Gifts

Christmas has always felt like a time of possibility to me. As a kid, the excitement leading up to Christmas was about more than just getting new things. It was about who I would become when I had those new things. I couldn’t have explained it to you then, but somehow I expected to find myself transformed each Christmas morning. Somewhere in my heart, I believed that the Katie who owned whatever thing I desperately wanted that year would be a more satisfying, exciting and desirable person to be. And somehow, no matter how genuinely delighted I was to receive each gift, the glow of newness would fade away. And the next morning I’d wake up to discover myself the same person as before.

It’s a feeling that I have experienced in other ways as well. Somehow my heart is incredibly good at convincing me that various things and experiences are what I need to transform me. That a gift will make me new. But maybe the reason that this is so easy to believe is that, as with all the best lies, there is a fragment of truth twisted up in it. Because there is a gift, given to me one Christmas, that truly does have the power to transform me, to change me into a new person. But that gift is not anything that I ever found beautifully wrapped under a fragrant pine tree. He came painfully, messy and crying. He died painfully, messy and broken. And he takes away my pain, my mess and my tears. He transforms my brokenness into wholeness. Still, my heart would convince me that the joy of this gift could fade as well. But I know the truth, that whatever else my heart cries out for, Jesus is the only gift that will ever satisfy the longing for newness and transformation that we all experience.

Excavation

If you’re like me then mistakes are part of daily life. I hate making mistakes. My stomach curls up on itself and I feel paralyzed by the sickening realization of all that I am and all that I’m not. I’m a sinner. I’ll readily admit that, my theology there is firm. But the specifics of that reality, that’s where it gets harder.

This past year has been one of the hardest and best of my life. I’ve grown for sure, but it’s been a year of pruning. I had this subconscious idea that working in ministry would catapult me to new spiritual heights, but in reality, its a lot of God digging deep into the soil of my heart and pulling out so many weeds I didn’t even know were there.

When confronted with my own failings, my heart tries to curl up and protect itself, picture a centipede when you lift a big rock. I’m a big fan of the problem being someone else’s fault. Or trying to convince myself that, really I did the best I could considering the circumstances. But the shelter of self righteousness does a better job of blocking out rays of grace than it does protecting the heart. And God isn’t content to leave us there for very long.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. That was one of the first verses I ever memorized, but God’s been bringing a new understanding of the words to my heart lately. So often I’ve felt like Jonah, trying to hide from the God of the universe in the bottom of a ship headed straight into a storm. I remember thinking how dumb Jonah was when my dad read that story to me when I was little. How could anyone think they could hide from God? He is everywhere. He knows everything. And it was only God’s grace that kept Jonah’s attempts to hide from killing him. 

But it turns out that I am Jonah. I think that if I just bury my heart away, the God of the universe won’t see the times that I chose myself over him. The gentleness, the firmness, the persistence with which he draws me out of hiding and into confession and grace is something that I can’t describe. How can I explain the sorrow and rejoicing so intertwined in his excavation of my heart?

His grace is enough. I live because those words are true. My prayer is that God will make them larger in my heart every day.

Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for psalms of loudest praise…

I’ve been trying to think of a name for a blog for a long time. It’s one of those stupid writer’s block tricks where you make yourself feel productive because you’re thinking about what you’re supposed to be writing, but you’re really just procrastinating. I’ve come up with different names depending on where I’ve been in life and what I’ve been hoping to capture in my blog. But the other day this idea came to me, kind of out of the blue and it just seems to have stuck.

What’s more, it fits. My entire life, no matter where I am or what I am doing has been and is being shaped by God’s mercy. There is nothing good in my life except what has been provided by the never-ending stream of his kindness and provision.

As I have been writing this the blue sky outside my window turned to clouds and rain began to fall in a torrential downpour. That is the way that I picture God’s mercy. It is made up of many individual drops all falling so thick and fast that they turn into a drenching stream. My life is saturated in his goodness.

So I’m calling this humble presentation of my thoughts Streams of Mercy, because I hope that it will be a small representation and reflection of the mercy that has been poured out on me. I hope that my thoughts will engage with my world in a way that is shaped by and shares that mercy. I hope to be an overflowing vessel, filled with the living stream.