Category Archives: grace

Introducing The Beloved Swede

19 Monday Dec 2011

Posted by in grace, guest post, hear it use it, husband, movies, soli deo gloria sisterhood

≈ 23 Comments

I was going to take this week off from my blog. My son is home for Christmas break, and I expect my daughter and her husband to arrive mid-week.

However, my husband sent the following to our pastor in response to his sermon last Sunday evening. The text was I John 2:7-11, Paul’s admonition to love one another:

Beloved, I am writing you no new commandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The old commandment is the word that you have heard. At the same time, it is a new commandment that I am writing to you, which is true in him and in you, because the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining. Whoever says he is in the light and hates his brother is still in darkness. Whoever loves his brother abides in the light, and in him there is no cause for stumbling. But whoever hates his brother is in the darkness and walks in the darkness, and does not know where he is going, because the darkness has blinded his eyes.

The Swede isn’t a writer; he’s an engineer. But both my pastor and I thought he had some good things to say, things worth sharing. Besides, posting his words here gives me the opportunity to show you a picture so you can see just how good-looking he is. So, as this week’s offering for Michelle’s Hear It, Use It Community,meet the Beloved Swede:

I mentioned the movie Gran Torino last night–in the context of Frank (I think that was his name) allowing himself to be subdued in order to subdue his enemies. That ending was unexpected and powerful in many ways.

It has been a long time since I saw that movie, so some of the details are fuzzy. But, I mean to watch it again.

Real sin is ugly and disturbing. Gran Torino deals with real sin. It also illustrates real sacrifice and redemption—which is why the movie is so powerful. I think it also does a decent job of illustrating real-life hate and love, and the often-times difficult path between them.

Frank probably really hates his Hmong neighbors—at least because they remind him of his real war enemies. Frank is a lost soul. A life already ended. Setting aside what initially motivates Frank, (a beer I think) he ends up taking small steps of being near these people he thinks he hates—but, really does not even know.The edges start to come off as Frank simply spends time and learns about the struggles of these people. Simple knowledge turns to investment. Investment leads to caring. It is an imperfect process. In the end, Frank gains back his life and sacrifices it so that former strangers might simply have the chance to live their lives in relative peace.

Frank is a complex character, sometimes ugly—so are we as sinful people. I think the process illustrated in that movie, however, while extreme in its circumstances,is not far at all from the way it works for all of us. We can’t simply command ourselves to love others. We need to stand alongside, invest, give; sacrifice.It is in these actions that we learn how to love. Christ did these things and we need to practice them. In doing these little things, we are loving—even if the real caring does not come until later. I think we have a tendency to think that loving always starts with a warm fuzzy feeling – or that it should. So, we wait around for the warmfuzzyfeeling before we make our move. I think more often it starts with an uncomfortable feeling and awkward steps.

The darkness is passing away. The true light is already shining. May God give each of us grace to love one another well as we gather to celebrate the One who surrendered Himself.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:


Also look for me at Michelle’s place again on Wednesday, where she has graciously invited me to guest post.

Keeping Secrets

10 Thursday Nov 2011

Posted by in grace, imperfect prose, Penn State

≈ 22 Comments

In a frame atop my piano is a photo, taken a number of years ago, from a wedding in which my entire family participated. We’re all dressed in our beautiful Barbie-and-Ken-doll clothes and are smiling happy wedding smiles. Also in the picture is a young adult, one I don’t know personally, but one who is intimately connected with the horrific news swirling around the campus of my Alma mater. The photo is a sobering reminder that there are real people in real pain behind the sensational headlines.

I can’t read the stories; they’re too ugly. I’ve read just enough to have images etched in my mind I wish I could erase. Unspeakable horrors were committed against children. I’m compelled to respond in prayer, though I hardly know how to pray for something so big and so ugly. I beg for God’s mercy on behalf of those who were abused. I pray for healing of mind, body, and soul. I ask that each name be transformed from Victim to Triumph of God’s Grace. I pray for those who minister to students on campus and in the surrounding community.

Powerful men allegedly kept deep, dark secrets for a very long time. When the secrets were exposed ,the extent of the damage seemed incomprehensible. The river of grief flowing through Happy Valley is deep, and it is wide. If the charges are true, the lives of those abused, as well as those of a wife, children, grandchildren, co-workers, and friends of the accused will never be the same. There’s been a lot of collateral damage.

I keep wondering whether the man under indictment kept his secrets so perfectly and so well that those surrounding him honestly didn’t know; or whether his friends, family and co-workers knew or suspected, but failed to act. I’m having a hard time figuring out which scenario is more disturbing.

If you see something, say something is a slogan crafted in this age of international terrorism, one which asks citizens to be alert and speak up when something seems out of place. Clearly its warning needs to be considered more broadly. The guy in the cubicle next to you may not be plotting nuclear and biological attacks, but he may be contemplating unimaginable harm toward the child next door, or around the block; or in your home, or in mine.

It’s easy to point fingers at those who failed, and failed miserably, at Penn State. But I have to ask, “How many of us have failed to speak up when seeing others behaving in ways harmful to themselves and others?” Have you, have I, confronted the friend who always seems to knock back one more drink than seems responsible? What about the co-worker who always closes his web browser when someone walks near his cubicle? Who pays attention to the young woman hiding in her dorm room at the end of the hall, the one whose wrists are covered in bandages? What of the friend who confides she chats online with an old flame late at night while her husband and children are asleep?

Am I courageous enough to speak up when I see these things? Are you? How many of us want to allow the possibility that the worst we might imagine about another human being could be true?

And what of my own secrets, and yours? The stash of candy kept hidden in the laundry room? The purchase I hope my husband won’t notice? A bad decision made years ago that continues to haunt? Data fudged on a report? Some of the secrets we bury seem small and laughable; others run serious and deep. If allowed to fester and grow, those secrets and our shame are capable of causing great harm to ourselves and those around us. If scripture is true and the ugliness in the headlines teaches anything, our sin will one day find us out. There is simply no such thing as personal sin.

It’s hard being Penn State proud in this moment. I feel like removing the decals from my car and tucking my blue-and-white jacket away toward the back of my closet. This scandal hits a little too close to home for me, but not because I share space with someone in a wedding photo. It hits home because I know I’ve got secrets. You probably do, too. Maybe one of the lessons coming out of Happy Valley is a call to listen anew for the voice of one crying, “Where are you?” Might the grief in this moment help us find courage to expose our secrets to the light of healing grace? Might it teach us to show up in the lives of others and help them find courage to do likewise?

Linking with emily, looking for beauty in the brokenness:

Well Pleased With the Beloved

23 Sunday Oct 2011

Posted by in Bible, family, grace, hear it use it, soli deo gloria sisterhood

≈ 26 Comments

He sat next to me during worship, the young man who had been born in a remote island village on the other side of the globe. There, he hadn’t escaped the notice of the God who sees, the One who brought him into my home where he grew in my heart. In our home he learned to play music, first sitting on the piano bench at age four, and picking out notes from the hymns he’d heard in morning worship services.

We visited a church near Chicago, this young man and I, and the pastor spoke on these words:

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And when he came up out of the water, immediately he saw the heavens being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.” Mark 1:9-11, ESV

The pastor spoke to the longing we have, each of us, to hear those same words. We want to know we are beloved. We long to hear from those whom we love that, with us, they are well pleased. We want to be affirmed, to know that we are good at something; that our lives matter. These are natural desires and good ones.These are words we would expect to hear in a world where God’s shalom reigns, where His image bearers live in harmony.

But we don’t live in a world of shalom. Relationships, even loving ones, are broken; and we broken people disappoint and hurt one another. Parents and children, husbands and wives don’t always love well. We are more prone to express our displeasure than tell our loved ones, “With you I am well pleased.” Our voices sound strange notes. Dissonant chords echo in our homes.

The words, said the preacher, which God the Father spoke to His beloved Son are the same ones He speaks to all who belong to Him:

You are my beloved. With you I am well pleased.

Today. This minute. Not later, after you’ve cleaned up your act. Right now. You are my beloved child. I am well pleased with you. And when we are able, said the pastor, to grab hold of how deeply God loves us, how well pleased He is with us, everything begins to change.

We walked forward together, the young man and I, and received the bread and the wine; the broken body and spilled blood of the beloved Son. Musicians played Holy, Holy, Holy in an arrangement which sounded like it could have been written by Vince Guaraldi; the man who composed the music for the Charlie Brown specials, the music my young man has been playing most of his life.

And, in the eating of the bread and the drinking of the wine, I tasted shalom; and sensed the dissonant chords resolving

Linking with Michelle:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Wind and Whispers

06 Tuesday Sep 2011

Posted by in grace, gratitude, imperfect prose, soli deo gloria sisterhood

≈ 19 Comments

As these things go, it wasn’t awful. Along with several hundred thousand of my fellow Connecticut residents, I spent all but twelve hours of last week without electricity. By the time Hurricane Irene reached New England, it was merely a tropical storm. Yet the storm left more than half of Connecticut’s customers without power, and residents of New York, New Jersey, and Vermont continue trying to reclaim what’s left of their homes and livelihoods after devastating flooding.

We were well prepared for the storm, I thought. I had topped off our propane tank and joked that the beloved Swede could kill and roast his own game if need be. Unlike many in the state, we continued to have running water. My in-laws, the senior beloved Swedes who live less than a mile away, never lost power. They made space in their refrigerator and freezer to babysit some of our food. There are few things, short of a hurricane, which will motivate me to clean out my refrigerator, and now I have a clean refrigerator.

Local schools and town halls opened shelters and facilities for residents to take showers. For the most part, people remained civilized and calm. There were no mobs, no riots, no looting. This, after all, is Connecticut–the land of steady habits–where people dress in loafers and oxford button-downs, and bravely soldier on.

My in-laws invited us over for showers after our hot water tank had grown cold and we enjoyed several evenings of lovely family time, having been drawn together by the storm. Irene’s powerful wind blew in crisp, cool, sunny weather; so we opened our windows wide, not missing our air conditioning in the least. I commented on Facebook that, although I remained without power, it was hard to be grumpy while the weather was so spectacular.

After three days, I was grumpy. I was tired of having to get in the car and drive in order to take a shower. I was tired of carrying all my power cords in my purse; always looking out for places I could shoplift electricity and wireless service.  I was tired of hanging out at Starbucks and going out to dinner. Yes, sometimes too much of a good thing really is too much of a good thing. I longed for a home-cooked meal. A plate full of boiled spaghetti slathered in Prego sounded like heaven.

Lights began to go on in streets near my neighborhood, even as trees remained untouched and entangled in power lines near my home. I began to understand the temptation toward class envy—the resentment of the haves by the have-nots. I drove past people washing their cars in driveways and wanted to roll down my windows and scream, “Don’t you realize there are still people without water! How dare you?”

These past few days have not been among my proudest moments as a faithful, mature, gray-headed follower of Christ.

As someone whose heart breaks over images from places like Kenya and southern Sudan, where people experience real suffering and loss, I grew impatient with my own impatience. I tried counting the gifts, looking for opportunities to see God’s mercy and give thanks.

And I failed. Miserably. Over and over again, I found myself returning to words from a precious hymn I have loved all my life:

Oh, to grace, how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be.

Daily. Hourly. Minute by minute I need grace. In my whining self-pity, I found myself returning again and again in confession:

Lord I’m doing it again, being an ungrateful brat; thinking I deserve more blessing than you have given me.

And He, the One who reveals but the fringes of His power in the winds of the hurricane, answered me–not with the thunder of condemnation, but in a whisper of grace. Because I belong to Him.

I know, He says. I forgive you; you are mine. Continue to follow me, to learn of me. We’ve still got much work to do. I’m not finished with you yet.

Near the peak of my frustration last week, I heard a knock on my door. Upon opening it, I found the woman who works at the local post office. She bears a long, vertical scar on her chest and often wears a halter monitor while working behind the post office counter. I’m guessing she’s acquainted with suffering and is grateful for mercy received in her life.

She was going door-to-door at homes where she knew folks were still without power, offering bottles of water, snacks, and popsicles; offering a glimpse of God’s mercy, goodness, and grace. I pray that in whatever small measure of suffering  I experienced last week, I’ve learned some of these deeper things of God–demonstrated both in the wind of the hurricane and in the still, small whisper of His kindness.

And may God give me the grace to take the things I’ve learned and put them into practice.

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

and with emily at imperfect prose:

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