Tag Archives: grace

Dusting off the prayer cobwebs

My first centering prayer word was grasp.

It was worn, tested, tried, and true.  I repeated it probably millions of times over those earlier years when I first fell in love with the spiritual discipline of silence, of making room for God to move in ways that involved only clearing my mind, cultivating a space, and ushering in a countercultural reverence for stopping when the world refused to stand still.

But abide, my second prayer word that I adopted only a few years ago, seemed to signal real growth and maturity.  Instead of so presumptuously grasping for God or even sagely realizing it is God who grasps for us, abide was the mere act of being in God’s presence or letting God’s presence wash over me.  I was proud of the attention, discipline, and even inaction it signaled, the way it chafed against a busy world, busy lives, a busy me.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve never really been able to get my mind around this word, why I’m not so good at abiding, or even praying about it.

I confess that recently my abiding has become dusty and decrepit, just like my centering prayer practice, beholden and bent to the cluttering of my life in which I’ve allowed little space for anything other than tasks and work and running–little space for silence, breath, let alone God.

But there have been healthcare battles to fight, I rage in earnest!  There have been surgeries, and new jobs, and mourning, and real kingdom work, God.  You know where I’ve been.  You know my heart.  Surely my absence means little to you.

And yet, in the recesses of my soul, God whispers more countercultural wisdom–that more can even be done with less rigor and muscle and strength.  That, just as it’s been in the deliciousness of these last few mornings, when I’ve sat idle, letting the waking silence wash over me, I’ve felt most refreshed, most awake, most alive.

There’s this mystery about life with God, how when we resort to doing wholly nothing, that nothingness becomes holy in its luxury and extravagance, a sacrifice, an intention, a heartiness that can’t be achieved or earned and is yet, so much purer and better and good than all my blustery days.  And that openness gives life and purpose and wisdom to our work and our justice and our advocacy–it exceeds us, because it so importantly comes for God and not from us.

Perhaps that Mary Oliver line should read, what is it that God will do with our wild and precious lives?

Or at least that’s what I yearn to surrender to.  For it is God who eternally waits on us, in silence, abiding in perfect patience, ever exceeding us lavishly with grace.

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A quiet morning on the beach with Lucia.

 

 

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Why luck’s got very little to do with it

“Your daughter is so lucky to have you as parents.”

It’s a phrase we hear quite often from kind people around us who must sense and feel how treasured our daughter, Lucia, who has special needs, is by us.  And I suppose they mean to compliment us, too, to tell us what every parent yearns to hear from time to time from his or her village–that all that work of parenting, the stuff that you do in the trenches doesn’t go unnoticed–that it’s not all for nothing, that even when you don’t feel like it, someone saw you doing a good job and took the time to notice it.

But especially when Lucia was really little, crying day in and day out from neurological and gastric distress, and even sometimes nowadays, phrases like these are often followed by a confession, something like, “I certainly couldn’t do what you do.”

When we were first learning about Lucia’s special needs, my husband confided in me how hard it was to hear words like these, well meaning though they were.  For him, especially, the notion that we were doing anything differently from other parents, or that we were different from other parents, smarted against the ordinary we knew ourselves to be.

I’ve also noticed that such ordinary phrases. not unlike “I’m sorry,” often have the power to divide rather than unite.  When I used to run off to far away places like Mexico or Puerto Rico or China and get to know Christians there, people used to tell me similar things, that they could never do what I was doing, that I was amazing, and that my life seemingly mattered more than theirs.  But that smarted against the reality I knew God to be creating: certain people are not better equipped, because it’s God who does the equipping.  I wasn’t more courageous or better or bolder, I’d had my own doubts and my own fears, and the words that conveyed that I was beyond those insecurities and inadequacies while others lived with them constructed a false reality, a world of dichotomies, a world in which some are quite extraordinary but others are not.

wel-family-spongebob-superJumbo
Illustration by Giselle Potter that accompanied a recent article by Courtney Lund, a woman with a brother with AGS (the same condition as Lucia) in the NYT.

But here’s the thing: parents do extraordinary things for their children all the time, because love is a seeping, pervasive, unwieldy, extraordinary thing that causes us to do all sorts of things we never imagined we could or would do.  And I guess neither my husband nor I want people to forget that.  Sure, we feel encouraged to know that people see Lucia and we as a fabulous unit, but we also don’t want to exist in some weird, alternative special needs universe, where our family is abnormal or an anomaly, so much as one example among many examples of what love can do.

And that’s also what I’m learning.  I’m realizing that whereas it used to feel fundamentally uncomfortable to hear these words and these accolades, I can choose the way I respond.  And I’m beginning to love hearing them, because I get to respond by saying, “Well, we feel truly blessed to be Lucia’s parents.”  And that truth is one that I’m so blessed and compelled to say aloud–that despite the tears and the pain and the heartache, there have been just as many moments of elation, warmth, and joy.  I want people to see the joy and the delight that we have in Lucia, just as any parent has in his or her child.  Something about this response, perhaps like the response “I’m not sorry,” makes me feel that I have a bit more to contribute and to give to this world, rather than an ethos that sets me apart or above it.

Because the truth is also that my husband and I are in the trenches beside all of you, trying to sort our parenthood and do our very best, though our patience often fails us and our compassion can run dry.  But it’s our kids that keep us going.  It’s all our kids–the love that we have for them that is so much better than us–the people we become when we let that love lead us, the people that we are becoming that makes this all something more than luck that we’ve found one another, but rather grace that we get to love one another.

And that’s how I’ve begun to feel when I hear those words, “Your daughter is lucky to have you.”  I’m filled with humility and gratitude and grace, because it’s not so much true that Lucia is lucky.  But I know it to be true that it’s by the grace of God that we’ve been blessed with one another.

 

Finding your discomfort

Yesterday as I drove to church I heard the news that a gunman had opened fire in a nightclub in Orlando; it was a beautiful, breezy morning here in New Jersey, and on our way into worship we joked that it was the kind of weather we might find in the Florida Keys.

The sermon this Sunday was on Genesis 12, the call of Abram, and my colleague invited us to see how Abram builds altars along his journey to an unknown land, and to stop and notice what God is doing and what God has done with our lives.  We made a list of the adjectives that come to mind when we think of our own church community, recognizing, as she said, that we were different last year and that we would be different a year from now.

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Camels and Cairo on the horizon.  Photo by Evan Schneider.

But I couldn’t help being drawn, as she spoke, to a slightly different message.

As she remarked that Abram was near 75 years old when the Lord asked him to up and move to an unknown land, and that he didn’t know where he was going, I was struck, as I have been so many times before, by how being Christian does not have anything to do with being comfortable.  Flipping back through the pages of Genesis to the flood just a few chapters before or forward to the epic journey in the wilderness in Exodus, we find a God whose challenges far exceed his comforts.

What I find so powerful about this message is that while God is always instructing us to get up, to go, to go do something, or greet someone, or explore something, God does promise to go with us.  God often promises to go before us, but it’s pretty clear from scripture that we can’t experience the grace and the goodness of God just on our couches.

I think this message was so poignant to me, because I have been someone who has traveled to faraway lands many times in my life, and I’ve often associated my purpose or calling in ministry with that type of journey.  But for those of you who have been reading my blog, these past few years since we returned from China certainly smack of a more stationary season, and I’m not sure I realized until yesterday how important it is to find our wilderness even if we’re close to home.  In Abram’s story and the countless other narratives of transformation in the Bible, I see God reminding us that while some journeys take place closer to home, all journeys toward God involve some discomfort, some wilderness, and a lot of disruption.

comfort-zone

So my question to you (and my question to myself) this morning is where is God leading you, disrupting you, pushing you, and prodding you?  Where, like Abram, is your unknown land, the journey that will be long, involving pit stops and altars, and probably fear and regret?  But where will you go, not because you want to and not because it’s fitting, but because God is leading you there, and you want to be transformed?

When I turned on the radio after church, there was special programming from NPR about the shooting confirming that over 50 had died and now this is the worst shooting in our sordid national history.  On social media, my peers cried out for answers, mourned in solidarity, and wondered how things might ever change.  This morning, I’m rather certain that things won’t change swiftly, comfortably, or easily for any of us, but that real change, as it does in the Bible, will require uneasy, disruptive, totalizing transformation, that our country has clearly resisted since my childhood.

I pray desperately that we as people of faith may not just sit on our couches any longer but leap toward our zones of discomfort, following God and not our complacency, seeking disruptive love rather than cheap and easy respite–we can’t wall ourselves off from parts of our country or parts of our history that are dark.  We need to go toward them, scrutinize them, and even embrace them, in order to change.  

These were the words from a prayer in our bulletin this weekend:

 

Turn over the tables in our hearts, minds, and churches, and make room for your grace to dwell.  We pray in the name of the One who disrupts the world with love, Jesus the Christ.

Amen.

On worshipping false gods

1 Corinthians 13:1-10

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast,but do not have love, I gain nothing.

 Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogantor rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

 Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.

Sonoran Desert.  Tucson, Arizona.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
Sonoran Desert. Tucson, Arizona. Photo by Evan Schneider.

I’ve heard these verses countless times–at weddings, from the pews, we even memorized them in Sunday school.  But I hardly noticed the clanging of my own symbol or the noise of my own gong  until the words were already out of my mouth, until it was too late.

I don’t think I’ve experienced such peer pressure since high school but I didn’t recognize it as such because I was in the company of adults.  The trite laughter at the expense of others, the insider-outsider politics, and the meanness of it all should have made it clear.

But I played along.  

I laughed with those mean-hearted academics, albeit with a sinking feeling in my stomach.  I became a clanging symbol, a noisy gong, a person I, myself, despised.

What I did that evening over a lovely dinner with not so lovely company is that I bowed before the god of knowledge, success, and reason rather than the wisdom of grace.  Feeling myself seduced by the grandeur of expertise and success I felt ugly, false, and fearful.  These are the feelings that make me question how I can ever live out this academic vocation while remaining true to a God of love and grace?

In sharing this crisis  with others around me, I’ve been reminded that while love, wisdom, and grace are certainly counter-cultural to the academic hustle-and-bustle, they’re not wholly absent.  As one of my colleagues pointed out, if we hate these types of dinner conversations, it’s up to this next generation of scholars to believe that there’s room enough for us all to be smart and succeed, and we don’t have to do it by stepping on one another to get there.  Success is also something that seemingly looms large and scarce, but as it turns out success can mean fulfillment, and fulfillment takes many forms.  There are also bullies like these everywhere, not only in academia.

The moon over the Catalinas.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
The moon over the Catalinas. Photo by Evan Schneider.

I just don’t want to be one of them.

At the end of the day, I felt so blessed to come home to my husband and daughter and see that in spite of my antics that evening, their grace and God’s grace embraced me fully.  At that moment my efforts to fit in and be smart were a farce, and forgiveness made me feel low and humble, but fully at home and free.

The scripture above says that even knowledge will come to an end!  And when knowledge fades, it is only faith, hope, and love that remain.  I am inspired by this pursuit of knowledge in my life, but the other night was a good reminder that it should not consume me.  I will not be consumed by worshipping these false gods of knowledge, success, and self-aggrandizement.  Instead I will rejoice in worshipping a God who wants more for me and for all his children, a God whose grace is sufficient, a God whose love is everlasting.  I will struggle to be faithful and I will call myself blessed.

Amen.

Will you let go?

We take God for granted.

We take it for granted that God is always standing there with arms wide open, poised and eager to receive our burdens.

Eager to receive our burdens.

Who in your life is truly eager to share your burdens?  Eager to gather all your hurt, your pain, your fears, your worries, shoulder them, carry them away, and all you need to do is let go?

But we don’t.

We cling.

We cling stubbornly to our ways.  We try to make it on our own.  The world feeds these desires, telling us that independence is the height of satisfaction and success.  That dependency, vulnerability, and weakness can be conquered if we just ignore them and push on.

But this type of pushing will drive you insane.

This type of pushing will deny you your true self, will keep you from honest relationships with others, and will keep you from a God who merely wants to share your burdens.

So try it this morning.

Try letting go.

Lamps in Istanbul.

Let God see your fears, your pain, and your hurt.  Let God walk alongside you, accompany you in the darkness.  And finally, let God take all those things to which you’ve been clinging and bear them, as Jesus did the cross, so that you can be free.

You may weep.  

You may weep because this type of grace does not come easy.  Not because God is not willing but because our flesh is weak.  You may weep because this grace is deeper, wider, bigger than the satisfaction we may feel at our own successes.  You may weep because to be in the presence of God is holy, astounding, and awe-inspiring.

You may weep because tomorrow God will be standing there once again with arms wide open, eager to receive our burdens.

Will you let go?

 

10 Things I learned in 2014

Christmas lights in NYC.

This is one of my favorite posts to write, because it forces me to go through all the lessons of the previous year and cull together all that God has taught me and all that God is doing.  2014 was such an eventful year for me personally, with the birth of my daughter and the defense of my dissertation.  Both of those have opened up some exciting conceptual space for me to dream and imagine my future vocation and God’s work in my life.

Sometimes that opening is scaring, because it’s always been hard for me to trust God with the future.  But if there’s one thing a new year brings, it is an opportunity to reframe what’s in front of us and see life through the eyes of God rather than our own limited vision.

A lovely cup of coffee. One of my favorite things.

Here’s what I learned this year.  What about you?

1.  Contentment is about living faithfully with uncertainty.

2.  Our lives are fuller when we yield to God and one another.

3.  We can’t have new life without the dirt and the worms and the mud.

Hoping for snow in 2015..

4.  Living as Easter people means risking earthly things for eternal ones.

5.  True love demands a shift in the way we view and live life.

6.  I desire to live with the humble heart of a student.

7.  When we view the world with open eyes, we find grace in our everyday circumstances.

8.  Stress-filled lives are also beautiful and holy, because God is present even in the thick smog of stress, enabling us to breathe.

9.  Everyday we choose whether to live in a world of abundance or one of scarcity.

10.  Whatever you’re feeling, God can take it.

* And the most viewed posts of 2014 were Five Chinese Phrases to Get You By,  International Travel Tips, and Imitating Christ’s Humility = Being “Like-minded.”

 

 

Where is the joy?

I’m nearing the end of my Lenten devotional, Richard J. Foster’s Celebration of Discipline, so besides needing another short book to fill the rest of April (any suggestions, guys?), I’m also finally starting to discover the meaning behind the curious title.

As Foster writes, “Joy is the end result of the Spiritual Disciplines’ functioning in our lives.  God brings about the transformation of our lives through the Disciplines, and we will not know genuine joy until there is transforming work within us…Celebration comes when the common ventures of life are redeemed” (Foster 193).

Plymouth, MA.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
Plymouth, MA. Photo by Evan Schneider.

Foster describes how we can’t take a shortcut to experiencing and exhibiting joy, but we can certainly experience joy through seeking God in prayer, confession, service, and worship, and it is God who is the source of this great gift.

That last line, “celebration comes when the common ventures of life are redeemed,” reminds me of a reflection I read this morning from Micha Boyett where she discusses the ordinary tasks of readying her two boys for school alongside the rather extraordinary miracle that Jesus does by turning water into wine.  Boyett’s pastor described the miracle as Jesus “replacing the joy,” and then points to our own lives, saying, “Look where you’re frantic and that’s probably the place where you’re trying to find joy.”

But the challenge is that finding joy, requires little of us and so much of Jesus, that we often spend the better part of our days scouring and scrubbing only to miss the promise of the dirt, the simplicity, the ordinary holiness of our bent up, misshapen lives.

Foster goes onto discuss a spirit of carefree celebration where we rely completely on God, and experience radical joy through our trust in God’s greatness rather than ourselves.  I look at the last few weeks and this controversy over World Vision’s decision and retraction for hiring gay staff in committed relationships, and I wonder, where is the joy?  I look around me at churches working arduously and desperately to spawn last ditch ministries to save themselves, and I wonder, where is the joy?  I look at each of us going about our busy lives, failing to truly see those in front of us, to listen, to love, and to rely on God and one another, and I don’t see strength or independence or carefree celebration, but fear and greed and angst.

I certainly don’t see joy.

The Sonoran Desert.  Tucson, Arizona.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
The Sonoran Desert. Tucson, Arizona. Photo by Evan Schneider.

The Church in America is in need of God’s joyful transformation.  We need less of us and more of God, less of our will and more of God’s grace and love and mercy.  And it’s only by way of the cross, that we are found by grace, and the we experience such true, unadulterated joy.

We don’t often think of Lent and the journey to the cross as a journey toward joy.  We often place the story of Jesus turning water into wine and Jesus’ death on the cross in two completely different literary categories, but what if we are called to live out the whole of our faith as ordinary, yet joyful people?  What if the transformation God enacts on the cross and in each one of us amounts to replacing the joy of humanity, and we’ve been missing something as we try so hard to just “get things right?”

We need look no further than our ordinary lives to answer the question, “where is the joy?”, and yet we struggle against what God has done for us.  We need look no further than the cup of wine to remind us of both Jesus’ holy sacrifice and great joyous celebration.  Let us accept the joyous transformation that Jesus brings to our lives, and let us live with great reliance on God, great grace for one another, and above all, great joy.

A photo so full of joy.  Bridal party at my friend's wedding on Chesapeake Bay.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
A photo so full of joy. Bridal party at my friend’s wedding on Chesapeake Bay. Photo by Evan Schneider.

Amen.

 

 

Welcome to the world, my daughter

As I write this, my daughter is asleep in the other room.

And as I write them, the words feel so deliciously surreal.

She was born this past week  in the wee hours of the morning as the snow came down.  I was so looking forward to the surprise of whether she’d come out a boy or a girl.  We’d waited so patiently for her, through days and days of painful prelabor, during which we’d walked in endless circles around our apartment complex, through the snow, and waded through sleepless nights.  But I’ll always remember how when they finally held her up for me to see, it never even occurred to me to think whether she was a boy or a girl.

She was a gift.  She was my child.  She is our joy.

As the three of us settle into our new life of feedings, changings, and lots of sleeping (for her not necessarily, us!), I’m so touched by husband’s strong desire to be with his daughter during every waking and sleeping moment.  As I banged out some last minute work on my dissertation this weekend and he held her, it occurred to me that his requests for me to put her in his arms signal his willingness to adjust his life to her, while I had been merely trying to fit her into my already existing one.

With all the parenting buzz and blogs (and no, this isn’t about to become another one of them, don’t worry!), not to mention our time in China, we’re acutely aware of the missteps one can take by making their child the center of the universe.  But there is a shift in the orbit it seems.  And that’s not a bad thing.  Perhaps, and at best, I think, we’re all adjusting to one another, learning to yield and depend and be graceful with one another, and it’s making us stronger and better along the way.  We’re stumbling a bit in the newness of it all, but I want to welcome my daughter into new life, not just my life, but a shared, God-given, grace-filled one.

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Welcome to the world, Lucia Jayne.  Your name means light, and suddenly everything feels new.  The cliche is true: things will never be the same again.

Sighs too deep for words

Saint Sulpice Cathedral.  Paris, France. Photo by Evan Schneider.
Saint Sulpice Cathedral. Paris, France. Photo by Evan Schneider.

Sometimes I think when you get a seminary education, you become a really big jerk when it comes to church-going.

You sit in the pews, and you have a really hard time not scrutinizing every word of the prayers, the hymns, and the sermon for theological integrity.  You tend to use your education, if only in your mind, in a way God couldn’t have possibly intended–your inner jackal voice (that’s what we called it in a nonviolent communication class I took) judges the church swiftly and bluntly for its imperfections and inconsistencies, finding it and its people wholly unworthy.  You start using theology to judge the world and its people rather than grace and love.

Are seminarians the only ones who do this?  

I’m thinking we’ve all probably done it–treated church like a country club, getting out our yardsticks to measure the benefits, the clientele, the grounds by big worldly standards and finding them sorely lacking.  At times we’ve probably had good reasons to reject a church or two, but do we do so with righteous indignation, self-assured conviction, or do we do it with humble grace, knowing that if God pulled out a yardstick, we’d all fall on the short side?

Prayer candles in a cathedral.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
Prayer candles in a cathedral. Photo by Evan Schneider.

I’m not always the most grace-filled person.  

On the Myers-Briggs scale, I’m an ENTJ, and that J for judging is pretty strong, but being at church, surrounded by not just people, but people God loves and who love one another forces me to reflect on my own need for grace.

Right now, my husband and I are blessed to attend such a church–a church that’s far from perfect, but somehow I hardly notice the imperfections, because people are so busy loving me and one another that I forget to look for them.  Sure, it helps that the worship is creative, and the sermons are thought-provoking, but that’s not really the essence of being church.

A few weeks ago I preached a sermon at another church on one of my favorite topics, centering or silent prayer, and the sermon, based on Romans 8, was entitled “Sighs too Deep for Words.”  And this week an unthinkable tragedy that took one of our church members from us, there were no words.  On Tuesday night, we gathered in the sanctuary to be together in our grief.

There were no sermons, no special music, and brokenness was everywhere.  And that’s where I felt God’s presence, in the tears, the sorrow, and the shared pain of a community–in a church that knew no better than to love one another and to seek God together in their grief, their sighs, and their laments.

Sacre Coeur at night.  Paris, France.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
Sacre Coeur at night. Paris, France. Photo by Evan Schneider.

I ask for your prayers this morning as you read about our church community that is grieving this loss.  But more than that, I hope and I pray that we all stop worrying so much about the right words, the appropriate hymns, or a perfect theology, and let God be God, especially at church.  And I pray that we let love be our response, to theology, whether bad or good, grace our response to brokenness, and silence, our faithful prayer when the words simply won’t come.  May the God of grace guide you this day and tomorrow and the next.

Amen.

Learning contentment

I rejoice in the Lord greatly that now at last you have revived your concern for me; indeed, you were concerned for me, but had no opportunity to show it. Not that I am referring to being in need; for I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me. –Philippians 4:10-13

For a variety of reasons, my morning runs on the canal path have been a bit slower as of late.

The D & R Canal in Princeton at the height of summer.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
The D & R Canal in Princeton at the height of summer. Photo by Evan Schneider.

That’s not like me.

My type of running is usually a 3-4 mile sprint in which I push myself to the ultimate limit for thirty minutes, cramming in a brisk workout in an equally jam-packed day.  I’ve never been good at pacing myself out there on the trail, and when I’m out of shape and trying to get back to the grind, I have to remind myself over and over not to push, lest I get injured or expend the limited energy that I have.

I don’t think it’s a bad thing for us to push ourselves in life, but jogging this new rhythm, I’ve started noticing things I never saw at the breakneck pace– a hornet’s nest precariously dangling from a slight branch, a plush feather falling to the path, birds, turtles, snakes, and the ever-so-slight glimpses of fall in the reddening of the trees’ leaves.

I’ve started learning something like contentment in all circumstances.

Things are far from perfect, and yet God seems to be opening my eyes to the wisdom and gift of a slower pace, the grace that peeks out when we’re willing to take it in, and the goodness that is God beneath the ups and downs of this world.  Underneath contentment lies acceptance, and under acceptance, a deep, firm layer of mutual trust between God and me that seems to know no end.  It’s like firmament or insulation from this rough and tumble world, this world that pushes, that runs along at breakneck pace…

The first glimpses of fall.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
The first glimpses of fall. Photo by Evan Schneider.

But I’m discovering that we don’t have to.

We are meant to notice, we are meant to praise.  We are meant to live in God’s grace and lift up God’s glorious name in all circumstances.  Paul writes above that he has learned “the secret…of having plenty and of being in need,” and that secret is confidence, faith, and trust in God.  And I think when it’s at it’s best, it’s mutual.  As I trust God more with my life, with everything in it, I feel God trusting me to minister to others, to follow my call, and to speak words of wisdom in times of trial.

I’m discovering the depth of what it means to be content, to remain steadfast in our hope and faith in God, despite the wavers of this world.  And I’m discovering the overflowing gratitude that comes from it (I think it no coincidence that the verses previous to the ones from Paul in Philippians 4 are the ones that call us to rejoice and to focus on the true, the honorable, the pure, the just, the pleasing, that which is worthy of excellence and praise [Phil. 4:4-8]).

God is so good.

Skyping on the balcony with a friend in China.  My photo.
Skyping on the balcony with a friend in China. My photo.

Contentment is not a trite command to push ourselves to be positive in times of sorrow, but an invitation to notice the grace in this fallen world, and to take heart and trust that God is with us in all circumstances.

How is God teaching you about contentment today?