Breaking

“Dear woman, why are you weeping?”

“They have taken away my Lord, and I cannot find Him.”  John 20:13

Driving home from counseling this week, I asked God, “ What’s my name?”  Pushing for a break in the silence that has lasted a year.  He whispers back playfully, “What is mine?”

Seeing my confusion he pushes back himself, “No, literally.  What is my name?”—citing two specifics others have given him… one being ‘The God who sees.’

I’m thrown into the turmoil of starved pursuit.

Holy week is turning out to be remarkably significant each year, more present than a remembrance.  When I last wrote, I thought I would lose the baby I now hold in my arms.  I had just experienced a loss that left my soul bleeding and I was terrified as my physical body threatened to follow suit.  Mercifully the pregnancy complications stopped, but the rest did not.  Little did I know the betrayal of God himself was soon to follow.

Brene Brown’s definition of courage floored me.  It comes from the Latin word cor, meaning heart, and thus courage is ‘to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart’.  Thank God.  That’s me, that’s always been me.  I am courageous.  I share the following about my life, however disjointed, in this truth.

About a month ago, the prophetic spoke over me, “You are in exile, though not because of anything you have done, and God wants you to pour out your heart to him but he will not answer you.”  Great.  At least we are on the same page.

I only heard this in retrospect.

2015

In April we knew we had to move.  In May we prepared. In June we decided where.  In July we scouted. In August we packed.  In September we left a home we loved and arrived to a house in chaos.

Within an hour of walking through the door our daughter began vomiting and going into shock.  The entire place reeked of cat pee (she is severely allergic) and lucky for us we only cleaned the carpets after closing.  I was 7 months pregnant, we were halfway across the country, alone with three kids under 6, a building we couldn’t inhabit and our belongings in a truck.

In September we pulled up carpet.  Painted sub floors with Kilz (our toddler ingested some).  Scrubbed every single surface with hot water and bleach.  Re painted almost every wall, cleaned air ducts, ate out too much, and stuck our kids in front of an ipad, living in a trailer on the street.

October was much the same, but we moved inside, got a 0% Home Depot card and kept working.  Still God was nowhere to be found.  At 5,280 feet and 8 months pregnant I would pray every time I climbed the stairs, only to watch my words fall to the ground.  Sometimes I fell too, weeping on the sub floor, the stumble an opportunity to pour forth my desperation to be heard, to be answered.

In November I gave birth.

There is much more I cannot yet describe, but what I knew of God and Christ and whatever the gospel was, I do not know any longer.  The obediently constructed and reverently defended faith I had has been blown out of the water.

The layers—not just of this last year—of what I, and my family, have endured at the hands and words of those who call themselves his people have driven me to a place beyond belief.  Added to all the physical strain of moving a thousand miles, remodeling an entire home, giving birth to a baby, there were vicious rumors and even hate mail.  It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back, they say.

Amidst the turmoil though, there was the visitation of a few angels, without whom I would not have survived.  And then the word of that prophet, but it still doesn’t resolve things.  I’m exhausted having wrestled and waited in darkness for so long.  But tomorrow is a good day for the questions and doubters.  Who will roll away the stone?

Then it comes to me.  His name.

“Let me go, the dawn is breaking.”

Genesis 32:26

Burial

"We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life." Romans 6:4

   Today is not the exact day, but two years ago, on Holy Saturday I woke up and thought my best friend had died.  She had been lost on Mount Hood since Sunday and I didn’t know until Thursday that anything was wrong.  To experience the raw emotion of the possible death of an intimate friend only to find out in three days that she was found alive is probably the closest I’ll get to a replica of the Easter story. 

   This week we celebrate the death, burial and resurrection of Christ.  I love how each year it grows more meaningful, like Christmas in reverse.  Getting older means greater joy.  The past few days I’ve been meditating on the burial of Christ.  I’ve always thought about His death and His resurrection, but I easily forget that He was laid in a tomb for three days.  My life this week, in a myriad of ways, has reflected the significance of burial.  Physically, mentally, and emotionally I’ve been brought to the Jesus who lay in a tomb. 

   On this side of the story, the emotions and meaning are radically different than what the disciples must have felt.  They didn’t know ‘He is risen!’ and were burdened with fear, doubt, denial, and despair.  But for us, burial is an invitation to rest and waiting.  And, as CS Lewis puts it so well, “Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead,” it becomes a place of hope, the expectation that all things will be made new. 

   Before burial one is anointed, prepared for a new name and another land.  Dry bones anticipate breath as they lay in the dark or the dust.  Community is gained when we live to die and learn to rest like the saints before and around us.  If we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake that His life may be manifest in our mortal bodies, then Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Resurrection Sunday should become the rhythm of our lives.  Always willing to die, always ready to rest, and always waiting for resurrection.

   Those outside the tomb must grieve and walk away, but if we place our broken hearts in shadow of Christ’s hand we will be the first to see the sunrise.  I will wait in darkness for my Savior to call me out to tread the dawn.

"For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his." Romans 6:5

Cypress

"Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance,"   Romans 5:3

   I know nothing about plants.  Having procrastinated for months after a warning from our gardener, I finally called the arborist.  Something about beetles and trees, apparently we needed to act quickly. 

   He showed up the next morning and I learned more than I did in the entire high school botany course that I wanted to sleep through.  The news was fascinating and tragic.

   We have probably ten cypress trees on our property.  They grow quickly, creating instantaneous, natural privacy.  But then you stop watering them.  A cypress will work with the nutrients it has, thereby offering you control of it’s maturation.  Ideal really, feed and water the heck out of it and then keep it the size you want.  Had we been the original owners, I’m sure we would have done the same.  The trees are our favorite part of the property.  We’ve got postage stamp lawns and close neighbors, so the lush shade keeps the environment quiet and serene.

   The arborist presented a two-edged sword.  You can only starve a tree for so long.  Stunted growth leads to a weakened defense, making it susceptible to bugs and disease.  However, if we nourish the soil and give it what it wants, we’ll have healthy trees and a problem that’s outgrown our purpose.

   The worst of them is oozing sickly yellow sap everywhere.  It’s called weeping.  Later that day, I wept too.  This cypress was manipulated and used.  Planted in a place for the convenience of another, but not for the life and beauty it’s meant to display.  An evergreen only accepted as long as it doesn’t take too much and offers everything in return.  Fulfilling obligations instead of thriving.  Parched with thirst it has waited on others to allow it to grow. 

   A metaphor for a life managed by rejection and fear.  

   The grief before me calls my imagination to a path of confident healing.  Like a tree, the Psalmist says.

   What if the Cypress started drinking living water on it’s own, recovering, mending, growing into a magnificent trophy of a Creator’s rescue?  Severing its dependence on the plans and desires of man?  Those who used its weakness for their own comfort would be threatened.  The foundations of their carefully constructed home disturbed, while dignity and strength bloomed in the front yard, and they watched their efforts to deadened, stunt, weaken, and discourage become thwarted at every turn.  Boundaries of disdain overgrown by boughs of fragrant, living wonder.  They didn’t know that a Cypress is a symbol for endurance.  And if they bring their axe, her fallen boards will become holy ground for the temple, dressed in pure gold, a place of safe haven for those in a flood, a canopy over trysting lovers, sharpened spears for the defense of God’s chosen people, or instruments played in worship.  The Cypress is showing me that when definition and purpose comes from the Lord, whether in life or death, you will always be fashioned for His splendor in glory to the shame of your enemies.

   It was an ancient Jewish custom in Bethel to plant a cedar for the birth of a boy, or a cypress for a girl.  I want to heal the broken tree in my front yard, as an Ebenezer of hope that God heals our broken hearts.   I want it to thrive and grow as long as I possibly can before it ruins a water line.  Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes with the morning.

“Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress; instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle; and it shall make a name for the Lord, an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.” Isaiah 55:13