GRACE

The picture at the top of my blog is one that is very meaningful to me. A Hand is reaching down, gripping another hand. My hand. And I am gripping back. In my first year of Bible school, I learned for myself the importance of holding onto that Hand. I learned the importance of loving Him for who He was, not what He offered. I learned to love Him.

In my second year of Bible school, I learned to search. I learned to be hungry. I learned to find God, and to give Him everything. (At least, I learned the first stage of that lesson; I seem to be re-learning it repeatedly.)

In my third year of Bible school, I learned that there comes a point when I can't continue holding on. I learned that I am weak. But I also learned that the Hand that is holding me is strong. The Blood coursing through this Hand is powerful enough to redeem me. The bones in this Hand are filled with the marrow of Grace. And the muscles in this Hand are bulging with Love unconditional. The fiercely strong kind that won't give in or let go.

I say I learned that in my third year of Bible school. The bud that sprouted in that year is starting to bloom more brilliantly now, nearly a year later.

If you read my post, "Still Holding On," you will read of my appreciation for that Hand that reached down through Jesus Christ and still grips tightly, even as limp fingers drip with the Blood of the one I have crucified. The Blood of Him whose heart I have broken. Ironically, the Blood that I have shed is the same Blood that cleanses my guilt. And the Hand, scarred more honorably than mine, is emanating radiance into my darkness.

Love that will not let go.

GRACE that is God Reaching Across Chasms Endlessly.

And is still holding on. To me. To you. And to the people on our hearts.

And so, with this image indelibly etched on my brain, I have used my free time this Christmas break to paint it. Michelangelo once painted the hands of Adam and God after the Fall, groping, but unable to touch. Because of Jesus Christ, thankfully, there is a part two to this image, although this one is painted by someone far less adept than Michelangelo.

I eliminated some of the light glare on the canvas, so I hope my picture doesn't make it look better than it is, but this is it:

 

I hope that maybe you can get as much benefit meditating on the significance of this image as I have.

Missive or Missile?

Is it weird to post one of your college essays on your blog?

I couldn't say.

However, since when have I ever claimed not to be weird?!?

So here goes. If you've followed my blog, this narrative will not be news to you. However, it compiles some of the thoughts I've already expressed in a newer, bigger picture manner. And besides, it will help make up for the fact that I've posted so little in the past couple of months since I started college on-line.

Missive or Missile?

            The letter came on July 26. I had just arrived back from a long trip to the city, where the nurse had checked my skin for tuberculosis and my dad had returned some broken luggage for my sister. With the afternoon sun slanting down on us, we rolled into the driveway. The letter sat innocently on the table. I picked it up and fumbled with the seal, wandering over to the blue recliner in our living room. “I’m so nervous for you!” my older brother exclaimed. I laughed, though my hands were nearly shaking. My mother made the same nervous statement by staying in the kitchen and refusing to look at me, delicious smells wafting about her. I sat down to read, little knowing that God was about to show me how trustworthy He really is.

            I had always pictured myself going to college. I had a knack for the student role, and my dad had spotted it, taking me to every testing center imaginable. However, after high school, I chose to devote myself to three years of studying God’s Word and cultivating my relationship with Him. As I neared the end of my Bible school career, I figured I would do what many Bible school graduates did: go to college or get married. The marriage option did not seem imminent, so I started looking at colleges, and, about that time, God gave me a vision of what I could do to extend His kingdom if I had a college education.

When I stepped onto the campus of Hillsdale College in brisk Michigan, I felt like I had come home. I had not wanted to attend a school so far away from my house, but suddenly the thirteen hour drive seemed easy. I filled out an application and waited, trying to suppress my hopes as I begged God to let them accept me at Hillsdale College if that was where He wanted me to be. A warm, bubbly thrill erupted when I got my acceptance letter. I could not contain my smiles or my exclamations! My best friend also got accepted at Hillsdale College, and together we built candy palaces out of our dreams.

            One bitter streak alone marred the sweetness of my palace. Its nickname was Money, also known as Lack of Money. The salaries of a pastor and homemaker do not exactly cover the cost of a private education, and I had no success finding myself a job. Since God had directed our family to remain debt-free, I grimly turned down every sugary loan, applied for scholarships, and waited. For two months, I scanned the mail each day, praying that the icing of my palace would pop out of an envelope, ready to glue everything together. A little bit trickled in from my hometown—just enough to paste the foundation down, but the walls and the turrets remained unassembled. Still, I remained unconcerned. Had not God brought my four older siblings through college debt-free? Surely He would do the same for me. I trusted Him to provide for my needs, so I kept rifling through the mail, my faith fat and bursting. Or so I thought.    

            Then the letter came. I started to open it, my heart not even daring to beat. This was it. This was the miracle for which I had been waiting; this same scholarship had thrust my siblings through college. I read the letter’s contents repeatedly to make sure I did not miss anything. The missive began: “Dear Ms. ---: I am pleased to inform you that the Foundation has approved a $500.00 grant to you . . .”

            Five hundred dollars? Surely something was wrong. That would only cover a small fraction of what I needed; all of the records I had sent them proved this. Yet there the number stood on the page, black and unyielding. I actually grinned. Mirth seemed friendlier than tears, and besides, I had a family to face. My mom called dinner. 

            The food passed through my lips barely noticed. I cannot remember what it was, but I recall that its savory taste contrasted with the sour disappointment I was also gnawing. I consumed my meal quietly, smiling and pretending nothing was wrong. Behind my calm exterior, though, I screamed and wept in a tottering world. I needed to be alone. After dishes were over, I grabbed the letter, my journal, and my hefty burgundy Bible, marching straight to the church like Hezekiah did when he got a distressing letter (2 Kings 19.14).

            Falling on my knees, I cried to Jehovah-Jireh, my God who said He would supply all of my needs. Why had He not? I felt like I had been leaning on Him for support, and instead of His shoulder, I discovered I had been leaning on air. What was I to do now? I watched my candy palace disintegrate into a cloud of dust; it tasted like salt, just like my tears. I resisted doubt and despair, forcing my gaze upward. Abraham’s poignant words in Andrew Peterson’s song, “Holy is the Lord,” echoed in my heart: “So take me to the mountain, I will follow where You lead. There I’ll lay the body of the boy You gave to me. And even though You take him, still I ever will obey. Maker of this mountain, please, make another Way.” Feebly, I exalted the name of the Lord aloud, even as I watched my Isaac sacrificed on a hard altar.   

            As tears crusted on my cheeks, I stared at the huge world map covering the back wall of the sanctuary. Where was my place in that picture? I rose to find a seat with better lighting, and as I did so, I peered at an envelope lying in the row in front of me. In elegant script, the words on the front read, “You’re Invited.” I knew exactly what it meant. God was inviting me to watch with Him and see His purposes unfold in my life. I could either reject the invitation, wallowing in self-pity and self-made plans, or I could let Him take my hand in His, and we could explore my future together. I accepted the invitation.

Two days later, God spoke to me in His Word: “Because your heart was tender and you humbled yourself . . . and wept before me, I also have heard you, declares the LORD” (ESV, 2 Chron. 34.27). My adventure was about to begin. Excitement washed over me, and I breathlessly anticipated the unknown, glad to have a reliable Guide by my side.

            I soon realized that I had not been trusting God to provide for my needs at all. I had been trusting a scholarship to provide money for an education that I thought I needed. For me, college was not a higher calling; it was an escape. Like a drug that temporarily eases pain in the body, I looked to college to ease the pain in my heart. If I could not be loved or respected by other people, then perhaps an education could distract me and make me loveable and respectable. Thus, I wielded a Band Aid to cover my gaping wound, and I fashioned a crutch to disguise my limp.

            God had other plans. Throwing up hedges, He blocked my path. Hot with panic, I squirmed and scrambled, searching for a way around the barrier. Finding none, I waited, panting. Then, with a voice sweeter than any Siren, God allured me in the wilderness (Hos. 2.6-7, 14). With no drug, or Band Aid, or crutch within reach, I listened to Him. Then, gradually, just as the words of Jesus healed the centurion’s servant (Matt. 8.13), so His words healed my heart.

I discovered that God builds palaces too, only His are not made of flimsy candy. His palaces are real, solid, and warm, full of love and adventure. They may hide many unknown hallways and closets, but they always smell like home, and the best part is that He lives there. When I wake up in the morning, He smiles at me from beside my bed, ready to take my hand in His warm grip and guide me through another hallway. It is not just His palace or His dream. It is mine as well.

            Nearly four months have passed since I received that letter. From the outside, it looked like an innocent missive, but it turned into a missile that tore my life apart at the seams. However, because it blasted my dreams to bits, I learned to trust the real Dream Giver. Having no dreams left alive, He became my new dream. His adventures became my adventures, and His palace became my palace. As it turns out, He is a lot better at dream-making than I am. Yes, I struggled as I watched my best friend leave for Hillsdale College and heard her enthusiastic reports, but I did not mourn either. In fact, sometimes I think I am the lucky one. Because I am not far away at college, I have ventured in various unique fields. I have felt the warmth of laughter, tasted the bond of united prayer, and sniffed the aroma of fresh French bread baked with girls who needed Christian fellowship. We have conquered sunny sand dunes in our bare feet, hunted birch bark while wearing war paint, and waded in swamps to retrieve the perfect tree branches for our church display. God has given me opportunities to decorate for a convention, teach Sunday school, lead a choir, invent youth activities, direct a play, and share the Christmas story with a Japanese girl who had never heard it before she met me. Then God brought a college education to my doorstep, and I began my college journey through Regent University on-line, where I have explored more of the Dream Giver and His Word in a way I never would have at Hillsdale College. Most importantly, I have learned the joy and vitality of trusting God. He sent me that missile for a reason. After all, if left to myself, I would have settled for a palace made of candy, but God had something better in mind.

            It is ironic how God can take the worst evil and turn it into the best good. I guess that is why He is so trustworthy. No matter how awful the event is, God can use it. Because of that letter, I have seen what the best kinds of dreams can look like. Because of that letter, I get to breathlessly watch my journey unfold as I lean on my Guide. Because of that letter, I am not just a student supported by a crutch. I am a healed adventurer.