Don't Cry

Not long after that, Jesus went to the village Nain. His disciples were with him, along with quite a large crowd. As they approached the village gate, they met a funeral procession—a woman's only son was being carried out for burial. And the mother was a widow. When Jesus saw her, his heart broke. He said to her, "Don't cry." Then he went over and touched the coffin. The pallbearers stopped. He said, "Young man, I tell you: Get up." The dead son sat up and began talking. Jesus presented him to his mother. They all realized they were in a place of holy mystery, that God was at work among them. They were quietly worshipful—and then noisily grateful, calling out among themselves, "God is back, looking to the needs of his people!" The news of Jesus spread all through the country.Luke 7:11-17, The Message
Don't cry.
You are already a widow.
You only son has just died.
You'll have no means of support in our society.
Yet, I tell you, Don't cry.
"Don't weep. Don't sob. Don't wail aloud," are more accurate translations & more accurate for this situation. Have you been there? Let your memory of the past or your imagination of the future take you there with that widow. Have you ever been so heartbroken? Too many questions? Few answers? Life smoldering about you? Stability banished? Uncertainty stalking? Weeping like breathing? Pain unbearable?Yet, Jesus. Yes, Jesus was there in Nain. God in flesh. And "his heart broke." Splanchnizomai (splanhk-nid-ZOH-my) in Greek from the root of "spleen" or "guts." Translated as, "compassion, heartbroken, take pity," or the like, it is used in the entire New Testament only 12 times. Other than in Luke 10:33 of the Good Samaritan, a parable of the character & actions of Christ followers, all 11 other mentions are of Jesus himself. Jesus was stirred up. He alone was heartbroken this way. Sick to his stomach. Moved with compassion. By suffering. By pain. Yes, Jesus. God in flesh.
My daughter skins her knee while playing. In her pain, she'll weep & wail loudly. My built in Daddy response is, "don't cry." I can hold her. I can clean & bandage her cut. I can comfort her. But my abilities stop there.
When Jesus says, "don't cry," he alone has the ability - the power - to change the very situation. He can heal. He can restore sight. He can raise. And, for the Widow of Nain's son, he did. As God willed, Jesus did. Jesus raised the dead man.
This doesn't mean God will remove all my pain, or heal me, or make everything in my life right whenever I ask. Jesus didn't heal everyone or raise all the dead he happened upon either. Those are questions of God's providence that I can't understand. He is God. I am not. Based on this Scripture I do understand:
God knows my pain.
He, the God of the entire universe, is moved with compassion for me.
God. Heartbroken over me.

Two Ones

John Mark is at it again. Reinventing the English language.

Markese, we call it.

His latest Markese phrases: happy noodle; two ones.

Happy noodle is a whole other post. Two ones today.

Two ones uses include...

John Mark, would you like a piece of candy?

Two ones, Daddy! Reaching open handed.

Let's go get Seth & tickle him, John Mark.

Yeah, tickle him two ones. Trotting toward Big Brother.

But the best is...

I love you, John Mark.

I love you two ones, Daddy. Hugging humbled Daddy.

Two ones.

Live Markese. Loving your Ones.

Again

Mary Elizabeth is a kindergartner now. It's still hard to believe as I watch her little pigtails bob while walking into school holding hands with a friend each morning. She loves it. She's thriving.

John Mark, however, has a new experience too: Lots of time alone with Mama & Daddy. As the third of three children, that time may have been limited before, but he's embraced it in his linebacker way. He loves it. He's thriving. 

He came up—unsolicited—and put his arms around his Mama this week & said, "Ah luh yew vey-ree much, Mama."

"Thank you. I love you too," Melanie replied while giving him a hug. 

He pulled away a bit, then pulled in tight patting her on the back & said, "Ah luh yew 'gehn." 

I love you... again. 

John Mark never stopped loving his Mama. He simply said it again.

How often do I need a love that never stopped?

How refreshing is it when that love is spoken... again?

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!—1 John 3:1 

Again. And again. And again.

Moon Over Soweto

September 9, 1992 I landed in Johannesburg with my sleepy eyes wide open. A Journeyman Missionary. For the next two years. In Soweto. Twenty-plus formal & informal settlements that made up the SOutherWEstern TOwnships of apartheid-era South Africa. Over one million Africans. Add this one Texan.

I hit the ground running. Soccer on day one had the low-altitude Texan gasping dust at the altitude higher than a mile. Samp -- spicy, smashed lima beans -- & Ginger Beer -- think ginger ale with a wicked ginger punch -- on day two had me praying the missionaries prayer, "Lord, I'll put it down if you help me keep it down." And driving on the other side of the road on day three had my boss praying anything he could muster while he rode in the passenger seat!

Six weeks into my term I was past the "tourist stage" where everything different that was quaint a few days before is now an annoyance because "These folks just don't think or act or talk right! Agh!" Then I had a wreck.

Guy behind me is googly-eyed with his girlfriend. I stopped. He didn't -- soon enough. Swerve. Skid. Then. That terrible sound. Crushing metal.

Every Journeyman has heard the phrase. The Career Missionaries may not even realize how it sounds so contemptible. "Just a Journeyman." Implied -- not a RLM -- Real Life Missionary. As if because you are younger you are somehow less responsible. Any misstep gets you labeled as "Just a Journeyman."

My wreck. Not my fault. My first big failure. Wasn't even my fault. But. Brought the label. Just a Journeyman. Brought the shame. Just a Journeyman. Brought the despair. Just a Journeyman.

All the ideals. All the hopes. All the dreams. All that. Can be crushed. Just like a door in the way of collision bound Googly-eye.

We were having revival meetings for our little squatter camp church that week. A big yellow & white striped tent sat in the shack church yard. Yellow & white shining like the sun. Amidst brown, grey, dingy, rusty squatter shacks. A symbol of the Gospel. A symbol of hope.

Yet that night I stood outside the tent. Outside in the cool evening. Wanting to shelter my ears from the boisterous revival singing. Wanting to hide my eyes from the joyous faces. I had no joy that night. Only despair. Only regret.

I stood outside the tent plotting. To give it up. To go home. Face down. Dejected. Then I felt like a cartoon. As if two little beings alighted upon my shoulders. Redsuit devil guy with tail & pitchfork on one shoulder. Blond haired & haloed headed angel girl in a white robe on the other. Both whispering in my ears.

"Go home. You're a failure. You aren't made for this." Said redsuit.

"God called you. You can. You will make it." Said halogirl.

"You don't belong here!," said redsuit.

"Look up!," said halogirl.

"These people don't really like you," said redsuit.

"Look up!," repeated halogirl.

I interrupted the cartoon argument. "I don't wanna look up. I just wanna go home."

"LOOK UP!," she demanded.

I did.

I saw the moon. The moon rising over one million souls. The moon filling the horizon. The moon glowing molten nickel. The moon over Soweto.

Cartoons gone. The Holy Spirit of God spoke with authority Psalm 8:3-5.

When I consider your heavens,

the work of your fingers,

the moon & the stars which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,

the son of man that you care for him?

You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings

and crowned him with glory & honor.

He continued. Speaking words just for me. From the Father.

I made you.

You are mine.

I called you.

You will love.

They will love you too.

That moon you see is the work of my fingers. You, my son, are made a little lower than angels. You are my creation. You are mine. You are called. Now serve. Now love.

I did not go back in that big yellow & white striped tent.

I stood there.

I could see the joyful faces of enthusiastic singing as I looked in. Yet I was in a quiet place all unto myself.

I wept.

The God of the universe loves me. He made me. He has called me. And now... now... He has affirmed me.

He loves you too.

He has called you too.

Melanie 24-100

In 2007 I wrote this to describe a day-in-the-life of Melanie in 100 words or less for a Mother's Day writing contest. 

Onehundred words. Twentyfour hours. One wonderwoman.

Quiet. Sleeping. Still. One.

Cold. Snuggling. Warm. Two.

Dreaming. Wonder. Tossing. Three.

Crying. Baby. Nursing. Four.

Peaceful. Perfect. Rest. Five.

Sunlight. Footsteps. Children. Six.

Coffee. Husband. Breakfast. Seven.

Clothes. Dressing. Toothpaste. Eight.

Kisses. Daddy. Bye. Nine.

Buzz. Downstairs. Laundry. Ten.

Reading. Daughter. Laugh. Eleven.

Backpack. Son. School. Noon.

Blanket. Searching. Found. One.

Napping. Doorbell. Package. Two.

Stirring. Awake. Snack. Three.

Carpool. Home. Smiling. Four.

Fridge. Cooking. Supper. Five.

Dishes. Running. Backyard. Six.

Bath. Pajamas. Books. Seven.

Bedtime. Prayers. Goodnight. Eight.

Couch. Unwind. Novel. Nine.

Heavy. Eyes. Closing. Ten.

Bleary. Diaper. Changing. Eleven.

Quiet. Sleeping. Still. Midnight.

Melanie. Wife. Mama. Day.

And in case you are wondering: She won the contest. Go, Melanie! You are amazing.

I love you always, Aaron.