Frozen Heart

For the first time this year (and the first significant time this whole winter long), snow rages through the air and settles deep on the ground.  And as I sit here, coffee betwixt my fingers and thumb, warm to the bones and full to the brim with everything I need and many of the things I want, I remember...

I remember Walter, the man with the cardboard sign who only asked for help to keep his 6-year-old son off the streets.  I remember the many veterans, men and women, who have fought long and hard with body and mind, now frail in both, who sit on the side of the highway exits, judged for being physically and emotionally and mentally scarred by the battles they've seen.  I remember the man under the overpass, his bed of old, smelly sleeping bags made with care, practicing his kirate -- or dancing; I couldn't quite tell.  And the snow flew anyway.  And as the ground beneath them froze, so did my heart.  And I realize I don't know the meaning of these words as well as I often think I do:

Remember my affliction and my wandering, the wormwood and bitterness.

Surely my soul remembers and is bowed down within me.

No, that I do not remember.  But they do.

But it's not too late for them, for their frozen bodies.  Nor me, for my frozen heart.

This I recall to my mind, 

Therefore I have hope.

The Lord's lovingkindnesses indeed never cease,

For His compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

Great is Your faithfulness.

His lovingkindness and compassion are extended to my heart each and every day, and I have the choice each day to extend it beyond myself, to those in need.  

I've said it before, and I'll say it again:

I was raised in a culture that said, "God helps those who help themselves" and "You reap what you sow" and "I'll help you if you prove to me you're worth it."  Nowhere in any of those statements is the gospel present.  The gospel is about God helping people who cannot help themselves, and reaping something that someone else sowed, and understanding that we're all unworthy of help and that's why it's so awesome that God's love and care is not based on worth!  The gospel is God helping the poor, namely me and you.  And those who've heard and understood and accepted this gospel are called to be extenders of the same grace we were given. 

That means helping people who can't -- maybe even won't -- help themselves. 

That means giving people things that they didn't work for. 

That means extending care and grace and provision to people whether we deem them "worthy" or not.  Because neither are we.  Yet, God lavished all of his fullness on us anyway.

And you know what?  You and every other person on this planet may not be worthy of another's unconditional love and provision, but we all have eternal, immeasurable value -- God's image imprinted on every eye and every fingerprint and every soul.  And with that value comes responsibility for making that choice, for extending that grace, for loving God by loving our neighbors.

Yes, my heart is often distracted -- or even intentionally turned away -- from the needs of others.  But I pray God above and within will help me turn my eyes and spirit to those in need, and help me extend to them my arms and my love, cold though it may be, that His love working through me might warm and thaw this frozen heart.

Five years...

                                                                      of dreaming about castles in the sky,

                                                                           and of building our own on the fertile soil

                                                                                of loving someone else more than life itself

                                                                                                                  ... and counting.

Photo by the fabulous Casey Jo Jenkins of J7 Photography

The Same Grace We Were Given

I've been gone for a long time.  Over a month, I see...  

Don't know what kept me away, except the realization that I didn't have to do this.  I didn't have to have a steady flow of blog posts to have friends who think I'm pretty fun.  I didn't have to write cleverly or poetically or even thoughtfully about trivial or important things in order to be understood and loved.  I just needed to step away for a while to see that.  Now that I'm back, I find I'm the recipient of a bloggerrific honor (Much to my surprise! Thanks, Jenna!), and that -- while I may not have a storehouse of interesting things to converse about with my world wide websters -- I do have a few things stored up in my heart that are longing for an out.  And I do have friends out there who might be interested to hear about them.  And as long as I don't base my self esteem on the inflow of positive comments, I can actually enjoy this outlet.

And so I return, fresh blog post in hand and my heart not quite so on my sleeve, but certainly available to those who ask for it kindly.  Or those who rip it from my chest.  Well, I'm getting ahead of myself...

*****

One thing I've been thinking a lot about in the last several days is urban poverty and homelessness.  Last week Hope For Chicago (who's Executive Director I work for) and Holy Trinity Church (our home away from home), along with several other gospel-centered social justice groups, sponsored/attended a one-day conference (directly following the three-day Gospel Coalition Conference) entitled Christ+City, which was headlined by Manhattan church-planter Tim Keller (who has a most excellent theology of the gospel lived out as both justification by faith and social justice in our communities... but that's a parenthetical statement for another day!).  I can't believe I just sputtered that out all in one sentence, but there you have it.

Between that conference and BSF's recent study of Isaiah 58, I've been done in with thoughts and prayers for the urban poor.  Especially on days like today -- cold, windy, rainy, pretty much the epitome of miserable days -- I am quick to think of my own misfortunes (Sheesh!  I can't take a leisurely walk to my favorite new coffee bar and drink in Spring's glory!) and not the misfortunes of others, which may very likely exclude the cozy chair and warm cup of one's own home-brewed coffee with a roof over one's head and dry clothes on one's back.  

It's taken a long, long time to see poverty through the eyes of Jesus.  I was raised in a culture that said, "God helps those who help themselves" and "You reap what you sow" and "I'll help you if you prove to me you're worth it."  Nowhere in any of those statements is the gospel present.  The gospel is about God helping people who cannot help themselves, and reaping something that someone else sowed, and understanding that we're all unworthy of help and that's why it's so awesome that God's love and care is not based on worth!  The gospel is God helping the poor, namely me and you.  And those who've heard and understood and accepted this gospel are called to be extenders of the same grace we were given.  

That means helping people who can't -- maybe even won't -- help themselves.  

That means giving people things that they didn't work for.  

That means extending care and grace and provision to people whether we deem them "worthy" or not.  Because neither are we.  Yet, God lavished all of his fullness on us anyway.

The gospel -- justification by grace alone -- demands that we extend it in just the same way we received it.  It demands that we care more about the person on the corner with the cardboard sign than we care about what that dollar or two that we painstakingly give him might be spent on.  (Really?  You care more about a practically worthless piece of paper than a human soul?)  Please forgive me if this sounds like a frustrated rant.  I promise you it's as much -- and even more -- directed to my own heart than it is to anyone else's.  I suppose part most of my frustration comes from the realization that I've been walking with the Lord, meditating on his word, sitting under the teaching of good theology for years, and am only just now starting to have these sore, oozing eyes parted, slowly and painfully and resistantly opened to the reality of my place among the poor and my calling to their welfare.  Consider these words, spoken from God's lips to our hearts:

  Is this not the fast which I choose,
         To loosen the bonds of wickedness,
         To undo the bands of the yoke,
         And to let the oppressed go free
         And break every yoke?
   Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry
         And bring the homeless poor into the house;
         When you see the naked, to cover him;
         And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?

That is our calling, my friend.  That is our fast, our prayer, our demonstration of our faith to our God and our fellow earth-dwellers.  To bring freedom through the gospel to people.  Freedom not only for the poor, enslaved to their poverty, but freedom also for the rich, enslaved to their wealth; freedom that breaks every yoke.  And freedom involves sacrifice.  For Jesus that involved death.  Can I, then, not spare some food, money, shelter, clothing, etc., for the freedom of others?  For me, that's what it will sometimes involve.  It most definitely always involves giving respect: Is the fast which I choose not to hide yourself from your own flesh?  To me that says, don't turn away.  Don't look in the other direction when you see someone in need.  Don't ignore them.  Respect their personhood by looking them in the eyes.  Respect them by not only acknowledging them but speaking to them, and not with pity but with compassion.  Showing pity is not the same thing as showing compassion.  Pity says, "I'm sorry," and then may spare some loose change for the alleviation of one's own guilt over being richer than someone else.  Compassion builds a relationship with someone, and then says, "What do you need?  How can I help?"

I've shared a song, "Winter's Ashes" on here before.  Eric and I recently worked on a video/montage for it (for the above conference), so I hope you won't mind me sharing it again.  Look and listen and pray let the spirit stir in your heart and mine a grace for others more like God's... more like the grace we were given...

Five years and counting...

This past weekend was a special one for the gentleman friend and I.  You see, one bitterly cold Monday in late February, 2006, I flew to Chicago and, in true Chicago fashion, was made an offer I couldn't refuse.  Quell your Untouchables fantasy, my friend; that's another story for another day.  Rather, mon amour Eric asked for my hand in exchange for his heart.  (Gladly and thankfully, we each gave the rest of us, too, five months later.)  Sunday last was to mark five years since that day, so E and I decided to spend the whole weekend celebrating.

After a jazzy Friday evening out, we spent a sleepy Saturday morning in.  It was a perfectly snowy morn, so we spent it with coffee in hand and sighs escaping our refreshed lips.  Not wanting to waste that perfect snow, though, we set out in the early afternoon for a Classic Chicago Date: Millennium Park's Ice-Skating Rink, which was a first for us!  I started to hem and haw about the weather a bit when the perfect snow turned into questionable pellets, but we went forward with our plan anyway and enjoyed a wonderful afternoon on ice.

 

I realized after the fact that ice-skating kind of reminded me of our marriage.  Eric and I were not exactly natural on the ice together.  Sure, once I took off on my own, I was fine.  But getting into a rhythm together -- having to move forward in such a way that one wouldn't trip up the other -- was challenging, honestly.  We had to support each other, even suffer a few falls before we got the hang of it (and after we got a little full of ourselves), but still, we laughed (with one another) a lot.  The hippity-happy sixties and seventies music didn't hurt, either.  :)

Before leaving Millennium Park, we hopped on over to The Bean (er... Cloudgate... right.) for a few fun, albeit cloudy, shots:

After a few hours in this part of town, the sun (well, what was left of its rays, many of which got lost on their way through the cloudy Chicago skies) began bidding us good evening and called us on to other places.  One place we'd had in mind to visit was our bench.  The one just east of the sidewalk that passes through Jane Addams park on the Ohio Street Beach.  The one that has such a brilliant view of Lake Michigan and this amazing city, all in the turn of one's head.  That's the one.  That's where all the magic happened those five years ago, and we wanted a small taste of its magic once more.

After a while of reminiscing over the past and dreaming of the future, I finally decided that my fingers were cold enough and I was ready to start that long, lovely walk home.  To my complete surprise, Eric replied, "Oh, but there's one more thing..." and then, reaching into the camera bag, just like he did five years ago, he pulled out a box that had been hiding away inside, all along, and showed me this, a lovely new companion for my cold fingers:

Needless to say, I was in total shock!  My left ring finger has worn a precious symbol of Eric's heart in my hand for five years, and I certainly wasn't expecting another.  But you see, the ring he gave me five years ago had years of history already behind it.  It belonged to his mother, who passed it along to him for me, a beautiful sign to me of her blessing on our marriage.  For five years I have treasured that ring more than any other earthly thing, but still, somewhere in the deep, secret places of my heart, I hoped to someday wear something that my love had picked out specifically and only for me.  The breath caught in my chest when I realized that this secret longing was coming true.

After breathing deeply to prevent the hyperventilation my surprised gasp might have begun, and while taking in a few more breathtaking views from and around our bench, we made our way to the next destination down memory lane...

Panang is the Thai restaurant where we, happy but poor, ate our first meal together as an engaged couple.  (I can't wait to tell you about our very first date meal.  All I can say now is, the mafia was involved.  Yes, I wasn't kidding.  Another story for another day...)  After some delicious stirfry, we headed home.  Well, actually, we went to Homegoods.  E was actually in a good enough mood to admit that he wouldn't mind shopping, so -- knowing well our need for new sheets and a meat thermometer -- I gave superficial romance a suckerpunch and took advantage of love in its purest form: self-sacrifice.  I love my husband. 

The weekend rounded out beautifully with a restful Sunday, the best kind.  I had some time to reflect on how truly blessed I've been these five years, and took in every moment of it.  It's so easy to take someone for granted, you know?  I hope never to, while I know there will be times I do.  But oh, how I love him.  Beautiful rings don't remind me of that.  A gentle, patient, kind husband whose hands and words demonstrate every day what his heart believes and knows and feels: that's what reminds me that our love is rooted in something much deeper than we can even perceive.  And oh, if five years can be so, so good, I can't wait to see what "happily ever after" brings...

My Matthew

So, I'm pretty sure I have one of the best jobs on the planet... 'cause... I got to spend today with this little guy:

Obviously this picture was not taken today, but last May.  I can't believe how much he's grown since then!

I can't say too many wonderful things about Matthew.  He's my super kid.  He's one of the most kind-hearted, loving, sweet little boys I've ever known, and I love him back with all my being.  Sometimes when I lay my head down to sleep at night, if I start telling Eric about whatever Matty and I did that day, I can't keep the tears from forming in my eyes.  And I wonder at times whether I'll be able to hold as much love in my heart for my own child as I do for this one.  My heart is just so tender towards him.

Because of Matthew, I'm really starting to understand the Father's heart in that it's not what I do but who I am -- His child -- that makes Him love me.  'Cause Matthew's not perfect (ahem, nor my child, but I think the parallel stands).  But even when he has an "accident" again, even when he breaks down from exhaustion and throws a tantrum, even when he makes a mess on the just-cleaned kitchen floor, 

I adore him.  

Everything about him, from his slobbery kisses and heart-breaking smile, to his rambunctious parades of noise-making madness, I am totally smittened with.  Sure, I get frustrated with him at times, but I still love him to death.  I can't help it.  His imperfections only make me so much more thankful for who he really is: a little boy who loves and needs to be loved.

I never wanted a little boy.  Never.  I once thought it might be a good idea merely to perpetuate what is one of the coolest last names on the face of the earth.  But, in general, I thought I could do without the the mud tracked in and the trains abounding underfoot and the bugs brought to me for investigation and the generally loud running amok.  But Matthew has changed my mind.  I still long for a little girl to play princess with.  But I'd be ever so thankful for a little prince, too.  Which reminds me of another endearing thing about Matty -- his perpetual questions regarding my own perpetuation of the race.  My favorite time was when he asked, "Carrie, do you have a baby in your tummy?"  Laughingly I replied, "No, Matthew," to which he answered with his little hands on my... er... upper body, "But you have these."

He asked yet again a few weeks ago, "Carrie, when are you gonna get a baby?"  Good question, Matthew.  But not one I can answer, much to the chagrin of mothers everywhere (at least, one in North Carolina).  I don't know and won't venture to find out, but -- while attempting to enjoy every minute of this short married-without-kids season -- I can say I'm looking forward to the next season with prayer and hope that I "get" a kid as darling as my Matthew.

A happily exhausted pair.

-----

Stay tuned for the someday-forthcoming prequel and sequel 

- Rozzie and Daniel -

two more of my favorite kids in the world!

From My Journal...

                                                                                                                                                May 19, 2005

I feel that my heart is beating so deeply that it would beat right out of my chest, could it, after the matter, keep beating, keep loving.  Dare I confess that I adore him, that I love him?  For once I cannot refrain from admitting so.

To walk through meadows adorned with white wildflowers with him, to ride the wings of the breeze, skimming across the salty waters of the sea.  To bathe in the moonlight with him, fairies kissing our fingers and toes, fireflies dancing as though they they, too, were in love as he and I are in love.

Dare I imagine such beauty in his company?

 

I'm so glad I dared.

My marriage is not a fairy tale, as my love-strung words may have anticipated.  It is far more beautiful than I could imagine then, than I can express even now.  I thank God for this man and all the magic and love he has filled my heart with for the past five years.  When I wrote those words, I knew him then only as I know some of you now.  

But God works in mysterious ways, so they say...

 Perfect photos taken by Casey Jo Jenkins of J9 Photography in Indiana.