Living Evidence

Every time we visit the library, Asher and I stop by the glass case.

You could easily miss it - tucked in a corner, surrounded by board books, puppets, and printer paper. The case itself is unassuming. About the size of an aquarium. Smudged with fingerprints.

But inside? Well, that's another matter.

Beyond the besmirched glass rest two upright branches. Milkweed. Thick-stemmed. Velvety. And clinging to those branches are two tiny marvels, draped in green and studded with gold.

Monarch chrysalises.

Asher first took notice of the glass case a few weeks ago, when two plump caterpillars munched greedily on milkweed leaves. With noses pressed to glass, we observed their striped frocks - black, yellow, white. We commented on their concentrated consumption. We compared them to a certain hungry caterpillar of children's book renown.

But by the next week, the caterpillars had vanished. And a new marvel had appeared. Two dainty green chrysalises, affixed to branches by tiny black stems. Jewels of nature. Gateways to transformation.

"Where'd they go?" Asher asked, voice padded with concern. So I explained the life cycle of a butterfly. How a caterpillar hides in a chrysalis. How it later emerges as a winged beauty.

Asher was visibly skeptical. And rightfully so.

     Because, really, how can you understand transformation unless you see it? 

     And how can you comprehend the old-made-new unless you witness it with your own eyes?   

And that got me thinking.

God is in the business of transformation. Of taking spiritual caterpillars and molding them into creatures of beauty.

     So shouldn't other people understand God's power when they see our transformation? 

     And shouldn't they comprehend the old-made-new when they witness it in our lives? 

In a letter to the church in Corinth, Paul asks his fellow believers to do a little soul-searching. To conduct a spiritual before-and-after:

"Brothers, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong" (1 Corinthians 1:26-27).

Think of what you were when you were called. 

Ponder that for a moment. This instruction is given by Paul. Who "[breathed] out murderous threats against the Lord's disciples" (Acts 9:1). Who imprisoned Christ-followers. Who described himself as "in regard to the law, a Pharisee; as for zeal, persecuting the church; as for legalistic righteousness, faultless" (Philippians 3:5-6).

And then? Damascus. Paul's moment of transformation.

Who were you when you were called? 

Paul goes on to say, "My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power" (1 Corinthians 2:4-5).

Paul didn't need statistics or data or facts to demonstrate God's power.
   
     His message was "Christ crucified."

     His proof was gathered on the road to Damascus.  
    
     His life was the evidence. 
     
God's power is demonstrated in the transformation of a single life.

     Your life. My life.

So? You and I have a story to tell. Of our transformation. Our Damascus. The moment God took our caterpillar-selves and gave us wings.

Sure, we could use data. Or wisdom. Or intellect.

Or we can think of what we were when we were called and let our lives be the evidence.

An Inheritance Worth Receiving

Her eyes light up when she talks about the past.

It's a miracle, really. The way the years melt away as she repeats the oft-told stories. The way gray hair, wrinkled skin, and arthritic fingers give way to girlhood. The way history restores youth.

"Back in my day..." Four little words, and my grandma is a kid again. All spunk. Tomboy through and through.

I could listen to these stories. For hours. I've heard some of them so many times I'm sure the words are embroidered on my mind, stitched on my heart. The thread of my grandma's voice holds them all together.

You see, in the listening, these stories have become mine. They've become part of me. Like Russian nesting dolls, my heart is layered with family history.

These stories are my inheritance. 

Sure, there are a few scamps and scoundrels clinging to our family tree. And the branches do not bend with the weight of celebrity or royalty or wealth. But the roots? Well, those are planted firmly in faith.

And isn't that worth inheriting? 

My great-grandfather, owner of Riverside Lumber Company, supplied furniture manufacturers with lumber at a time when Grand Rapids was known as "Furniture City." Business boomed. My grandma recalls her parents' home during this time of prosperity. Imported tiles. Gilded decor.

My family has known plenty. 

Then? The Stock Market crashed. My great-grandfather's debtors could not make payments. The business went under. The beautiful home? Gone.

My family has known loss. 

My great-grandfather resolved to repay his own debts. Every last one of them. It took him years.

And my great-grandmother? Did she lament? Begrudge? Bemoan? No. She knelt on the imported tile of her beautiful fire place - the pride and joy, the heart of her home - and prayed. Her prayer echoes across generations: "Thank you, Lord, for all you've given us. You've been so good. Now you have chosen to take away. We trust you to provide for our future."

My family has shown faith. 

And me? I'm from these people. I'm from the hard work, the losing everything, the bending knee and giving thanks for what has been taken away.

I have inherited a legacy of faith.

Jesus talks about inheritance in Mark 10. A rich young man asks Jesus, "What must I do to inherit eternal life?" Jesus responds, "Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then, come follow me" (v. 21).

Seems like an oxymoron, doesn't it? To inherit is to gain, to acquire. Jesus tells the rich young man to give away his possessions so he can gain eternal life.

     Give = gain 

     Earthly poverty = heavenly wealth

     Faith = inheritance

So my great-grandparents were on to something. They lost everything. Every penny. Yet three generations later, their legacy lingers. Does their money fatten my wallet? Does their gold expand my bottom line? No. But their trust, their faith, their prayerfulness point my heart to the place where my treasure lies. And that is a priceless inheritance.

A Lesson on Hurrying

I am always in a hurry.

After all, I have laundry to do. And dishes to wash. And groceries to buy. And phone calls to make. If I don't work quickly, things will never get done. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

Days pass. Breathlessly. In a flash. Lickety-split.

Life is a whirlwind. And I'm hurried. Harried. Hard-pressed to find a spare moment.

God knew I needed to take a breath. So He used a child to teach me a lesson about hurry. About how it steals your joy. About how it makes you blind to the beauty unfurling around you. About how it cripples your ability to marvel.

We were leaving the grocery store, cart heaping with bread and milk and eggs. As usual, I was in a hurry. To leave. To unload the groceries. To carry on with my day. You see, I dislike grocery shopping. Immensely. So my goal for every trip to the grocery store is to get in and out - in record time. This might have been possible before Asher was born, but having a child is not conducive to getting things done in a hurry. This is especially true of two-year-olds who stop every few feet to look at something. Or comment on something. Or loudly inform a fellow shopper that he looks like Santa Claus.

As I clutched my son's hand and attempted to navigate the cart through the parking lot, Asher stopped in his tracks. With a gasp. Cart, momma, and son came to a sudden halt. "What's wrong?" I asked, with concern - and a little more annoyance than I care to admit.

Asher crouched down, his head bowed close to the ground, and said, "Oh, Mommy! Look at this ant! He's carrying something!"

That's it?! I thought. He stopped in the middle of a busy parking lot with a cart full of groceries to look at an ant?! As I prepared to lecture him about the dangers of parking lots and how Mommy has a lot to do and how there is ice cream in the cart that could melt, Asher said something that put me in my place.

"Mommy, did you know God made this ant? And do you know that He loves you?"

That's it. Two questions from an earnest toddler. And I was undone.

If the world is God's schoolhouse, couldn't a parking lot become a classroom? And couldn't a two-year-old become a teacher? And if faith like a mustard seed can move mountains, couldn't an ant bring a frazzled mommy to her knees?

You see, Asher reminded me that children have an ability most adults have long since forgotten. The ability to marvel. Admire. Wonder.

Like most kids, Asher is not interested in tasks or to-do lists. After all, a to-do list identifies tasks that have yet to be done, and Asher gives no thought to the future. His life is happening right now. And because Asher is not worried about multi-tasking or melting ice cream - because right now is all that matters - Asher stooped low to marvel at an ant.

     And when he saw that ant, Asher was reminded of the Maker. 

     And the memory of the Maker reminded Asher of His love. 
     
     And isn't this just what the psalmists write about?  

David said, "The earth is the Lord's, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it" (Psalm 24). Did you catch that? The earth is the Lord's. Everything around us is the Lord's. We are the Lord's.

So that teeny, tiny ant? The one carrying a crumb in a grocery store parking lot? That ant was the Lord's.

But is it enough to simply acknowledge that the whole earth belongs to the Lord? The psalmists don't think so. Read Psalm 136:

"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His love endures forever ... Give thanks to the Lord of lords ... who by his understanding made the heavens ... who spread out the earth upon the waters."

     So the earth is the Lord's. 

     And everything in it shows His goodness.

     And His love for us endures forever.

     And we should give thanks.

So my two-year-old psalmist was right. That tiny ant belongs to the Maker. And the Maker loves us with an enduring love. And shouldn't that stop me in my tracks? Shouldn't that bring me to my knees?

     If we stopped to look at the world around us, wouldn't we marvel?

     And if we took the time to marvel, wouldn't be reminded of God's goodness?

     And if we remembered God's goodness, wouldn't our hearts be warmed by His enduring love?

If we can slow down - if we can see the world through the eyes of a child - if we can stop to marvel - we will see the love of the Maker written everywhere.

Chained to the Past

Some memories are like chains. Fetters. Merciless shackles imprisoning us in the past.

I have a few chains of my own. My wrists and ankles have known the steely bite of manacles, the iron grip of memories that won't let go.

Sometimes old memories can't be stifled. Sometimes ancient wounds find their way into the present. Sometimes those fetters we tried to throw off start tugging on us again.

You have chains too, don't you? 

If I were to follow my chains into the past - to trace each metallic link to its origin - it would bring me back to high school. To a dark, stuffy office with mustard-colored carpet. To an adult I trusted and respected - who later misused my trust and stole my self-respect. To months of shame and loneliness and having no way out.

You know what else I would find at the end of my chain? I'd find the question that nagged me all those months. That haunted my thoughts late at night and refused to let me sleep.

Where is God, and why is He letting this happen to me?

I bet you could trace your chains back to a memory - a moment - that still haunts you today. And when you get to that moment - the one you'd rather just forget - you might even find the same painful question lurking in the shadows: Where was God, and why did He let this happen to me?

I spent years believing those aching, shaming months were some sort of cruel punishment. My young mind was troubled by how contradictory my situation seemed. God is good, and "in all things God works for the good of those who love him" (Romans 8:28). So why does a good God allow bad things to happen to those who are fervently trying to follow Him? Why did God seemingly abandon me in my time of need? I answered these questions in the only way my seventeen-year-old brain could fathom: I decided that I must have done something wrong. Those months of humiliation and loneliness must have been a punishment. 

Thank God, I was wrong.

Please don't misunderstand me. I believe that God disciplines His children for their good just as a loving parent disciplines a wayward child (Hebrews 12:10). We are a ragged bunch of sinful souls who rely on the love of a merciful God. To be very honest, we deserve all the punishment we get.

But I also believe that sometimes God allows bad things to happen to His children not because He is trying to punish them, but because He is proclaiming His work in their lives. 

Remember the story about Jesus healing a blind man (John 9:1-12)? As he was traveling with his disciples, Jesus came upon a man who had been blind from birth. The disciples wanted to know what caused the man's blindness: was it the sin of his parents or his own sin that forbade him to see? Notice the assumption embedded within the question; the disciples believed the man's blindness was the result of a past sin. To the disciples, blindness = punishment.

But Jesus had a different story to tell. In response to the disciples' question, Jesus said, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life" (John 9:3). Did you catch that? The disciples were wrong. This man was not blind because God wanted to punish him or his parents for past wrong-doing. No! This man was born blind so that the work of God could be displayed in his life.

Our hurts, our wounds, our trials can be a showcase for an Almighty God!

After answering the disciples' question, Jesus rubbed mud in the man's eyes and instructed him to wash in the Pool of Siloam. And you know what happened? "The man went and washed, and came home seeing" (John 9:7). After a lifetime of blindness - of missing the color, light, and shadow of the world around him - the blind man's sight was restored.

What do you do when you're healed? Rescued? When the chains are finally broken? When the wound is finally bandaged?

What do you do when the Lord delivers you from your past? 

Do you feel sorry for yourself and the pain you have endured? Do you get angry at God, wondering why it took Him so long to show up?

Or do you follow the lead of the blind man, and use it as an opportunity to showcase God's power in your life?

What if I lived like this? What if I chose to believe that the memory chaining me to the past - to the mustard-colored office and the wolf-in-sheep's-clothing - is not a punishment? What if I chose to believe that those months were not a sentence to shame and loneliness, but a showcase of God's work in my life?

Wouldn't the chains become a work of art? 

And wouldn't the scars become a badge of honor? 

The truth is, we can live like that. We serve a God who doesn't waste a wound.

We can leave the past behind us - just like the blind man left the Pool of Siloam.

We can rub the mud out of our eyes and see beauty where there was once ugliness, deliverance where there was once shame.

We can let God use our hurts, our wounds, our trials as a showcase of His power in our lives.

Dear Asher

Dear Asher,

Today you wrote and illustrated your first book. There's a saying that goes, "Write about what you know." Well, you took that saying to heart ... and wrote about garbage trucks and fire trucks. You are pretty proud of your first literary masterpiece. You've already asked to re-read it several times, and you giggle shyly after each page.

Asher, you know that I love books. I have lots of favorites, but your book tops my list!

Love,
Mommy

P.S. - I know, I know. I make you do a lot of teacher-y activities. You can thank me when you're a New York Times best-selling author. :)

Summer Days

Summer is here at last! After the snowy winter and rainy spring we had in Michigan, the long, sun-soaked summer days seem especially decadent this year. Since the last day of school, we have been taking advantage of every fun-filled moment! 

We started our summer with a celebration - Will's 31st birthday! Will's dad was able to book a last-minute trip to Michigan to help us celebrate. In true Brazilian fashion, our celebration revolved around food, family, and late nights. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law treated us to picanha - a savory, melt-in-your-mouth Brazilian meat. We are so blessed to call these wonderful people our family!

One of my high school friends was in town, so we gathered our kids for a fun day at the pool. As you can imagine, we had a lot of catching up to do - after all, it's been 11 years and almost 10 kids since graduation! What a joy it was to spend time with these ladies! 

We also spent time in Grand Haven with my parents. I loved spending summers in Grand Haven when I was younger - swimming in Lake Michigan, walking to the lighthouse, and eating ice cream on the pier before it could melt. It's fun to continue the tradition with Asher!

I also completed a fun DIY project. I have a small major obsession with Downton Abbey, so when I saw this idea on Pinterest I knew I had to give it a try! This project was a lot of fun! Since we don't really use cloth napkins around here (getting Asher to use a paper napkin is a huge victory most days), I'm using them to decorate different spaces throughout the house. Now the sarcastic wit of the Dowager Countess is literally everywhere we turn. I am much more excited about this than Will is, as you can imagine.

Will says this quote is very fitting in our house. Should I be offended?

I've also had time to read ... for FUN! I just finished East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and the novel left me speechless! This story is a breath-taking re-telling of Genesis, focusing on the story of Cain and Abel. Steinbeck's characters are unforgettable, as is the tale of love and hate, betrayal and redemption that unfolds on every page. When I was in college, a literature professor asked the class, "What book do you wish you had written? What book would you like to call your own?" I've never been able to answer that question with any degree of certainty. I LOVE books. And I've always had a list of books I consider my favorites. But I've never really wished I could claim a book as my own. Until now. East of Eden is the book I wish I had written. I'm certain I will re-read this book often in the years to come. 

Finally, I've continued recording my gifts in my gratitude journal as inspired by Ann Voskamp. I feel like a kid gathering fireflies in a jar as I record all the blessings God has lavished upon me - I've counted over 200 so far! God is so good!