The Kingdom of Heaven Belongs to Such as These

I sit on a couch in a small, crowded living room. Sponge Bob Square Pants flashes across the screen in front of me and outside I can hear the groan of car motors and the shouts of children from the court yard. Joshua sits next to me laughing as Patrick and Sponge Bob are entangled in yet another argument. Zoey, the girl from the apartment next door leaves her spot on the floor to snuggle up next to me.

At six years old, Zoey's beautiful big eyes are framed by blond silky curls. Every time I see her, she's wearing the same stained tank top and short pink skirt shrunk down to size with a spare elastic hair band tied right above her hip. She shows me the foam flower cut-outs she's glued to her dirty ripped tennis shoes. One green flower falls off, and she hands it to me as a present.

"What's prayer?" Zoey asks.

"Prayers just talking to God, Zoey. Just like I'm talking to you."

Joshua chimes in, "Yeah, you just pray like this: Dear God, I pray my dad would get a good job, makes lots of money, and be rich. Amen."

"What do you want to tell God, Zoey?" I ask.

"I want to tell God everything," she says, honesty reflecting from her eyes and sincerity echoing in her tone.

Two weeks later, I go to visit Joshua's family again. Zoey has disappeared. A series of complicated life circumstances find her in custody of Child Protective Services and I can only assume in care of a foster home. As I seek the words to tell God how I feel about the situation, I'm reminded of Zoey's confidence that God wants to hear everything. And I am thankful for a God that not only hears everything, but sees, and knows, and cares about everything as well. Somehow, I'm given confidence that against all odds and circumstance, the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as Zoey.

I look at the green foam flower cut-out sitting in the cup-holder of my car, and I begin to tell God everything.

Running Lesson #2: Pain

I quit soccer when I was 17 years old partly because I had a crush on a boy but mostly because I hated running. As a midfielder is was my job to sprint the length of the filed about 25 times a game, and when you're 5 foot nothing, that's no small task. I got a doctor to diagnose me with asthma so I could be prescribed an inhaler, but the real prescription should probably have been, "Run more child, you're terribly out of shape!"

Now, at the age of 24, at a place where I'm enjoying running for the first time, still some of my old misgivings are in place, especially when it comes to the issue of pain.

My dad use to tell me that soccer games were won or lost by a team's stamina. "If you can run for 90 minutes straight," he said, "you'll win every time." I used to take of down the street as a teenager to run around the neighborhood. One lap around the block, and I was done not because I didn't have the capacity to run further, but because I was afraid of the pain associated with continuing on. The same is true of my training now.

Just today, I set out for my normal 3.6 mile loop with the home stretch spanning Quarryview--a very steep half mile hill. I got to the hill with everything I needed to push through. Get up music was pumping in my iPod, my water bottle was still half way full, I was breathing easy, but a quarter of the way up the hill, I stopped to walk. My capacity wasn't the issue but the pain associated with each step on the steep incline. And really, deeper than the pain which isn't all that excruciating is my fear of the pain. The battle of Quarryview is not my capacity and never will be my capacity. The battle of Quarryview is all in my head.

I find the same struggle as I reach for the dreams God has laid before me. In Him, I have full capacity. I make a choice each day as to whether I'm going to listen to the shallowness of my breath, the aching in my legs, or the voice in my head that says, "Just walk; it will be so much easier," or whether I'm going to push through and in doing so laugh in the face of all my doubts and rationalizations.

And then, I'm reminded of the times in my life when I didn't choose pain, pain chose me. I haven't always chosen sacrifice or cost, they were simply demanded. As hard as those seasons of my life have been, I look back and see, yes, the pain that followed me, but beyond that the fruit God brought out of the sweat, tears, pleadings, and determination to take one more step knowing that at some point the hill comes to an end. And I believe God in His grace and mercy has used the pain in my life to increase my capacity for His Kingdom just as pushing through the pain in running has increased my capacity to run further and faster than I thought possible.

I'm not afraid any more because I know come what may, there is a life to be lived beyond the pain and a hope that one day even pain itself will be no more. And along the way, some really good get up music helps.

Kaden

Right now, my oldest sister is sitting in the emergency room at Doernbecher Children's Hospital holding her youngest son. Doctors think 15 month Kaden had another stroke today, and for the third time this month he's been rushed to the hospital for answers.

Answers. I wish we had them right now. Doctors have ran every test they can think of, prescribed medication, diagnosed the problem, but still have no answers as to how the problem got there. Kaden has six blood clots close to his brain, one that is large and dangerous. And though we know the blood clots are causing the strokes, we don't have any idea what is causing the blood clots. It's the strangest feeling to love someone so much and be powerless to do anything on their behalf; to be so completely out of control of what happens to them.

So we wait, and hope, and pray being confident that before Kaden was formed in the womb God knew him, before he was born, God set him a part. The doctors may not have answers, but God created every artery, every blood and brain cell. And in His omnipotent hands he holds the answer.

Being Aunt Dot

There are few words I love to hear more than, "Aunt Dot, wanna play?" When three-year old Daniel looks at me, it's hard not to drop whatever I'm in the middle of to chase him outside. We both pretend to be Buzz Lightyear exploring a new planet or mow the lawn with our imaginary machinery so Daddy doesn't have to do it later.

And then there's little Kaden. At 15 months, he can say little more than "Da da da," but he loves to be in the middle of whatever Big Brother is doing. His cheeks drip with drool as he races from one side of the house to the other. He shrieks revealing two lower and four upper teeth, a little smile that leaps its way right into Aunt Dot's heart.

But that was not Saturday. Saturday, I watched little Kaden chuck his pacifier across the play room of Doernbecher Chilren's Hospital. Frustrated at his wobbly legs and inability to walk on his own, he threw himself on the floor and flailed his limbs in anger. He couldn't understand what had happened; that blood clots had cut off blood flow to the brain causing multiple strokes and loss of mobility. He couldn't understand the doctors when they said he wouldn't walk on his own again for at least a month if not much longer.

I'm so grateful Kaden didn't understand. Whether it meant bear crawling across the carpet or lifting one unsteady leg on top a chair, my little nephew was determined to regain his mobility. Saturday night he was walking. Sunday morning he was running again. And as I looked at Kaden, I couldn't help but think of all the times in my life where someone told me I couldn't, so I didn't, or someone said I might fail, so I never tried. I'm so quick to understand my circumstances that I forget my circumstances don't dictate my future--no that's held by hands that are much more secure. So fall as I might, I'm determined to look past the "what happened" and past the "what might never be" and with one wobbly leg in front of the other take the first step and the next until eventually at a full gait, I'm running across the floor.

We still don't know what is wrong with Kaden. The blood clots near his brain are inexplicable by doctors, but I like Daniel's attitude toward his little brother. A nurse entered the room on Sunday to change the sheets in the crib. Daniel was sitting in a chair next to her and informed the nurse, "Kaden all better now."

It's amazing how caring and perceptive a three-year old can be. On discovering his younger brother will have a shot of blood thinners in the leg twice a day, Daniel informed the nurses about twenty times that "Kaden no like shots. Shots no fun." Daniel told his daddy that they should buy his brother a Lego spaceship like the one Daddy bought him because, "Kaden be happy". Despite the fact that I sometimes think Danny would prefer to be an only child (especially when Kaden touches his Buzz Lightyear doll), Danny truly missed his brother while he was in the hospital, "I looked and looked for brother and couldn't find him," he said. "I was waiting for him."

But the most compelling moment to me during Daniel's visit was the moment I held him in my arms while the nurse administer Kaden's shot. Although curious, he was scared. As I held Danny's head against my chest, I cradled the side of his face with my hand. The moment I moved my hand, he reached for it and placed it back on his face.

And I thought of all the moments when I'm scared. When I don't understand what is going on and when I'm powerless to change things. I thought of sitting at my desk at work waiting for a text message from my mom letting me know my precious nephew was going to be ok. I thought of Kaden leaving the hospital without a clear answer as to why his blood was clotting. I thought of the way this whole situation was so out of my hands, that no matter how much I loved this baby boy, I couldn't do anything to help him or change what was going on in those small arteries flowing through his tiny body.

And I was glad that I have a Maker who holds me just like I held Danny. He pulls me close to his chest and cradles my head in his hands saying, "It's going to be ok. Kaden is going to be ok. He'll get better." And just like Danny, I choose to believe, "Kaden all better now".

Running: Lesson #1

I use to sit in the park and scoff at all the runners with their cute little short and iPods acting as though running was a perfectly sane and acceptable endeavor. Well, I'll have you know it's not. There has never been anything sane about huffing and puffing for at least a good 20 minutes in order to eat that chocolate chip cookie guilt free. However, in recent months I have joined the ranks of the insane and now find myself almost addicted to the sport. In addition to the incentive of toned legs and a tight butt, there are the endorphins that make running oh so good.

I run a very scenic route past fields, gardens, horses, and even a cute old church. My favorite moment on my run comes when I start a downward slope after a mile of subtle hills. The whole Willamette Valley suddenly opens up, and no matter how tired I am, at that moment, I feel like I could run forever. However, I find myself often paying more attention to my feet than the scenery. And in these moments where my feet are the focus, I grow tired as I listen to my breathing and think about how long I've been running. But I keep putting one foot in front of the other in perfect time. No matter how slow my progress down the road and how long it looks like before I'm up the next big hill, I know the steady pace of one foot then the next will eventually get me there.

There are other moments where my best option is to keep my eyes on my feet. I end my run by climbing an impossibly big hill. Mid-way through, there is a steep incline that lasts for about 500 feet. That's 500 steps and progress seems so slow as I look at the crest of that hill. However, if I dial in and pay attention to my pace and not the length of the hill, soon I'm able to look behind and see the progress I've made. The incline subsides and before I know it, I'm sprinting on the top.

My relationship with Jesus is no different. I'm either so focused on the moment and the pace of my feet or so focused on the scenic big picture, that I often forgot the balance between the two. Without the big picture, my pace is futile, but without the pace, I stand still in the big picture. Sometimes I'm so focused on where I'm at and the obstacle set in front of me that even monumental progress feels like no progress. I look at the big picture and think I'll never get there, I will never be there, and forget to celebrate the moment of the last 25 steady paces that allow me to take my place among the fields, and the barns, and the scenic Willamette Valley. And sometimes I'm so focused on those paces, I fail to see others around me; I fail to find the joy that comes from lifting my eyes to the hills and looking for hope that doesn't rely on me.

So, here's to the balance. Lesson #1 in running: keep your pace, don't try to match someone else's, but take some time to enjoy all that is around you. Soon like me, you'll be hooked on the endorphins.

Up the Mountain

I sat on the floor of a vacant room last week and listened to the sound of my breathing. No pen, no paper, no Bible in hand, I had been challenged by a friend to sit for an hour in silence and solitude before God. This all seemed rather ridiculous to me at first. How could I meet with God without even his Word in hand? But the sound of my simple breaths brought me to tears.

I heard a preacher say once that the Hebrews didn't really have a phonetic name they could give God. Yaweh was the closest they could come because the name of God was the sound of breath, inhalation and exhalation. In the simple act of breathing, a person is declaring the name of God over and over again. But so often, I don't take the time to breathe. I feel like I have to do and do and do over again. I measure my life by the impact it has, and though I feel impact is important, in the midst of seeking to touch others, have I forgotten to touch God?

A few weeks ago, I watched the movie The Count of Monte Cristo for the first time. I wanted to leave the room when Edmund Dantes was thrown into prison, not because it's a horrifically gory piece of the movie, but because he sat there for seven years and didn't do anything. I found myself wondering what he had left to live for if he was just going to sit there for the rest of his life and impact no one. And although, I firmly believe that we are created for relationship in our lives, God convicted me that I was forgetting about the most important relationship of them all--my relationship with Him. Maybe sometimes I'm so concerned about ministering to others, that I forget to sit with God and minister to Him and allow Him to minister to me. I focus so much on the doing and not the being, and even when I spend time with God, it's to do and not be. I play a worship song, or write in my journal, or sit and read the Bible all in an effort to make God think the best of me or to prove something to Him. And I forget it's He who initiated, He who first took the step towards me, and no amount of work will change what He's already done. It's like I want to earn what He has already freely given.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Moses and how he spent forty days and forty nights with God on Mount Sinai. He took nothing up the mountain--it was just him and God alone together in a quiet place. God invited Moses and the people of Israel into a covenant relationship as Moses sat alone with God, and God spoke to him as a man speaks with a friend. When Moses came down the mountain, he carried the presence of God with him and the presence of the God came to rest on the people. This is how all the nations of the world knew there was something different about the Israelites: the presence of God went with them.

I'm coming to realize I can't earn God's favor, I can accept it; I can't work for his grace, I can receive it; and I can't love God unless I allow Him to first love me. I've always wanted my life to be measured by my love for God and my love for others, but now I'm seeing things differently. How can I love God and others if I'm not first loved by God? My prayer is that I would learn to not only love God but to be loved by God. From that place impact will flow as my heart becomes His.

So I hear the invitation to come up the mountain, and as I take a moment to slow down and listen to the sound of my breathing, I know that I am because of I Am.

Only in Kids Church

A three hour service on Sunday night for the adults also meant a three hour service for 150 kids. Towards the end of the night, my 5th graders were getting antsy, but nowhere near as antsy as the 1st graders. Stall tactics ensued. As Thanksgiving a little over a week away, we asked the kids what they were thankful for.

"My dog."

"My parents."

"Jesus."

"X-Box."

All good answers. Then a 1st grader in a yellow hooded sweatshirt raised his hand.

"Break dancing."

Every leader in the room and this pint-sized boy knew the next question.

"Can you break dance?"

"Yes."

"Show us."

That was all he needed. He whipped his yellow hood over his blond hair and strutted towards the edge of the stage. All 150 kids were on their feet immediately straining to catch a glimpse of the impending dance-off. With one hand on his hip and the other raised in the air, he counted down with his fingers. "3, 2, 1."

If 15 seconds of fame turn into 15 years, just remember, it started in kids church.