It was a different holiday season for the DeMuth family. Not horrible. Not melancholy. Just different. Nothing is familiar here. Even the stores are hard to navigate. Locating things has been a chore. Finding Christmas in France has been a bit of an illusion sometimes.
But, I've had my Christmas.
"I had a vision," the man told me on the phone.
"Really?" I asked him.
"Yes," he said. "You were in your kitchen, chopping, chopping, chopping. Tomatoes, bread, everything. I saw you throw up your hands, knives flying. Then I heard the word Kitchenaide. Does that mean anything to you?"
I laughed. "Um, well, I suppose."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, I have missed my Kitchenaide."
"It's settled then," he said. "We're coming over tonight, bringing you and Patrick ice cream sundae fixings . . . and then tomorrow we're taking you shopping--for a Kitchenaide."
"What?"
"See you in a little bit," he said.
They did bring ice cream. And nuts. And whipped cream. And sprinkles. We talked while we ate, topping the evening off with a long period of prayer--a true blessing.
The next day, true to their word, they took me to the appliance store. The red Kitchenaide I had visited on several occasions was still there, beckoning. "This is too expensive," I told them.
"You want red?" he asked.
"Yeah, but, it's really expensive."
"Please let us do this, Mary," his wife said. "We enjoy doing this."
That night, I carried home a red Kitchenaide--a present of spectacular extravagance from the hands of Jesus through a generous and kind couple. When I look at that gift, I smile, knowing that Jesus loves me enough to take care of trivial matters, like missing a beloved appliance. He sees me. He watches over me. He knows me.
His grace is extravagant, outlandish, surprising, humbling. I thank our two friends for tangibly demonstrating that to me this Christmas.
Silencing Demons
I've always wondered why Jesus silenced the demons. They'd say things about Him being the Son of God. In an odd sense, they told the truth about Jesus, yet Jesus would have none of it.
Now I think I have an inkling. When something vile says something true, it is an affront. Especially when it is said with dripping disdain. I can imagine the sarcasm and the humiliating tone the demons used when they revealed Christ's identity to the crowds. Why did He silence them?
Some thoughts:
Now I think I have an inkling. When something vile says something true, it is an affront. Especially when it is said with dripping disdain. I can imagine the sarcasm and the humiliating tone the demons used when they revealed Christ's identity to the crowds. Why did He silence them?
Some thoughts:
- It was not yet Jesus' time to be "outed." The demons were trying to usher Jesus into the spotlight in their wicked timing, not God's. Jesus knew there would be a day when children and parents lined a palm-strewn street proclaiming Him, heralding Him. Having being proclaimed by evil ones sullied that future proclamation, so He silenced their words.
- Perhaps Jesus was jealous of the glory of God. So desirous of God's glory, He felt it disdainful to hear hellish voices proclaim Him. It would be like Pol Pot praising the very people he murdered. He was obviously not sincere; in fact if he had said glorious words about the people he killed, he would be considered a horrific liar--to praise, then kill. The glory of God is too precious to be spewed by evil ones.
- Perhaps it was as simple as not wanting to hear the voices of rebellion. Jesus was utterly perfect, utterly obedient to God the Father. Perhaps it rankled Him, grated on His sensibilities to hear such rebellious, hateful words.
- And maybe, Jesus was giving us a lesson. That when words from the pit assail us, we are not to entertain them, try to figure them out, languish by them, feed on them, ruminate on them, but instead to silence them. Immediately. Eve would've been better off if she had just said, "Silence!" Instead, she listened. And listened. And reasoned. And rebelled. I find it interesting that the demons said truth, and yet Jesus kept them quiet. Sometimes the enemy's voice has a familiar ring of truth, but the underlying motivation is always stealing, killing and destroying. The only proper response is to say, "Silence!"
Here's the takeaway for me. I wonder if it's the same thing when we utter praises to God, proclaming Him, telling His truth, when our hearts are dark or far from Him. I wonder if we weary Jesus with our words of praise and glory when we really don't mean them. I wonder.
I hope my praises, feeble as they may be, come from a pure heart, bent on obedience.
The Painting
Friday
Putrid, her mother called her. A stench. Though the words strangled Karsten’s heart, she clung to them like a well-loved quilt. Here in Seattle on the brink of either a wildly successful art career or another artist-meets-poverty sob story, she clung to what was familiar—her mother’s words. It was the only thing she knew to do, the only words that echoed through her head now that Christmas loomed.
Karsten walked downtown beneath a canopy of mocking white lights. She bustled through shoppers who pushed past her, unseeing. She walked faster now, click-click-clicking on the wet pavement while the rain seeped into her soles. Even her soul felt drenched, like it swam in a puddle of depression. With every step, another word slapped her.
Foolhardy.
Clumsy.
Naïve.
Ungrateful.
Stupid.
Worthless.
All mother’s words.
I am loving and lovable, she willed. Karsten remembered the mantra she’d learned from a college roommate whose pet philosophy was self-esteem. Every day Janice told Karsten if she’d repeat those five magical words, in the mirror no less, she’d emerge at the year’s end a competent, happy person. She emerged as a person, but not competent. Not happy. And today, the only mirrors capable of hearing her despair were distorted reflections of her face in the puddles she trudged on her way home.
Self-esteem didn’t lift her heaviness. Neither did a brief dabbling in something called Youth Group, where popular girls flirted with the youth leader, he reciprocating. Though Jesus intrigued her, she couldn’t reconcile the gentle Man with judgmental eyes. What did Christian post-pubescents know about art anyway? Why’d they feel it their holy duty to frown at her creations?
Art was her one salvation, she knew. As she unlocked her apartment and turned on the lights, she smiled. Although canvasses grimaced back at her, Karsten felt pleasure in them. She wondered if that’s what mothers felt about their children, their creation—that even though children howled, they were still loved because they simply were a part of who made them. Across her mantle, her recent painting looked through her, examined her. Medusa and Child, surrounded by black and blue swirling clouds, both looked downward. Rain emitting from the clouds gave the two a sodden, yet ethereal presence. “Heavenly Waters,” Georgia named the painting when she first met it.
Karsten kept watching the two who brooded above her fireplace, whose downcast gazes resembled hers. The snake-haired mother encircled the child with vipers; her face was arrogance. The child’s look was a mélange of panic and longing, as if he knew he wanted to tear free but couldn’t. Both were haunted by dark clouds. Both were drenched by them. And both were trapped within the four beveled pieces of wood that framed them.
The phone rang, breaking the painting’s spell over Karsten. “Hello.”
“It’s me,” Georgia said. “You’re coming with me tonight. I’ll be over in a sec.”
Before Karsten had a chance to protest, Georgia hung up, leaving her alone in the cold apartment, wondering what crazy outing Georgia concocted.
Five minutes later, her friend appeared in the doorway after knocking the familiar shave and a haircut. Two bits.
“I know you’re not much for church, but it’s nearly Christmas, and, well, you are coming with me.” Georgia grabbed Karsten’s arm in a playful sort of way. “Come on, get a coat on.” Georgia wore a goofy smile. It suited her and meshed well with her equally quirky outfit: combat boots, candy-cane striped long-johns, a plaid mini, a fisherman’s sweater, all covered by a funky dime-store see-through parka. “We’re going to be late.”
Karsten pulled away. “Last I looked, I was in charge of my life.”
“Not tonight. I’m taking over. I’m just obeying you anyways.”
“Obeying me? What?”
“You told me last week, when you showed me that painting—” Here she motioned to Medusa and Child, though she did it with such a fast flourish that the water from her parka rained on the floor. “You said, ‘I want this Christmas to be different.’ Well, going to church is different, isn’t it? Besides, you can’t stay here while the snake lady looks at you.”
“You called the painting ‘Heavenly Waters.’ I thought you liked it.” Karsten could feel bile burn her tonsils. She hated, hated, hated rebuke. Sure, she nursed her mother’s rebuke, but friends were supposed to praise, not criticize. She shut the door behind Georgia, hoping the noise of the slam would change Georgia’s mind about going out.
Still, Georgia stood by the door, even moved toward it and grabbed its knob. “I never said I didn’t like the painting. It’s excellent, probably your best piece. It’s just, well, a little creepy.”
“Creepy?” Karsten’s voice had that tight, ringy quality about it, what her mother would call hyper-hysterical.
“Don’t get your corset in a tangle. We both know what that painting means.”
Karsten did not get her coat. She did not move. She took shallow breaths. “Why don’t you clue me in since I obviously don’t know?”
“You’re going to be cold out there if you don’t get a coat,” Georgia said. She shoved a thrift-store trench at her and poked her with a spindly umbrella.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Come with me,” Georgia said, “and you’ll understand.”
There was no use arguing with Georgia. She was the kind of painfully stubborn friend whose magnetism made you overlook nagging insistence. Karsten followed out the door into the rain. “I am not into church,” she said.
“There aren’t any art critics, there, Miss Paranoid. Follow me.”
They navigated puddles, panhandlers, and carolers for six blocks until the street water filled Karsten’s shoes afresh. Four more blocks and she was completely waterlogged, wondering if her feet were wrinkled.
“Here we are!” Georgia stood beneath a behemoth cathedral. “St. James.” She said it as if those two words would clarify everything. “Come on in.”
Their steps echoed as they walked inside. “I have the perfect seat picked out,” Georgia whispered. They sat on the left side between two arching windows directly under a painting of Madonna and Child. Karsten’s heart quieted itself, both from awkwardness and a wild sense of reverence.
From behind her, she could hear shuffling, like a hundred slippered feet waltzing. Not knowing what was proper, she stared straight ahead at a hatted lady and son. Wafting from behind, voices sang.
O come, O come Emmanuel.
“The choir’s in the loft,” Georgia whispered.
And ransom captive Israel.
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
Ransom.
Lonely.
Exile.
Rejoice.
All at once, Karsten understood Israel—in need of ransoming. As the music moved through her, she caught the gaze of Madonna and Child. Tenderly, the mother cradled the baby. Her eyes fixed themselves on the Son, as if her eyes were tethered to earth and man. His face looked heavenward, arms outstretched and free. The mother couldn’t cradle the baby there forever, Karsten knew. She loved the mother of Jesus because of it. A mother who loosed her Son to be what God made Him to be. A ransom-maker. A captive-emancipator.
O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny
The word free resounded in Karsten’s chest. Something she’d always wanted. An elusive commodity, like fickle Seattle sunshine. Freedom. The tyranny of her mother’s words muffled beneath the weight of that word; in one musical moment, she understood Jesus bore Satan’s tyranny. That He’d been called worse words. That He’d been maligned, ridiculed. She looked again at His baby face, haloed in paint, and quietly thanked Him for bearing the words of others.
Karsten connected the faint dots between the flirtatious youth pastor’s words, “Who is this, that the winds and the seas obey Him” and Janice’s “I am loving and lovable” with the song’s haunting melody. Random dots, seemingly unrelated. And yet, the connections birthed a holy hush in her, like God was painting a picture of Himself through the outline of her life.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
The malevolence of her own shadowed painting now contrasted itself with the brilliance of Madonna and Child, the loving mother and the heavenly child. Karsten looked at Georgia, then to the painting, and back to Georgia again.
She understood. Her own painting meant something. It portrayed her pain, her emaciated heart. It represented gloomy tentacles that locked her small soul in the prison of her mother’s words. She was captured by dark shadows. And she wanted freedom. Freedom not merely to eradicate herself from her rainy canvas, but freedom to be painted anew, with bolder, broader strokes.
When Georgia stood to leave, Karsten smiled at the Madonna and Child, held their eyes. As her marshy shoes puddled the floor beneath the painting, she felt her soul’s tiny emancipation. For a blessed instant, her mother’s words dissipated, no longer pocking her mind.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
Karsten walked downtown beneath a canopy of mocking white lights. She bustled through shoppers who pushed past her, unseeing. She walked faster now, click-click-clicking on the wet pavement while the rain seeped into her soles. Even her soul felt drenched, like it swam in a puddle of depression. With every step, another word slapped her.
Foolhardy.
Clumsy.
Naïve.
Ungrateful.
Stupid.
Worthless.
All mother’s words.
I am loving and lovable, she willed. Karsten remembered the mantra she’d learned from a college roommate whose pet philosophy was self-esteem. Every day Janice told Karsten if she’d repeat those five magical words, in the mirror no less, she’d emerge at the year’s end a competent, happy person. She emerged as a person, but not competent. Not happy. And today, the only mirrors capable of hearing her despair were distorted reflections of her face in the puddles she trudged on her way home.
Self-esteem didn’t lift her heaviness. Neither did a brief dabbling in something called Youth Group, where popular girls flirted with the youth leader, he reciprocating. Though Jesus intrigued her, she couldn’t reconcile the gentle Man with judgmental eyes. What did Christian post-pubescents know about art anyway? Why’d they feel it their holy duty to frown at her creations?
Art was her one salvation, she knew. As she unlocked her apartment and turned on the lights, she smiled. Although canvasses grimaced back at her, Karsten felt pleasure in them. She wondered if that’s what mothers felt about their children, their creation—that even though children howled, they were still loved because they simply were a part of who made them. Across her mantle, her recent painting looked through her, examined her. Medusa and Child, surrounded by black and blue swirling clouds, both looked downward. Rain emitting from the clouds gave the two a sodden, yet ethereal presence. “Heavenly Waters,” Georgia named the painting when she first met it.
Karsten kept watching the two who brooded above her fireplace, whose downcast gazes resembled hers. The snake-haired mother encircled the child with vipers; her face was arrogance. The child’s look was a mélange of panic and longing, as if he knew he wanted to tear free but couldn’t. Both were haunted by dark clouds. Both were drenched by them. And both were trapped within the four beveled pieces of wood that framed them.
The phone rang, breaking the painting’s spell over Karsten. “Hello.”
“It’s me,” Georgia said. “You’re coming with me tonight. I’ll be over in a sec.”
Before Karsten had a chance to protest, Georgia hung up, leaving her alone in the cold apartment, wondering what crazy outing Georgia concocted.
Five minutes later, her friend appeared in the doorway after knocking the familiar shave and a haircut. Two bits.
“I know you’re not much for church, but it’s nearly Christmas, and, well, you are coming with me.” Georgia grabbed Karsten’s arm in a playful sort of way. “Come on, get a coat on.” Georgia wore a goofy smile. It suited her and meshed well with her equally quirky outfit: combat boots, candy-cane striped long-johns, a plaid mini, a fisherman’s sweater, all covered by a funky dime-store see-through parka. “We’re going to be late.”
Karsten pulled away. “Last I looked, I was in charge of my life.”
“Not tonight. I’m taking over. I’m just obeying you anyways.”
“Obeying me? What?”
“You told me last week, when you showed me that painting—” Here she motioned to Medusa and Child, though she did it with such a fast flourish that the water from her parka rained on the floor. “You said, ‘I want this Christmas to be different.’ Well, going to church is different, isn’t it? Besides, you can’t stay here while the snake lady looks at you.”
“You called the painting ‘Heavenly Waters.’ I thought you liked it.” Karsten could feel bile burn her tonsils. She hated, hated, hated rebuke. Sure, she nursed her mother’s rebuke, but friends were supposed to praise, not criticize. She shut the door behind Georgia, hoping the noise of the slam would change Georgia’s mind about going out.
Still, Georgia stood by the door, even moved toward it and grabbed its knob. “I never said I didn’t like the painting. It’s excellent, probably your best piece. It’s just, well, a little creepy.”
“Creepy?” Karsten’s voice had that tight, ringy quality about it, what her mother would call hyper-hysterical.
“Don’t get your corset in a tangle. We both know what that painting means.”
Karsten did not get her coat. She did not move. She took shallow breaths. “Why don’t you clue me in since I obviously don’t know?”
“You’re going to be cold out there if you don’t get a coat,” Georgia said. She shoved a thrift-store trench at her and poked her with a spindly umbrella.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Come with me,” Georgia said, “and you’ll understand.”
There was no use arguing with Georgia. She was the kind of painfully stubborn friend whose magnetism made you overlook nagging insistence. Karsten followed out the door into the rain. “I am not into church,” she said.
“There aren’t any art critics, there, Miss Paranoid. Follow me.”
They navigated puddles, panhandlers, and carolers for six blocks until the street water filled Karsten’s shoes afresh. Four more blocks and she was completely waterlogged, wondering if her feet were wrinkled.
“Here we are!” Georgia stood beneath a behemoth cathedral. “St. James.” She said it as if those two words would clarify everything. “Come on in.”
Their steps echoed as they walked inside. “I have the perfect seat picked out,” Georgia whispered. They sat on the left side between two arching windows directly under a painting of Madonna and Child. Karsten’s heart quieted itself, both from awkwardness and a wild sense of reverence.
From behind her, she could hear shuffling, like a hundred slippered feet waltzing. Not knowing what was proper, she stared straight ahead at a hatted lady and son. Wafting from behind, voices sang.
O come, O come Emmanuel.
“The choir’s in the loft,” Georgia whispered.
And ransom captive Israel.
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
Ransom.
Lonely.
Exile.
Rejoice.
All at once, Karsten understood Israel—in need of ransoming. As the music moved through her, she caught the gaze of Madonna and Child. Tenderly, the mother cradled the baby. Her eyes fixed themselves on the Son, as if her eyes were tethered to earth and man. His face looked heavenward, arms outstretched and free. The mother couldn’t cradle the baby there forever, Karsten knew. She loved the mother of Jesus because of it. A mother who loosed her Son to be what God made Him to be. A ransom-maker. A captive-emancipator.
O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny
The word free resounded in Karsten’s chest. Something she’d always wanted. An elusive commodity, like fickle Seattle sunshine. Freedom. The tyranny of her mother’s words muffled beneath the weight of that word; in one musical moment, she understood Jesus bore Satan’s tyranny. That He’d been called worse words. That He’d been maligned, ridiculed. She looked again at His baby face, haloed in paint, and quietly thanked Him for bearing the words of others.
Karsten connected the faint dots between the flirtatious youth pastor’s words, “Who is this, that the winds and the seas obey Him” and Janice’s “I am loving and lovable” with the song’s haunting melody. Random dots, seemingly unrelated. And yet, the connections birthed a holy hush in her, like God was painting a picture of Himself through the outline of her life.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
The malevolence of her own shadowed painting now contrasted itself with the brilliance of Madonna and Child, the loving mother and the heavenly child. Karsten looked at Georgia, then to the painting, and back to Georgia again.
She understood. Her own painting meant something. It portrayed her pain, her emaciated heart. It represented gloomy tentacles that locked her small soul in the prison of her mother’s words. She was captured by dark shadows. And she wanted freedom. Freedom not merely to eradicate herself from her rainy canvas, but freedom to be painted anew, with bolder, broader strokes.
When Georgia stood to leave, Karsten smiled at the Madonna and Child, held their eyes. As her marshy shoes puddled the floor beneath the painting, she felt her soul’s tiny emancipation. For a blessed instant, her mother’s words dissipated, no longer pocking her mind.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
A Homeless King
His sacred head lacked a place
To rest, to dream, to weep
From dew-cast night
To dawn-lit day
His house became
Dusty roads beneath beautiful feet
I marvel to see His lack—
No bed, no cup,
Nor feather down
A throneless King
Stooped
Donning splendor in squalor-robes
What kind of itinerant Royalty
Wore homelessness
So I could taste His heaven?
Who wandered
On this pallid earth
To color lifeless souls?
A mysterious Sovereign
Jesus is
Who paradoxed the earth
Who gave up Home
So all could have a place
To rest, to dream, to weep.
To rest, to dream, to weep
From dew-cast night
To dawn-lit day
His house became
Dusty roads beneath beautiful feet
I marvel to see His lack—
No bed, no cup,
Nor feather down
A throneless King
Stooped
Donning splendor in squalor-robes
What kind of itinerant Royalty
Wore homelessness
So I could taste His heaven?
Who wandered
On this pallid earth
To color lifeless souls?
A mysterious Sovereign
Jesus is
Who paradoxed the earth
Who gave up Home
So all could have a place
To rest, to dream, to weep.
The Stand Castle
Saturday
Randy Alcorn says we are made for a person and a place. That person is Jesus. That place is heaven.
I've ruminated a bit about place, about home, these past few weeks. I've concluded (although I know I will revisit it again and again) that my home is not on this earth--it's in heaven with the Carpenter who creates homes on streets of glassy gold. By saying this, I don't have a death-wish. By realizing that there is more to this existence than what I can see, taste, or touch, I am more fully alive. When I move from one place to another, there is an anchor, a home in heaven where no moth messes with, where no thief steals.
Knowing God created me to be complete in Jesus and to be fully alive in heaven makes today sweeter somehow. It gives eternal significance to how I live moment by moment.
The following is a story I wrote several years ago that illuminates better what I fail to articulate:
Kallie had always been small; it was the first memory she had. “Kallie will never be of a normal size,” Doctor Calloway had whispered to Mommy. He acted as if she hadn’t heard, but her keen three-year-old ears betrayed her curiosity. Something’s wrong with me. I am not NORMAL. The thought had a way of worming its way into her life at inopportune times—when her friends picked her last for basketball, when she stood on her tippy-toes on the bottom row of her class picture, when she tried in vain to reach the counter at Walker’s store. Always, like a dripping faucet, the voices in her head would remind her. You are not normal, never will be.
But today was different. The family was safely sheltered at the ocean, waves pounding and breaking with an intensity that ushered Kallie into other rooms of her mind. At the ocean, with its wild sameness, Kallie found peace from the dripping voices.
She looked down the shoreline to see a dizzying variety of sand castles—some tall, some small, some stately, some homely.
“Let’s build one too,” she told Toby and Sarah. Like freshly recruited troops, they began pushing sand into castle piles. Kallie pioneered the toting job; when things looked dry, she filled her bucket with seaweed-laden water and gently poured it over the emerging structure.
“To make it strong and tall,” she said under her breath. The comment was really for her, half hoping that seaweed water would do miracles for her tiny stature.
As the minutes neared an hour, Sarah and Toby lost interest, leaving Kallie frustrated and alone. Mommy and Daddy watched and encouraged her from afar as her AWOL siblings departed barefooted to find treasure in the tide pools.
Determination etched itself into her sun-squinting eyes. Kallie grabbed another bucket of water and doused the castle, hoping to save it from crumbling. Carefully, she smoothed each surface, adding weathered glass windows and driftwood flags. The king and his royal subjects were represented by misshapen rocks.
Kallie lost herself in the mystery and revelry of her castle as the waves leapt behind her, from time to time licking her feet. She was a part of something bigger than herself, and she felt a certain power playing Queen Kallie to her rock subjects.
“Whatcha doing?” The sneering voice caught Kallie off guard. She wheeled around to see a tall boy about Toby’s age looking down at her. Frantic, she tried to catch her parents’ gaze, but their toweled spot was vacant.
“I . . . I. . . was just building this castle here. See the flags? I tried to make it tall . . . ” Her words trailed off in meek resignation.
“Don’tcha know sand castles are for babies, Shrimp? The ocean’s gonna roll all over that and it will disappear forever.” He blurted his words as loud as the ocean’s waves; the words drowned Kallie’s already sinking heart. She no longer felt like a queen, just a misshapen rock.
“I know that.” She looked at her sandy toes. “But, I just wanted to—” Kallie gasped as the unnamed boy aimed his booted right foot at her creation.
“Please, don’t.” She tried to speak over the noisy waves, but her voice got swallowed up.
“Who’s gonna make me?” His boot landed a decisive blow to her sandy citadel. He jumped on her royal courtyard, leaving rocks, glass, and driftwood in war-torn heaps.
In that moment, Kallie’s voices dripped, you are not normal, never will be. You will never amount to anything. Your life is kicked over sand, worthless.
Before she could respond to the castle assailant, he was gone. His long legs had carried him far from her and she was left alone—afraid and small. Her parents returned from their foray with a strawberry ice cream cone just for her, but Kallie refused to eat. Later, Toby and Sarah asked her what happened, but Kallie kept quiet, her sadness locked inside her small body. She only heard the same dripping voices. You are not normal, never will be, Shrimp.
That night, in the safety and quiet of her soft bed, she fitfully drifted off to sleep. Melancholy was her blanket, piercing loneliness her pillow. She awakened, startled to see a Visitor. At first her overactive imagination made her shrink in fear; she thought the sand bully had entered her room. She pulled the covers all the way up to her eyelashes and shivered.
The Visitor said nothing. He had no cruel boots on, just weathered and scarred feet. He said nothing at first, but she perceived His thoughts. He was beckoning her. She followed Him through her doorway and eventually out of the house. In an instant they were together on the beach, hand in hand. Where her castle once lay in ruins, she saw a towering white structure whose translucence shined like pearly sunshine. Instead of sand as its foundation, it rested squarely on a gigantic rock.
The Visitor whispered in Kallie’s ear. “Everything you do is seen, Kallie. Whatever sand castles you make in your world become towers in Mine.”
Kallie had conflicting desires—one, to run to the tall, stately castle and play in its solid walls, the other to hold the Visitor’s scarred hand.
She chose the Visitor.
His voice thundered and soothed, like the ocean’s surf. “You have chosen the good part, Kallie. I will never fail you. When other’s kick in your work, when they are bent on destroying you, just remember My hands. I am the Carpenter, Kallie. My hands, scarred as they might be, make real structures here. Your world is merely a shadow, a temporary sand castle.”
They stood there a long, long time. Kallie no longer felt small holding the Visitor’s hand. He took her chin in His other hand and directed her gaze toward His face. “One more thing. You are not normal, never will be.”
His redemptive voice, the voice like many waters, changed her dripping voices forever. You are not normal, never will be became Kallie’s reminder that the Visitor made people different on purpose—for variety and beauty, just like the sand castles she noticed today—some tall, some small, some stately, some homely. All were important, especially to the builder.
“Will that castle always stand?” she asked, pointing to the castle anchored to the rock.
“As long as I stand, it will stand, Kallie.” And with that she opened her eyes in the shadowed world of her room. Drifting back to sleep, she smiled.
And He stood.
I've ruminated a bit about place, about home, these past few weeks. I've concluded (although I know I will revisit it again and again) that my home is not on this earth--it's in heaven with the Carpenter who creates homes on streets of glassy gold. By saying this, I don't have a death-wish. By realizing that there is more to this existence than what I can see, taste, or touch, I am more fully alive. When I move from one place to another, there is an anchor, a home in heaven where no moth messes with, where no thief steals.
Knowing God created me to be complete in Jesus and to be fully alive in heaven makes today sweeter somehow. It gives eternal significance to how I live moment by moment.
The following is a story I wrote several years ago that illuminates better what I fail to articulate:
The Stand Castle
By Mary E. DeMuth
Kallie had always been small; it was the first memory she had. “Kallie will never be of a normal size,” Doctor Calloway had whispered to Mommy. He acted as if she hadn’t heard, but her keen three-year-old ears betrayed her curiosity. Something’s wrong with me. I am not NORMAL. The thought had a way of worming its way into her life at inopportune times—when her friends picked her last for basketball, when she stood on her tippy-toes on the bottom row of her class picture, when she tried in vain to reach the counter at Walker’s store. Always, like a dripping faucet, the voices in her head would remind her. You are not normal, never will be.
But today was different. The family was safely sheltered at the ocean, waves pounding and breaking with an intensity that ushered Kallie into other rooms of her mind. At the ocean, with its wild sameness, Kallie found peace from the dripping voices.
She looked down the shoreline to see a dizzying variety of sand castles—some tall, some small, some stately, some homely.
“Let’s build one too,” she told Toby and Sarah. Like freshly recruited troops, they began pushing sand into castle piles. Kallie pioneered the toting job; when things looked dry, she filled her bucket with seaweed-laden water and gently poured it over the emerging structure.
“To make it strong and tall,” she said under her breath. The comment was really for her, half hoping that seaweed water would do miracles for her tiny stature.
As the minutes neared an hour, Sarah and Toby lost interest, leaving Kallie frustrated and alone. Mommy and Daddy watched and encouraged her from afar as her AWOL siblings departed barefooted to find treasure in the tide pools.
Determination etched itself into her sun-squinting eyes. Kallie grabbed another bucket of water and doused the castle, hoping to save it from crumbling. Carefully, she smoothed each surface, adding weathered glass windows and driftwood flags. The king and his royal subjects were represented by misshapen rocks.
Kallie lost herself in the mystery and revelry of her castle as the waves leapt behind her, from time to time licking her feet. She was a part of something bigger than herself, and she felt a certain power playing Queen Kallie to her rock subjects.
“Whatcha doing?” The sneering voice caught Kallie off guard. She wheeled around to see a tall boy about Toby’s age looking down at her. Frantic, she tried to catch her parents’ gaze, but their toweled spot was vacant.
“I . . . I. . . was just building this castle here. See the flags? I tried to make it tall . . . ” Her words trailed off in meek resignation.
“Don’tcha know sand castles are for babies, Shrimp? The ocean’s gonna roll all over that and it will disappear forever.” He blurted his words as loud as the ocean’s waves; the words drowned Kallie’s already sinking heart. She no longer felt like a queen, just a misshapen rock.
“I know that.” She looked at her sandy toes. “But, I just wanted to—” Kallie gasped as the unnamed boy aimed his booted right foot at her creation.
“Please, don’t.” She tried to speak over the noisy waves, but her voice got swallowed up.
“Who’s gonna make me?” His boot landed a decisive blow to her sandy citadel. He jumped on her royal courtyard, leaving rocks, glass, and driftwood in war-torn heaps.
In that moment, Kallie’s voices dripped, you are not normal, never will be. You will never amount to anything. Your life is kicked over sand, worthless.
Before she could respond to the castle assailant, he was gone. His long legs had carried him far from her and she was left alone—afraid and small. Her parents returned from their foray with a strawberry ice cream cone just for her, but Kallie refused to eat. Later, Toby and Sarah asked her what happened, but Kallie kept quiet, her sadness locked inside her small body. She only heard the same dripping voices. You are not normal, never will be, Shrimp.
That night, in the safety and quiet of her soft bed, she fitfully drifted off to sleep. Melancholy was her blanket, piercing loneliness her pillow. She awakened, startled to see a Visitor. At first her overactive imagination made her shrink in fear; she thought the sand bully had entered her room. She pulled the covers all the way up to her eyelashes and shivered.
The Visitor said nothing. He had no cruel boots on, just weathered and scarred feet. He said nothing at first, but she perceived His thoughts. He was beckoning her. She followed Him through her doorway and eventually out of the house. In an instant they were together on the beach, hand in hand. Where her castle once lay in ruins, she saw a towering white structure whose translucence shined like pearly sunshine. Instead of sand as its foundation, it rested squarely on a gigantic rock.
The Visitor whispered in Kallie’s ear. “Everything you do is seen, Kallie. Whatever sand castles you make in your world become towers in Mine.”
Kallie had conflicting desires—one, to run to the tall, stately castle and play in its solid walls, the other to hold the Visitor’s scarred hand.
She chose the Visitor.
His voice thundered and soothed, like the ocean’s surf. “You have chosen the good part, Kallie. I will never fail you. When other’s kick in your work, when they are bent on destroying you, just remember My hands. I am the Carpenter, Kallie. My hands, scarred as they might be, make real structures here. Your world is merely a shadow, a temporary sand castle.”
They stood there a long, long time. Kallie no longer felt small holding the Visitor’s hand. He took her chin in His other hand and directed her gaze toward His face. “One more thing. You are not normal, never will be.”
His redemptive voice, the voice like many waters, changed her dripping voices forever. You are not normal, never will be became Kallie’s reminder that the Visitor made people different on purpose—for variety and beauty, just like the sand castles she noticed today—some tall, some small, some stately, some homely. All were important, especially to the builder.
“Will that castle always stand?” she asked, pointing to the castle anchored to the rock.
“As long as I stand, it will stand, Kallie.” And with that she opened her eyes in the shadowed world of her room. Drifting back to sleep, she smiled.
And He stood.
Small Rejoicings
Thursday
God continues to remind me that He is present in small things. My friend Hud McWilliams (who should definitely write a book) has taught me a lot about living a lifestyle of gratitude. He says, "There is no neutral space between ingratitude or gratitude." Essentially, we're either thankful or we're not.
As one who sees the glass half empty, I struggle with this. I want to be grateful for all that God sends my way. Even as we go through trials, I want to be thankful that God considered me faithful enough to endure them. Often, though, I let the circumstances of life overwhelm me.
So today, in hopes of being more gratitude-based, I want to share some small things I've noticed that make me grateful:
As one who sees the glass half empty, I struggle with this. I want to be grateful for all that God sends my way. Even as we go through trials, I want to be thankful that God considered me faithful enough to endure them. Often, though, I let the circumstances of life overwhelm me.
So today, in hopes of being more gratitude-based, I want to share some small things I've noticed that make me grateful:
- We were riding our bikes on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice (see picture below). When we stopped to rest--where the picture was taken--an interesting man walked nearby. He had a green wreath on his head and stopped each nearby person to say a few things. He stopped in front of Aidan and Patrick, said some things, smiled, and walked off. Patrick used the language technique known as laugh-and-maybe-they'll-think-you-understand. Aidan laughed too. "Do you know what that man said?" Patrick asked. "Of course, Daddy. He said he carries bowls of soup on his head inside the wreath!" I smile in the recollection because I can see how much Aidan is growing in his understanding of French. Oh to be more like him!
- We met the "other" Julia at the Christmas performance. The other Julia is a head taller than our Julia. It helped me develop more empathy for our small blonde-headed girl. But, the gratefulness comes in when I consider the amazing fact that Julia sang about 8 very long French Christmas songs! She knew all the words. And last night, her report card was quite good.
- I am running again (finally!) There's been so much in my head that I figured I need to run 100 kilometers before it all comes spilling out. When I run, I sense God's presence. I hear His voice. I pray. Today on my run, a golden Labrador retriever saw me, didn't bite me (thankfully), and went on his doggy way. I run a small circuit around the kids' school, down through a neighborhood and then up on the main road to home, cars whizzing by. Almost home (on a completely different street), the golden dog appeared. I sensed the Lord say, "I am with you, Mary." God is bigger than a friendly, curious dog, of course, but this meant the world to me. God is with me. Like a companion.
- We received a package last night from some dear friends in the States. They sent us a Christmas book that her sister illustrated. The author of the book led her family to Christ 25 years ago. It reminded me that God is always at work, that He uses all sorts of people to extend His kingdom: authors, illustrators, bookkeepers, teachers.
- I spent the better part of yesterday writing thank you notes. Just doing that made me grateful for family and friends who have loved us from afar. God is good to provide so many good friends. He "places the lonely in families; he sets the prisoners free and gives them joy" (Psalm 68:6). I'm grateful He placed me in a family. I'm thankful He blessed me with three beautiful children and a devoted husband and father.
- The vistas here are amazing. I fall in love with Jesus when I look at His handiwork: in the olive groves, the snow-topped Alps, the aqua-marine waters of the Riviera, the hard-to-bike rolling hills, the blooming flowers in my garden.
How about you? What makes you grateful? What things, small and large, can you thank God for today? If you're in the dregs of life, perhaps making a list like mine will help change a crabby day to a thankful one.
relevantgirl
Over Thar
Tuesday
Today, I've written on The Masters Artist Blog. Jump "over thar" and check it out. I'm curious what you think of Writing in a Box of Wheat Thins.
Praxis
Sunday
Patrick and I were talking about the Greek word praxis today. Don't we sound deep?
Praxis basically means the working out of a theology or belief. It is about doing; it's characterized by a mode of acting. Here's where our conversation headed. We were discussing why so many Christians were anemic, seemingly devoid of power and growth. (Before I go on, let me assure you I have often slid into this category). Growth in the Christian life, I said, has more to do with what we do with our belief than merely our statement of it.
In practical terms, this means that a new Christian can grow feet to our inches simply because he's acting out his newfound belief in God. I've seen Christians who have walked with Christ for years who experience less and less growth. Why? Because without action, there is atrophy.
Do I really believe God is big enough to take care of me? Truly? Then, why haven't I stepped out into the unknown, where He beckons me? If I continually walk away from His directives and gentle encouragements, I will soon become deaf to His whispers. And I will quit growing spiritually. That means I can stretch and grow in knowledge, but if that does not result in praxis, a practical walking out of an inner belief, then I will stagnate. I may sound smart, profound even, but if I don't put the belief to the pavement of this world, my walk with Jesus will seldom progress beyond today's spirituality.
Then, the conversation turned when Patrick said, "It has to be both head and feet. We must think correctly about God, and then obey."
Tozer said, "What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us." Before we can put walking shoes to our faith, we must think rightly about God. So many of us (me included) construct God in our own fallible and meager minds. We, because of our finiteness and propensity for sin, cannot conceive adequately of a God so big, so holy.
We are small-minded believers in a manageable God. We are guilty of reversal--we are calling the shots, He obeys. Perhaps praxis flows out of a titanic theology of God--that He is big and we are not. That He is all things wise and we are needy of that wisdom. That He is beyond our comprehension, yet stoops to come to our aid. He is God. I am not.
So, if I believe God is big, that He is beyond my comprehension, how now shall I live? How will my high theology meet the low roads of everyday life?
Step by blessed step.
I want to grow, tall and strong. I want to reach my arms to the heavens and shout HALLELUIA! I want my life to emanate Christ in every way, in every relationship, in every decision. In order to do that, I need to know God's ability as He stoops to meet my inability. In my frailty, I am strong. In my small willingness to walk the paths He has for me, He meets me there, enabling me to live in praxis, as a disciple who thinks right thoughts about God and who walks out those beliefs here on terra firma.
The questions are:
Praxis basically means the working out of a theology or belief. It is about doing; it's characterized by a mode of acting. Here's where our conversation headed. We were discussing why so many Christians were anemic, seemingly devoid of power and growth. (Before I go on, let me assure you I have often slid into this category). Growth in the Christian life, I said, has more to do with what we do with our belief than merely our statement of it.
In practical terms, this means that a new Christian can grow feet to our inches simply because he's acting out his newfound belief in God. I've seen Christians who have walked with Christ for years who experience less and less growth. Why? Because without action, there is atrophy.
Do I really believe God is big enough to take care of me? Truly? Then, why haven't I stepped out into the unknown, where He beckons me? If I continually walk away from His directives and gentle encouragements, I will soon become deaf to His whispers. And I will quit growing spiritually. That means I can stretch and grow in knowledge, but if that does not result in praxis, a practical walking out of an inner belief, then I will stagnate. I may sound smart, profound even, but if I don't put the belief to the pavement of this world, my walk with Jesus will seldom progress beyond today's spirituality.
Then, the conversation turned when Patrick said, "It has to be both head and feet. We must think correctly about God, and then obey."
Tozer said, "What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us." Before we can put walking shoes to our faith, we must think rightly about God. So many of us (me included) construct God in our own fallible and meager minds. We, because of our finiteness and propensity for sin, cannot conceive adequately of a God so big, so holy.
We are small-minded believers in a manageable God. We are guilty of reversal--we are calling the shots, He obeys. Perhaps praxis flows out of a titanic theology of God--that He is big and we are not. That He is all things wise and we are needy of that wisdom. That He is beyond our comprehension, yet stoops to come to our aid. He is God. I am not.
So, if I believe God is big, that He is beyond my comprehension, how now shall I live? How will my high theology meet the low roads of everyday life?
Step by blessed step.
I want to grow, tall and strong. I want to reach my arms to the heavens and shout HALLELUIA! I want my life to emanate Christ in every way, in every relationship, in every decision. In order to do that, I need to know God's ability as He stoops to meet my inability. In my frailty, I am strong. In my small willingness to walk the paths He has for me, He meets me there, enabling me to live in praxis, as a disciple who thinks right thoughts about God and who walks out those beliefs here on terra firma.
The questions are:
- What prevents us from having a high view of God?
- Why is it so hard to put shoes to those high views?
I don't have a complete picture yet. I see in a mirror dimly. But, I am curious what you think.
relevantgirl
Why I love Sandi
Wednesday
I love my friend Sandi because she weeps with me.
I love her because she laughs with me and rejoices when I sign a contract, or sell and article, or have made new progress in my relationship with Jesus.
Today, I called her, sharing some disheartening news with her. Her response? She wept. Really cried. We cried together over the Atlantic ocean, over the East Coast, over the Mississippi until our hearts in Texas and France connected.
Sandi prayed for me. But what I remember most is she cried with me. I pray you find a friend like Sandi.
I love her because she laughs with me and rejoices when I sign a contract, or sell and article, or have made new progress in my relationship with Jesus.
Today, I called her, sharing some disheartening news with her. Her response? She wept. Really cried. We cried together over the Atlantic ocean, over the East Coast, over the Mississippi until our hearts in Texas and France connected.
Sandi prayed for me. But what I remember most is she cried with me. I pray you find a friend like Sandi.
A Prayer from a Dear Friend
Monday
We received this prayer from a dear friend this week. I wanted to share it with you because it was so precious to us. I am amazed at how swiftly and how well God answered the cry of my heart when I prayed, "Lord, specifically encourage us this week." I am amazed at how lavish God is in His love for us all, how beautifully He answers the cries of our hearts. This is one of those answers:
"Dear Father in Heaven,
i give you my dear friends, pat and mary, and their precious children, sophie, aidan, and julia. may You, our Father, convince them once again of Your loving watchcare over them. show them again, today, how much You cherish them — so much that You have chosen them to not only know Your Son, but also to proclaim Him by the power of Your Spirit.
Father, provide for them. as they serve You by faith, reward that faith with protection from the enemies of Your Son's gospel, provision through their fellow saints who belong to Christ, and power to walk each day to the end in accord with Your Spirit.
prosper patrick's hand. give him wisdom and compassion to lead and develop vision.
invigorate mary's mind. give her words of truth and inspiration to write Christianly.
strengthen sophie's ministry. give her love for those who seek to harm her.
bless aidan's effort. give him success as he pushes forward through difficult learning.
steady julia's resolve. give her companions for a lifetime, and positive lunch experiences!
in all this, our Father, make Your Son known. may stories abound in the demuth family journal about Your provision, protection, and power in their lives and ministry. may they be encouraged today, with hope, by what they see You doing. may they trust You when everything is dark and You're the only light. may they stop and stand in worshipful awe of You when You answer their prayers. may You be pleased to give them good gifts, and the grace to endure suffering. may the gospel ring in France because of them.
to You, our Father, we give praise and adoration through Your Son and by Your Spirit.
Amen."
Yes, amen.
And amen.
relevantgirl
"Dear Father in Heaven,
i give you my dear friends, pat and mary, and their precious children, sophie, aidan, and julia. may You, our Father, convince them once again of Your loving watchcare over them. show them again, today, how much You cherish them — so much that You have chosen them to not only know Your Son, but also to proclaim Him by the power of Your Spirit.
Father, provide for them. as they serve You by faith, reward that faith with protection from the enemies of Your Son's gospel, provision through their fellow saints who belong to Christ, and power to walk each day to the end in accord with Your Spirit.
prosper patrick's hand. give him wisdom and compassion to lead and develop vision.
invigorate mary's mind. give her words of truth and inspiration to write Christianly.
strengthen sophie's ministry. give her love for those who seek to harm her.
bless aidan's effort. give him success as he pushes forward through difficult learning.
steady julia's resolve. give her companions for a lifetime, and positive lunch experiences!
in all this, our Father, make Your Son known. may stories abound in the demuth family journal about Your provision, protection, and power in their lives and ministry. may they be encouraged today, with hope, by what they see You doing. may they trust You when everything is dark and You're the only light. may they stop and stand in worshipful awe of You when You answer their prayers. may You be pleased to give them good gifts, and the grace to endure suffering. may the gospel ring in France because of them.
to You, our Father, we give praise and adoration through Your Son and by Your Spirit.
Amen."
Yes, amen.
And amen.
relevantgirl
Daniel is home
Will you join me in praising God?
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
I received this today from Daniel Cole's parents. I thought I would share a part of their letter:
"Saturday, we got the green light to bring him home. He was so happy to come home. We are checking his readings on a regular basis, and watching the sugar intake. Today we went to the park, fed the ducks, and while he wasn't ready to go full bore, he took a stab at going down the slide a couple of times. We have received follow-up calls from the community nurse from the hospital, and we'll be checking in each day as we develop a rhythm for his care.
Tonight, we put up the Christmas tree, and DC helped with putting on the lights and ornaments. DC sang 'O Christmas Tree'. After reading him a story about Jay Jay, the Jet Plane, then praying, he asked for mommy and said, 'goodnight Daddy, I love you'.
Just to let you all know again, thanks so much for your prayers. Our Heavenly Father comforted us during this time. We are thankful for you all, regardless of the miles."
It's words like these that make me wish I could hug Jesus, right here, right now.
Amen and Amen
relevantgirl
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
I received this today from Daniel Cole's parents. I thought I would share a part of their letter:
"Saturday, we got the green light to bring him home. He was so happy to come home. We are checking his readings on a regular basis, and watching the sugar intake. Today we went to the park, fed the ducks, and while he wasn't ready to go full bore, he took a stab at going down the slide a couple of times. We have received follow-up calls from the community nurse from the hospital, and we'll be checking in each day as we develop a rhythm for his care.
Tonight, we put up the Christmas tree, and DC helped with putting on the lights and ornaments. DC sang 'O Christmas Tree'. After reading him a story about Jay Jay, the Jet Plane, then praying, he asked for mommy and said, 'goodnight Daddy, I love you'.
Just to let you all know again, thanks so much for your prayers. Our Heavenly Father comforted us during this time. We are thankful for you all, regardless of the miles."
It's words like these that make me wish I could hug Jesus, right here, right now.
Amen and Amen
relevantgirl
God's Surprises
Thursday
This week I've been discouraged on many fronts. Perhaps you can see it in my prose or my poetry. So I asked those who pray for our family to pray that God would specifically encourage us this week. Guess what? He did. Let me count the ways:
The Jesus-Encouraging Top Ten List for the DeMuth Family:
The Jesus-Encouraging Top Ten List for the DeMuth Family:
- A Sunday School class from our church back home contacted us saying they'd like to partner with us. This was completely random, out of the blue, and it came on a particularly discouraging day.
- We received six parcels, all with goodies and love and joy stuffed inside. One of my publishers had his Sunday School class of ten-year-olds sign cards for us. Another friend sent Christmas presents (on the very day we put up our Christmas tree; now there are presents beneath it. Thanks, Erin!). Another friend sent us craft supplies and books. A friend from The Masters Artist sent us the elusive Reeses Peanut Butter cups and Twizzlers and a passel of writer's magazines. What a treat! My agent sent us loads of new books. We feel utterly loved. Extravagantly so.
- A couple from our church who spearheads "The French Connection" (the group of folks who meet quarterly to pray for us), called us and asked us how they could bless us. They are setting up a December meeting, helping us continue to raise financial support and rallying much needed prayer support.
- I called a friend in our mission's agency who said he'd been praying for us. When he spoke, he got choked up. It choked me up to know he cared so much for our family.
- My friend Renee said, "We wish we could be there with you." Those words helped me to realize we are not alone--that we have friends who weep with us when we are down and rejoice with us when life brings laughter.
- I was deeply encouraged by this message by our friend JR Vassar. Do yourself a favor and watch it. Oh to be a gardener and not a gladiator!
- I had a life-giving talk with a friend here.
- Sophie brought home a stellar report card full of really, really nice comments from all her teachers. I am so proud of her!
- November was a good giving month. (We got our giving report yesterday.) Although the dollar is getting weaker and weaker, lessening our paycheck almost daily, we are encouraged that God sees us and is in control. Honestly, I've had panic about this issue in the past, but today I am peaceful and assured.
- I found oatmeal. I'd found it once before at a health food store, but didn't know how to find that store again. Today, in a nearby store, I located it--in a square box of all things. So, with joy, tonight I made granola.
So, there you have it. (That line is from The Wonder Years in case you ever "wondered." I loved that show. Kevin Arnold. Winnie Cooper. Paul with the nerd glasses. Loved them!) We are blessed beyond measure. God sees us. He answered my prayer specifically. We are encouraged. Life is not easy in France or the United States or India. But God sees us all. And He loves to lavish Himself on us, particularly when things seem difficult or the path is riddled with rocks and mud.
Perhaps you can pray this prayer too. "Lord, show me specifically that You see me. Encourage me this week in ways I know are from Your hand to my heart." And then, let us all know how beautifully He answers.
relevantgirl
Velveteen Savior
Wednesday
The Velveteen Rabbit taught me to be real
That being shabby was acceptable
As long as I was loved
But today my shabbiness is showing
Strings of despair hopelessly tangled
Buttoned eyes that feign sight
Stuffing of my tendered heart
Poking through my coat of rags
I am a tattered rabbit
Worn and stretched
Whole but holed
Patched and threadbare
All I can do in the land of threadbare
Is remember
That I am loved as I am
By the One who stitched me first
Who dared to step from perfection
To earth’s sodden shore
To don the distressing disguise of humanity
To welcome the torment of others’ ripping
To feel the threads of life be torn from His flesh
To become all things Velveteen
So that I could know afresh
In my shabbiness, I am loved
Anyway
That being shabby was acceptable
As long as I was loved
But today my shabbiness is showing
Strings of despair hopelessly tangled
Buttoned eyes that feign sight
Stuffing of my tendered heart
Poking through my coat of rags
I am a tattered rabbit
Worn and stretched
Whole but holed
Patched and threadbare
All I can do in the land of threadbare
Is remember
That I am loved as I am
By the One who stitched me first
Who dared to step from perfection
To earth’s sodden shore
To don the distressing disguise of humanity
To welcome the torment of others’ ripping
To feel the threads of life be torn from His flesh
To become all things Velveteen
So that I could know afresh
In my shabbiness, I am loved
Anyway
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