It simply has to stay close to the Shepherd and follow Him – to go with Him where He leads. The Shepherd knows what His sheep need – the proper nourishment and where to find it, the restorative springs and how to reach them, the proper medicines and how to apply them, the tools and strength to defend and protect and shelter and the love and steadfastness to provide them.

The Shepherd cares enough to do all these things for every single one of His sheep, whom He knows intimately and calls by name. He loves them all deeply enough to realize when one has gone astray and wandered off and has compassion enough to pursue after that wandering sheep until He returns it safely to its flock, even if against its own will – because that is what is best for it.

How free I am – how much crushing weight is lifted off of me – when I remember that I’m just a sheep. I am not meant, nor am I capable, of being my own god – of self-reliance, self-sufficiency.

What heavy lies – what suffocating burdens – those things are. What irony that pride spins these self-destructive loads that will crush the very souls that try to carry them.

But when I remember that I am just a sheep – that I can’t actually do any of those things - pride can’t get as easy a grip in that simpler, quieter heart.

And I’m not just ANY sheep. I am HIS sheep. Jesus is my Shepherd and He loves me so much that He even died for me, yet so powerful and awesome that He then got up out of that grave and clothed me in His goodness and grace, put His mark upon me, and now leads me faithfully through this life until one day, when He sees fit, He’ll lead me home.

In the meantime, whether I’m walking through the valley of death, or being lead by quiet waters, it is well with my soul, as long as I remember that I’m just a sheep – HIS sheep.

Reflections upon:

Psalm 23 and John 10

As well as inspirations from Max Lucado’s “Traveling Light,” and a recent viewing of Sheep Detectives (as funny as that sounds).

The shuffle of feet just reached her ears when the kitchen light flashed on overhead sending jabs of pain through her eyes.

“Geeze, you scared me,” she whispered as she peered into the jar in front of her. She didn’t bother to look around.

“What on earth are you doing? It’s 3 o’clock in the morning!” he whispered. He might as well have been yelling.

“I just needed to check on it real quick.”

“You checked on it before we went to bed.”

“I know. It’s really sensitive, especially to the temperature. If you don’t get the timing right, it messes everything up.” She prodded the substance in jar, then reached for a canister on the counter. “Just go back to bed – I’m feeding it, then I’ll be right there.”

“You’re feeding it... Again?”

“Yeah. It’s still not reacting right. I need it more active before I can use it. What were those ratios?” she muttered, snatching her phone from the counter. She blew a fine layer of white powder off it before opening a web browser and tapping away. “It’s got to be ready by morning, or I’m in trouble.”

An irritated sigh from behind her was more effective than a firm tap on the shoulder.

“What?” she said, finally turning around to face her husband.

“Don’t you think this is getting out of hand?”

“I need to get it right. Once I’ve figured it out, it won’t be –”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks now! How long will it take to ‘get it right’? At first I thought it was cute, sexy even. I haven’t seen you absorbed in anything like this for who knows how long. But this is getting out of hand!”

Air escaped her lips. Something between a scoff and a *tsk*. She may as well have dangled a muleta in front of a bull.

“You’re obsessed! You come to bed late almost every night! Half the time, you’re getting up again in the middle of the night to check on it. When the kids or I are talking to you, you hardly hear us – it’s like you’re on a completely different plain of existence or something!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” she muttered, barely restraining her eyes from a very tempting roll. She turned back to her jar and reached for a nearby gram scale.

“You think I’m exaggerating?” he asked as he came and leaned against the counter next to her. If he couldn’t get her to look at him, he’d at least make his presence felt. “What did Molly come home with last night?”

“What are you talking about?” She was carefully measuring fine white powder out onto the scale and watching the numbers tick up one decimal place at a time.

“Molly came home from school with something…Alive!”

“What?!” she side-eyed him, finally registering what he was saying.

“See, that’s what I’m saying! You were so lost in thought about measurements and ratios and all this…” he waved his hands at the counter tops, currently covered in white dust, bowls, jars, wooden spoons, and wax paper, “that you didn’t even realize she brought home an animal! An animal, Beth! It’s all she talked about for 30 minutes straight!”

She shook her head as she now carefully measured out water, “I think I would have noticed if she brought home a dog.”

“Of course it wasn’t a dog! The point is, you don’t even know what it is that your daughter brought home yesterday, when it’s the first thing she showed you and all she talked about!”

“Oh, come on…”

“I’m serious! You’re getting too caught up in this. What is it all for? I’m all for recreation, but this is getting – ”

“‘Out of hand’” she mimicked him, “You’ve said. But Tom… it’s not just recreation…” she trailed off as she carefully stirred her mixture.

“Oh? Then what is it?”

“Tom,” she hesitated and looked up at him again, searching his eyes. A mad scientist never looked more crazed.

“What? I’d love to know what about it is worthy of this level of distraction?”

“Tom, it’s…it’s alive!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he huffed and pushed himself away from the counter.

“Tom, I mean it! It’s got a life of its own. It’s insane!”

“It IS insane! That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

“That’s not what I mean! I’ve got to figure this out. I’ve got to figure out how to work

with it…” she said, mixing her concoction. She finished and carefully fit a cover over the top of her jar. Straightening up, she turned to face Tom again, her shirt dusted in white powder and her hands sticky. “Then the results - the results will be beyond belief!”

“Beth – It’s BREAD! No results will be ‘beyond belief’!”

“It’s NOT bread! It’s sourdough! It’s FULL of life! And it’s named Cindy Lou, by the way.”

“Oh my gosh. You’ve actually named it. You’ve named an inanimate object.”

“It’s not an inanimate object, Tom! I keep telling you, it’s alive!”

“Fine. It’s alive. Whatever. I’m going back to bed,” he flicked the light off and walked toward the bedroom, leaving Beth in the dark.

She stood, staring after him for a moment, wondering whether she should go after him or quickly collect the sourdough discard in another container to save for experiments in the morning.

But something was bugging her. She felt like she was forgetting something. She stood staring at the floor, trying to clear her head of ratios and fermentation rates and think what it could be.

Suddenly, a scratching and gnawing cut through the quiet night. It was coming from Molly’s room down the hall.

That’s when it dawned on her.

“Wait! Tom, what did Molly bring home?” Silence. “Tom? What did she bring home?” Beth ran after him, disappearing into their dark bedroom.

Meanwhile, Cindy Lou sat on the kitchen counter, bubbling happily, satisfied with the conquest of another human mind…

The false things we believe that speckle and disease our faith become exposed – they float to the top to be scooped out – when we’re held to the flames long enough.

I think it may only be through these lengthy trials – the long “No” of God to rescue us from our earthly circumstances – that these flaws get exposed, revealing errors in our theology corrupting the very framework of our worldview, like cracks in a foundation.

This is the purification process we (my husband and I) are undergoing currently.

The prosperity gospel, which we consciously reject, still somehow sneakily worked its way into the fabric of our faith.

It’s the American gospel, I think. This idea that “if it’s not good, God’s not done,” or the expectation that the 11^th hour rescue will ALWAYS come this side of heaven.

The expectation that if I’m really listening to and asking for God’s leading, if I’m praying with true faith, that His leading will lead me out.

The assumption that IF these things don’t happen, then I must be doing something wrong, praying something wrong, not hearing God, or else God’s not hearing me. OR, perhaps just as deceptively, that it’s just a matter of “waiting a little longer” before it finally happens, whatever “it” may be.

But what about when the “midnight hour” does arrive? When the rescue doesn’t come?

What if the simple matter of fact is God says, “No”?

Will I still declare that God is good?

Is it ok for Paul to have suffered hunger and chains and poverty and ultimately a NON rescue when his death sentence was carried out by Rome? But it’s not ok for me?

Is it ok that Peter didn’t see rescue when he was hung upside down on the cross? But not for me?

Has it been ok for the hundreds and thousands of Christian martyrs who did not see earthly rescue as they claimed the name of Jesus with their final breath? But not for me?

Is it all right for the hundreds and thousands of faithful believers who live today in corrupt, impoverished nations where hunger and homelessness and disease are the given? Where governments or radical groups silence the Gospel and anyone who would speak the name of Jesus?

Is it ok for all of them to suffer the midnight hour, but not for me?

Because this is the thought I’m realizing has snuck in, and I suspect the same for many in our cushy Western civilization.

What this whole, “if it’s not good, then God’s not done” idea reveals is that we’re too often defining “good” as an earthly good. We chant it over and over to ourselves while we’re in a hard place, just waiting for that hard place to be behind us.

At least, I have been.

And when the circumstances don’t end?

The heart sinking disappointment that has sent me spiraling with confusion and questions and despair over and over. Like the hamster in the wheel that accidentally gets caught up with the spin and spun upside down and thrown out, only to get back on and do it all over again – that’s the emotional cycle of this falsely based hope.

It revealed that our expectations and hopes have been set on earthly blessings and earthly prospering and earthly comfort.

If you had point blank asked us if that was the case, we would have said, “Of course that’s not what our hope is in!”

But when circumstances refuse to add up, and the rescue doesn’t come, and the waiting doesn’t end, and our faith and hearts get rocked, as if our circumstances have anything to do with God’s character?

The truth comes out – we’ve been hoping in the wrong thing.

We’ve been waiting for the wrong thing.

So, here’s the bottom line, our final choice:

Either we believe in the victory of Christ, and that His victory goes SO far beyond this world and this life, or we don’t.

We either accept that this world and this life are still dominated by the Enemy and sin, that it’s full of trouble (John 16:33) and that it’s not our home, or we don’t.

We either believe that while the earthly battle seems lost, the real battle is won every time we speak His name in the face of it, when with our daily and final breath we utter His name, and after that last breath, we open our eyes to see our King, our Treasure, face to face, fully redeemed, healed, and alive forevermore – or we don’t.

Somehow, we must accept the tension of both “I will see His goodness in the land of the living” (Psalm 27:13) and “you must take up your cross and follow me,” and “whoever loves his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 16:24-25).

If Jesus Himself was willing to accept the midnight hour, the lack of earthly rescue, “for the joy set before Him” in Heaven at the Father’s side (Hebrews 12:2), why do I assume that there will always be that 11^th hour rescue for my situation? That I won’t be asked to set my eyes on the same joy and treasure that got my Lord through His suffering, which was far worse, in order to get me through mine? Why do I assume there will be an earthly treasure to comfort me at the end of my trial?

I am realizing that this has been my problem. Somewhere along the formation of our American Christianity, this assumption has been made and taught until we don’t even recognize it.

When we spout, “If it’s not good, God’s not done,” we need to be very careful how we define “good.” Are we assuming an earthly resolution to a problem that seems good to us?

God’s good is so much bigger and so much greater than our definition, and certainly more eternal. Romans 8 reveals that (and you can’t just go take Romans 8:28 – you have to take the whole chapter leading up to it).

Yes, God does answer prayers.

Yes, He does care about our suffering.

And yes, we absolutely see Him (both in Scripture and present day) answer prayers to end suffering, deliver provision, bring healing, etc. I’m not saying we shouldn’t long and pray for these things or that God doesn’t care for our struggling (He both does care and DOES want us to pray for these things: Matthew 7:7-10; Hebrews 4:14-16; James 5:14-15; James 1:5; 1 Peter 5:7 and many others which).

But ultimately, what I have to ask myself is this:

What when that earthly rescue doesn’t come? When my prayers for rescue seem to go unanswered, or more, when the answer is “No”?

Can I be like Shadrach who declared to Nebuchadnezzar’s face that God could rescue them from the fiery furnace, “but even if He does not,” they would still be loyal to God and not bow to Nebuchadnezzar’s idol (Danieal 3:16-18)?

Can I be like Paul who counted “everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus…” (Phil 3:7-11). He did not assume earthly circumstances were supposed to resolve or go right if he was in step with God – he assumed and desired “participation in Christ’s sufferings” knowing that it would make him more like Jesus.

Can I be like the disciples who, when everyone else turned away from Jesus because His teachings were hard, and Jesus asked if they would leave too, looked at him and said, “Lord, to whom else shall we go?” (John 6:68)

If Jesus – God – our Savior was willing to suffer the midnight hour, to suffer torment and death beyond our comprehension for our sake, and through that has purchased us a promise of eternal peace, eternal glory, eternal well-being, am I not willing to undergo a fraction of His suffering for that permanent joy?

We either believe it or we don’t. These are the brass tacks.

We either believe in the eternal joy and treasure Christ has lived, bled, died, and risen again to win for us, or we reject it all. We either believe He Himself is that treasure and is worth it, or we don’t.

But I can only be like these saints, like Jesus, if I set my eyes on the same thing they did. If I value Jesus rightly and define “good” rightly.

I must grasp “the surpassing worth” of Jesus Himself.

I must want my Lord more than I want rescue from my circumstances.

I must long for His presence more than I long for comfort outside of it.

I must love His goodness more than “good” things in this life outside of Him.

He must become my true Treasure, so much so that I gladly forsake and dismiss any good thing this earth has to offer (or take) in comparison, like the woman who worshiped at Jesus feet with her alabaster jar worth a year’s wages, like Paul who considered everything else “rubbish” in comparison to knowing Christ and being found in Him.

If I truly recognize Jesus’ worth and value Him rightly, it won’t matter what earthly good I have or lose. I will be so captivated by the Treasure of Jesus, which nothing and no one can ever take from me, and so busy going about my beloved Lord’s business, that I won’t hardly notice.

And when I do notice, the very difficulties and pain will become tools of worship and service to my Lord. I will learn what Paul learned – “to be content whatever the circumstances” (Phil 4:11-13).

Lord, may I learn this. May I choose You over earthly treasures. May I see You and value You rightly and satisfy my soul with You, for whom and by whom I was made.

May I quit trying to create my own little heaven on earth by obsessing over my circumstances, as if that could ever work, as if that wasn’t the biggest lie, the first lie, we have ever believed.

Subscribe now

Do you wonder what the glass felt 
when the rod struck
shattering,
scattering shards,                               
some barely more than dust.

Did it feel how its wholeness cracked, 
how it became so many pieces, sundered from itself?


Then came flames. 
Furious heat surged
scorching,
searing already jagged edges
till solid melted and dripped away. 
							                    
Did it feel how its brokenness mutated, 
how it became liquid, unrecognizable to itself? 


And then metal, 
cold steel clutched
contorting,
crafting the molten glass
till it conformed to something wholly new. 
							            
Did it feel how what had been was lost,
how it became something new to itself? 



God, what excruciating pain.  

Would it wonder why, if it could? 

Surely it would scream, wish for insensibility. 

Would it know, or even care, the painful work transformed ruin into art? 

Are we not all broken pieces of colored glass, 

shattered, scattered, seared – all to be remade?

God, I hope so. 

Share

A lot about this poem, a little about glass blowing

About 8 years ago, when my husband and I had left all friends, family, and places behind that we had ever known and moved to a new state to help a church plant, the image of “broken pieces of colored glass” kept coming into my mind.

Life, and our hearts, felt a little broken and scattered. It felt like we had left pieces of ourselves behind. As we made new connections with the new places and people we were around, we realized there was no going back or undoing that broken, scattered feeling. Going anywhere, even if we went back home, would mean leaving pieces of ourselves behind. There was no way to take it back.

While this idea was still floating around in my mind, and while we were experiencing some very intense personal trials, we visited a museum in Indianapolis featuring a blown glass exhibit. There were, of course, many panels explaining the art and process of glass blowing.

On one of these panels, it explained that one of the ways glass blowers can add color to their piece is by dipping their already very hot / molten glass item into broken pieces of colored glass. The shattered glass would stick to the soft, molten glass, and then the artist could take a blow torch to the still hard, colored pieces to melt and soften them, or plunge the entire thing back into the furnace.

Once the added colored pieces became soft, the artist then took tools (many of which are made of steel) and pinched, pulled, twisted, crimped, and otherwise worked and shaped the glass, conforming the glass to their ultimate design.

I wondered where the broken pieces of colored glass had come from and was struck by the fact that some of the glass being used in these artworks had existed in a different form for another purpose at one point, only to be shattered (by accident or design, I don’t know), only to be repurposed for the blown glass artwork.

This made a big impression on me. And then it sat in the back of my mind for years, until a month or two ago. As I meditated on another current trial my family and I have been enduring, these images and ponderings came back to me, resulting in the above.

For me, the process of writing poetry is about just that - the process. It is a method of meditation and examination, and always seems to lend itself toward rekindling hope.

I hope that my piece may help those wrestling with their own brokenness do the same.

That I do not need life to be right to realize that it is well with my soul. My circumstances do not attest to my worth in God’s eyes, nor prove that things between Him and I are right and good.

This world loses its grips on me when I embrace this.

It cannot so easily toss me around like a ragdoll in a temperamental child’s hands, yanked from one emotion to the next. It cannot punch my gut with dread when the hopes it promised me fail.  

When I understand I deserve no good thing, I am free to enjoy - to savor - EVERY good thing that does come my way.

What freedom there is to know my life on this earth does not have to be easy, does not need to be “good” for me to know that I am loved.

That I have hope.

That I am in fact rich.

It is well with my soul, not because it is well with my world. Not because I have worked hard, been a “good person,” and deserve ease or reward.

It is well with my soul because the God who created the Cosmos and has existed from eternity past and will exist forevermore sees me, knows me and chooses to show me mercy, to love me and make me His precious one, to refine me and make me beautiful despite all of the petty ugliness that exists in and so often rules my heart.

That I would be no more than a floating speck under a microscope, yet God would put His finger on me and say “Mine.”

That alone is a grace, a mercy, a wealth that surpasses all the struggle, the pain, the disappointment that this life has to throw at me.

Indeed, it is a joy to know I deserve no good thing and yet have the greatest thing my God has to offer.

It is well with my soul.

Life
is filled with little
deaths.

Dreams
lay limp in our hands
lifeless,

growing cold.


Warmth
infused once, now grown
stiff.

Weight 
presses on your chest, constricts your breath, 
suffocates.

Rocks
called grief fill your stomach like a
pit.

Shock. Denial. Dread.


Despondence
eats away the sickened hope like
rot.

We
crumble into little
pieces.

Again. Again. Again.


Dead
hopes litter the earth like so much
duff,

decaying.


But…

New life
fed by the humus on the forest floor
rises.

Mighty
oaks, fruit bearing trees,
grow

fueled by such little deaths.

Maybe
hopes don’t die – they
change,

feeding growth on the floors of our souls.

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24

Subscribe now