We’ve been invited…

Two days ago, I went to HEB with the little man.  We were in need of diapers.  After finding the best deal on a mega-pack, we headed back to the car.  The sun was shining bright and we were both looking forward to the day.  I had been invited to meet friends at Starbucks and catch up over coffee.  Judah was excited about the prospect of sweet treats while the mommies talked.  We wasted no time and loaded the diapers, returned the shopping cart to its metal corral, and began the buckling-in process.

Any parent or grandparent knows that this daily chore can indeed be a lengthy process.  Straps can get twisted, bottoms have to scoot back, and a small battle of “put your goldfish in the other hand” has to ensue just to get arms through the appropriate belts.  This day, however, an unforeseen turn of events was underway.  Our buckling-in routine was about to be altered.

Just as I clicked the second-to-last buckle in his 5-point harness, the car door behind me closed on my legs.  This left passenger door has a tendency to shut on its own, so at first, I really thought nothing of it, and simply without looking pushed against the window with my left hand.  I had intentionally parked next to a vacant spot to make the bucking-in process easier, so I wasn’t concerned about swinging the door into a nearby car.

But, despite my attempt, the door didn’t budge.  I quickly turned, confused as to what was happening.  Through the window I saw a black car slowly pulling in to the spot next to me.  Only 8 inches or so from the side of our car it crept in, pushing firmly against the car door at my back.  The pressure on my calves was increasing.  I thought, “What is this moron doing?  Don’t they see that there is someone in here?”  I twisted my upper body, lower legs pinned between the car door and the running board.  While pushing on the door window with my left forearm, I pounded the tinted window of the black car with my right fist.  I heard the bodies of the two cars crackle, and for a second, questioned if the sound was that of fracturing bone.  It soon became evident that there was no driver to hear my determined and desperate knocking.  “What in the world???….”

More confusion set in…

“Where did this back phantom car come from?”  

Then panic…

“How am I going to get out of here?”

“I’m all alone…”

Scenes flashed though my thoughts:  Aron Ralston, who cut off his own arm with a dull knife to escape his entrapment by a boulder, a long-ago tragedy of a high school friend who, while sitting on the hood of a parked car was hit head-on by another car, severing both legs, and a fearful glimpse of myself–life dramatically altered by the loss of limbs.

I sent out a few desperate one-handed texts to my husband and the friends I was to meet asking them to pray.  I see now that my texts were altogether confusing and painted a much more frightening picture.  Sorry, y’all. 🙂

I struggled to push against the child car-seat and the door that unrelentingly pressed in.  Even with my best resistance, the gap between the door and the car grew smaller.  I thought, “I don’t know how long I can keep pushing.”

I spotted a woman putting away her groceries in her trunk across the lot.  I yelled, “Help!” through the crack in the door.  She turned and looked.  I screamed again and she came running.  I quickly tried to explain what little I understood, “this car came out of nowhere and there is no one in there, and my legs are getting squashed, and I don’t know what to do, but I need out, and the door is still trying to shut…”  I could hear the trembling and panic in my voice, which only gave affirmation to my fear.  She, too, was trying to wrap her mind around what was happening.  “I don’t know what to do!”, she said.  She ran to the back of the car to read the license plate number.  She apologized profusely for having to find a paper and pen, because she wouldn’t be able to remember the number on her own.  Then she was gone to find the owner.

It felt like an eternity.  I felt alone.  I felt trapped.

Then I heard her voice return and that of a man.  Then I spotted him, a 76-year-old hispanic man.  He slid in sideways between the two vehicles and asked if I was okay.  “Yes, I think so”, I said, “but that car is still pressing in on the door and my legs are pinned.  I can’t move.”  He slid back out and I heard him call on others to push the car in reverse.  One man came, but instead of helping to move the car, opened up my SUV’s door on the opposite side and asked, “why don’t you just climb out this side?”

“I can’t…I’m stu…”

And just like that, he slammed the door shut and was gone.  (WHAT?!?!?)

The benevolent army veteran returned and squeezed in again and positioned one shoulder between the door and the frame.  He helped me fight the door for a few more centimeters.  I heard the black car door pop and crackle as we strained.  I wiggled my left leg free and stepped into the car, my right leg still pressure packed, as it was closer to the smaller angle of the hinge side of the door.  We hustled and as soon as I felt the ability, I slid my leg towards the crack.  My shoe fell to the ground and I pulled my leg into the car just as my rescuer backed away from door.  It slammed shut in my face and I watched through the window as the grimacing man held his breath as the car continued to roll.

As soon as my door was clear of the car, I opened it and recovered my flip-flop.  The ebony Mazda kept cruising until it met the cart stall across the way.  At that point, the car owner and the store manager appeared.  The police were on their way and I reassured everyone that I didn’t need an ambulance.  The tear-filled owner explained that she put her standard transmission car in neutral and forgot to put the emergency break on.  If I was talented enough to drive a standard, I am sure that I would have made the same oversight many times.

In my freedom, as people asked if I was okay or needed medical attention, the release of adrenaline and emotion came.  I teared up.  “I was just scared.” It was all I could muster to say.

In the days since, I’ve been processing how to write about this.  As I’ve retold the details of the event to others, the comment was made that this would be good material for the blog.  As I’ve pondered the experience and the feeling of being trapped, I couldn’t escape this reoccurring thought…the Holy Spirit.

He has definitely been on my radar lately, and today as I write, it’s no different.  My new relationship with the Holy Spirit has given me a better understanding of how I have lived in His presence, yet inattentive to His voice.  Like that black driverless car, I have been a vessel filled with all the wirings to drive the course, but have more often than not been aimlessly rolling down a decline on neutral.  In my pilotless walk, I’ve been trapping others, pinning them, and bruising them along the way.  Walking without an attentive ear to the Holy Spirit has cascaded me into others, without care or concern for their well-being.  Without the Spirit in the driver’s seat, my own joy has been sacrificed and I have ended up in places that I don’t belong, in steel and lifeless shopping cart corrals.  My own frame has been nicked and dented resulting in years of my own unnecessary damage.

I have a feeling I’m not alone.

I am learning to listen to His voice, to let Him comfort and guide.  I sat on the bumper of our Sequoia as the police report was being filed and I clearly heard His urging.  He told me to go and pray for the owner of the black ghost car.  As I approached her sitting in the driver’s seat, head in her hands, I asked her if she was okay.  She explained that she had already had a rough week with work and in her marriage.  She was beginning to think it couldn’t get any worse.  I said, “This may sound weird, but can I pray for you?”

“YES!”, she exclaimed.  And before I could even open my mouth, we were hand in hand, me down on my throbbing knee, her seated with head bowed, and she began…She prayed for me.  Sometimes listening to the Holy Spirit causes us to take a risk to love someone else in the name of Jesus, and sometimes He guides us for the sake of our own souls.  I was reminded in her prayer that He never left me, even when I felt alone, trapped, and helpless.  I prayed for her, her marriage, and the stressfulness of her week, that Jesus would redeem even those details.

There we found ourselves, in the HEB parking lot, having just been the aimless and wandering, the trapped and confused, receiving the love of the Father, the grace of Jesus, and the peace of the Holy Spirit.  Wow.  Speechless.

The cops (one of which had given me my speeding ticket earlier last month, see the post: What’s the Big Idea?? ) wrapped things up and headed on their way.  The manager went back into his store.  The good Samaritan got in his white pick-up and drove off.  The lady and her dark dented car rode off to work.  There I was, standing the the parking lot, as if none of it had happened.

At that moment Paul accompanied by a good friend and the two girls I stood up for our coffee date pulled in.  I felt a little odd at first.  There was no sign that anything had happened.  Because they all love me, of course, they didn’t doubt me, but only showed care and concern.

But, isn’t that also like the Holy Spirit?  He does these random, out of nowhere, unbelievable things, then seems to vanish into thin air as soon as others show up.  I believe it’s because we have a personal God.  In Acts, we see the Spirit move in big and powerful ways in front of thousands for the sake of thousands.  He still does this, no doubt.  However, for me right now, my lack of faith–lack of trust–exists in the Spirit’s desire for personal relationship with me, not the big fantastical stuff that brings millions to know Jesus.  That actually makes sense to me.  It’s very economical.  But, that He would also orchestrate a phantom car and 76-year-old Super Man so that I could encounter Him and His clear voice–not for the goal of “winning one for the kingdom”, but just for shepherding my heart–is a challenging consideration.

He loves me when I don’t listen and coast without a driver.  He loves me when I am trapped in fear.  He loves me and continues to pursue me, even after I am His.  He desires friendship with me.  He gives me personal events that, while I can share them in writing, are yet experienced only by me.  I am reminded again of the old hymn that I sing for Judah each night:

I am Jesus’ little lamb.

Ever glad at heart I am.

For my shepherd gently guides me,

Knows my needs and well provides me.

Loves me everyday the same.

Even calls me by my name.

His Spirit is there ready to give unending joy, gentle guidance, ample provision, and personal relationship.  I came across a Facebook post promoting the movie Holy Ghost, which is a documentary I have referenced before.  It speaks for itself and is eerily applicable:

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We’ve been invited to have faith in Him.  We’ve been invited to trust Him.  We’ve been invited to be His friend.  Will we accept His invitation of friendship?  Will we allow Him to sit at the steering wheel?  Will we risk the possibilities of what partnering with the Spirit of God might actually do?  It could change people…whole cities…nations!  And even more risky and terrifying–it could change us in very foundational and personal ways.  Are we willing to take His hand and jump in to new territory?

Jesus said, “It is the Spirit who gives life; the flesh is no help at all. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life” (John 6:63).  I want to have life and have it to the full.  My flesh and my attempts to gain this on my own are “no help at all.”  I have got to surrender all my efforts–the controls of my car–in order to let the Spirit drive.  It’s scary, but can we do it?  We’ve been invited.

My Words and My Rhythm

Well, today it’s back to the grind.  We just wrapped up a week and a half of vacation…glorious, glorious vacation.

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There were numerous moments during this furlough that renewed my spirit and challenged my heart.  This was more than a break on the beach with a margarita in hand…although I’m not denying that happened.  This trip will forever stand out in my mind as very transformative.  And, so, in true “life after rehab” fashion, I feel as though I need to intentionally ponder and reflect on the meaningful moments, so that I can treasure them in my heart and share them with you.

However, as I open up the computer today after the long hiatus, I struggle to find my words and my rhythm.  I sat on the beach last week and actually read a book from cover to cover.  It was amazing.  Not only was having the freedom, time, and ability to read a whole book without interruption amazing, but the content of the book I chose has also left me somewhat speechless.  Ann Voskamp’s one thousand gifts has been so enlightening and transforming.  If you haven’t read it, please do.  It is worth every minute of your time.  The combination of her poetic prose and down-to-earth writing is a humbling joy to read.  There is no way I could ever write in such a masterful way.  It is truly amazing.  In her book, she writes of her own revelations on thankfulness and recognizing God’s gifts in the every day.  It has made me realize how much I neglect the sacrament of thanksgiving and how often the Bible speaks of its’ importance.  I feel as though there is a whole undiscovered path to joy whose trail head I have been aimlessly walking past.  I am anxious to unearth more of “eucharisteo”, as I have been inspired by Voskamp’s own hunt.

The “sleuthing” that she refers to–this treasure hunt for the things to be thankful for–urged me to seek God and His blessings during our vacation.  I found myself swooning over tiny sand-dwelling creatures and huge panoramic views of slate blue sky meeting shimmering crystal waves.  I stumbled upon restfulness, with my eyes closed and ears focused on the hush of the waves, the rhythm of their meter, rocking my soul to peacefulness.  I can’t really explain it, but as I sat still and took in some of the amazing sights and sounds around me, I felt as though I was being wooed my the Creator, reminded of His serenading love.  

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Voskamp is on to something here…and it’s more than “positive thinking.”  In counting my blessings, I am forced to not merely count, but to consider them, and the Giver who gives them to me.  I am forced to be still and know that He is God.  I see how big He is and how infinitely small I am.  That doesn’t really fit the criteria of American dream setting and the “do what makes you happy” kind of joy in which we are encouraged to partake. Being small–knowing my mortality–these are not “positive” thoughts.  All things will come to an end…including me.  Reminding myself that I don’t have control over anything in my life sounds like depressing pessimistic water-cooler talk.   But in actually seeing the God I believe in, feeling His endless pursuit of me in the form of beauty, and knowing that He is bigger and grander than me, I am fueled by a humble peace, a sure contentment, and a deeper, more satisfying joy than simply seeing the glass half-full.

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This kind of detective work requires sitting at the private investigator desk searching through files of evidence.  It takes time and intentionality, which eerily sounds like the slow process of Family Rehab.  My journey to restore family and home isn’t done.  Jesus is restoring my heart–my joy.  Life After Rehab looks less like returning to normalcy with all the appropriate sobriety tools gained from being secluded in a rehab facility and more like continued study and rehabilitation with the distractions of everyday life now being added into the mix.  I still have so much to learn.  And as Voskamp also mentions, learning takes practice, practice, practice.

In addition to reading books, Paul and I had the opportunity to watch a documentary entitled,  Holy Ghost.  (You can watch the trailer here: http://www.holyghost.wpfilm.com).  The whole movie was guided by the Holy Spirit.  “What the what!?!?!,” you say?  No plans were made, except ones that were the result of ‘inner voice’ urgings or visions.  As a “conservative” Lutheran, some of the conversations recorded in the street scenes, in which the Holy Spirit was called upon to send a physical sensation through a person’s body, were a little wild.  But, honestly, it was no more untamed than what we read about in the book of Acts.  The movie features such celebrities as Lennie Kravitz, Brian Welch, and Fieldy from Korn.  As I watched people step out in faith, taking risks, and even entering into places that are dangerous for Christians, I again was struck by how intentionality and stillness were key in seeing all that God had in store for them.  How can one discern the voice of the Holy Spirit if they are not still enough to focus their hearts and minds to intentionally hear Him?

I think about all the practicing I do.  I consider all the rehearsing that goes on in my mind.  I add up all the time spent mulling over the lies of the world that tell me I’m not enough or of any value without the perfect body, successful children, or tons of money.  I compute all the energy and time I’ve spent repeating the same failures or hurtful behaviors.  What am I learning?  What am I teaching myself?  How much of the life-giving lawn of truth am I repeatedly treading worn down paths of lies over its’ surface?  What opportunities have I lost in the meantime?  What holy risks have I avoided or squashed because I was busy in the practice of listening to another’s voice?  What routines, patterns, and new trails have disabled my senses from hearing God’s audible voice?  What amount of blind ignorance has limited my vision for His kingdom, His glory, and my ultimate joy?

Jesus says in John 14:26, “But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”

“Life After Rehab” might as well be called “practice”.  I haven’t yet learned.  I need training.  I need the Holy Spirit to teach me.  Sometimes it will be hard.  Sometimes it will bear fruit that I could never have imagined.  My prayer is that I am teachable, moldable, and pliable.  My prayer is that my senses are so overwhelmed with the Spirit that I can’t help but walk in unabashed gratitude and risk.  Life is about to get busy and hectic with school and work.  I pray that I find the words of the Spirit in the midst of the mayhem (that they fill me with truth and with holy pomptings) and the rythym of His grace, blessing, and spontaneity in the mundane (that it moves me into new depths of sobering joy).

Baby blue…like the Colorado skies…

So again, I’ve been feeling sad, a little blue, you might say.  I think it’s pretty simple—no need to over analyze.  I just miss my people and places.  I miss the Broken Spoke, my Buda HEB cashiers, the simplicity of THE one stoplight on Main Street, South Congress, Gordough’s Big Fat Doughnuts, House Pizza on Airport, Town Lake, and the list could go on.  Even sitting in this Katy Starbucks deceives me into believing I am sitting near IH-35 in the Buda Starbucks and life hasn’t changed.  When we lived in Austin, I used to get frustrated at the “Austin is the best place on earth” mentality.  It seemed so self-righteous.  But now I get it.  It really is the best city on earth. 🙂

Earlier this month, we had the opportunity to go to Colorado as a family.  It was the first time to be on a plane for the kids (that they can remember) and it was the first time for us to travel that far with four kids.  In short, we all grew a little. 🙂

We had a moment in the car when one child did not want to go into the mountains.  Despite the prospect of snow, adventure and fun, the fear of the mountain was too much.  I don’t know if it was the foreknowledge of steep cliffs, avalanches or rock slides that was causing the trepidation, but whatever the source,  it was all too much.  In an effort to encourage, I tried to describe how fun the snow would be, how beautiful the trees would be, how amazing and worth it the drive up to the top would be.  None of it was convincing.  So, with tears rolling down the cheeks, we just forced all parties in the car up into the Rockies.

It ended up being worth it. (Go figure.) While this annual trip was not as restful as it has been in the past, we did have good fun family time together.  Here are a few pics of our adventures:

Manitou Cave Dwellings

Manitou Cave Dwellings

The boys and SNOW!

The boys and SNOW!

The Wolf Sanctuary

The Wolf Sanctuary

Feeding time for all.  Notice the wolf eyeing Judah for dessert.

Feeding time for all. Notice the wolf eyeing Judah for dessert.

Gold Mine Tour

Gold Mine Tour

 

We hunted for cave-dwelling Indians, gold, snow, and even wolves.  Well, they were easy to find because they were behind the fence and it was feeding time.  And everyone had no regrets about being in the heights of the mountain range.  Once the wonders of the mountain had been experienced, all fear and concern was gone.

In all the traveling and excitement, I rarely had to time to process anything.  This trip has become a mile-marker of sorts.  Every Cinco-de-Dyer (our friend, David Dyer’s, May 5th birthday) we trek to Colorado.  In the past the week of solitude and reflection has made every trip memorable and unique in that there has been a lot of introspective and identifying of the season we are in or the big lesson for that year.  It’s been a time to pause while on the outside of our normal life and take note of what God is doing.  We’ve been afforded the opportunity to take a “Colorado skies” panoramic of life and how the Spirit is guiding us.  (And if we’ve been following or not.)

This year, that didn’t happen.  At least not with the same intentionality.  But I remember that it was last year on this trip that as we drove down the mountain paths with huge vistas of blue sky and snow-capped mountains on either side, Family Rehab was born.  It was while in the beauty and splendor, without our kids, that a yearning to share it with them was born.  “It” was the beauty of the Lord—all that He has created and all that He has done.  His majesty spreads farther than the baby blue Colorado skies.  His splendor and power is also evident in our lives.  And by “our”, I mean everybody.  Whether a believer or not, God is working in your life.  Whether you confess God as your creator and Jesus as your Redeemer, or not…He’s at work in your life.  Whether we believe or not, I dare say we don’t notice or acknowledge the majority of His workings in every facet of our lives.  Whether we believe or not, He is pursuing all of us.  He pursues not to destroy and condemn, but to love and lavish forgiveness and mercy upon us.  Contemplating this, and knowing that He is pursuing me and loving me, no matter how small I am in comparison to Pike’s Peak, makes me feel amazing–so amazing that I want to make sure my children feel the depth and breadth of His love for them.  It was the desire to share with them the truth of how much they are loved and treasured that fueled Family Rehab.  And I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t just telling them from a philosophical or religious mentality.  I wanted them to hear it from my heart, as someone who has experienced His love.  But let’s get real.  I don’t always feel it.  I don’t always believe that it’s there.  Like right now…I mean, if He loved me, He wouldn’t have called me out of Austin!

To a warm-weathered Texan, it doesn’t make much sense why anyone would live in sub-freezing temperatures and shovel snow.  In the same way, believing that 1) God exists; and 2) He knows me; and 3) that He pursues me with love doesn’t make sense to everyone either.  I don’t always see snow.  I am so far removed from it at times that I don’t remember exactly how it feels in my hands.  I can’t adequately describe in words the crunchy sound it makes under my feet.  But if I took you to the mountain, made you kneel beside me and make a snowman, you would know and understand the thrill and joy it brings because you experienced it.  I think this is the tricky thing for a believer.  I can tell you with all manner of words how knowing and trusting Jesus is better than life, but until you experience it for yourself, it just won’t compute.  And if I asked you to travel with 4 kids through an airport then drive in a tear-filled SUV up a mountain trail to experience it, you may not take the challenge, because without knowing the value of the view at top, the view of the journey holds no worth.

It takes risk to climb a mountain.  It takes faith to live on one.  It takes commitment to shovel through ice and snow winter after winter.  But if we go to the mountain together, we can remind each other of the scary cliffs and the exhilaration of making the journey past them.  If we go together, we can communicate with fewer words of convincing and more across-the-room glances of solidarity and connection.  Taking my kids to the mountain daily is a key part of Family Rehab.  It’s not about me simply sharing bible stories or rehearsing scripture memory verses.  I am inviting my children into my personal experience with Jesus.  When I struggle, they need to see it–because Jesus will show up.  When I am sad, they need to hear about it–because Jesus will say something.  When I am happy, they need to know the source of it–because Jesus will be pursuing them with storehouses full of it.  If I don’t help them experience Jesus, they might miss Him like so many others.  They might believe in Him, but they might miss experiencing Him and all His goodness.

Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good!
Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!  (Psalm 34:8)

I want my kids to not only taste and see that snow is good.  I want them to taste and see with all their senses that Jesus is good.  I don’t just want them to push past their fears and see that snow and mountain-fresh air is worth it in the end.  I want them to push past insecurities and doubts and the fear of being fully known and see that freedom in Jesus is worth it.  In a world that sometimes portrays a Jesus who is disappointed in us and pities us, I want them to know from experience that “Jesus is always good news” as my husband puts it.  He loves us and wants good for us.  He pursues us with grace and mercy and open arms.  He wants us to be happy and full of joy, not guilt and shame.  Experiencing that freedom first hand is key.  To be loved for who you are right now, in all your failures and insecurities, knowing that right now, without changing a thing, you are worth dying for–that’s worth the pain of being honest about your imperfection.  That kind of love doesn’t exist in any other religion, with any other god, or in any human relationship.  We’d like to think that we can love unconditionally, but if we are honest, we really do expect quite a lot of good behavior from those that we love.  Jesus does what no one else can.  He loves me completely and freely…no strings attached.

Oh, kids…taste and see that the Lord is good!  Oh, friends…taste and see that the Lord is good!  Oh, believers…taste and see that the Lord is good!  Oh, Angie…taste and see that the Lord is good!  (even when I’m homesick)  I need to listen to my own rant here.  In my sadness over seeing and tasting familiar Austin things no more, I need to remember that Jesus looks better and tastes better.  What He has for me here makes everything else pale in comparison.  It may take awhile to see it, to experience it here, but He is at work and He is lavishing grace and mercy on me every moment.  I need to heed my own advice.  I need to push past the tendency to withdrawal in the safety of my house.  I need to gather around me the people He has given me in this place for a journey up the mountain so we can experience His wonders together and remind each other that, yes–He is here, He is good.  Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good. 🙂