Laughing Jesus

Number Nine!  Only 3 left! I know, I know, I just spent my last entry talking about how the "only _____  more left!" phrase failed to bring me any comfort, but this week is different. My doctor says I can blame my vacillating moods on something like a temporary, medically-induced menopause, so I think I will.

Mom and me after #9

Since this weekend Jonathan and I celebrate our five year wedding anniversary, I've spent some time reflecting on events since last June. So much has changed, but the consensus is that we are in a better place now than we were then. A theme stood out during my stroll down memory lane; repeated re-surrender...the kind that walks a thin line between excruciating pain and exhilarating pleasure. Maybe a story can explain better.

This Sunday I had a chance to bring my mind, attitude, heart, soul...whatever you want to call it, back to Jesus. Sometimes I wonder where it goes, and why it seems to keep running away from Him, but inevitably, I can tell it's happened because "whatever you want to call it" feels cold and dead, like a smelly fish on the bottom of someone's boat. It's not that I've made a conscious declaration of independence from Him, or that I think He's turned away from me, or even that I'm unsure of my salvation, it just seems like my tendency towards self-reliance whisks me away into building and running my own kingdom, instead of willingly joining His. My soul simply cannot tolerate this constant rebellion like it used to.

So, collectively at our Sunday morning service my church family came together for communion. It is often during communion that I first realize I've become a smelly-dead-fish and need to be revived. During this process of communing with the most beautiful presence I have ever known, I find myself declaring a familiar phrase, stolen from a Chris Tomlin song, one I've uttered multiple times this year:

"I lift my hands to believe again! You are my refuge, You are my strength. As I pour out my heart, these things I remember: You are faithful God,  forever."


The first time I declared this was last November on a date-night to a Chris Tomlin concert. At this point, I was operating on what my brother-in-law dubbed, "half-blood" so even walking short distances was unpleasant, not that this kept me from wearing heals. I mean, it's date-night, after all . We couldn't find the entrance to Chaifetz Arena, so I logged some extra miles around the building before finding the seats, which were great seats if you were in any mood to be surrounded by very energetic, worshipping Christians. Unfortunately, I was not. I felt so bad, physically, but felt even more "bad" about feeling bad. I wanted to stand and sing and worship with everyone else. Instead, I was ready to punch the next arm that waved across my face and poor Jonathan was in serious danger of being that arm.  Picking up on the quickly-deteriorating status of our date, and having some kind of supernatural ability to extend grace to me in my ugliest moments, Jonathan convinced me to be a "rebel" and climb to the top of the arena, where there were still plenty of free seats. I grumbled over each painful step to the top of that mountain in my gold heals, but we did arrive, victorious and completely alone. Here, I was able to rest, letting the worship of everyone below us rise to wash over me. Here, I learned that even in the midst of physical pain, it is possible to be so enamored by His presence that, while the pain in not gone, there's no place you'd rather be. It's the strangest experience of contentment I've ever known.

Then, when Chris sang his song, "I Lift My Hands," I decided to rise. I wish you could see this memory as I do. With the stage lights as they were, the audience was only slightly illuminated by a glowing kind of darkness, mostly people on their feet with thousands upon thousands of tiny little fingers reaching into the air, like they wanted nothing more than to be closer to whatever that presence was that just kept beckoning them to a place, higher and higher. And then the voices! All kinds of them, rising up in passion as they proclaimed love for an unseen God. Even as I started to feel a sacred sort of union with everybody below me, I also experienced a sense of being very much alone. The darkness became thick, the voices seemed to fade as I chose to let mine rise and I'm convinced the one spotlight on the stage turned completely around to illuminate me, posturing myself at the top of the auditorium, leaning against the guard rail like I was Rose DeWitt Bukater on the Titanic. It felt as if all eyes were on me and I knew this moment meant everything. I knew that choosing to stand there, feeling so exposed and vulnerable and "on-stage", was really my stage before my most important audience. I was on stage for Holiness himself. This was my moment to tell Him what I was going to do with my pain, my fear, my doubts. So I lifted my hands to the sky and sang:

"I lift my hands to believe again! You are my refuge, You are my strength. As I pour out my heart, these things I remember: You are faithful God,  forever."

Phew. As you can imagine, this song has been meaningful ever since. The cherry on top is that I really think Jesus loves that memory, that moment, as much as I do and I'll tell you why. On Sunday after communion and that moment of re-surrender, I told Jonathan on our drive home about how much I loved that song. I had no sooner finished suggesting that we plug in his phone and play it, when I heard those all-too-familiar notes on the radio...yep, I do believe God directly intervened with either me or that radio station to play our love song. Jonathan smiled and said "this is what Jesus is doing right now," then flipped around his phone to show me his background picture:

I'd have to agree.

Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes; the rest sit round it and pluck blackberries. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning