golden clay

“That’s kind of a dying field, isn’t it?”

I rub at the corner of my lip and look down at my feet, trying to pull my smile into neutrality. That’s what the businessman said to me as I traced the creases on my book and leaned my elbow against the cool metal of the plane’s insides. “I mean, it’s not easy to make a pile of money writing, but…” I’d like to think I’ll be able to eat somehow.

Months later, as a tall boy weaves me through the other waltzing couples, he asks me the same question, “So, what do you want to do with your degree?”

I’m trying to think of an original way to answer. “Uh, I think I’m going to be a full-time waitress and write on the side.” I probably should have bit my tongue because I think he thought I was serious.

I do it too. It’s the go-to question with high school students, with university students. It’s right up there with “What’s your name?”. I evaluate people based on where I see them going. That’s not always a bad thing; sometimes it really is the best way to get to know someone. However, maybe we’re missing what matters.

There’s no denying that some careers lead to a better income, some lead to a better lifestyle, and some give an outlet for creativity. That’s just not the point. I’m not saying to be lazy, unfocused, aimless; God never says that either. I’m just saying that when Abraham was about to plunge a dagger into his son’s heart, he had no idea God was going to provide a ram. Faith isn’t poetry we put on our walls. It’s what happens in the sweaty, sticky moments where we hold onto His promises even when we don’t know what’s coming next. It’s the rising to our feet when He gives us a command and we do it without knowing the outcome.

Growing up starts today. I whisper ‘yes’ to God for this moment, stride forward once, and nod ‘yes’ again. The cycle continues. Sure, I’ll lightly pencil in my five-year plan if you really want me too, but I’ll give God the eraser and the pen.

What I’d really like to answer when they ask it again is this: I want to do what Jesus did…nothing apart from the Father.

What do you want to be?

I want be a reflection of Jesus.

More than worrying about their career choices in grade ten, maybe we should worry about their souls. While we’re teaching them numbers, we should live out words in front of them, His Word.

This is when fragments shatter into grains of sand. I try for words, but they’ve lost their meaning. I’m grabbing at shapes and signs. She lies on her tummy in those plaid pajama pants, toes pointed to the ceiling. The fireplace dimly glows behind her. “Do you ever stop and really think about humans? Like, why did God create us?”

She nods at me, “Yeah.” She’s thought about this too, this smallness of life.

Where’d we get this idea that the universe revolves around us. Take a moment. Just step outside and watch the world spin. The cross is the center and God is bigger than anyone has ever known.

All this craziness is our confidence. We serve an awesome God.

That sickness is a flickering second against the black background of eternity. That sorrow is a shadow fading into the light of the endless past and future. The Alpha and Omega. That joy is nothing compared to what’s ahead in Christ Jesus.

This earth was in His plan. You were in His plan. Weigh that in your scale.

I always seem to awaken in mid-December before the New Year tiptoes onto my calendar. This hibernation of the soul makes me freeze straight and stiff, back unbending. Unbowed. Suddenly, I’m no longer catching my reflection in the mirror, but I’m seeing my true form: skin and sin and bones.

I finish my last exam of the year and walk into the foyer of the music building. Some of my classmates have that shell-shocked gaze, like they just escaped the trenches and the bullets. I’m just relieved I don’t have to grate more eraser dust on those pages of notes and scores and same-sounding multiple choice questions. I text my brother later: “That was a brutal exam. People were crying throughout it.” I hesitate after I click send and wish I could rewrite some of my life’s scenes, rephrase my dialogue, and insert silence instead. Okay, so I didn’t actually see people crying, but my friends said people were crying…I think. But as much as I’d like, I can’t really imagine Jesus exaggerating his life to make people sympathize with him.

I’m oozing with pride, the worst kind…the kind that I can dress up into making me look plain awesome. Only God is awesome though. Somehow, like Adam, I think I know better than God. When will we be honest with ourselves and realize that we really are nothing without Him?

https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/y7qLNDGTm-E&source=uds

I can’t get it out of my head. They were waiting for a Redeemer. Looking back through the pages of the Old Testament, this stable in the City of David is the natural conclusion. We, twenty-first century Christians, expected it. But, I can imagine Mary, opening her hands to the Lord’s will, her questions covered by faith. I can picture Joseph, the carpenter of royal blood, remembering the words of his ancestor King David who spoke of a Redeemer. Then, there’s white-haired Simeon lifting the baby Jesus up in his arms, up towards the ceiling of the temple, knowing that this baby was the King of Kings. Anna, a woman who spent her life on her knees, excitedly grabbing people’s shoulders and shaking the news into their souls: The Messiah has come! Those were the few who were waiting expectantly for the Saviour of the world.

Then, there’s us. And I wonder what few will be there at the return of Jesus. When the trumpet blows, will we be awakened from our slumber? No. May we be watchmen and point through the darkness to His marvelous light and say, “There, my Saviour approaches. I knew it. I knew it. He’s finally here.”Welcome the New Year with hope. He could come any day. Let’s be faithful servants and look for His return.

He stands there on the half-wall, under the yellow glow of a streetlight. We’re shivering as we listen, as we pray, as we offer people gospel tracts. The cold bites through our layers and colours our finger tips white.

He yells out the gospel and the crowds laugh and point at him as they cross the street, wearing their hockey jerseys. He could be Paul standing up there if it were two thousand years ago and the snow was dust. He quotes Romans 1:20 and then shouts, “You know there is a God!”

A girl in a dress snorts before she steps into the cab, “God is dead.” I watch the red tail lights of the taxi fade into the darkness.

He stands there, talking with his hands. He looks like a traffic director. This is the last crossroads before hell and he’s pointing people the other way, to the path of Joy and Life.

A group of guys swagger directly underneath the preacher, “Let’s push him off, boys.” One of them laughs. But they move on, chuckling.

I think of Paul and where the preaching of the cross led him: to martyrdom. While the snowflakes land on my nose, I ask myself if I’m really willing to give up my earthly life to follow the path of the cross. The golden streets and the pearly gates and God: the final destination. My heart can give only one answer and there’s no turning back once you’ve found Hope.

The backpacks, briefcases, and bus rides were all new to me. I tried to blend with their hipster glasses and jeggings, checking my phone as I walked the sidewalk, pretending that I really did know where my next class was being held.

Three weeks into first year, I pulled open the glass door and scanned my music history classroom for a place to sit. The cathedral ceiling seemed to suck the September sun into its highest point. But I still saw her clearly, her illuminating smile. She was talking to the people next to her, looking them right in the eye. I went and sat beside her. An introduction.

“What instrument do you play?” I asked.

“Piano.” That smile.

“Me too.”

In music theory class, the next day, she sat beside me.

“How many siblings do you have?” I asked.

“Three. I’m the youngest.”

I smiled back. “Me too.”

I never asked, but I knew. The smile came from her heart. She had a new heart, like me. Jesus transformed us.

Over a year later, we’re sitting here in the house we share, our other roommates at home with their families. We should be studying, but we’re talking, the fireplace making shadows dance in the living room. We both wear ugly bathrobes. Mine is baby blue. Hers is pink. We talk about God’s sovereignty. I look at her with a mess of highlighted papers scattered on the floor before her; I don’t think I can believe in coincidences, even in history class.

Remember, today, the grace He’s worked in your life.

There are some who think an empty cathedral is where to bare the heart before God. I am thankful that God chooses to work in the dirty places. “She… laid him in a manger. (Luke 2:7)” As I was spraying the concrete slabs of my dad’s pig barn, washing the manure and rust away, I realized I had forgotten. There was no stained glass in the barn, no sunlight blinking through the cracked and coloured panes, exposing dust particles. There was just a dead spider above my head; I grimaced and stepped out of its range.

Somewhere in the midst of prayer meetings, street witnessing, church attending and Bible reading, I had forgotten the point. My first Love. I think of a man across the ocean who lies on the cold stones of a prison cell because he handed out a gospel tract. What’s the secret in his heart that is holding the hope in his eyes? Why bother living out the Christian life?

The barn is silent except for the water pipe leaking from the ceiling. I quietly whisper the line in my heart: Because I love you. Jesus, I want to do all this because I want to know you.

“What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ.” Philippians 3:8

It’s what we’re sitting there, on the red couch, asking ourselves at 1 AM, lip stains on empty tea cups. We’ve just come back from Bible study, encouraged, but our burdens are still wrapped tight inside our hearts. And the one thing we know we could never do is tell them how to really pray for us.

I’m left wondering when I go to my room, pacing as I watch the sleeping city outside my window, how many of them have gone home to the same thoughts. Do we all return to our houses after Bible study, after church, and wonder if we’re the only one? Why are there some things that we just don’t talk about as Christians? Where do all the forgiven sinners go when they’re struggling with bitterness, rebellion, when they’re hearing voices? Who will lay the Scriptures before them and pray for their protection?

I remember reading his blog, the Christian guy who I supposed knew little about struggles with sin, and he wrote out the whole plot of his life, exposed his past struggle with homosexuality. What was it that brought him freedom? He found a trustworthy person to whisper what he had faced alone for years. Then, I read an interview where she, a picture perfect woman of God, a popular worship singer, confessed how she’d known the addiction to pornography and now knew freedom in Christ Jesus.

I remember: “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man.” (1 Cor. 10:13)

God is our Counselour. God also gave us the Church. Maybe it’s time to pray about with whom to share your current struggles. Or, maybe, you’ve been set free and it’s time to pray about whether God desires you to open your heart and humbly share about the victory He has given you. His Spirit is our Guide and, friend, maybe it really isn’t time for that yet. All I know is that there are those living side by side, facing the same struggle against darkness, and never realizing it.

Just pray. Be obedient. Know that you’re not alone.

I write her a thank you note, dial his number just to show I care, and do that big pile of dishes. Sometimes I wonder if God stripped away this outside layer, exposing my heart, would these deeds be filthy rags in the light of His righteousness? Do I only do good so that others will praise me, love me and give back to me?

A decade opens before me brightly. I hit the snooze button at 7:15AM and roll out of bed to birthday cards slipped under the door and flowers on my dresser. How do I want to look at this year ahead of me? I could continue to get dirty in the same grime that I’ve layered onto my soul for years. I could continue to be comfortable. Do we hate change because we hate to change? Or I could stand here, looking out the window at liquid glass dripping off branches. While the house is still asleep, I could pledge my heart afresh to the Living God, my Hope, my Life.