I've moved my blog and hope you will follow me there. Here is the link to my new spot, frommountaintops.com
I hope you will follow me there. . .
-- Godspeed, Elizabeth
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2 years ago
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Joy!
You are the light of the world - like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden.
~ Matthew 5:14,
When my kids were little, I always knew when they were content and happy. They exuded joy naturally. My son would gallop instead of walk--everywhere. He would suddenly break into this little trot that sang out "I am the happiest kid in the world." My daughter would sit quietly, playing, and suddenly just start humming--even before she could talk.
Through these natural reactions to their life, they outwardly exuded joy. I know they never thought about showing their joy--they just did. Like the verse from Matthew, like the city on the hilltop, their lights could not be hidden.
And, in outwardly reflecting their joy, I found peace and joy along with them. I knew that all was well. I knew that they felt safe and happy and loved. I was grateful I could see it in them. Their joy, in turn gave me joy.
Joy is infectious. But, we need to enter into relationship with others to share it. We need to look beyond our own four walls and our comfort zones and be the city on the hilltop--beaming with joy. We need to become beacons of light.
When work gets really busy, like it is now, I tend to turn inward. I say "hello" to fewer people on the sidewalk. I don't stop to chat with a colleague like most days. I close my office door--sending the message not to stop by. I stop being the beacon, and my light dims. I feel it. I stop showing the joy for life that I generally exude.
And so, today, the message from Matthew reminds me. I need to "hum" or "gallop" a bit so that my light will shine --at least a little, even during the busiest of days.
How will you let your light shine today?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Food for Thought.
I have an incredibly busy few days ahead, but wanted to share a quote from a talk by Shane Claiborne, who spoke at our church this week. Some food for thought.
"How good we have become at making people feel like outsiders--of excluding the very people that Jesus magnetized . . . The walls that we build and the way we exclude should break our hearts."
Monday, March 8, 2010
Jesus Rocked Their World
In the season of Lent, we journey toward the cross. Today, we know the significance of that journey and where it leads: to Christ's death on the cross and the resurrection. In this journey we understand that God gave His son for us so that we might live fully in relationship with God--be restored us in our relationship with Him. I feel overwhelmed by that thought during this season.
But the disciples didn't know this. As Christ moved toward the cross, his disciples only saw hints of what was to come. They did not fully understand what was about to happen would rock their world. Shake it fully.
They knew Jesus, saw the miracles, heard his message. Certainly they believed, if not by faith, then by sight. But, for them, the full meaning of the journey towards the cross could only be understood in hindsight.
I wonder how they felt once they fully understood. When Jesus prayed at the Mount of Olives, His disciples followed Him and He asked them to pray. Instead, they fell asleep. And, later, Peter disowned Jesus. They let Jesus down--because they felt tired or feared persecution. They were human.
But, imagine how they felt once Jesus revealed Himself to them after His death and resurrection. If I place myself in their shoes, I imagine that once the initial joy subsided, I would feel incredible regret. Regret that I failed Christ in what he asked of me, in His darkest moment during His time among us.
But the beauty of the story is that, despite the disciples' failures --disciples who knew Him and followed Him during his time on Earth--Christ went to the cross for them, too. The disciples knew not only a direct relationship with Christ while he walked among them, but they were the first to be restored fully to God. They received forgiveness and grace that must have felt incredibly tangible in the moment.
When I put myself in their shoes, I think of those moments when I have wronged someone I love deeply--my husband or children or parents or sibling. I replay those moments, and I think of the depth of my regret, but also how intimate those conversations of restoration and forgiveness are -- the opening of hearts and the pouring out of forgiveness. Heartfelt moments--often difficult moments--like no others. The embracing of each other when the valley that separated us closes and we have that intimate moment when grace comes rushing down.
I imagine that is how the disciples must have felt. Tangible love, grace, and forgiveness from God.
That is the same love, grace, and forgiveness that Christ offers to all. I don't know if it feels as tangible to me as it must have to the disciples, but it is the same. He is present always with that love, grace, and forgiveness. We just need to turn towards him.
So this season of Lent, as I journey to the cross, I think of how intimately the disciples knew Jesus and how He rocked their world. It reminds me just how tangible God is --if I will just enter into relationship with Him and let His grace pour down on me.
But the disciples didn't know this. As Christ moved toward the cross, his disciples only saw hints of what was to come. They did not fully understand what was about to happen would rock their world. Shake it fully.
They knew Jesus, saw the miracles, heard his message. Certainly they believed, if not by faith, then by sight. But, for them, the full meaning of the journey towards the cross could only be understood in hindsight.
I wonder how they felt once they fully understood. When Jesus prayed at the Mount of Olives, His disciples followed Him and He asked them to pray. Instead, they fell asleep. And, later, Peter disowned Jesus. They let Jesus down--because they felt tired or feared persecution. They were human.
But, imagine how they felt once Jesus revealed Himself to them after His death and resurrection. If I place myself in their shoes, I imagine that once the initial joy subsided, I would feel incredible regret. Regret that I failed Christ in what he asked of me, in His darkest moment during His time among us.
But the beauty of the story is that, despite the disciples' failures --disciples who knew Him and followed Him during his time on Earth--Christ went to the cross for them, too. The disciples knew not only a direct relationship with Christ while he walked among them, but they were the first to be restored fully to God. They received forgiveness and grace that must have felt incredibly tangible in the moment.
When I put myself in their shoes, I think of those moments when I have wronged someone I love deeply--my husband or children or parents or sibling. I replay those moments, and I think of the depth of my regret, but also how intimate those conversations of restoration and forgiveness are -- the opening of hearts and the pouring out of forgiveness. Heartfelt moments--often difficult moments--like no others. The embracing of each other when the valley that separated us closes and we have that intimate moment when grace comes rushing down.
I imagine that is how the disciples must have felt. Tangible love, grace, and forgiveness from God.
That is the same love, grace, and forgiveness that Christ offers to all. I don't know if it feels as tangible to me as it must have to the disciples, but it is the same. He is present always with that love, grace, and forgiveness. We just need to turn towards him.
So this season of Lent, as I journey to the cross, I think of how intimately the disciples knew Jesus and how He rocked their world. It reminds me just how tangible God is --if I will just enter into relationship with Him and let His grace pour down on me.
Friday, March 5, 2010
A Day of Rest? I Barely Give Myself Five Minutes.
When I look around at my life and everyone around me I just want to hold my arms out and say “Be still.” I over commit. At work, I teach an extra class because it provides more income. At home, I take on tasks Larry-John no longer can do. I see friends hauling kids to soccer, working full-time, and giving time to their favorite causes. Individually, the activities make sense. We benefit from them. We fulfill a need to serve others. We contribute financially to our families. We go until the dizzying effect of the carousel becomes too much. Until we realize we need the rest. Until we feel the longing to stop. To be still.
As a child, stopping –seeking time apart for quiet—came naturally. I think about my favorite moments and activities as a young girl. All of them center around quiet and reflection. I loved to climb trees. I climbed to the highest branch of the tree in our back yard and leaned against the trunk. As still as possible, I sat and observed. Rarely did others know I sat perched 50 feet above. The time was mine.
As I grew older, the need for quiet continued, and remained a natural response to life. A natural desire. I ran. Miles at a time. I found it on the road or the trail. As I set my pace and found my rhythm, I found the stillness. In my teens, my mom knew this about me. I remember the first time I realized it. I stomped in from school, probably slammed the door and grunted something about school or the boy I had fallen for. She stopped whatever she had busied herself with and said, “Go put on your running clothes and run.” I flashed a look at her, but the one she returned said it all. “You need it. You always do. You’ll feel better when you get back.”
Mom did know. In those places growing up, she knew God found me there. She never explicitly told me what she knew or why she understood. But then, that was Mom.
Perhaps she needed to give herself permission. But, she never did. Not until she faced a debilitating illness that eventually consumed her. I should have asked her in her last years, when she had so much quiet—when the quiet found her—whether she gave herself permission to enjoy it. Or, whether she resented it. I hope she gave herself permission to enjoy it.
After all, even God gave himself permission to rest in the Sabbath. A day of rest. Leading by example. Or, perhaps, just like seeking the quiet comes naturally to us as children, it comes naturally to God.
A day of rest, every week. I like the idea.
A few years ago our pastor suggested we really do that. I loved the suggestion—as though it were a novel idea. If I’m made in God’s image and God needs a day of rest, then maybe I do too. We’ve never done it. I dream about the possibility. Even the possibility of a day of rest and silence.
Being still should come naturally to us our entire lives. I think it does. I think, perhaps, we just need to listen better. I think I just need to turn off the cell phone, and the email, and block off the hours in the week and say, “Enough. Be still.”
As a child, stopping –seeking time apart for quiet—came naturally. I think about my favorite moments and activities as a young girl. All of them center around quiet and reflection. I loved to climb trees. I climbed to the highest branch of the tree in our back yard and leaned against the trunk. As still as possible, I sat and observed. Rarely did others know I sat perched 50 feet above. The time was mine.
As I grew older, the need for quiet continued, and remained a natural response to life. A natural desire. I ran. Miles at a time. I found it on the road or the trail. As I set my pace and found my rhythm, I found the stillness. In my teens, my mom knew this about me. I remember the first time I realized it. I stomped in from school, probably slammed the door and grunted something about school or the boy I had fallen for. She stopped whatever she had busied herself with and said, “Go put on your running clothes and run.” I flashed a look at her, but the one she returned said it all. “You need it. You always do. You’ll feel better when you get back.”
Mom did know. In those places growing up, she knew God found me there. She never explicitly told me what she knew or why she understood. But then, that was Mom.
Perhaps she needed to give herself permission. But, she never did. Not until she faced a debilitating illness that eventually consumed her. I should have asked her in her last years, when she had so much quiet—when the quiet found her—whether she gave herself permission to enjoy it. Or, whether she resented it. I hope she gave herself permission to enjoy it.
After all, even God gave himself permission to rest in the Sabbath. A day of rest. Leading by example. Or, perhaps, just like seeking the quiet comes naturally to us as children, it comes naturally to God.
A day of rest, every week. I like the idea.
A few years ago our pastor suggested we really do that. I loved the suggestion—as though it were a novel idea. If I’m made in God’s image and God needs a day of rest, then maybe I do too. We’ve never done it. I dream about the possibility. Even the possibility of a day of rest and silence.
Being still should come naturally to us our entire lives. I think it does. I think, perhaps, we just need to listen better. I think I just need to turn off the cell phone, and the email, and block off the hours in the week and say, “Enough. Be still.”
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
From Mountain Tops
A friend asked me the other day about my blog title. So, if you are wondering . . .
My son loves to climb -- rock climb and mountain climb. But, as a small child, he was so afraid of heights. I don't know what transformed him from fearful to exhilarated, but it changed his life. Climbing has brought some amazing people into his life, too. One of those people was a young man named Anthony Vietti.
Anthony was a mentor, friend, brother in Christ, and climbing buddy. I know that he had a profound effect on my son's life and helped to shape who my son is as a person. I don't know the full impact Anthony had on my son's life, but I know it was significant. And, I am grateful.
He was a friend that I trusted my son to spend time with and a friend I trusted my son's life with--literally, when they climbed. He was a friend who, from my perspective, helped my son learn to love life and to serve and love others unconditionally.
Anthony and my son shared time in God's creation, loving it together.
Few friends in life come along who have such an impact on who we are. Anthony was one of those people in my son's life. I have no doubt that my son had a profound impact on Anthony's life, too. Their friendship was cut short this past December. Anthony and two other young people--including another young man my son knew, Luke Gullberg--died in a climbing accident on Mt. Hood. Anthony was barely 25 years old.
I don't climb, but I look in awe at God's creation--and particularly the mountains. Mt. Hood will always remind me of God's power and God's plan. And when I look at her incredible beauty, I will always be reminded of Anthony and the beautiful friendship my son had.
And so, as I grieved for my son's loss of his dear friend, I began to think about and read about what people experience when they summit mountains. What compels them to climb?
Those who climb usually seek the summit. I'm sure their reasons are as diverse as the people who climb. But I do know that, while they can summit, they can't stay on the tops of those majestic peaks. The summit is temporary. But a place that is worth the journey. A place they can't live or survive. But a place they are willing to risk their lives to experience.
And so, from the mountain top, they look down to the places from which they came and to which they will return. From the mountain top they stand closer to God--in the thin space between heaven and earth. In sacred isolation in communion with God. And, from mountain tops they know they must descend--to the base camp and the valleys beyond to spend time and to live and to prepare--for the next mountain top where they might find that sacred space again.
And so, From Mountain Tops is a place I hope to find and share sacred moments. But it is also a place I visit to reflect on the places in which I live and spend time--in the messiness of community and family. It is in those places that I prepare for those journeys to the summit. I hope you will join me.
My son loves to climb -- rock climb and mountain climb. But, as a small child, he was so afraid of heights. I don't know what transformed him from fearful to exhilarated, but it changed his life. Climbing has brought some amazing people into his life, too. One of those people was a young man named Anthony Vietti.
Anthony was a mentor, friend, brother in Christ, and climbing buddy. I know that he had a profound effect on my son's life and helped to shape who my son is as a person. I don't know the full impact Anthony had on my son's life, but I know it was significant. And, I am grateful.
He was a friend that I trusted my son to spend time with and a friend I trusted my son's life with--literally, when they climbed. He was a friend who, from my perspective, helped my son learn to love life and to serve and love others unconditionally.
Anthony and my son shared time in God's creation, loving it together.
Few friends in life come along who have such an impact on who we are. Anthony was one of those people in my son's life. I have no doubt that my son had a profound impact on Anthony's life, too. Their friendship was cut short this past December. Anthony and two other young people--including another young man my son knew, Luke Gullberg--died in a climbing accident on Mt. Hood. Anthony was barely 25 years old.
I don't climb, but I look in awe at God's creation--and particularly the mountains. Mt. Hood will always remind me of God's power and God's plan. And when I look at her incredible beauty, I will always be reminded of Anthony and the beautiful friendship my son had.
And so, as I grieved for my son's loss of his dear friend, I began to think about and read about what people experience when they summit mountains. What compels them to climb?
Those who climb usually seek the summit. I'm sure their reasons are as diverse as the people who climb. But I do know that, while they can summit, they can't stay on the tops of those majestic peaks. The summit is temporary. But a place that is worth the journey. A place they can't live or survive. But a place they are willing to risk their lives to experience.
And so, from the mountain top, they look down to the places from which they came and to which they will return. From the mountain top they stand closer to God--in the thin space between heaven and earth. In sacred isolation in communion with God. And, from mountain tops they know they must descend--to the base camp and the valleys beyond to spend time and to live and to prepare--for the next mountain top where they might find that sacred space again.
And so, From Mountain Tops is a place I hope to find and share sacred moments. But it is also a place I visit to reflect on the places in which I live and spend time--in the messiness of community and family. It is in those places that I prepare for those journeys to the summit. I hope you will join me.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Teaching: It's not about the teacher
As a teacher, I sometimes get caught up in "teaching." Trying to figure out my lesson plans and crafting assignments that will help students learn -- learn the materials, learn to think, learn to write, revise, and edit. As part of this planning, I often think about the "professionalism" aspect of their learning, too. Are they aware of how to communicate professionally? Do they know the importance of being punctual? Do they understand that their integrity--their character and reputation--are far more important than what a supervisor may want them to do, or a client they may represent?
Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget that the students need me to remember that they are not just students -- but thinking, feeling, spiritual human beings.
Maybe it isn't so much that I forget. It's just that I push that aspect of the students off to the side, rather than keep it front and center. I need to love them, not just teach them.
Today, God reminded me.
The students had a first draft of a paper due, for peer review. Two students wrote me in the early morning hours, both in a bit of distress--expressing their frustrations. But between the lines, I could hear not just frustration, but the slipping away of their self-worth and self-confidence.
I added my students to my prayers this morning, but went along my way as usual. But God knew that it was me who needed His grace more than the students.
One of those students stopped by my office to talk later in the day. His face was long and he looked tired. We talked through his paper and his concerns about its structure and content.
Towards the end of the conversation, I saw a sudden flash of life in his face--his eyes lit up and a brief smile crossed his mouth. In that moment, the holy spirit stepped in and flooded the room with compassion. Before I knew it, words were flowing. I paused and something like the following came spilling out of me, "You know [Jason], you need to give yourself more credit than you do. You are really bright. Really capable. You have grown so much as a student and writer this year. This paper will come together and you will be so thrilled with it when you are done. "
It was a flood of grace. The air in the room lifted and [Jason's] demeanor changed completely. I felt his spirit change. I saw it in his eyes and in his face and in his movement.
As for me? I felt God's presence and his grace. Grateful that He knew that this young man needed more than help with his paper. Grateful that He gave me the opportunity and the words. Grateful for the reminder that I need to keep the whole person (not just the student) and God front and center--not me . . . Even though I might be the one standing in the front of the classroom.
Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget that the students need me to remember that they are not just students -- but thinking, feeling, spiritual human beings.
Maybe it isn't so much that I forget. It's just that I push that aspect of the students off to the side, rather than keep it front and center. I need to love them, not just teach them.
Today, God reminded me.
The students had a first draft of a paper due, for peer review. Two students wrote me in the early morning hours, both in a bit of distress--expressing their frustrations. But between the lines, I could hear not just frustration, but the slipping away of their self-worth and self-confidence.
I added my students to my prayers this morning, but went along my way as usual. But God knew that it was me who needed His grace more than the students.
One of those students stopped by my office to talk later in the day. His face was long and he looked tired. We talked through his paper and his concerns about its structure and content.
Towards the end of the conversation, I saw a sudden flash of life in his face--his eyes lit up and a brief smile crossed his mouth. In that moment, the holy spirit stepped in and flooded the room with compassion. Before I knew it, words were flowing. I paused and something like the following came spilling out of me, "You know [Jason], you need to give yourself more credit than you do. You are really bright. Really capable. You have grown so much as a student and writer this year. This paper will come together and you will be so thrilled with it when you are done. "
It was a flood of grace. The air in the room lifted and [Jason's] demeanor changed completely. I felt his spirit change. I saw it in his eyes and in his face and in his movement.
As for me? I felt God's presence and his grace. Grateful that He knew that this young man needed more than help with his paper. Grateful that He gave me the opportunity and the words. Grateful for the reminder that I need to keep the whole person (not just the student) and God front and center--not me . . . Even though I might be the one standing in the front of the classroom.
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