A Culture of Onlys

A door is always slightly open when I sit across from my husband on a date night, talking politics, religion, life from the varying views of a Christian and a Skeptic. My greatest witness is sharing with him that Christ is still possible beyond the man-declared onlys —Only way to think, only way to be, and only way to act...on political issues, on church establishments, on how we should view and treat those around us...mostly those onlys that in the end, stray from the very example Christ set. The world typically sees many camp in the notion that as long as it is spoken in His name, it’s an okay only.

Pharisaical? Maybe. Human? Yes.

I have seen it happening more and more, and I feel more and more desperate to denounce such things for the sake of souls, for the sake of a Name that’s being crucified over and over because of false claims. 

If I am honest, I preached the trivial for so long, I demanded that I knew it all, enlightened and confident—and then I broke and realized such knowing was so, so very human of me. 

How could I have thought so small when my God is so big? 

I have yet to discover an argument that disproves God—but I have heard many arguments that turn people away from Him. 

I beg you arguers out there, consider your words, are they worth a soul? Do you share Christ, or an opinion of who you might want Him to be because He seems safe—for you? 

I ask myself: Do I argue points because it is easy to explain away, or because it is true? Am I so bold to risk the soul of just one because my certainty is so important? 

Like my pastor is known to say, I hope to be more curious than certain. May I allow the God of the Universe be the Heart-changer and the Way-maker—not because of  the explanations and accusations of man, but mostly despite them.

After all, His ways are not our ways...I pray that I always remember that when I think I know better. And I hope I continue to seek the Truth of Christ in the actual Gospel, not the one that crops from a culture of Onlys.

Casting away Stones to Step Up on the Rock

If there is one thing I've learned from living with a non-believer, is the harsh reality of the world's
perspective of Christians.

Not that it's always right. Or just. Or fair.

But something I see is that the lies about who Christ is are sometimes provoked by His followers.

And the victim mentality of many to think that Christianity is being attacked and suffering is all over the place right now. There has always been rebellion against God's righteousness...since the beginning of time. And it has been within His own people and outside His covenanted family. Christ's church should TURN THE OTHER CHEEK and continue to grow in strength and Love, instead of crying out and puffing up to say that we are being suppressed.

Seriously, what can man do to us?

Maybe I need a break from Social Media because...

I see Christ's name 

run a-muck by those 

who Love Him.

They are fighting 

the world's battles 

for Him but not like Him. 

I am confused.

So, today, I think about all the parables Christ spoke, and the commandments he offers in the New Covenant...and the fact that from the very beginning of Scripture, the underlying foundation of God's commandments is:

To LOVE.

Martin Luther King Jr. said it second best (Christ said it first):

 "I have decided to stick with Love. 

Hate is too great a burden to bear."

Sure, there are things such as righteous justice, guarding our hearts from temptation, not stumbling into sin because of those we associate with, but in the end, nobody can deny that when Christ walked the Earth, He was an example of Love.

In a world driven by media...both hate-filled secular media, and hate-filled religious media, we must choose the Rock of Christ in all our dealings.

Let's not choose throwing stones over giving a hand to the world to step up on the Rock.

Final Short Story Post, Scene 6

***If you've read this far, thank you. Like I have said before, this is fiction but inspired by very real emotion. The parts where God has shown up, have also occurred in similar ways in my own life. And, I stand by my overall intention for writing this: Healing truly does begin when love pours down.***

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 6

Before this storm, I knelt beside my new husband in the wedding chapel, after the guests departed. He led us in prayer and summoned the canopy of God's blessing upon our union. And the days, weeks, months, and years enjoyed the shadow of God's hand. And I didn't feel the garish sun of hardship. Not really, anyway. My husband was my provider, my protector, my strong tower. It was he who rose early with the rising sun, releasing prayers upon the morning breeze. It was his faithful flurry that stirred my spirit and left me seeking more. And come Spring, I grew to his stature, a budding vine of fruit for my Maker. Perhaps, it was my provider, my protector, my strong tower who might have shadowed my God. And who might have been first in my heart of hearts.

And maybe, this storm is good in a way. Because my husband no longer eclipses my God. No, he is nothing but a man who's stripped away the canopy and burned my soul with exposure to a faith-consuming fire.

But the sun of my God kisses Little Jack who runs ahead on the concrete path to our home. I taste the freshness of a new day upon my tongue as I breathe in deep, and long for joy again. The dianthus are bursting color and the lilies stand proud and tall, tempting me to smile. Oh, how long has it been since I smiled broad?

But the smile is yet to birth when I know Steve is inside, waiting and knowing I tried to leave him. I tried to leave and take Jack with me.

A roaring grind growls into the floral-scented air. The side-gate is ajar and I follow the stepping stones round back. Each toe upon the rock jolts my insides with a nervous wobble. I pray for the huddle of my spirit within.

No more resentment, no more fear. Only love. I must start first with love.

The grind grows louder and I catch a glimpse of the beast. A chain saw slices the fallen willow. At the hands of my Steve. Oh, it slices in pieces the root of Love. A wide hollow in my soul opens its jaw and I can see the belly of a monster. A monster feeding on such an image of the godless man destroying the precious place in my heart. What other task could embitter the tongue of the heartbroken?

“Give him grace. Give him a chance.” The huddle's whisper slams shut the open hollow. I am here for love. The tree is gone by the hand of a different storm, after all. And part of it is still standing. The strongest part is still erect.

“Steve?”

He whips around, pushing his goggles onto his head. A glimmer of delight flashes in his deep blue eyes, and then his lips fall into a frown. “I wish you didn't leave.”

“I am sorry.” Slender willow leaves somersault around my feet. I try to look into his face once more. He inches closer, and reaches a hand out to me. I take it.

“You're all I've got, Lisa.” He pulls me close. “Life in this new perspective really makes you treasure every precious thing.”

“Really?” And doesn't life with my God calls me to treasure every precious thing? Old resentment begins to pry open the hollow with it's twisted design. How can he claim that his way has any good in it? Any similarity to life with God in it?

“He is mine, and I am His.” The Spirit gathers in a warming rush, melting the gap within, closing it shut to my scrutiny. Steve might not acknowledge God in this, but it doesn't mean that God's not in this.

And it's not my place to pull apart the skies and reveal the God who is there.

“I love you.” My words float out like the dainty pieces of a dandelion blown. Soft and fragile.

Steve bites his lip and steps so close that I must tilt my head to see him. Sun shines around his dark curls, and the silhouette of a butterfly flaps it's wings above him.

“You don't know how long I have waited to hear that.” He lowers his head and I close my eyes to receive his kiss.

I may have doubted God through this storm. I may have given the Enemy a chance to stir the winds into a violent tornado of destruction. But no matter the banshee cry of the wind, or the droning of the rain, my God's whisper carries to my heart and he protects me in the rage of it.

I once knelt beside my husband the moments after our vows, and we enjoyed the shadow of God's hand over our hearts. And now, in the broken aftermath of a storm, my husband no longer accepts the canopy, but he stays by my side through the storm.

No elements are tossed about the sky today. But the downpour is ever strong. And it is this torrential flood of love in which He calls me past the brewing brawl.

And maybe one day in the stillness of this healing aftermath, Steve will remember that love is God, again.

But for now, there is flying to do. With wings spread wide, I'll choose to love.

THE END

Short Story, Scene 5

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 5

Before this storm, the trails were paths of gnomes and fairies, talking toads and chatty squirrels. Each hollowed tree was a home, and every blade of grass was a musical string. What joy whipped within the heart of my child-self at the hidden world in the wood.

Now, I am grown, and the woods are for biking and hiking. The only critters—pea-brained squirrels and hopping robins—show themselves regularly. The grass only plays a tune between the thumbs of my child as he blows cheeks big. What foolish things we cast aside as our spines grow toward the sky and our eyes dull to fantasy.

And the sky this day promises another bout of thunder and rain. But I retreat to my outdoor sanctuary while Mel takes my boy to the ice cream shop.

I'll not face Steve just yet.

My hair whips against my cheeks as I sit by a lake of fury. Daggers of wind chop up the surface like a baker's knife mottles the frosting on a cake. The tall elms chatter of the brewing storm above, their rustling gossip coaxed in the chilled air.

“Forgive me. For leaving. For casting off my heart in fear.” I must wait, like I once did for the gnomes and the little fairies to kiss my nose. Now, I wait for Him, who might be invisible but is more real than even the knoll upon which I sit.

He moves. In that secret huddle in my heart, He speaks. And while the whirling air about me swells in some sort of whispering orchestra, I hear His words,

“Love covers a multitude of sins.”

Love.

The very thing that torments me most. The reason I run to His creation and settle beneath the outstretched canopy of branches. Such a different trail ahead of me now, than what I walked as a child. A different path than what I walked just months ago, when Steve still led us on his knees, bowed to his Creator. Now, this trail is not a fancy daydream stroll, but a desperate lost dream search.

“Thank you, Jesus. I must remember love the most.” It is what Mel spoke of. It's what my devotional preaches from my lap, and it's the whisper in that huddle in my heart. No coincidence with God. My soul is quenched, and the elms clap in a vigorous roar above me.

I gather up my journal and devotional, praising and pondering. Preparing myself to live love now. Willing my wings to spread wide and give me confidence in flight. The hollow in my core widens, and I long for Steve.

Clouds grow dark above, tainting the waters an inky gray. The trail ahead promises rain. I no longer run for shelter like I did as that fanciful girl. No, the rain won't hurt me now. Not when I know He's not through with me, yet. Besides, I've spilled many more droplets than the sky threatens to unleash.

“Mama, I felt rain.” A golden curl-topped princess pops up from a nearby picnic blanket, gathering her tea set.

“Hurry, sweetie. We don't want to get caught. Let's finish our tea at home with Daddy.” Her mama begins to load a wicker basket with half-eaten sandwiches, Oreos, and a Thermos.

“Yay! I love tea parties with Daddy.” She squeals. I pass her along the leaf-strewn path.

Fairytales and tea parties are surely a thing of my past. My middle-aged self remorses that my prince has abandoned the King, and my table is bare of all good things.

The storm within me breaks before the sky above me, and I forget His whisper. How can I surrender and love Steve when he's hurt me so? Resentment whips through my core.

“Lord, it wasn't meant to turn out like this. Whatever happened to dreams come true?”

I kneel upon the shore of pebbles before the water's edge. My pen is quick on the pages of my rain-spotted journal. My eyes are thirsty for Him as I skim the book in my weakening hands.

And He is there in each drop upon my soul, in each word on the page. His downpour splashes my spirit and rights my faith again.

His glorious song fills my heart, “You are Mine, and I am yours, my Love.”

Love.

He will never hurt me. My true Soulmate. And I praise Him. Again, the elms applaud in a roar.

“Thank you, Jesus, I must remember You love me most.”

And the trail washes with sheets of rain and I do not melt, but rejoice in His washing of my heart, and the calming of the gale.

While the lake settles at the last pin pricks of rain, the sky brightens. And I remember that sunshine is not dependent on my will, but on His will. It is He who lavishes upon me.

Why did I expect so much from Steve? It was an expectation as notional as my hope in meeting a gnome on the path—unable to withstand the pressure of reality, the fact that only One can make my dreams come true.

Even if the prince declares there is no such thing as Him who delivers dreams, I can live the love greater than any Steve's ever witnessed.

The lake returns to glass as the storm dies. A ray of sun steals through the clouds and illuminates the surface, bouncing fractals across the waters.

“Yes, Lord. I'll love him as You love me.” And the shine becomes bright and I bow my head and the elms chatter above me.

 It is good to meet him on this side of the storm—when the stillness sets in. When the creatures make way as I walk the path with my Lord.

Short Story, Scene 3

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 3

Steve meets me at the door. “O honey. I am so sorry.” My heart skips. But the tragedy shadows his face. He takes me to the back window. The willow behind our house is split down the middle. A victim of the storm outside. One half sprawls to the heavens, the other lies prostrate upon the mud and muck.

“I loved that tree.” I choke back tears. My heart often skipped at its fullness in the summer, and its delicate hanging lace in the winter. We'd sat beneath the tree one Mother's day. My son upon my knee, and the babe hidden within my womb—still alive and growing. And then our anniversary night, we lay just beyond it's crown and counted stars while our little boy slept. The flimsy fingers of the willow then caressed our backs as we danced to our favorite song. It stood on fertile ground where my heart found fullness from the love of a mother and a wife. It was a strong sprout of love out my window.

Love.

Destroyed.

Split in two. Like my marriage, like my heart. But which was I? The fallen one or the one reaching to the sky? Just this morning I would have known. But now, I am not so sure.

While the storm lulls, I want to run. I never ran away as a child. I don't even remember wanting to because I was too scared of bad people and bad places and bad things. But I want to run. Shed this broken shell and find freedom form the torment of Steve's word-view. The blasphemous perspective of life without faith.

Nature outside refreshes from the torment of hail, but the air is stagnant in here. The refrigerator buzzes and the dog whines. Steve returns to his dark room with the dark show buzzing from the dark corner.

My son finds me, clinging close, begging, “I want you to hold me.”

And I just don't want to. I don't want anymore attachment to anyone. It hurts too bad. Yet, I cannot disappoint my son because who will he run to then? The man who's killed God and won't let me forget it?

I gather him in my arms, kiss his forehead and try to praise God. But my heart is overgrown, and the spidery cracks upon my soul threaten to pull apart and leave me in a heap at the feet of Faith.

“Mama, read me a story.” Jack shoves his favorite book in my lap. The one about Jonah. The one with the stories that Steve regrets teaching my child. My husband slams the door to church, blocking it out as if it were a haunted fabrication of our past.

“It isn't good for our son to learn such things. He'll just be deceived all his life, and then struggle when he finds out its all myth.”

“But it's not myth to me.”

And our own howling tempest would begin, where thunder rages from our tongues, and angry tears flood my skin.

Has my little boy suffered from the fight? We try to keep our words low, behind our bedroom door...but he knows. I am sure of it.

Knowledge is at the eye of this outrage.

The knowing of a dead babe within me destroying Steve's trust in God.

Steve seeking man's knowledge to replace his faith.

And my little son's knowledge of our division filling his heart.

And the threat...

“He's gotta know the truth.” Steve insists on worming his knowledge into the ripening fruit of my four year old's fresh soul.

And at that, I whirl in a chaotic wind, and I am dashed about in horror. “I'll not have it! You're not going to screw him up, too!”

Every night, I embrace Jack as he sleeps, and pray angels upon his heart.

Now, I read the Bible stories, feeling like a deceiver according to Steve.

“You know you belong to God, little Jack?” I whisper as he traces his finger upon the illustration of the whale.

“Yes, Mama. Jesus is in my heart.”

And the canyon between my husband and I grows wide and deep like the cracks in my soul. And we are not united parents any longer.

But my foot stumbles on the canyon's edge, and panic fills my throat with a flood of worry.

Will Steve match my whispers to Jack, with his own destructive ideas?

What lies will he tell my son? When you are told over and over who you are, don't you begin to believe it?

A shard of my soul breaks away from the vessel, and I see now that my hope is fleeting.

I'll not allow my son to fall away from God's hands. His daddy won't have that control any longer.

I ignore the One Who Sees. I close off my ears to His mutter. Flesh consumes my heart and I do what I know is best.

Take away my love for Steve. He doesn't deserve it now. I am no longer bound to him as a Godly wife, for he's not playing by those rules.

And I'll not have him crush my son beneath his disbelief.

No. I'll not have it.

“Come, little Jack. Let's go on an adventure.” And I sweep him up, pack his bags, and strap him into my car.

As I drive, humidity fogs my car windows and I crank up the air. Yet, it's the front within me which blinds my peace and drowns the promises of my Savior.

  The air I breathe does nothing to dissipate the fog within.

Short Story, Part 2

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 2

Anguish howls within me and the storm begins. I cannot remember His promises. My soulmate is no longer alive in Him, but soul-less and in this world. Perhaps the deadening brown is creeping through my veins and will consume me next? Forget the corners where His Spirit resides. There is no huddle, no whisper. I am afraid in the shadows of a rocking faith. Will it capsize in this hurricane of my doubt?

Yet, my hand pierces the surface of this drowning sea and I beg Him to save me once more. “Do not forsake me.”

He clasps my hand, and I walk into the brewing brawl.

“I'll bring you beauty from these ashes.” And I believe what He tells me, and give no attention to the storm within me.

I call home after a quiet time at the lake, trusting the Spirit to arm me for another conversation with Steve. “What are you doing?” I am careful with the phone to my ear as I drive.

Steve sighs on his end. “We gotta get off that call list at church. Seems they keep wondering where we're at.”

An army of dark clouds marches toward me in my rearview mirror. “They just care about us, Steve.”

“Do they?” His tone smokes with cynicism. A chuckle tumbles—the same laugh which chars our battles of belief, and lack thereof, every night. I imagine the same sneer which usually sets an eruption of anger within me. The spewing mess only hardens into guilt in the morning.

I swallow away the brewing bile. “How's Jack?” I manage.

Another sigh from Steve. I hear an apology coming on. He always apologizes. It's as though he's tossed between a wave of hatred and a rocky coral of remorse. To and fro his emotions go. Not much different than mine. Shouldn't I be the stronger one in this, though? He's the one who abandoned the Rock upon which I stand. But what strength is there when I grip it with fingernails, ready to slide off?

My strength crushes beneath the foaming surf of his turmoil day in and day out.

“Jack's fine,” he mumbles. “I am sorry, Lisa. It just makes me so mad.” And he makes me so mad, but I tighten my frown and flutter my lashes. “You should read this article I just found. It might open your eyes—”

“I gotta go. The storm's picking up.” I'll not sit and listen to him, knowing the Truth is rooted in the silence and unhearing. He's blocked his ears with the buzz of atheistic arguments. He'll not block mine.

“Okay. Be careful out there.” He ends the call. Howling wind follows me home and the rain pounds upon my car.

A crack of lightening accompanies the thunder of my overwhelmed heart.

“I want it to be over.”

Will there come a point when the lies he believes take seed in my own heart and grow so rampant that, like a creeping vine they cross the divide and intrude the silence with their destruction? They come for me and I cannot grow deaf. I can not protect the divide much longer. It consumes me like a mighty fire. Will I heed the lies and become what they say? Godless, hopeless, deceived?

“Do you hear me God?”

What was it that God just spoke to me an hour ago?

The storm is too loud to understand my heart's murmur anymore.

A loud blaring signal comes across the radio. “Severe thunderstorm warning.”

Pings of hail pelt a ferocious ruckus on the hood of my car, just like the memories of all Steve has declared untrue. I feel the clay pot break...the one He made in His image but no longer withstands the piercing accusations of a godless man to his faith-filled wife.

“I am finished?” I mutter upon my lips, and my journal slides across the dashboard as I turn onto our street. What did I write? How I forget when the storm rages within me. Is it over? Will I shatter? Just like Steve?

The clay destroys the clay with its shards, sharp and slicing.

“Are you there?” One last cry to the Potter before the lies obliterate the vessel created. And the hail stops. I am beaten with cracks creeping across me wide and deep. But the hail stops and leaves me with....silence.

And He is there in the silence. A wide and vibrant rainbow sprawls across the quieted sky.

“I love you.”

Love? “Why do you let me hurt? Why break me so?”

 Silence. But a sneaking peace. A deeper understanding of some underlying plan. My soul is too weary to ponder, though. I gather up my journal, my devotional, and my bruised heart, and breathe in deep before facing my husband once more.

Love! Because He says so.

Lately, my son has been complaining about a boy in his class. According to my eight year old, the culprit is a bully, a big baby, and a big nuisance. When I listen to the scenarios that caused my son dismay, the kid does sound a little annoying, but is by no means a bully.

In the past, I have listened to what other mamas say to their kids who have conflicts, and I can recall two different camps on this:

1. Be polite and walk away. You don't have to be anyone's friend, and you don't have to like them. So do your best to ignore it.

OR....

2. Perhaps the kid is needing a friend? Perhaps you could be his friend? Maybe if you tried, he would soften.

I will confess, I have tried both of these approaches. To the first, my son replies, "But I tried! He won't leave me alone." And to the second, he says, "I hate him! I don't want to be his friend. He's my worse enemy!"

It was then that I cringed. It was then that I tried to stuff down the mama weakness of finding a way to appease him and make him happy at school, and instead, search my heart for words that would not only be a comfort, but wise.

And you know what? Wisdom and comfort don't always go hand in hand. To think I would want my kid to be comfortable and content by surrounding himself with only the kids he "likes", goes against the very wisdom that true Christianity teaches (and I say "true" because, unfortunately, the media displays a multitude of "Christians" who act out of hate and entitlement...giving us a very bad, love-less name).

Above ALL ELSE, God calls us to LOVE. That. Is. It. To love Him, and to love others (Matt. 22:36-40). After all, love covers a multitude of sins (1Peter 4:8). Christ even went so far as to say, "love your enemies" (Matt. 5:44). And if you look at the historical context of the Bible, you will see that the enemies back then weren't just annoying kids on a school playground, but evil, sinful, men who would beat and laugh and scorn, and hang an innocent man to die on a cross. If Christ told the people of that day to love those kinds of enemies, then why would I let my fleshy mama nurturing kick in and get my kid off the hook for loving a hard-to-love kid at school? Just so he can be happy and have fun with the kids that matter to him?

Ppshh. 

In my Beth Moore study on the book of James, I am beginning to understand the seriousness of sin in the hearts of a believer. We can't mix the faith with the worldly view. We can't live according to the world--pushing our kids toward entitlement, popularity contests, and self-gratification--and call ourselves lovers of the Holy God of the Universe. How can we love in spirit and hate in flesh? It doesn't work that way. It goes against the very reason Christ came to die for us-- to establish a covenant not based on what we can do, but HOW WE LOVE.

It really is all about love, isn't it? We can get caught up in parenting, social networking, and politics and acquire a spirit of animosity, pride, and hatred, suppressing any likeness to that of Christ. 

It makes me shudder to think about all I've done to contribute to giving our Savior a bad reputation. One of exclusivity and conditions. Just like the first camp of mama advice above.

But, there is hope. And my faith bestows grace and mercy each and every day. I will be confident in my stance to my child, now. I will not only side with camp #2 above, but teach him that love is the only way, not ignoring and hating. I won't wonder if I am doing the right thing. Love really is the most important thing.

"And now these things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is LOVE." 1Corinthians 13:13.