12:30pm on June 9th, 2007... The music plays as our families are escorted down the aisle to their seats. "A Better Way" rings through our little chapel as your groomsmen march toward the stage and you enter as the song comes to its end. "In Christ Alone" fills the air as my bridesmaids with my flower girls make their way to their places and as the song reaches its climax my Dad and I walk side by side towards you. This is what I had been waiting my whole life for. That moment. All of our friends and loved ones filled the little chapel; our one bedroom apartment was ready for us to start our new life together; the arrangements were made for a short reception; the airplane tickets were purchased; our bags were packed; a lifetime of hopes and dreams awaited; and there you were.
I had prayed for you... sometimes in generalities... other times with very specific requests. As a little girl I imagined what you might have looked like and dreamed of the children we would have together. God knew what I wanted, what I needed, and then some. Handsome- check. Tall- double check. Strong arms- check. A deep manly voice- check. Gentle- check. Patient- TRIPLE check. Someone who could make me laugh- check. A man of integrity- check. Kind- check. So many other qualities to mention, it might take more time and space than you'd care for. I might even embarrass you. So there you were... my groom, the man God had prepared for me. And me? I sometimes feel bad that you ended up with me... is this what you had waited your whole life for? Am I what God had prepared for you? Poor thing. I tried to dress myself up and make it look like you were getting the better end of the deal, but I must say I did.
Three years later... we've moved out of our first home together (that was tough) into our second home, those children I had dreamed about were born (at least two of them were), and I have to admit a few of those hopes and dreams died when reality hit. Not everything was perfect in our little world... I grew tired of picking up your wet towels and you got tired of pulling my hair out of the bathtub drain. But three years later, I still see you as that man waiting at the end of that aisle for me. You are the one I had prayed for, dreamed about... You are the man I chose to spend the rest of my life with and I've never regretted the decision I made.
Happy three years of marriage, my love. I hope the Lord blesses us with fifty more (at a minimum!). You are my shining knight in armor... my hero... my husband. :-)
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
When I Survey
An old hymn reads, "When I survey the wondrous Cross...". So often I find myself just taking a peek or glancing over at it when I feel unrest or if I'm in need of help or consolation. I say this to my shame.
The Cross, oh the wondrous Cross... to the world it is something that the Romans invented to put criminals to shame and death, a piece of jewelry that so-called Christians hang around their necks and, an ornament that they decorate and put in their buildings. They wonder why Christians would celebrate such a terrible act- being hung on two pieces of timber by nails driven into your hands and feet then die by asphyxiation or blood loss (but most often times the former). It is repulsive, even offensive.
So why would we call the Cross... wondrous? Wondrous- "to be marveled at". What happens when you marvel at something? I think of staring, gazing, surveying... not just glancing or taking a peek.
Beautiful? The Cross hardly seems beautiful the first time you look at it. In fact, it's probably the most horrible thing you could care to see. The wood is rough, probably still has the bark on it, splinters galore, might even have little bugs crawling up and down the grain. The nails are not the little things you use to hang a picture up- these nails had to hold up a human body, full grown men (sometimes women). These nails are more like the spikes you see on a railroad track. The pain of these things being driven into your wrist (and staying there) might be more than a human could bear, but they did. The criminal would then have to support all their weight on these wounds to take a single breath. The wounds themselves are not a "clean cut" either, flesh would be torn, blood everywhere, and in some cases bones would be fractured or broken. And there the victim would hang... for hours, some even days.
Stand at the base of the Cross. Look up. What do you see? I see the stains of blood, globs in some places are still stuck to the bark. I see the nails, rough iron nails and more blood. I see the thick jumble of thorns with remnants of hair and yes, even more blood. In fact there's so much blood you can smell the stench, the stench of death. The one thing lacking in this picture is the body of the One who hung there. The Cross reminds me of the sacrifice made and thankfully my Lord didn't stay dead or my faith would be in vain.
Let me compare the Cross and my wedding rings as reminders (seems so silly to compare them, but bear with me). I'm one of those weird people who look at their wedding rings all the time- I can hardly miss them. They are there when I wash my hands, when I wash the dishes, when I wash laundry, when I pick up my children, even when I wipe my nose, when I do anything with my hands... they are ALWAYS there! These rings remind me of the commitment I made to my husband- for better or worse, for rich or poor, til death do us part, to always remain faithful- they remind me of the love we have for each other. The Cross is a reminder that the God of Heaven and Earth, came down, took on flesh, lived a perfect life, remained sinless, took my sin and shame, bled (for without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sin), and died the death that was rightfully mine. The Cross is the reminder that I am not able to save myself and Someone had to. The Cross is a reminder of the wondrous grace and mercy given to me by the loving and righteous God of the universe.
So I must conclude with a resounding "How dare I?!". How dare I glance, peek, or even look past the Cross?! Such love and sacrifice demands to be stared at... pondered... surveyed... marveled at.
When I survey the wondrous cross
on which the Prince of Glory died;
my richest gain I count but loss,
and pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
save in the death of Christ, my God;
all the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his blood.
See, from his head, his hands, his feet,
sorrow and love flow mingled down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,
or thorns compose so rich a crown.
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
that were an offering far too small;
love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all.
The Cross, oh the wondrous Cross... to the world it is something that the Romans invented to put criminals to shame and death, a piece of jewelry that so-called Christians hang around their necks and, an ornament that they decorate and put in their buildings. They wonder why Christians would celebrate such a terrible act- being hung on two pieces of timber by nails driven into your hands and feet then die by asphyxiation or blood loss (but most often times the former). It is repulsive, even offensive.
So why would we call the Cross... wondrous? Wondrous- "to be marveled at". What happens when you marvel at something? I think of staring, gazing, surveying... not just glancing or taking a peek.
Beautiful? The Cross hardly seems beautiful the first time you look at it. In fact, it's probably the most horrible thing you could care to see. The wood is rough, probably still has the bark on it, splinters galore, might even have little bugs crawling up and down the grain. The nails are not the little things you use to hang a picture up- these nails had to hold up a human body, full grown men (sometimes women). These nails are more like the spikes you see on a railroad track. The pain of these things being driven into your wrist (and staying there) might be more than a human could bear, but they did. The criminal would then have to support all their weight on these wounds to take a single breath. The wounds themselves are not a "clean cut" either, flesh would be torn, blood everywhere, and in some cases bones would be fractured or broken. And there the victim would hang... for hours, some even days.
Stand at the base of the Cross. Look up. What do you see? I see the stains of blood, globs in some places are still stuck to the bark. I see the nails, rough iron nails and more blood. I see the thick jumble of thorns with remnants of hair and yes, even more blood. In fact there's so much blood you can smell the stench, the stench of death. The one thing lacking in this picture is the body of the One who hung there. The Cross reminds me of the sacrifice made and thankfully my Lord didn't stay dead or my faith would be in vain.
Let me compare the Cross and my wedding rings as reminders (seems so silly to compare them, but bear with me). I'm one of those weird people who look at their wedding rings all the time- I can hardly miss them. They are there when I wash my hands, when I wash the dishes, when I wash laundry, when I pick up my children, even when I wipe my nose, when I do anything with my hands... they are ALWAYS there! These rings remind me of the commitment I made to my husband- for better or worse, for rich or poor, til death do us part, to always remain faithful- they remind me of the love we have for each other. The Cross is a reminder that the God of Heaven and Earth, came down, took on flesh, lived a perfect life, remained sinless, took my sin and shame, bled (for without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sin), and died the death that was rightfully mine. The Cross is the reminder that I am not able to save myself and Someone had to. The Cross is a reminder of the wondrous grace and mercy given to me by the loving and righteous God of the universe.
So I must conclude with a resounding "How dare I?!". How dare I glance, peek, or even look past the Cross?! Such love and sacrifice demands to be stared at... pondered... surveyed... marveled at.
When I survey the wondrous cross
on which the Prince of Glory died;
my richest gain I count but loss,
and pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
save in the death of Christ, my God;
all the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his blood.
See, from his head, his hands, his feet,
sorrow and love flow mingled down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,
or thorns compose so rich a crown.
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
that were an offering far too small;
love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all.
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