 

The next scene is a far cry from a beautiful baptism, as Eliza is wrestled into a tub and scrubbed by the maids while she wails, fearing for her life as she's never had a bath before. It's really quite traumatizing to watch, as this cleansing, though good for her- is forced upon her.  

How often are people bullied into receiving this "gospel?":
"If you refuse this offer, you will be the most ungrateful, wicked girl, and the angels will weep for you." -H.H.

Or caught in the exhausting cycle of striving to earn the approval of man. Imputing a cold and disciplined self-righteousness-driven work to God- looks as ridiculous as trying to recite poetry with mouths full of marbles to perfect an accent by sheer willpower, because we have been told: 
"You'll get much further with the Lord if you learn not to offend His ears."-H.H.

And this is a lie. 

This is not the gospel. It is not a bath, a new dress, and a polished accent that makes us new. Yeah, our sin is offensive to Him, who lives in unapproachable light and perfection and holiness- and yet He came down to the dark curbs and reached out to us while we were still in our street rags, while we still spoke in our accents of sin- and reached out to us, offered to set us free and make us new- Christ laid down His life in order to make a way for us to be with the Father. In His death, He invites us to die, and be free forever from everything that enslaves us to sin, everything that separates us from Him. In His life, He invites us to be with Him, to be new, and freely live, worshiping Him with joy as we were created to do- beautifully.  There is no amount of scrubbing that we can do to change our own hearts. We cannot perfect our accents to sound close enough to worthy to approach the throne of grace apart from Jesus Christ. And- we don't have to! That's why the gospel is good news! These improvements do not turn a flower girl into a lady. It is the utter transformation from inside our hearts as His gospel grows, taking root and blooming in us. It is His Spirit bringing to life what was dead:

“And when I passed by you and saw you struggling in your own blood, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’ Yes, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’" Ezekiel 16:6

In our sin, He chose us. He saves us, establishes us, He makes us beautiful. Point is, we-the church- are a lady because Christ has always treated us as lady and always will. Not because we're good girls. Truth is, we aren't. We are still full of un-ladylike behavior. (I've seen us at the horse-races, and it's not pretty :) It's not what we do to clean ourselves up, or our own (futile!) attempts to overcome the cockney accent of sin- it's what He has done- once, for all in salvation, and continues to do in us through sanctification- cultivating beauty. 

Eliza nailed it with her quote above- we're not good because we behave- we can't! He is good because of how He treats us, saving us to Himself. The gospel is about Him- He is good! And He loves us. He is no Henry Higgens. Just listen to the way he talks to us- 

"Behold, you are fair, my love!"- Song of Solomon 1:15

We are His fair lady. 

Puking, to the glory of God.

So immediately after typing this post below, I actually threw up. No joke. The churning sense of loathing, dizzying conviction and clammy sweat of urgency demanded a physical rejection. That, and I'm pretty sure the avocado I ate at midnight was bad... The irony was unreal (ever laughed at yourself while puking?) and reinforced what God is teaching me in a profound way. Confession, is like throwing up all my stuff before the Lord. The community of His church are the people walking alongside me, coming with me before our God, and holding my hair as I get this out. Things get real, you get close. It's beautiful.

The freedom and the closeness, not the puking.

 These two glaring things hit me, right in that moment:

1. At one point, this tasted good. Like- I had craved this thing that I am now puking. I had enjoyed eating it. Sin, in the moment- is delicious. Mmm I love me some tasty pride- that satisfying pat on the back or sense of accomplishment smothered in self righteousness and dipped in tangy approval. How I had smiled in seeming contentedness, unaware that in the dark murky depths of my belly lurked a poison that wants to kill me.

2. I was shocked at my hesitancy and denial. I stood outside the bathroom door, knowing what was unavoidable, and yet- I found myself trying every evasive maneuver I could think of. Maybe I just need a cold glass of water? Maybe I just need some fresh air? Perhaps I could sleep this off. What a coward. Bottom line: I HATE throwing up, and avoid it at all costs. Kinda like dealing with sin...how often I find myself trying to comfort myself and coddle the symptoms of sin into submission. How many times I've run to friends for the cold glass of water of reassurance in conversation, or stepped outside the situation at hand for a breath of fresh air, or tried to spiritually sleep through conviction, hoping it will go away on its own. Well, it doesn't. God gave my body this awesome reflux that kicks out the deadly poison in my gut, just like His Spirit works through conviction and repentance to expel the sin that's slowly killing me from the inside out. The true comfort is in getting it all out. That is where relief lives. And then, there's the comforting arms of my Savior. Who washes me, clothes me in His righteousness, and even after seeing me at my lowest point, calls me beautiful, holds me, loves me. And doesn't leave.

“Though evil is sweet in his mouth,
    though he hides it under his tongue,
though he is loath to let it go
    and holds it in his mouth,
yet his food is turned in his stomach;
    it is the venom of cobras within him.
 He swallows down riches and vomits them up again;
    God casts them out of his belly." -Job 20: 12-15


 "And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God." -1 Corinthians 6:11


p.s. Theological question: When Adam and Eve ate of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, do you think they threw up later? Just sayin.

Cultivate Beauty...?

It looked like the end of the world. Again. Pacing the warm, warped wooden floors of my guesthouse room, trying to determine if my roommate was actually asleep or was waiting to leap up and unplug my laptop again at the faintest sound of typing (way past my 1 am curfew...) I retreated to the tiny bathroom, sat on the floor, and cried out to my God.

"Ok I give up! Here I am. What do you want me to do?" 

I was dangling at the end of my rope. An odd series of events that could only happen in Thailand landed me without a kitchen, without hope and without God in the world. Not really, but it felt like it to this orphaned pastry chef. 

The upcoming week of no plans struck terror in my soul. I was armed, I was alert, I was ready to fight that accuser to the death with truth- I was so ready to do so through the baking outreach we started- and now, abruptly halted, I was erupting internally. I'm pretty sure- if someone had shot me at this point, I would have exploded sprinkles and the gospel all over the place. 

Earlier that day, my pride kicked into high gear disguised as rockstar swagger- I defiantly busted out a tiramisu on the backseat of my motorbike. Ok world! I screamed through each espresso soaked layer- if you're gonna take away my kitchen I will bake where I have to bake- nothing gonna stop this girl! Not gonna lie, it turned out awesome, and even the name, Italian for "pick me up" boasted Rosie the Riveter confidence. We can do this, I smiled as we sang Happy Birthday to one of my cooking school students. It sounded triumphant. I felt like we had just won.

And then this soft voice whispered "wrong battle, Hol." 

I was surprised. Wait-what? But it feels awesome. We did it!

And so there I was, on the floor, where I belonged- seeking my God. What began as demanding a schedule from my God, and offering my suggestions- washed over by Psalm 51 and its corresponding Jon Foreman song-melted me into tears of repentance. He moved my heart from frustration to earnest seeking, from looking for answers to looking for Him. 

"You are God. You have my attention and my life. I'm all yours. Use me. Do what You will do, and fill me with Your Spirit so that I may obey with joy." 

Pride broke. Love rushed in. It was beautiful. Peace was there. I went to sleep with a smile on my face. I really thought that it was over, and that pride was dead once and for all in my heart. Silly girl. 

It took a severed toenail, a cactus thorn deep in my heel, a debilitating fever and losing my voice to get me where He wanted me that week: stopped, still, knowing my utter dependence on Him, knowing my smallness and in awe of His strength. 

Again, another sleepless night on the bathroom floor- with open hands I cried out " I am Yours, what do you want me to do?" and He answered me:

Cultivate beauty.

Wait- what? What does that even mean? If Haight and Ashbury hosted a Beth Moore Bible study, they'd name it that. 

But that is exactly what He's been doing, in me and around me, ever since.

It's the gospel.

"I have seen the God-given task with which the sons of men are to be occupied.  He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end." -Ecclesiastes 3:10-11

To the man in the little park off the square in Brussels:

Thank you for restoring my hope in love today. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know your story or even your name, but 

Thank You. 

 

Today I sat on a bench in a lovely town square, eating frites in the darling cone with the little plastic fork- grieving recent events (suicide attempts, broken relationships, inexplicable cruelty to innocents, etc.) and wondering to myself- do people even know how to love each other anymore? My cynicism, cleverly disguised as “logic” cast its vote: nay. I thoroughly enjoyed my delicious frites and the orange sauce of genius as I thought the worst of everyone passing by. It seemed that every passing conversation was an argument, and every passing glance was a scowl. I congratulated myself on my good judgement. See, I was quietly judging people, cleverly disguised as “people watching.” Poser. Jerk. Seriously, who do I think I am? It wasn’t a satisfying activity. In all of my cynical judging, I wasn’t comforted or proud of myself. I was grieved. I ached. I really, really wanted to be proven wrong. 

And then I saw it. Something turned my gaze upward, to the top of a sizable set of stairs. In the distance, I saw a father bend over an oversize baby buggy. Crowds shuffled past, and I watched, expecting to see him hoist his little one to his shoulder and navigate the buggy down the stairs with his free hand. And I was wrong.

Carefully, tenderly, he lifted the entire buggy, which was huge (have you ever seen the Euro strollers?) and tip-toed down the lengthy staircase. It must have been over a hundred stairs. He never stopped. He never gave himself a rest from the painstaking process, ever mindful of his sleeping baby. He did not speed up towards the end as his legs buckled under the weight of the stroller, eager to reach the ground level. Cradling the giant buggy, he maintained a slow, steady pace. A long, long time later he gingerly set the buggy down. So gently, so carefully. And smiled. And then walked off, not missing a beat. 

That's what love looks like, on a sunny afternoon in Brussels. I marveled, eyes misting, and hope came rushing in. I had just seen the great lengths this father went to, forgetting himself entirely, to ensure the absolute comfort of his sleeping baby. His thought process was entirely given to his little one- his comfort or convenience never entered the equation.  He delighted in the great lengths he went to, just as he delighted in peeking under the little umbrella to ensure his baby was still sleeping. He did it well, and he did it with joy. 

I have a Father like that. I have been loved like that. And thus, I want to love, like that. But-probably with a colorful scarf wrap instead of a buggy. 

Also, in Belgium cotton candy is called "papa's beard." :) Just thought you should know. 

"He brought me out into a broad place; he rescued me, because he delighted in me." -2 Samuel 22:20