The Epic Birthday

How does one capture with words, a night of utter extravagance?

This was last night, October 17, 2009 - an early birthday celebration for me which turned into a spiritual birthday for a young woman named Carrie Callahan.  Carrie’s journey to salvation has been long and marked with much pain and many tears.  It’s a story that I hope she tells one day, for its the story of many in our generation.  But last night painful tears breached the song of joy, and heaven’s much-anticipated moment arrived as Carrie stepped into the family of God.

My dearest friends here in Kansas City took it upon themselves to throw me a grand and glorious dinner party, as a way of creating space for God to convince me of His extravagant and abundant generosity to me.  The dearest of dears, Wendy Andrews, had been secretly compiling a list of things I loved and needed and desired in order to shower all of them on me.  She rounded up many of our friends and each one contributed to the grandeur of the night.

The Boulevard home, where Wendy and my other dearest friends all live, had been decorated like a regular palace!  In typical Rachel-fashion, that is, generous to the bone, Rachel Anderson had filled the room with every lovely flower arrangement imaginable.  A myriad of sparkling lit candles, silk cloths, and fancy pillows filled the first floor of the Boulevard.  The table was laden with sauteed beef skewers in Thai peanut sauce, a jazzy spinach salad, and hand-pressed apple cider.  Inside of a pumpkin, Wendy had baked a scrumptious cheese sauce (with a terribly luxurious name that I can’t even pronounce let alone spell!) that we ate with soft Asiago bread.  It was unbelievably delicious!  And of course, my favorite sweet treats abounded on another table - homemade fudge, chocolate chip cookies, and almond shortbread!  A snazzy pear custard torte served as my birthday cake, complete with little candles.

After dinner I settled into the chair dubbed as “the queen’s chair” and shared with the girls a bit of my heart’s journey since summer, an explanation of why God had asked Wendy to throw this party in the first place.  It’s a long and messy odyssey, as most wanderings of the heart are, but I shall try to capture a bit of it here briefly.

I have not always believed that giving one’s life for the poor and broken and walking in the abundant generosity of the Father were not exclusive.  My entire life I have operated out of a mindset that tells me that poverty is more godly than wealth, that plain and drab is more righteous than beauty.  I have scorned all forms of extravagance, including at times romance.  In some distorted way, I have somehow convinced myself that if I am blessed when so much of the world is in dire need, I am guilty of injustice.  I have convinced myself that, “I am fine.  I am tough. I can handle living in survival mode. Only give me what I need for existence, and I shall be satisfied.  I am fine.  I don’t need anything extra to live, so therefore I will refuse to receive it.”  I’ve interpreted both spiritual and physical blessings through this faulty mindset.  I have seen the world has sexualized the beauty of women and taken advantage of it, and in my quest for a pure heart I have more often than not feared embracing beauty.  I have been content to marvel at the grandeur of God’s creation outside of me while ignoring the grandeur He created inside of me.

This past summer however, the Holy Spirit began to show me the untruthful foundation I have built on.  He began to highlight to me all of the descriptions in Scripture of God and every last one is stunning, breath-taking, loaded with allusions to diamonds and jewels and magnificent riches.  The entire story of God is teeming with references to our inheritance, our spiritual blessings, the riches of His glory.  As I have repented of pride and clinging to false ideals, the Holy Spirit has diligently shown me the ways in which my life is effected by the lies of the enemy.  One day He asked me, “You are so concerned for the poor in your neighborhood, but if you yourself are living in spiritual poverty, then what kind of life are you inviting these lost ones into?  How is what you are offering much different than what they already have?”  In these last months I have also come to understand that God has placed beauty in the hands of women.  It is our design, our pleasure, and even our responsibility to make the world a more beautiful place - with our bodies, our homes, and our lives.  

Over these months, God has spoken to me specifically through this:  “And when I passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’  I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’ I made you flourish like a plant of the field.  And you grew up and became tall and arrived at full adornment.  Your breasts were formed and your hair had grown; yet you were naked and bare.  When I passed by you again and saw you, behold, you were at the age for love, and I spread the corner of my garment over you and covered your nakedness; I made my vow to you and entered into a covenant with you, declares the Lord GOD, and you became Mine.  Then I bathed you with water and washed off your blood from you and anointed you with oil.  I clothed you also with embroidered cloth and shod you with fined linen and covered you with silk.  And I adorned you with ornaments and put bracelets on your wrists and a chain on your neck.  And I put a ring on your nose and earrings in your ears and a beautiful crown on your head.  Thus you were adorned with gold and silver and your clothing was of fine lined and silk and embroidered cloth.  You ate fine four and honey and oil.  You grew exceedingly beautiful and advanced to royalty.  And your renown went forth among the nations because of your beauty, for it was perfect through the splendor that I had bestowed on you, declares the Lord.”  (Ezekiel 16: 6-14)

And so, the evening commenced as I shared with the women a bit of my journey.  I opened elaborate gift after gift, as women spoke words of encouragement and life over me.  Among the gifts were a deep red silk scarf, various quality eye shadows and eye-liners, hand-crafted necklaces and earrings, a gorgeous fabric, a purse, fine-smelling soaps, a lovely blouse, a gift certificate for a facial, a picture, a hair dryer (which I desperately needed because in Wendy’s words, “Your old one sounds like an airplane coming in for landing!”)  My friend Anna brought her gift in a clear glass bowl, because she said, “May your life be a glass bowl; may you show off the beauty inside!”   Juli Cox’s words marked me indelibly as she gave me jewelry from South Africa and an antique pendant.  “I feel like you carry a bit of Africa in you, and these ‘diamond’ (CZ) earrings and necklace are to remind you that through your beauty you will give your life for the poor.  These things are not mutually exclusive, but people will come to know the King through your queenly beauty.  The antique pendant you can wear close to your heart as a reminder of the rich heritage you have in your family.”

I had determined at the beginning of the night to never say, “It’s too much!”   But alas, in an overwhelming moment toward the end of gift-opening, it slipped out of my mouth.  I knew there was still lies dwelling inside of me that I needed to repent of.  So as the women gathered around to pray for me, I began to confess every lie I have believed about receiving the goodness of God.  I confessed pride and fear and asked for continued revelation.  The Spirit of God was thick in the room, and several other women  agreeing with my repentant prayers.

From the couch next to me, Carrie began to weep. And weep, an weep.  She began to cry out, asking God to forgive her over and over for many things.  She went on and on, in a truly repentant state, declaring her belief in God and His goodness.  It soon became apparent that she was giving her life over to Jesus in that moment.  I pulled my chair over and with all eyes fixed on the beautiful, sobbing woman in the middle of the room we talked through what it means to become a daughter of God.  In the most genuine and expressive manner I have ever witnessed, Carrie exclaimed through tears, “I’m in!”  She told God she would receive His forgiveness and become His daughter.  

Maggie dashed upstairs to fill the bathtub with water, and I asked Carrie if she knew what baptism meant.  She proceeded to tell us, with more clarity most preachers, what baptism was - a washing of the sins, a dying of the old self, and a coming of a new, clean Carrie!  We prayed with her to receive with her the power of the Holy Spirit right then, and as the water ran in the tub upstairs, Anna sat down to the baby grand piano.  Carrie’s name literally means “Song of Joy.”  Her middle name means “God is Gracious.”  So Anna began to sing out, with such anointing, that heaven had been singing Carrie, song of joy for all of eternity.  She sang out the affection of God and the longing He has had over Carrie’s life.  So powerful was the moment, that Carrie literally fell off the couch onto her knees.  

As for me, I got it.  In that moment, as Anna’s voice touched the foundations of eternity I understood the full picture.  I wept uncontrollably on the couch, my whole body heaving great sobs, as the revelation I’ve been asking for flooded my being.  I had received freely that night, I had embraced beauty, I had turned from the old poor woman to the taking my place as a queen in His Kingdom... and look, right before my very eyes, the salvation of a woman I had longed for was happening.  In the same moment that Juli was telling my beauty would win the hearts of the poor for the King, so a heart was already being won.  It was not only the Father’s graciousness to Carrie, but His mercy to every woman in that room as we understood that beauty begets beauty, blessing begets blessing, and the generosity leads to the expansion of this family.  

I will never in my life forget the hour that followed Carrie’s bathtub baptism!  After whoops of delight and soggy hugs, we rejoined in the living room.  In the spirit of the night, prayer began to break out for other women in the room.  The most astonishing thing of all was that Carrie herself was leading the charge.  Just moments after her baptism, she was laying hands on women, praying for them boldly, and giving them prophetic words!  “I feel like God just wants me to say that you don’t need to be afraid...”  I thought I had died and was with Jesus already!  The Holy Spirit was already at work in Carrie, giving her power to love and letting her hear God’s voice so promptly.  In one hour, the Lord redeemed every broken relationship Carrie has always had with women who have betrayed her by placing her in a room chock full of godly, loving, trustworthy women.  

Who knew that when I started chatting with Carrie at the ghetto pool in Gilham Park last summer that it would lead such rich friendship?  We’ve come to love each other, I’m now the godmother of her children, and in the last month she finally agreed to study the stories of Jesus with me.  We’ve been reading in Luke every week, and the Man Jesus Christ has been winning Carrie over, story by story.  Since summer, I’ve been asking God that Carrie would receive salvation and be baptized by my birthday.  Since last year, when we baptized Wendy’s sister in a bathtub around my last birthday, I’ve been telling the Lord that all I want for my birthday is the opportunity to baptize someone in the bathtub!

This birthday shall go down in the history books.  It’s been written in the journals of heaven as epic.  It’s been written in my journal and those of a dozen other women as revolutionary.  I am forever marked.  We all are, I think.  These are surely not light matters in the heart of God.

This is our city, people.

9/14/2009

This afternoon, I traipsed over to the little park at the end of my block with a big blanket, my Bible, and a cup of icey orange juice.  I partially wanted to enjoy sunshine, partially wanted to hang out with the kids that always end up at the park, and partially wanted to vent to the Lord.  

I hate the tension between the races that lingers over this city like a thick, wet blanket.  I hate the unspoken animosity, the heaviness that saturates life here.  I hate the fear that cripples men from acknowledging the existence of each other.  I hate the undue panic that creeps up inside and thrusts people into irrational reactions.  I hate that I get on the city bus grinning and get off the city bus depressed.  I hate that often people are so afraid to look me in the eye.  I hate that often I am so afraid to look people in the eye.  I hate that my idealistic notions of being a white girl in a black neighborhood are frequently shattered.  I hate that no matter how determined anyone ever is to live courageously and take this history of animosity between different colors of people head on, every last person ends up giving into fear somewhere along the road.  

 It’s like completely separate worlds all trying to co-exist in the same five-square-mile patch of earth here in Midtown, Kansas City.  It’s like they’re all trying to pretend the other world isn’t there, but to do that you’ve got to walk around with your eyes closed, and when you walk with your eyes closed, you’re bound to run smack into whatever it is you’re trying to avoid. 

In the middle of this conversation with the Lord, I find myself tying the shoe of little KJ so he can skip around the playground with his brothers and sisters.  His family is Samoan and just moved into the neighborhood a few weeks ago.  I say family, but what I mean is a single mom with seven kids.  l also find myself talking to Nick, a16-year-old black kid who goes to Westport High, which probably means he won’t graduate with a legitimate degree.  The schools in our district are notorious across the nation for being positively terrible - so bad that they are not even accredited, and anyone graduating from them still has to get a GED to get into college.  Westport is the worst of them all, with horrifying statistics that should only belong to third world countries.  The sickening part is that not only is our school district among the worst in the nation, it also ranks among the highest in terms of funding that it receives.  Corruption amongst the higher-ups in the system have left the schools of the urban core in literal shambles.

After an hour at the park, I wander over to the house of a neighbor family I’ve befriended in the last month.  15-year-old Ashley plops down on the chair on the porch.  “I’m glad you came over, because today was awful.”  Her friend committed suicide a few days ago on September 11 because apparently he felt he had no one to talk to.  Because of the horrible state of the schools in our district, Ashley’s parents have been driving her clear up to North Kansas City to go to a school - which she hates of course.  She got into a fight there today and was warranted a three-day suspension.  

16-year-old Chase struts out of the house with his usual I’m-too-cool-for-school swagger, but his busted lip tells the story of the last 24-hours of his life.  He took a beating in an argument with his dad last night.  He took another beating after school today, when he was jumped by two guys who had a crowd of another 26 guys backing them up.  

In Ashley’s words, “We’re the only white kids at an all-black school.”  She makes the statement matter-of-factly.  She’s not racist; her and Chase’s best friends are J’Ron & LuLu, two black teenagers from our neighborhood.  In all reality she could’ve said “We’re the only black kids at an all-white school.” or “We’re the only Mexicans” or whatever.  My point is not which color is on which side - this stuff happens at all kinds of schools with all kinds of people.  Everybody’s afraid of everybody else.  White people afraid of black people, black people afraid of white people.  Ashley is just stating the obvious - the two worlds are colliding and the defenseless are bearing the brunt of the reaming. 

Ashley’s bags are all packed up.  Her dad is on his way, but he’s apparently infuriated and has already determined to kick both kids out the house.  She hollers over to their next door neighbor coming out of his house.  He’s a Hispanic fellow with two adorable daughters all dressed for soccer practice.  “Me and Chase are getting kicked out,” she tells him.  He shakes his head as she relays their all-too-familiar story.  He’s tasted the racial brokenness in this city too, I guarantee it by the knowing look that crosses his face.  

Tonight the kids are headed to a town an hour away to stay with their 85-year-old grandma.  The longer I stay to talk, the more nervous Ashley becomes, because her dad could be home any minute now, and there’s likely a beating in store for her.  She eventually asks me to leave, saying she doesn’t want me to see him hitting her.  As I leave, I can hear Ashley’s step-mom screaming on the phone inside, arguing with their dad about letting the kids stay.  She witnessed Chase getting jumped after school today- she and Ashley both were actually threatened by a large group of girls when they got out of the car to try to help Chase.

This is our city, people.  I’ve been pacing in my house just now, indignantly crying out to God for some answers to the darkness that threatens to consume us.  This is not some made-up tear-jerker of a story.  I promise you.  This happened today.  On my street.  With real people who have real names and get real bruises when you hit them and feel real pain when you hurt them.  The statistics about the state of affairs aren’t for some faraway land that you get in an airplane to fly to on missions trips.  They’re for the school a block away from the Boiler Room.  They’re for tomorrow’s adults and family builders. 

I’m sitting here in a daze, a bit overwhelmed by the sin that has so thoroughly invaded our world.  A flood of memories from the last year comes to me - a dozen different occasions when I’ve been forced to face the ugliness of sin head on.  Yet there is one thing I can always count on in the torrent of such ghastliness:

  

The Beauty of the Man Jesus surfing that flood with such astonishing victory...   

the Beauty of the Man Jesus SHOUTING its glory in contrast to such bitter devastation.  

 Adam Cox, beloved teacher at the Kansas City Boiler Room, gave a rousing message last night about the incarnation of the Incredible, Undeniable, Unforgettable God-Man Jesus who will save us from our sins.  In Adam’s words, He will rescue us from “the great imposter that makes us less than human.”  Sin leads to death, you don’t have to convince me of that.  I smell the death everywhere around here.  But there is the Man JESUS Christ, stunning, with an aura of life surrounding every truthful word that’s ever been written about Him.  

I don’t think we can know how truly good the Good News is until we’ve looked the Bad News square in the face.  Tonight Bad News is mocking me in all of its putrid blackness.  But the Good News - the GOOD News - how it shines!  

God, I need to see Your Man Jesus sweep in and save us from our sins here in Kansas City.  I need to see Your Man Jesus bring us from death to life.  If You are not our hope, then there is no hope. Everyone other answer is a fraud, every other option will fail.  There is nothing else to believe.  Every system is corrupt, every mortal man is for himself.  You, Jesus Christ, are our only hope.  How very, very shiny You are tonight!

*To hear the podcast of Adam’s latest teachings, visit www.kcboilerroom.com.

on the other side of their engagement story: eternity, joy inexpressible, and evangelism of all things!

A shadow of things to come.

These are the words I find swirling about inside of me whenever another wedding rolls around - and believe me, there’s been loads of them this year. Weddings bring a minute when a bit of eternity breaks into our earthly living and dying, when the essence of the God-Man taking a people into a covenant relationship is seen in some love-struck guy’s face when his dream comes waltzing down the aisle all gussied up in silk and diamonds. It’s a minute where we get a glimpse of the unseen, a peek into the future at the most momentous occasion in eternity. It’s when the Son takes His Bride, and when the Church utters the deepest commitment humanity has ever known how to make: “Till death do us part.” And then the Son leans in, grinning the smile that has captivated a universe for a thousand years upon a thousand years. “Except that I have conquered death, so actually nothing - ever- will part Me from you!”

This last week I found myself getting a further glimpse into the picture of the Son’s story that somehow seems to invade every last inch of human life. It’s another step into His story, another level of depth in my understanding of His emotions.

A dear friend of mine, Ryan, decided to make the plunge for the woman of his dreams and propose to his girlfriend Allison, also a very dear friend of mine. As I do a lot of my living and working and loving Jesus with both of these brilliant people, I found myself caught up in a romantic drama unfolding around me this week. Ryan’s sister Brittany and myself were scurrying about the few days preceding the proposal, helping Ryan pull off the perfect engagement scene. I think its the first time I’ve ever really had the privilege of seeing the proposal planning from the guy’s side of things. It was incredibly fun to see the great amount of thought and affection Ryan was putting into his plans to surprise Allison in the most loving ways he knew how.

Brittany and I were purely giddy with excitement over the mounting occasion, thrilled for Allison, and so proud of Ryan. We listened to Ryan spell out all of his ideas, then Brittany went shopping for the necessary pretty things, while I cooked up a fancy little breakfast. A photo album, a poem he’d written, her favorite songs, her favorite food, a shirt that said “Will you marry me?”, a photographer ...Ryan had thought of everything!

So early on the morning of the engagement, Brittany and I snuck over to the park to set everything up so Allison would be thoroughly surprised when Ryan brought her over. As we piled into the car with our arms full of goodies, we could hardly contain our exuberance. The sun was shining gloriously, and the morning was just perfect. Joy began to ooze out of my heart as we drove across Midtown, Kansas City to Loose Park. My heart burst, and the prayers started popping out of my mouth for the morning to go smoothly, for Ryan and Allison to experience the delight of the Father over them. I honestly hadn’t had such pure fun in ages, as I’d been having over the course of those few days of preparations.

It was on the drive to the park that I saw it. I saw how the Son has a perfect plan to romance every heart, how He thinks of every last little detail to convince individuals of His deep affection, how He is eager to twirl each one around in dance, and how He has already committed Himself to covenant relationship with each one. And then I saw that we who are already in His Family get the privilege of helping Him win them over. As Ryan’s sisters, Brittany and I had been extended the invitation to be apart of the whole incredible process. We gleefully agreed and proceeded to have a blast!

Evangelism is not a drudgery. It’s not a chore, it’s not a monotonous duty, it’s not a heavy task to perform. It’s not something to fear, it’s not something to dread. As friends of Jesus - as His closest and dearest friends - it is our deep honor and delight to spread out a feast for the ones He is looking in the eye and calling out to love. We laugh and jump around, we clap our hands with excitement, and we can’t even help it! We love Him, so we love that He is so infatuated and so faithfully giving Himself over.

After Allison said yes to Ryan’s long-awaited question, we threw a little party with much squealing, lots of jumping around, and many hugs. Over cake and coffee, they animatedly told their story, and the oohs and aahs and chuckles were going all around the table. I was sitting on the edge of my chair the whole time, even though I already knew how much of their went. I was on the edge of my chair, because it wasn’t just the story of Ryan and Allison being told. This is the story of a God-Man in love with the human race. This is a shadow of things to come. This is the story I am walking out... rejoicing with joy inexpressible!*



*1 Peter 1:8, NKJV

("...at the revelation of Jesus Christ, whom having not seen, you love.  Though now you do not see Him, yet believing, you rejoice with joy inexpressible...")

Preston, My Preston

   It struck me the other day that perhaps my most promising disciple at the moment is an eight-year-old towhead named Preston, who lives in my neighborhood.  I befriended his mom at the local pool last summer and since have spent time nearly every week with this precious, but broken family.  I started telling Preston bedtimes stories about Jesus last fall when I would babysit him and his two year old sister Makala.  At first in his young mind, Jesus ranked right up there with Spiderman and The Incredible Hulk.  But many aches of intercession & many conversations about God later, I’m beginning to see his little heart come alive with unadulterated passion.  Lately, Preston has been beating me to the punch - every time he sees me, the first thing he’ll ask is a question about Jesus.  The other day he started telling me everything he knew about God... how God made people and trees, and how when the wind blows it’s really God breathing on us.   Preston thinks that every time it rains, God is crying.  After I attempted to explain to him about hell and why sin makes God sad, he said, “So if everyone stopped being bad, it would never rain!”  Perfectly logical conclusion!  

“Do you know any songs about God?”, he asked one day this summer on our way to the pool.  I started singing a kid’s song I learned in South Africa called “Telephone to Jesus.”  Preston stopped me.  “Can you really talk to Jesus on the phone?”  “W-e-l-l, nooo...” I started to say.  “I know how you to talk to Jesus though,” he butted in.  “You pray!”  I had to grin at his exclamation.  “That’s right,” I said.   “And we can talk to Jesus just like we talk to each other, because He was a real Person,” I said.  Preston promptly corrected me, “He IS a real person!”

After 15 minutes of this kind of conversation, I was in serious awe of everything this eight-year-old was telling me about the Lord.  I knew he hadn’t learned it from me, and besides one trip to Sunday School, I’m virtually his only spiritual influence.  “Preston, did you learn all of this in Sunday School?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.  I’ve never heard him talk about God for so long.  “Well, I didn’t go to Sunday School for very long, but sometimes, I just think about God and I think He likes it when we think about Him.”  I was floored.  The Holy Spirit is teaching this little kid about Himself! 

A few weeks ago, I in the prayer room I’d helped set up for university students at a Student Church Planting Experience.  I was pulling one of those 3am slots, and had entered the prayer room intending to intercede for the university students participating in SCPX.  But instead, the Lord had other matters to discuss with me.  I couldn’t stop praying for Preston.  I felt like the Father was asking me to write a letter to Preston from Him.  So I grabbed a piece of construction paper and a marker and started writing from a place of supernatural affection. 

On my way back to SCPX a few days later, I picked up Preston a few days later so he could spend the day with me.  He lit up with excitement when I told him that I had a letter for him from Jesus.  He wanted me to help him read it right then, so I read it mostly from memory (as I tried to keep my eyes on the road!)  “Preston, My Preston...” the letter began.  And the whole first paragraph was the Father just wanting him to know that He loved all the questions that Preston was asking, and that His heart did cartwheels when Preston thought about Him.  I’d barely finished the first part,  I looked over and saw the biggest grin you can imagine taking over Preston’s face.  “Can you thank Him for me?” he asked intently.   “You can thank Him yourself, you know,” I gently reminded him.  “Right now?” he asked.  “Sure!” I said.  And so, with as much passion as his little voice could muster, he let out a loud, expressive “THANK YOU!”

My heart almost melted, but I kept reading.  The middle part of the letter was praising Preston for being such a good big brother and for always watching out for his little sister Makala.  She’s very special, I had written on the Father’s behalf.  The letter also praised Preston for his obedience to his parents, saying that they too were very special.  The last section spoke of how Preston was becoming strong and brave, and of how proud Jesus was of him.  “Listen for My voice, because I’m always speaking.  I love you so much!” the letter finished.  

Preston could hardly contain how thrilled he was over God’s words to him.  The little guy let out a huge contented sigh.  “I just LOVE Jesus!” he exclaimed.  He began to tell me his plans for hiding the letter in a special place in his room so that Makala wouldn’t tear it up.  He then began to re-read it silently, stopping every once in a while to tell me how much he liked particular lines of the letter.  The presence of God was thick in the car as Preston engaged with heart of God over a few simple words scratched on green construction paper.

When we arrived at SCPX, I took Preston up to the prayer room so he could draw a picture for Jesus to hang up.  He drew a picture of a rather chubby person with stick legs and a giant smile.  He asked me to draw a heart next to Jesus and together we hung it up amongst the other prayers. 

Something in me is deeply stirred as I write this story out.  I think today I believe more than ever that there is much to consider in Jesus’ recommendation that we come to Him as children.  Preston is in no way “out of the game” just because he is eight years old.  He is coming to the Kingdom, running freely with a wide open heart, running faster than most grown-ups I know!  Today I’m also convinced more than ever that new life is birthed in the place of prayer and that the Most High God is eager to engage with us in capturing the hearts of the ones He loves. 

this you can run with: isaiah 64.

  I had a unique experience with my Lord this morning at our weekly Campus America team prayer gathering.  Adam Cox, one of our fearless leaders, was challenging us with the words of Isaiah 64.  He reminded us of what Lou Engle had prayed over our team just weeks before in light of our calling as the "Boiler Room" family.  Lou had prayed that God would turn up the heat and cause us to boil, that we would feel the hand of God heavy upon us.

   We broke into the passage, and almost immediately I was weeping tears that were not my own.  There are times that I determine to pray in the Spirit, and there are other times when the Spirit takes over and I can't not pray in a heavenly tongue.  This was one of those times; I literally could not help but give in to the torrent of the Spirit's words gushing out of my inner man.  It was as if this cry was actually reverberating in my being, "There is no one who calls on My name, no one who rouses himself to take hold of Me..."  

   The all-consuming ache for the Presence of God endured throughout our whole prayer meeting, I continued to weep and pray in the Spirit for most of the hour.  The ache for the Presence and the burden of intercession for a generation to rise up and take hold of God was unlike any other time I have prayed, however.  Every other time in my life, as I have deeply hungered and deeply mourned with heaven, I've felt a literal weight, a physical heaviness bearing down on me.  Most of the time in the past, I've identified that weight with sharing in the ache of the Father's heart and its been a paradox - a sincerely sorrowful pleasure.  In this last season, though, the literal heaviness has not come only with intercession but more often with stress and anxiety.  The crushing weight has in many ways marked the last few months for me; it's been an inescapable and unexplainable heaviness that has made life a bit scary, a bit confusing, and a bit miserable honestly.

  This morning, though, the physical ache never came.  I was thoroughly partnering with heaven - the tears were unstoppable, the prayer was unceasing by no effort of my own.  Yet the dreaded fifty-pound force never made its way into my chest.  On the contrary, the longer I prayed, the lighter I felt.  It was the trippiest thing- bawling my eyes out and longing so wholly, feeling the tears of the throne room and the breath of the Father blowing on me.  I was considering Lou's petition : May the hand of God be heavy upon you, and knew it was coming to pass, yet remained thoroughly amazed that I did not feel the heaviness pushing me into the ground.  (To be honest, if the hand of God heavy upon me was anything reminiscent of the crushing load of the last few months, this next year was beginning to look dismal.)  As I simultaneously marveled at the feelings of lightness submerged with tears, I felt the Lord say to me, This is a heaviness you can run with.  And indeed, I felt like a could run a marathon!  What HOPE for this next year...

He meets us joyfully when we remember Him in His ways!  He is the only God who acts on behalf of those who wait for Him!  Unbelievable, this Maker of ours...  I am seriously astounded at the mysterious ways He chooses to grace us with His fullness.  Who are You, God?!?

Isaiah 64

 ¹Oh that You would rend the heavens and come down,
   that the mountains might quake at Your presence—
² as when fire kindles brushwood
   and the fire causes water to boil—
 to make Your name known to your adversaries,
   and that the nations might tremble at your presence!
³ When You did awesome things that we did not look for,
   You came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
⁴ From of old no one has heard
   or perceived by the ear,
 no eye has seen a God besides You,
   who acts for those who wait for him.
⁵You meet him who joyfully works righteousness,
   those who remember You in Your ways.
Behold, You were angry, and we sinned;
   in our sins we have been a long time, and shall we be saved?
⁶ We have all become like one who is unclean,
   and all our righteous deeds are like a polluted garment.
We all fade like a leaf,
   and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.
⁷ There is no one who calls upon Your name,
   who rouses himself to take hold of You;
for You have hidden Your face from us,
   and have made us melt in the hand of our iniquities.

 ⁸ But now, O LORD, You are our Father;
   we are the clay, and You are our potter;
   we are all the work of Your hand.
⁹ Be not so terribly angry, O LORD,
   and remember not iniquity forever.
   Behold, please look, we are all Your people.
¹⁰ Your holy cities have become a wilderness;
   Zion has become a wilderness,
   Jerusalem a desolation.
¹¹ Our holy and beautiful house,
   where our fathers praised You,
has been burned by fire,
   and all our pleasant places have become ruins.
¹² Will You restrain Yourself at these things, O LORD?
   Will You keep silent, and afflict us so terribly?

supernatural affection.

It's a perfect day.  Literally.  I am sitting on the front porch of my new temporary home in my favorite old rocking chair.  The sun is glorious, the grass is super green, the breeze is delightful.  I just ate a yummy salad with fresh greens from the garden and some juicy pineapple from somewhere tropical I'm sure.  

I can't help but think for the 27th time in the last few days how very much I like Kansas City.  It's an almost unnatural affection that has caught me by surprise over and over again.  I'm a mountains and oceans and foreign lands kind of girl, so the thought of being captivated by a blah-blah city smack dab in the heart of the ho-hum Midwest is just, well, a bit peculiar to say the least.  I wrote "blah-blah city" just now in order to articulate the difference between places I've been and the place I sit right now - and yet, so thrilled is my whole being over Kansas City in this moment that it seriously pains me to call it that.  It feels unjust. 

I've always genuinely liked Kansas City, but I guess I've figured that after living here for more than a year that the newness would have worn off by now, that I'd be bored and ready for some fresh place to conquer.  I've spent the last five months in thriving metropolises like Las Vegas, Miami, and San Diego.  I've seen the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian Oceans.  I've hiked in mountains and canyons in  South Africa, California, Pennsylvania, and Nevada.  The old Lindsay would have been so ready to get out of here by now.  That's why I call this extraordinary endearment towards KC unnatural.  It is not in nor of myself.  And thus, I conclude, it must be supernatural - of my Father.  

The encounter with His love I experienced in Masiphumelele last week has altered the workings of my heart and mind.  I did not realize it in the moment, but that encounter was the answer to many prayers I've prayed these last few months.  I've been asking God to shake me in the way He first did - three years ago March.  It was my undoing, as I like to call it.  It was then that the Lord literally undid me by dousing me thoroughly with a spirit of wisdom and revelation over the matter of His affection for me.  I started true life then.  In some ways, every year I lived before that undoing seems like a blur.  The world went from black-and-white to full-on 3-D color.  I woke up from my spiritual stupor at long last and finally began to pursue the Kingdom with legitimate passion.  Everything genuinely changed for me - the grass actually seemed greener, the air had never felt so fresh, and the words on the pages of my Bible might as well have been jumping out of the book and dancing all over my body.  I lived, I loved God and people out of a gushing heart.

For the last three years I've been constantly aware that to love God truly and to love people well, I can only do so in response to knowing God's love for me.  The fire has never stopped burning, but it has been in dire need of a stoking and refueling.  A soul can't run a lifetime on just one revelation.  Well, maybe some souls can, but mine surely cannot!

All that to say - the effects of the weeping with Jesus under the stars in Cape Town have been reminiscent of those first days that I was swept up in enthrallment with the Lord.  Colors seem brighter, people seem more intriguing, and I just keep wishing I could drink the beauty of the city with a straw!  I am eager for His Presence and so quickly and thoroughly delighted by every single little way I see Him.  I am my Beloved's and He is mine!  Rest is actually pleasant for me now and being still is no longer agonizing.  

Let's seek the Lord while He may be found, let's call on Him while He is near... Let's give ourselves fully and wholly and entirely and utterly to Love.  Let's leave the former things, let's run after glory. 

I lived in Kansas City for over a year now.  That makes me an official resident.  That makes me part owner.  I'm not a stranger or alien.  I'm a daughter of the King and an heir to the Throne!  I have spiritual authority in this city.  I can stare racism square in the face with eyes aflame with peace.  I can walk down the street in friendly conversation with a transexual and invite them to lunch knowing the mighty devotion of the Father over us both.  I can walk unsettled past perverted men knowing full well that I stand blameless before my Father.  This is my city now.  And by the mercy of God, I truly love it.

My sin has been forgiven for His name's sake.  I know Him who is from the beginning.  I have overcome the evil one.  I know the Father.  I am strong.  The Word of God is steady in me.  And I have overcome the evil one.                                                                - 1 John 2:12-14

love in masiphumelele.

I was in Masiphumelele for the last two weeks.  Affectionately dubbed "Masi" by Americans who have trouble pronouncing the full name, Masiphumelele is a township in Cape Town, South Africa.  

Day after day we laid hands on the sick and prayed for them to be healed in Jesus' name.  Day after day we spelled out the gospel to people who have never walked with Jesus.  A young boy is finally rid of pain in his ear after a "fresh wind" blew in it as we prayed.  A dying HIV victim experienced the all-consuming presence of Jesus.  A battered wife wept at the love of a perfect Father.  A former Rastafarian is now reading the words of Life.  A grandmother has returned to work after her arm was miraculously healed.  An estranged young woman is now writing out pages and pages of God's words to her.  A teenager is now laying hands on the sick, his eyes so alive with the compassion of Jesus.  There was singing in the streets, worship to the Creator of every race, as a man who lost his leg to a gunshot wound stepped into new life.  There's nothing incredibly fantastic about any of us who were praying, or leading worship, or teaching.  We're just average humans who have been adopted into the family of God and who now walk as co-heirs with Christ, the Son of the King.

Many days as I laid hands on the sick, I was sick myself.  A fever wracked my body, and deep, painful coughs seized my body often.  Some days I could hardly talk, but somehow words of Life were still flowing out my mouth, pumping breath into limp souls.  It's not me, but a Spirit living in me.  I had nothing to give these needy people - my soul was weary from months of unending travel and ministry and my body was wanting to just shut down.  Yet somehow, when the day was over, a half a dozen impoverished people had received healing and salvation, and all I could think in between coughs is that the mercy of God is great.

Once again, I found my absolute favorite moments to be explaining who Jesus is to people.  Most of the time I walk away from a conversation astounded at the language I've just used to describe the gospel.  I've never heard it told that way, and I can't tell you how I knew to say what I said - except that the Gospel is alive and it lives in me.  A few of my teammates were marveling at the way I'd so succinctly and clearly just laid out salvation for yet another unbelieving individual.  I laugh, because I too am marveling!  Guys, for real, it's not me - it's Jesus taking over.

The day that marked me the most was one of the last days we were to be in Masiphumelele.  As I was wandering about with Chris, I felt a strong sense from the Lord that we were supposed to go to the soccer field.  It was a bit odd, since the soccer field was on the opposite side of where we'd spent most of our time in the township.  But after our scheduled meetings with people, we trekked across Masi towards the soccer field.  We had two young boys in tow, which was not unusual in any way - we nearly always had a handful of ragamuffins traipsing after us, holding our hands and chattering away.  These two little guys seemed rather special though.  I'd played with dozens of adorable kids over the course of my visit to Masi, but these boys had a unique tenderness that made me just really want Jesus to consume the whole place. 

We arrived at the fields not entirely sure what to expect.  The games were over for the day, and dozens of young people were packing up to walk home.  Chris and I sat down on the bleachers and began to just wait on the Lord.  There were kids climbing all over the bleachers, playing catch with a mangy dog.  We had our Bibles out and were chatting a little bit, but mostly we were just sitting and taking in the place.  There was trash everywhere.  Curled up barbed wire fence. Grass wasn't really anywhere to be found.  A few guys were smoking behind a little building.  I kept thinking that perhaps the Lord was going to send us someone who really needed to hear the gospel or something super spiritual like that.  

As we waited though, I began to dream about what Masi could be like.  About what would happen if a white family who loved Jesus moved into the township.  About what would happen if revival broke out among the young people.  I held the littlest of the kids who'd followed us.  He was utterly precious and melted my heart in a way that none of the other kids had.  

And I can't tell you why or how... all I know is that I encountered the Living God sitting on those rickety wooden bleachers looking out over a trashy dirt field, holding a runny-nosed smelly four-year-old, and tossing a deflated ball to a flea-infested dog.  There was no lightning falling from heaven.  No revelation shooting out the Bible open beside me.  No divine appointments or shocking prophetic words for an atheist.  But the God who holds the universe in the palm of His hand sat next to me there, and it was for me the most stunning moment of the whole trip.  

I didn't even really realize how impacting that moment with the Lord had been until later that evening, when back at the team house our whole group had huddled around a few young South African guys from Masi who loved Jesus and had been doing some translating for us.  As I placed my hands on the feet of a young man named Vuyani to pray for him, I began to weep.  I don't often close my eyes to pray, but as I did this night, all I could see was that trashy soccer field and that dear little boy.  The Presence of God hit me all over again and I knew... I knew I didn't know much, except that the Presence of God is worth living for.  

I had to leave the room I was so overwhelmed.  It was quite dark as I stepped out on the back balcony that overlooks the whole valley, the ocean, and all of Masiphumelele.  I began to pray in the Spirit as I continued to weep.  Scenes began to flash back to me from the last 6 years or so.  Scenes of orphans I knew in Russia, of street kids I knew in Mount Vernon, Ohio, of the poor and broken I knew in Kansas City, of the needy I had most recently known in South Africa.  Love washed over me.  Again, I can't really put words to it.  I just stood there clutching the bannister, weeping over the love of God, worshipping full throttle.  

I just want Jesus.  I don't care if I'm on the tip of Africa or the middle of North America.  I don't care if it's a ghetto swimming pool, a university in Sin City, the top of a mountain overlooking where the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet, or a trashy soccer field.  I don't care if I'm preaching to a crowd or sitting on a bleacher doing nothing.  I am loved by God.  Why, I won't ever pretend to know.  He is love, that's the only reason I'll ever be able to come up with.  The love of God is bigger than me, its bigger than anything I can see.  I can't conjure it up.  I can only be ready to receive it.

He is so very eager to invade our every moment.  Not just the ones we designate as spiritual.  He is so very eager to consume us with love.  Not just when we're anticipating it or praying and fasting for it.  He is so very eager to have ALL of me!  And so, Lord Jesus, have it all.  Your love is totally worth living for.  And totally worthy dying for.  This is IT.  Your Presence.  May this be what my life is comprised of - my living and dying and living again for eternity.