I’m sitting here on a Friday morning, the first in months, for a designated writing time. I’ve perused the shelves, grabbed Charles Martin’s new nonfiction book to accompany me through Holy Week, and eaten at least 3/4 of an oatmeal raisin cookie from the store cafe. Scanning the tables, i recognize we all have a job to do, whether for pleasure or for work, through calling or obligation, a dozen strangers sit staring at computer screens, thankful for the silence. And the free wi-fi.
The pink flowers of spring upon the trees contrast starkly against the fast-paced movement of the darkening clouds. We’re in the part of spring where you could wear a winter jacket in the morning, and throw on shorts in the afternoon. But the weatherman has called for rain today, so a few of us have ventured out for a front seat view of the storm coming in, reminding us that the sunshine of summer is coming, but not before we’re shrouded in thunder and lightning.
Storms brew before the flowers can grow.
This lent has been eerily quiet. In my mind. In my social calendar. But I can feel a bubble under the surface telling me it’s almost go-time, as if the resurrection of our Lord will be the green flag to make my way around the track at full speed. But I don’t think that’s what He wants from me…. This slow burn has been a long time coming, and now that I’m in it, He’s asking me to linger. To keep listening. But to begin a different kind of pouring out. Out of my soul, into the needing hands of others. To sit in the conversations without an agenda. To listen more than I speak.
What if I wrote as if my only audience was that of the angels and saints, who are seated at the right hand of the Father, all of them listening with rapt attention and a loving gaze? What if my words were a blessing such that the hosannas belt down upon us?
What if we lived our lives that way? What if the actions I took were a direct reflection of the love and honor I wanted to bestow upon the Father who loves me regardless of my many faults, and not a reflection of the fear that tears through my soul as I think of what others may view of me?
My voice has been silenced by fear, but not only by the fear of those who judge me here on this earth. There’s a fear deep within telling me that I’ll never be able to honor the Lord in a way I would feel is enough. And knowing that fear isn’t from Him is all the more frustrating and heartbreaking. Because I won’t unclench the fingers from the control of which I cling to. The one that says if I let go there will be a freefall. The fear says all I write and think and feel could not be more cliche, so I choose to stay silent, to hinder the gifts He’s bestowed upon me. The desires within my heart struggle. Sputter. Threaten to die out.
But like a pot with boiling water within, you can only keep the lid on for so long. The angry overflow will happen; it’s only a matter of time. So I control it by intermittently taking the lid off, only to slap it back on once things have settled a bit. How long can I keep this cycle going?
*
There’s a couple sitting across the cafe from me. Both with glasses, both with Macbooks. Quiet whispers intermittently between the two, they’ve done this before. Sitting next to one another instead of across from each other, the slightest touch between their knees. I used to roll my eyes at couples like this. But now I see the tender space between them, and in one moment my heart longs for it, but in the next I’m reminded that it already exists in the space between me and the heart of Jesus.
He’s sitting closely today. I can feel the brush of his knee against mine. He leans in close and whispers into my ear.
Life and peace. Life and peace. Life and peace.
If I gave you the option without any context: Life and peace vs. death and sorrow. It’s a no brainer, right? I mean, death and destruction is a pretty big downer, and I just wandered through a whole section of self-help books offering to guide you to finding your best self. It’s not really a question worth asking, given its drastic nature, but how often do we inadvertently choose death without realizing it, by not accepting the grace-filled gift of life with eyes closed, hands open wide?
*
A new woman strides in, wearing all black. She’s taller and a bit plump, and has accessorized her ensemble with silver necklaces and earrings, her hair buzzed into a mohawk, the majority of her silver strands intertwining with black. The look on her face is both peaceful and fierce. I can see by her smile lines and wide eyes, the way she holds a book, that she’s lived well. She chose life. And peace. I wonder if she ever felt herself gripping so tightly to the control she felt she needed that she could almost feel her fingertips bleed, the actual holding on hurting her so badly. Or if it was easier for her, the grace that is given, to open her palms and accept the gift that is so readily given, but so seldom received with the openness that’s necessary.
This choosing to be open, but also allowing freedom to wash over you, with no control over it whatsoever. That’s the fear bubbling within my soul. When we grip tightly to the control we have over our lives, it may not be our best lives, but at least it’s one where we know what’s coming. Letting go means not knowing where our feet will land… we’ve been so focused on what we’re holding onto, right in front of us, and it seems just fine and dandy thankyouverymuch, that we don’t ever consider that the soft landing below won’t be an isolating cavern, but rather the open arms of those who have gone before us.
I’d like to think that someone in another time has done this very thing: written about what they saw in a cafe somewhere in Boston, or Atlanta, or DC. I wonder what she saw. Did life and peace live behind my eyes? Did the delight of our Lord come out in front of me? I like to think about that, too: God’s presence coming before me, demonstrating his love and light before I even get in the room. Not my glory but His. Not my life, but His.
*
You ever hear a quote or a verse or a song so much that you just can’t get enough of it? I keep finding different versions of Romans 8:6. It’s been my companion this week, as my heart prepares for Holy Week this year, giving me pause, giving me life, giving me new breath in something I’ve read dozens of times before:
The mind governed by flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace. NIV
Obsession with self in these matters is a dead end; attention to God leads us out into the open, into a spacious, free life. MSG
So letting your sinful nature control your mind leads to death. But letting the Spirit control your mind leads to life and peace. NLT
For the mind-set of flesh is death, but the mind-set of the Spirit finds life and peace. TPT
Finds life and peace. Find life and peace in the releasing of control. The releasing of my soul into the arms of a perfect and loving Savior who’s making the walk again, flesh torn, face unrecognizable, to a cross He knows He will bear for all. Not just for the ones who let go, but also for the ones clinging tightly to their lives as they know it. He does it anyway, fully aware that some still won’t turn their eyes upon His, fearful of what they’ll find, not realizing the cliff they’ve been clinging to was only a step. And it’s safe to let go, because the fall wasn’t there in the first place. It was just a step, hand in hand with the Father.
Life and peace.
The two words resounding in my mind, over and over, echoing off the walls of my heart, my mind, my soul, reminding me that I have a choice. And I can make it every day, every moment. Just as He chose on that one dark day once and for all, I get to choose to accept the gift with each breath, each decision, each knowing smile across the cafe.
Life and peace to you as we enter into Holy Week, sweet friends. I pray you enter into relationship with the Lord in a way you never have before, whether it’s for the first time, or if you and Jesus have been at this thing for decades. We may not do this relationship right every time, and we may not always choose life and peace in the face of hard things, but I’ll tell you what. He chooses you every. Single. Time. No doubt. No wavering. He chose you upon that cross, and He will never back down.
Love,
Kristin