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Everyday Ordinary Dawnings



I opened the mailbox on Saturday and saw a name from the past pushing up through the stack of mail from the return address corner. An old acquaintance I haven't thought of in a lifetime.

He mailed me grainy pictures taken by a disposable camera circa 1986. Pictures of teenagers at Ship Island, one of whom was Jeff.

I don't think of him so much anymore. Until he died, it was the hardest thing I had ever faced. Since then there's been cancer, Alzheimer's, divorce, Hurricane Katrina, the unthinkable. So many people and beautiful things are simply gone.

Ru looked through the pictures and was struck by the one that was the ancestor of today's selfie. Jeff's face filled the lens with a clear image. He's sandy and salty, and I had forgotten his hair was a little curly like mine if it was humid. She said, "Look at him. I've never been able to make out his face in all the old photographs. And, now, there he is." She touched his dimple with her index finger, I think because she has one of her own.

I marvel every time I see my children's affinity for an uncle they never met. So I re-read all the posts I've written about him here over the years and allowed myself to think of him.

So much of life doesn't make sense. We always say that about the bad parts, but never do we say it about the good.

I remember leaning onto his casket, letting him hold me up one last time, and promising him I would think of him every day for the rest of my life. That was 26 years ago, when I was 25. I don't even know when I failed that vow, I'm just glad I did.

The sky has been heavy with overcast clouds the last few days. The whole world is thinking about sickness and death in the face of COVID-19 crawling its way around the globe. I don't remember a time when we've been in one accord globally like this.

I've seen panic, kindness, fear, greed, and love. People have receded with fear and with caution. The earth seems eerily abandoned by those who are shutting themselves in against the unknown and a foe much bigger than the frail human body. It makes us compliant, and rightly so.

But it also makes me want to live. In the face of threat from virus and the reminder of loss in my mailbox, I want to live.

Sometimes you have to let the dead things go so you can really live.

I want to love and show kindness and generosity in the face of fear, isolation, sickness, and horror. I want to be beauty and light to a dying world.

I choose hope in the face of sorrow. I choose words that rise, and I choose to trust in tomorrow. I choose to embrace the broken and the redeemed and the ache, and walk with a limp for all life has dealt me.

The world is slowing and it hurts because I've been trying to outrun pain. I need to go fast right now, and even that is being taken from me in the shutting down and shutting in against pandemic.

We are asked to withdraw from each other and activity, so I must learn to live with fear and death and distance, not outrun them. I must relearn to be quiet and at ease in the stillness and slowness.

On this earth, we find we must fast the things we long for, things that are scarce right now: togetherness. love, fellowship, communion. But these are the things we will see and know in their fullness and feast on forever in heaven.







March 17, 2020 1 comments

Dear Future Self,

Man, what I'd give to be where you are. Before you even read this letter, look around you. Take a minute to take in your life. And don't take a single thing you see, feel, and know for granted.

Even if it's broken and scarred, I hope you see that it's beautiful.

I'm working so hard to be sure you end up safe, loved, and respected. I'm pretty sure you have these things from some amazing humans because you had them back then when you were me.

But I hope by now you are much better at giving these things to yourself. You used to be terrible at it.

You are where you are today because of me, your past self, at least in part.

I hope you look around your life and find health, peace, and joy. I hope you find Jesus, and family and friends.

I hope you find a bountiful dinner table and still find joy in feeding the ones you love. I hope laughter and deep conversations find you and yours lingering long over engaging ideas and wrestled faith, while a glass of good wine swirls in your hand, the dishwasher whirs in the background, and the night grows long.

I hope you talk about the books you're reading and never stop learning and growing. I hope you still run and have finally learned how to build a fire in the backyard without a starter log.

I hope you always say yes when someone asks you to go for a walk with them. How many healing miles did we walk? Only God knows.

May you be kinder, gentler, and present for people when they are devastated, because you learned the hard way what kind of healing salve that is, and how those things have actual super powers to bring a person back to life.

May you carry yourself with dignity and not take yourself too seriously, both at the same time.

May you never stop having fun.

I hope you are proud of your life, and are mostly happy.

I hope you know intimately who you are and confidently accept — no, approve — of the woman you became. You know better than I do what finding yourself cost us both. And I hope and pray it was worth the price.

You were small for far too long.

Don't ever forget you owe a debt to words. There were so many words.

There were mantras and confessions. There were revelations and declarations shouted and whispered.

You filled journals with handwriting. You read stacks of books and articles.

There were countless counseling sessions with a compassionate and wise therapist, who either rattled you or rallied you in fifty minute segments, and was discerning enough to know which to employ when.

You spent hours texting and typing, and on phone calls that added up to months of your life.

You said so many words, so many times, to a small trusted circle you couldn't keep track of what you said to whom.

I hope all of those friends are still with you and are deeply trusted. I hope they have been with you for years now and that you've had a chance to return the exquisite gift of listening.

I hope there's an army of new friends, too. You were lonely for so long.

God's word and prayer served you so well. These were the best words. I'm sure your knees are worn because you can no longer live without either.

They fed you when food could not, and they became the only way you knew to process this fallen-down life on earth.

You still have problems, I know. But you are better equipped for them than I was. That came to you as a gift from the years between you and me.

Life is never without its problems. But I worked hard for you to have a sense of rest in your soul that anchors you because you survived a dark time and you didn't give up on yourself. I pray the wisdom you gained became a grace you now give to others.

Don't ever forget the tears you cried, the sleepless nights, or how proud you became of who your children grew up to be. I hope they still inspire you, teach you, challenge you, and are dear, dear friends. I can't imagine how proud you are of them based on how proud I already am now.

Don't ever forget any of these things. I suspect that, from your vantage point, they are the redeemed parts of the journey.

I love you so very much, Dawn. Don't ever lose track of that love ever again, you hear me?

You are the reason I do all the hard things these days. You are beautiful inside and out. We all are. You are strong, wise, and have a purpose.

Don't ever take for granted where you are, and all you have, including your challenges. Much of it was learned and earned the hard way, and some came as a gift of grace. But everything about who you are was forged in the fire, and if it lasted it's precious metal.

So you better be chasing your dreams hard, and not wasting a minute of your life. You better be wild and free, with equal measures of abandon and reverence in all you do. It better be freaking beautiful!

Man, what I'd give to be where you are, and know you in your fullness.

But I have a sneaking suspicion that as beautiful as it is where you are, getting there is going to be worth the journey and will be something you wouldn't have wanted to miss in the end. So I'll stay in the here and now, and work towards getting us there, even though I've asked God a million times, "Please, let's skip ahead to better days."

I promise I'll get up every morning and keep fighting for you. I won't let you down, because you're worth it.

I hope you know that you're worth it in your bones up there in our future together, because, right now, you're still learning that glorious truth, and you don't know it very well yet.

I can make you that promise to keep fighting for you, because when I get weary, I have a body of friends and family that love me, and carry me when I can't go on, and don't, won't, leave me.

I could never do this alone. I'm convinced we need people in our lives, a generous handful of beautiful, broken people who love unflinchingly. I have a hunch you became that kind of person.

Never discount the power of love, Dawn. And don't grow cynical.

Someday, if you find yourself in the middle of something you have no idea how to get through, stay there. Don't rush it. Relax into the hard middle and feel your way through. Stumble in awkward stammers if that's all you can manage in order to get to the other side. You already know from the past it's worth it. Keep going and never give up.

Until then, please know I can't wait to meet you. I'm pretty sure you're an amazing person. And I hope you smile ... a lot.

My all,
Your Former Self


March 12, 2020 No comments
In light of the fact that all the heaven, the moon, and stars are just a little something you did with your fingers one day, God, who are we, that you would notice or care for us?

That's my paraphrase of Psalm 8:3-4.

The question is rhetorical, not meant to be answered necessarily, but asked to make a point. And the Psalmist goes on to talk about exactly how much he cares for us and our exact spot in the pecking order of all his majestic creation.

///

Do not fear, for I am with you;
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely, I will help you,
Surely I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.  ~~Isaiah 41:10

Do you see the answer? The God who flings a universe into being with a little somethin' somethin' from his fingertips upholds us with his entire right arm, the strong arm. 

It's okay to be weak. He is strong.
It's only natural that we would be anxious and fearful. We are not God.
But the true God? He says he is our God. 
Not only do we belong to him, but he gave himself to us -- he belongs to us!

Our God has fingertips so mighty they can pitch galaxies into space on a whim. I think the Psalmist was saying "without lifting a finger."

And you are so precious that he uses his whole arm to hold you.





Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash
March 11, 2020 2 comments

{Fear :: Part 1 can be found here.}

Sunday, our pastor had us in Isaiah 44. His main points were:

1. God is worthy.
2. Idols are worthless.
3. Worship the worthy.

Sounds so simple, unless you have a fraught history with fear, which I do.

When we read verses 19-20, they brought me back to my mental tracing of biblical fire from Genesis to Revelation.

"They know not, nor do they discern, for he has shut their eyes, so that they cannot see, and their hearts, so that they cannot understand. No one considers, nor is there knowledge or discernment to say, "Half of it I burned in the fire; I also baked bread on its coals; I roasted meat and have eaten. And shall I make the rest of it an abomination? Shall I fall down before a block of wood?" He feeds on the ashes, a deluded heart has led him astray, and he cannot deliver himself or say, "Is there not a lie in my right hand?"

Fear is an idol. I cling to it with my right hand, which holds me back from full surrender to all God has for me, my life, and future. I will not let fear hold me back. I must walk on. I am determined to unfurl my fingers from dead wood. God has been trying me by fire and I want Fear to burn. I want it burned to ash to float away in the wind of the Spirit that washes me clean. I want both hands free to serve God with my whole heart and life and future.

I knelt, all by myself in a church that doesn't kneel, with palms open for dust to fly, and proclaimed the true things with our local body's rendition of Andrew Peterson's "He Is Worthy." It was a contemporary liturgy in the modern worship service.

Then, I stood to my feet and named my idol. I wrote "Fear" on a small note card. I wrote it really big because Fear is big to me. I pinned it to the cross. It felt a little bit "old-school youth ministry retro," but there is something about physically engaging in letting something go from your life. Clinging to anything in my own right hand is no match for the God who made both the wood and me and can hold both and then some in his mighty right hand. So I went through the physical and metaphorical motions.

I am certain I will wrestle with Fear again. This exercise was not a miracle cure. It was a reminder. And I will burn the idol and let the ash fly as often as it takes to free my hands to be open only to God and his fullness for me.

Then the benediction: always a scripture reading to send the body into the world, with the words, "You are sent." I don't know what idols everyone else had pinned on the cross, but  yesterday's benediction passage, Psalm 46:1-3 from The Passion translation, seemed to be hand selected just for me. It's about our true relationship with fear in light of God.

"God, you're such a safe and powerful place to find refuge! You're a proven help in time of trouble— more than enough and always available whenever I need you. Se we will never fear even if every structure of support were to crumble away. We will not fear even when the earth quakes and shakes, moving mountains and casting them into the sea. For the raging roar of stormy winds and crashing waves cannot erode our faith in you. Pause in his presence."

The idols we hold are worthless, but the One who holds us is worthy.



K


March 10, 2020 No comments


I hate fear. I'm giving it up for Lent and hopefully for life, but I'm wired that way. Fear and I go way back. I'm an Enneagram Six.

///

God has had me in the book of Isaiah for a long while, at least since last May. It started with chapter 55 and began spreading into neighboring chapters like an epidemic. Then a nine-month sermon series from Isaiah started last fall. By November, I had decided I was full-on doing Isaiah. I scoured the house for all my resources: an abandoned bible study I started 15 years ago, Wiersbe's Old Testament commentary, one of my study bibles with its own commentary. I planned to track down every cross-reference listed to every verse before I left a chapter. I had built Isaiah Mountain on my kitchen counter.

And then? Christmas shopping. And December in general.

Isaiah Mountain was never climbed. About three weeks later, I dismantled it, overwhelmed by the sight. But the sermon series had been amazing so far. I was learning so much, and Isaiah kept showing up in my life in serendipitous ways. I couldn't help but want more.

I stumbled upon a bible study series that moved a little faster than the exhaustive, unabridged version I had planned for myself. This one delved into one chapter a day. It was deeper than a devotional, but lighter than a graduate course in Isaiah, and so I began.

It pairs nicely with our Isaiah series at church, which is a wonderful mix of topical and expository approach.

///

Last week was a bear for me. I worked overtime, even though I was out of the office for:
--a car accident (fender bender, but still)
--court
--a doctor's visit with my daughter who had a viscous stomach virus for six day. SIX DAYS!
--a mother who needed a little extra time and attention
--a counseling session

Each one of these things brought with them a trail of extra weight, plus I had some unusual work-related emergencies. I didn't eat or sleep well, though I tried.

My bible and study laid dormant since last Monday. And Fear was sticking closer than a brother. Again. Because I was so stressed out, I didn't even recognized his presence.

I characterize him as male, because he feels stronger than me, like men are physically stronger. I recognize this is setting myself up for defeat from the beginning, but I have a long history here, and if you fact check it, you'll find it to be true. Fear usually wins when he picks a fight, at least with me.


I often struggle to see this verse prove true because of my longstanding battle with fear. But I won't ever give up fighting for this truth to be revealed in me.

{This essay concludes here in Fear :: Part 2.}





March 09, 2020 1 comments
Today I stand tall
Hold my face high
I will feel love and
the weight of loss
Alone today I stand

Today I stand tall
Solemnly, with dignity
And a measure of grace
Which wrecks me and how
you know it’s grace

Today I stand tall
Proud of who I was
who I am now
I have cowered
My knees have wobbled
So I can stand tall

Today I stand tall
after bending low
After heart dissolved
And  life grows slow
Before I knew nothing

Today I stand tall
On the right in
purple dignity
But also sackcloth
With courage and fear
And a God who let (led?) us here

I stand tall.


March 06, 2020 No comments

These are the day of sick babes and mothers.
These are the days of heartaches and troubles.
These are the days of dry bones walking.
These are the days of prophets, psalms, friends, and what ifs.
These are the days of crashing and shaking, hurting and waiting.
These are the days of responsibility and futility.
These are the days of chaos, confusion, disillusion, dissolution.
These are the days committed.

These are the days of  falling: short, behind, out, in.
These are the days of not enough and less than, fragile and beautiful both.
These are the days you wish you never lived, but find life and love's growth
                                                                                  — the soil fertile because it laid fallow.

These are the days to pine and put behind.
These are the days of trusting, of stumbling and rising, of ruin, repair, and pioneer.

These are the days of fighting, resigning, and resisting.
These are the days to be quiet and hopeful and want wisdom.
These are the days to breathe in and breathe out, and rest heavy head full of doubt.
These are the days of hope for I don't know what.
These are the days to steer who knows where.
These are the gray days of cold rain, of winter into spring.
These are the days of iron gate, an early friend, and holding horror.
These are the days committed
                                                                                                            — against tomorrow.





Photo by Keith McElroy





March 03, 2020 3 comments

A friend has been praying for a specific concern for almost five months. The repetition gets old after awhile. You get tired of hearing your own voice, and frustration slowly sets in. Of course, you don't want to admit to it, because the Sunday School student in you knows someone above you in the spiritual food chain will call a technical foul for your aggravation with God. 

So you ignore the aggravation and persist in your begging, while your inner critic is taunting you.  You do know the definition of insanity, right...?  And you roll your eyes at yourself instead of God because it's safer. 

Months passed, and my friend couldn't contain his frustration and finally vented it all to God. Then, while he was feeling like a failure, answers came swiftly, as if on cue. He was glad God answered finally, but also felt like a shmuck for lashing out.

His version of this story sounded a lot like shame, and I couldn't let that lie because God doesn't shame us, and that's something I'm working very hard to unlearn myself these days.

So I suggested that God may have purposely withheld the answer until he expressed the frustration. Perhaps that was a good and necessary part of the prayer process. When we come to God with our needs and desires, He doesn't judge us. God doesn't shove his answers in our face right when we are the worst version of ourselves to prove a point. Even earthly fathers would never do that to their children they love, much less our heavenly father, the master at giving good gifts. 

Maybe persisting in prayer isn't about wearing God down, but wearing us down. Maybe God hangs back long enough to coax us out of self-propelled performance into true vulnerable relationship. Besides, he already knows our inner selves, so maybe prayer is sometimes a lengthy process because we're the ones who need reacquainting with our own real selves.

God doesn't want the spruced up version of us. So he waits until we're reduced to the worst of ourselves, because that's the true "us" he loves, died for, and is pleased to give good gifts to. 

Maybe instead of seeing the answer and timing through the lens of shame, we should see both answer and timing through the lens of reward when we finally come before him the way he wanted us from the beginning, and also this time and every time — broken and unable. When we are in that posture, he can draw us into deeper freedom and greater trust. That's when two glorious things are accomplished besides the answering of our prayers. We come to know ourselves better, and we come to know him better. 

He loves the real you. When that person shows up at God's doorstep, truly needy rather than trying hard, he is moved with compassion and provides, even if the answer is no or not yet, and we don't understand why.  

Let's unlearn living by shame, even if it takes the rest of our lives. God is good, and he for us. And this is truth worth fighting to live by. 




March 02, 2020 1 comments
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About Me
Dawn is a writer, Bible teacher, speaker, and pastor's wife. She co-founded Columbia World Outreach Church in Columbia, South Carolina with her husband, Mike. By day, Dawn manages a law firm. In the leftover hours she writes for various online and print publications. You are welcome here. What you will find is real life and a faith that's a living organism -- which is to say it's growing and sometimes cranky, exuberant, stinky, wobbly, petulant, overconfident, tired, satisfying, and beautiful. May you find here some courage to own your own days and your own unfinished faith.

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