Mending Our Brokenness

All that matters on ‪#‎MaundyThursday‬... is just friendship with God.
To wait with Him in the Garden...
to let Him kneel & wash your wounded places...
to stay with Jesus, to keep company with Jesus, to keep watch with Jesus, right to the end.
Because in Him, whatever goes bad, He'll work it for good. It's what God does. He will turn the broken into beautiful. God's line of work is *transformations* -- so hold on to Him as your lifeline. You can't be undone.
He let Himself be forsaken of the Father -- so we in our sinful brokenness, would never, ever, ever be forsaken.
So all that matters today -- is just to stay close to Jesus.
There is meaning and hope around all of us -- because *He is all around us.* On Maundy Thursday, we could stop & feel the humming Peace of something sacred in our veins, enlarging our lungs.
Always believe: even in our darkest places — look for it, feel along for it — *there is the light of Christ’s graces.*
~ Ann Voskamp

In the stillness of this morning, clouds gray with rain, I find myself contemplating the things that have happened this week. I came across this quote posted above by Ann Voskamp and was struck by the directness it hit me with. "To wait with Him in the Garden...to let Him kneel and wash your wounded places...

What are the wounded places exactly? Those places known and unknown, that we dare to peer into but always carry with us. The places of piercing, the baggage we carry around with us. The load Jesus promised to carry. What does it mean to let him wash our wounded places?

What would it mean to know that the King of the World places His holy hands on the dirt of our feet? What would it mean to know that the Prince of Peace cleanse your face with a corner of His robes of righteousness. The splendor and majesty of the Great I Am, humbled in love to wipe every tear from your eyes with His nail pierced hands.

Does not fear rise up in your soul as your entire being yells out "I am not worthy!"? As the Lamb of God says "You are priceless!"

I think of my own wounded places. The two year old who woke up in India to her parents and brother missing, clutching her blanket and stuffed bear in fear that she was abandoned. Twenty-four years she's clutched that blanket in fear that people would abandon her. The three year old who watched the baby fall down the steps overwhelmed with guilt and shame over what she's done. Twenty-three years remembering that baby falling with a message on her lips - "I'm not good enough." The nine-year old who is confused about what just happened, why she feels incredibly dirty inside as innocent dreams are smashed on the kitchen floor. The twelve-year old who is frightened to leave the bathroom of an odd gas station because she's not sure why that man almost followed her in there. The fourteen-year old who was ready to give up on it all and be free of the pain of all the other things that came before. The fifteen-year old who couldn't understand why people belittled and mocked her for reacting so strongly to a hug she didn't want and was inappropriately done. And the list goes on.

And He touches it all. Mends it all. And asks us to be with Him even knowing that every piece of brokenness, every mark of sin in this world that we have done or has been done to us, means another nail pierced into Him. "You're worth it Beloved!" He speaks that to the two-year-old, the three-year-old, the nine-year-old, the twelve-year-old, the fourteen-year-old, the fifteen-year-old...and the now twenty-six year-old. "You're worth it...you are so worth it..."

Sit with Him in the Garden. Let Him wrap His arms around you and be free to gaze into His eyes of love. Fear washed with joy.

This Holy Week draw near to Him, let Him touch those oh so tender and vulnerable spots in us, in our story, in our present as all the other younger selves sit at the Passover Table. And let Him wash the feet of every one of them. "This is My body broken for you. This is My blood shed for you...Do this in remembrance of Me..."

The Breaking

What a beautiful morning it was! I don't remember if it was cold, rainy, sunny or warm out. All I remember was I woke up and felt joy and peace in all of its fullness. I wanted to spend time with God. I remembered the name of a gentleman that had come to my old church several years ago and wanted to listen to his beautiful instrumental once again. I had to rush off to work, but for this morning I was still and in my Lord's presence for just a little bit. I rushed off to work marveling at how nice this morning was.

On a white canvas hues of pinks and yellows, purple and oranges, golds and blues were painted. Had been being painted. The colors danced and delighted in simply being. They were meant to be in this formation, in this design. All of it was worship. It seemed the first time in a while light had broken through the clouds in my life and the storms rolled on by. I was walking in days of peace and nearness with the Lord. It seemed as if all the birds sang, all the animals danced, and my heart felt an assurance of belonging, like it was home. It was like coming into shore and going out to sea all at the same time.

Suddenly, blacks and greys and deep, ugly reds were horridly splashed across the canvas, layering over the beautiful design. What a mess! My heart thumped in my chest as I discovered what had happened, my house had been broken into. I was not prepared for this, I had no idea. Confusion swirled in my mind over why things were not where I left them, why the place was such a mess. Until my brain settled for a word that brought understanding: burglary.

Time slowed down as I disconnected from the world around me and rode the flood of emotions that had come into shore. Stepping back from the canvas, I was shocked at the changes to my design. A design I thought the Lord had given me. Instead, someone else hidden from my view had splashed these colors onto the beautiful canvas I was working on. All the dark, ugly colors seemed out of place amidst the backdrop of bright colors dancing across the canvas. If I threw it away and started over it would diminish the work that had already been done. And yet, someone else had placed their mark upon my work in an ugly and unjust way. But was it really all my work? Wasn't it more God's work in my life? Wasn't all of this supposed to be worship, a gift to my King?

"What should I do?" Was the question that was asked, as dark navy blues were quickly splattered over the greys and blacks and reds. Hastily and quickly done, it didn't begin to erase what had been done. I could still see it all, even though I thought the police were there to help. Then came the flurry of anxious smudging, trying to erase and soften the sharpness and yuckiness of it all. Mother, Father, friends and neighbors. All rushing to comfort and support. But all I could focus on was the design that was now there, forever changed but not completely gone. In that hope there was a peace inside that came, soothing the shock and opening my eyes to see a bigger design than what I could see on my own. A peace I hadn't really stepped into for some time. Looking at the canvas, I still saw the yellows and golds, the pinks and purples. Mingled and dancing with the greys and reds. They were still there, together with the splashes of dark navy blues. It all played together, creating a design that I could not control. But was not without purpose.

A soft light came through the window, ever gently touching the canvas with it's warmth. A breaking in the veil between heaven and earth, assuring me I am not alone. That not all is lost and that there is still beauty here in what I thought to be a broken design. I looked down at the pallet of colors in my hand and wondered why these particular colors were being painted with. It was because the Lord had been doing something in my life for the last several weeks.

Why were those colors on the burglar's pallet? Why the greys, blacks and deep, ugly red?

I began to wonder with sadness at this. What kind of life must this person live to think that they needed more stuff, to shatter someone's boundaries to fulfill a longing of theirs? What hunger must they have for the true bread of life? I began to wonder why God chose my canvas to splash their pallet onto?

I wonder if they saw something upon my canvas that struck a cord deep inside? I wonder if they struck my canvas because the Lord has been chasing after them for some time? I wonder if they struck my canvas because the Lord was trying to open my eyes to see something, or finally hear and obey something He's been speaking about for some time? And I wonder if they chased after things, my things, because they were running away from themselves and running towards something that they thought would satisfy them?

Dear burglars, I have been there too.

I thought I needed my canvas hidden. I thought I needed to keep it safe inside. And I do. It's my canvas - it was cruel what they did. The shock of someone invading my canvas can never be undone. But the splashes of the burglar's pallet upon my canvas are also splashes upon God's canvas, as He shared in the pain of the broken design too. Yet, He invited me to paint upon His canvas - where my pallet, colors, life and being all belong and have a purpose. It's ultimately all God's. I'm sure His heart would love these burglars to paint their pallet upon His canvas too; to find purpose and belonging just as I have.

For to have a white canvas, it had to be dipped in red.

The canvas is not what it used to be, but these colors are now a part of my life, my story...and ultimately His story. So I pick up the brush and begin to paint again. Not to hide or to erase what was already done, but to layer upon it with more color. All is not lost. Hope is still there, hidden in a different design than I had imagined. Because no matter what, He is still good.