Home

Nostalgia is yellow and if I don’t get all this out right now, I won’t remember colors. I only moved houses twice. The first house on 1872 Stuart St trained me how to drink tea like a princess, wander like an explorer, to dance like a ballerina and to dream like an astronaut.  In the backyard my mother grew tomatoes. Lots of tomatoes. I remember their taught skin, pulled tightly against their red membrane, and even though I hadn’t yet acquired the taste for their acidic juice, I pined to bite into their skin just to feel the burst of their redolent aroma. There was a tree, there always is, and it taught me many things like how to run away without leaving the backyard and how to climb higher than anybodies reach or voice could chase. It cut me, grazed my skin and knees with its grated teeth and showed me how wounds heal and that, they in fact do and that when you fall from great heights, you can climb even higher the second time. It blossomed with green crabapples and I will have you know on good authority that they horrifically sour and absolutely inedible. A theme is beginning to emerge (if you haven’t caught yet) of my oral fixation with foreign foods. From this perch I could scout my domain- the creek where I would hunt crawdads and vanquish imagery foes in the waters that I occasionally still fight today from time to time.

But when I wanted to become very small, almost invisible there was a place I would bury my body. Like a coffin tucked between my bed and my carpet I would dream and read and struggle to breathe but I liked feeling like I was imploding with nervous energy, mystery compacted in one finite space. And I will tell you that this home was everything unsolved and inexplicable because first-times and fresh experiences will always be holy and will always be magical. There is a numinous hush in the compartmented memory of this house in my mind. There is a stillness, like fragmented dust that hangs suspended in sunlight. This home was the orchestra that gave my heart the ability to dance and to dream and to wonder and discover. We moved when I was eleven years old and since that move from Staurt Sreet to Phillips Dr, I have been stumbling over the waltz ever since.

Enter high school, enter new and terrifying and wonderful experiences. Phillips Dr, with your suburban safety and your convenant community, you are very safe indeed. But after awhile, my imagination was not big enough to travel in my mind and my body felt the surge of exploration or an ache for something greater.

That was home then, I think. But like sailors who leave the shore and venture into the vast spans of ocean blue, home becomes like the bruise that land leaves on the memory and inevitably home is adapted into something else as the winds of life steer us deeper into uncharted territories. We must adapt, and we do. Home is no longer the land, the earth, the soil- it becomes the ship that carries us.

After 18, home became anywhere that I could love and feel safe to receive it. Home is them and him and her. It became chorizo and eggs with flour tortillas in the morning. It was spontaneous trips to the Grand Canyon to watch the sunset melt into the rocky abyss. It was hot desert highways, it was rain on the windshield and Claire de Lune in the mountains. I think maybe one time it was laying on the carpet in a dorm room with my sisters drinking tea and eating veggie straws. It was anywhere my soul could stretch out. And how odd that the acute feeling of smallness never left me- that more expansive the landscape, the mountain, the desert, the highway, the human, or the feeling- I would feel miniscule again. Because my home was supposed to be bigger, I knew that. Because my home was never here to begin with.  I am sojourner, I am pilgrim, adopted daughter waiting to enter into the house of her Father.

        And here is a shocking confession: I don’t’ like homes or permanency or walls or boundaries. Only people who are very content and satisfied live in homes and I never want to be satisfied at all. Only recently have I realized that I am waiting to be called home and that’s why I never found it here wholly. Home, with my Maker, my Creator, my Savior and Lord. Home, where I will hold nail scarred hands as we walk down streets of gold together. Home, where the Sun will forever more shine and glisten on still waters. And I will drink deeply there. I have been waiting for 21 years, I just never knew I was waiting while I was running. And I know He has prepared a place- a home- for me, because He said so. And with a voice as gentle as the brush of angels’ wings and mighty as the thunder of eternity, He will call me home and He will tell me that home is rest and it’s what I’ve been searching for all along.

But until that day, and here on Earth, I know that home is somewhere very deep in my chest, so I am always running away from home now, I never want to get too comfortable. Maybe I can return again and discover why I loved it in the first place. Or maybe, on my journey back to a home with a kind tree and a tomato garden, I will realize that it never left me at all.

"Martha, Martha."

^{Luke 10}

³⁸ Now it came to pass, as they went, that he entered into a certain village: and a certain woman named Martha received him into her house.

³⁹ And she had a sister called Mary, which also sat at Jesus' feet, and heard his word.

⁴⁰ But Martha was cumbered about much serving, and came to him, and said, Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? bid her therefore that she help me.

⁴¹ And Jesus answered and said unto her, Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things:

⁴² But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

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I tend to worry. I tend to worry a lot. To much to my dismay, I’m always getting hung up on the details of life that I fail to see the big picture. Proverbially, I can’t see the forest through the trees. And sometimes, as unattractive as it is, I can be Martha. I know we all want to be eager and earnest Mary’s completely carefree, sitting sincerely at the feet of Jesus. She’s always content to just be there in His presence, forgetting the rest of life’s demands and troubles, she's the free-spirit. But I know that that isn’t everybody and most people analyze and chew, and mull and plan, and worry and worry some more and carefully construct a program for our lives that is safe and organized because we like safe and organized and smooth and constructed. And God forbid that we ever stray away from the program, even when He’s in the room. We’ve sweated, and toiled, and worked and prepared Him a feast but have forgotten that He already is the Bread of Life and when anybody else gets a glimpse of the big picture, we rebuke him or her for not partaking in the “labors” of preparation. We come to Jesus complaining about something or someone that is “hindering” the flow of our personal agenda, though our intentions may be good, they really are all about us.  And what a biting question to throw at His feet, “Don’t You care, Lord, that I’m here working alone?”   

And maybe sometimes it does feel like you are toiling all alone in the kingdom. You’ve poured it all out for the work of God and it feels like you are carrying the load yourself and everybody else is getting off easy.

But Martha, Martha, of course He cares. But you are worried and upset over all the details. You are troubled about too many trivial things. There’s only one thing that is “needful”, one thing that is necessary, and Mary has chosen that “good part”, and that cannot be taken away from her. There is only one main event and that is Jesus Christ and when He steps in the room, everything else must give honor and place to Him. He is there but we are stuck in the kitchen working in the carnal mentality of worry and cumbersome tasking that we can’t soak in His presence. We are talking at Him, but we aren’t really talking to Him and listening. He’s there in our homes and in our churches but He isn’t really with us. We are so anxious to serve Him in the flesh, but not enough to leave everything behind and sit at His feet to immerse ourselves in His Word and life-changing presence.

I want to choose the good part. The thing that cannot not be taken away from me. And what is it? It is quality time in His presence. I cannot just acknowledge His presence and then walk out of the room and forget that He came to be with me. Mary had grabbed a hold of this revelation- you’ve got to get all you can while He’s there, everything else can wait, but I’ve got to be enraptured in His presence now.

I will stipulate: I am not saying that organization and preparation are not qualities Jesus Christ is asking us to forsake. He is always asking for excellence. But these things must be done in prayer and fasting but Lord grant us the wisdom to know that when You walk in the room, we must relinquish control. It isn't our show, it's His. Our laboring and toiling will never be enough to be equal to or outdo His touch and power. And when we are in His presence, and we’ve done all we could do and laid it all down at His feet, we must give Him full access to work and minister as only He can do. And when Jesus Christ does do the work, it cannot be taken away. When we as a people are truly lost in His presence and engrossed at His feet, there is something that takes place in our hearts and lives- an experience- that can never be taken away and it can never be denied.

But we cannot miss it. We’ve cant afford to miss seeing the forest through the trees. Martha’s of the world: today He is asking you to lay down the burden and stay awhile while the Miracle Maker is in the room.You've come to feed Him with your perfect sermon, and perfect music and worship and perfect ministerial programs but right at this moment, right now, He has come to feed your soul. Let Him.

"The Price of a Touch": Part Two

The boldness had dissipated.

Like a little girl who was caught stealing a cookie out of the jar, she felt like she had taken something that did not belong to her. A gift that could not have been meant for her.

But refreshing had already begun to overwhelm her.

New life, new blood began to course through her veins.

She heard a voice that felt like Forgiveness and sounded like Peace but she would not dare to look upon His face.

“Who touched me?”

He knew it was not just any admirer trying to have a touch of the thrill.

It was recognition. It was intimacy. It was revelation.

Desperation through itself at His feet and He beheld the object of His Divine Purpose. A Sheep without a Shepherd. The Sickly without a Physician.  Miry clay in need of a Potter’s touch.

“Daughter.”

“Wholeness.”

“Peace.”

“Your suffering is over.”

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In a moment, Jesus Christ can trade your issue of blood for the blood He shed on Calvary. It is not for the thrill seeking or temporary Jesus fans that are only satisfied to watch on the spectator’s sidelines.

He is seeking for the desperate. For the broken but bold. For the determined who demand deliverance. And the only way we can arrive at this desperation is to have a true revelation of who He is- as a Healer, as the Almighty God enrobed in flesh to which all power in Heaven and Earth belong to.

He is looking for a people who are willing to pay the price for just a touch. He is looking for a people in pursuit of His presence- to experience more than just the thrill of emotionalism.

And what does it cost?

Maybe the jeers of mocking crowd, but only for a little while.

Maybe twelve years of longing and waiting.

Everything you own.

To have spent all.

For we cannot be healed until we have forsaken the momentary remedies of this world and pushed through the “press” to have a genuine encounter with the Master.

What is your issue of blood?

What is my issue of blood?

And what is the “press” surrounding me that inhibits me from touching Heaven?

"If I May but Touch": Part One

Mark 5:27 “When she had heard of Jesus, came in the press behind, and touched his garment. 28 For she said, “If I may touch but his clothes, I shall be whole. 29 And straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of that plague. 30 And Jesus, immediately knowing in himself that virtue had gone out of him, turned him about in the press, and said, Who touched my clothes?”

Act I, Scene One:

[Enter a woman with an issue of blood for twelve years]
She nervously makes her way through the throng of fanatics, skeptics, unbelievers, commentators and disciples. And all the while as she is making her way through “the press”, the cadent pound of “Twelve years…twelve years… twelve years…” beats in her head.

Twelve years of pain. Twelve years of “No-there’s-nothing-we-can-do-for-you”. Twelve years of sorrow and nagging discouragement. Twelve years of “maybes” and “might-bes” and “If you're lucky”. Twelve years of hopelessness and broken dreams. 

Maybe she had believed the diagnoses for a while. She had been through every procedure, every counterfeit cure and nothing eased her malady. She had drunken this elixir and washed herself in that water and believed this doctor only to get her hopes up for another crushing disappointment. She had spent everything she had. There was nothing left. No more options but the only one she was refusing to face: defeat. Maybe this woman had almost been fully convinced that this was how it was, this was how life was. Pain. Disappointment. Permanently. Forever. How could one expect anymore? And how could we blame her? We go through a few months of darkness and misfortune and we throw our hands in the air and surrender to despair.

Maybe she had heard second-hand stories of this miracle working Jesus. Maybe he was the Messiah. Maybe he was a prophet. Maybe he was just a man endued with power from God. And perhaps, as she would lie in bed at night, she would ponder what she would do if she were ever in His presence.

“If…If…If…”

She awoke that day like any other day: in pain and weary. As she lay there worrying about the day’s demands- how she would feed her family, what clothes needed mending, how she would pay this creditor- she heard a faint rumble from her window. She crept up to peep her head out into the open air only to witness a multitude of people from all walks of life surging like a wave around one distinct epicenter. Only one thing could ignite such a stir.

“It has to be…”

She felt the energy from the movement and without waiting to feel the sting of unbelief; she made her way to meet the teeming crowd.

Press. Press. Press.

Press past your insecurity. Press past your fear. Press past the cynics and naysayers. Press through your past mistakes. Press beyond the cold, hard rock called “No” that has hanged itself around your neck for too long.

Palms sweaty. Heart pounding. Shove here. Excuse me there.

“Pardon me, I need to get through, please... If I can just touch his hem…Press”, she whispers to herself, “Press through now!”

Now, she was on her knees crawling through the mud and feet. Trample here. Kick there. And then suddenly, a flash of white. A flicker of hope.

The screams of Doubt and the voices of her Past roar like an insurmountable wave before her. “Stop. You can’t. You will never. No. No. No!”

And then silence.

The brush of heaven’s wings against her fingers.

Humanity grips the edges of divinity.

A hush.

And Love in the form of a root, sprung up from dry ground, emerges to silence the trembling of Fear at His feet.