Blogiversary Giveaway: a Touch of Comfort {Three Years}

Update: This giveaway is closed. Random.org chose number 3, which is Deanna. (Comments appear in reverse chronological order, newest to oldest, but numbers were assigned in chronological order.) Congratulations, Deanna!

As a small thank-you to those kind enough to share life with me here, I'm offering a giveaway to celebrate three years of this blog (as of August 7, 2013). If this giveaway has a theme, as my youngest sister Terza's gifts often used to, it's comfort. If you or someone you know is in need of some Christian comfort, please leave a comment below (at this actual blog post, if you're reading by e-mail or RSS feed) to enter the giveaway. The winner will be chosen by Random.org at 5 pm, CDT, on August 16 (next Friday).

Without further ado, here are the giveaway items:

~one copy of the visually stunning and truth-full children's devotional (which I actually bought and read for myself before giving my first copy away to someone with, you know, actual children) Thoughts to Make Your Heart Sing, by Sally Lloyd-Jones;

For a transcription of this particular spread, please see the earlier post about this book here.

~and one holding cross made of our native Texas pecan wood by a local family business.

Mine is a different wood, and the giveaway cross is not engraved, but this gives an idea of scale in a smallish adult hand.

If this offering (and possibly a little sweet something extra) appeals to you, please leave a comment below the giveaway post on the blog itself. If for some reason Disqus should misbehave, please e-mail me at crumbsfromhistable at gmail dot com and I will assign you a number based on the time stamp on your e-mail.

To simplify the drawing, if you'd prefer *not* to enter the giveaway but would like to leave a comment about the blogiversary, would you be so kind as to click this link to the previous retrospective post, "A Different Me" and comment there instead? Thank you so much.

Whether you choose to enter or not, no matter what brought you here or what your day may hold, let this be true for you, Crumbles:

The Lord bless you and keep you;

the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;

the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

Numbers 6:24-26, ESV

A Different Me

Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!

How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!

Romans 11:33

Olivia looked at the photo in the lid of the jewelry box and said, "That's you," the surprise uplifting her voice in audible punctuation. Then her eyebrows knit together, a hint of musso drooped her lower lip, and she said, slowly, "That's a different you." What was that tone? Wonder?

I looked at the photo, from our anniversary dinner out in 2004, trying to see it through her eyes while gazing through mine. In the pause to formulate my reply, I thought of how my philosophy-major youth minister used to say you couldn't step into the same river twice, because each passing moment made it a different river and a different you. (No, too sophisticated for our 4 year-old neighbor. And slightly sarcastic.) I looked at those cheery faces and hair without much grey and remembered that me. That us. Two and one-half years from an official diagnosis of systemic lupus, I was able to exercise and care for my home and errands without much help. Compared to today, that me was strong and healthy. I remembered, and blinked back tears. (No, too depressing.)

How did I answer her comment?

"Yes, I had shorter hair then."

True, but the difference is so much greater, and suddenly I didn't have words or energy to try to explain it to a child too young to pour her own milk into a glass or cross the street alone.

Quietly, almost whispering, she gently touched the photo and said, "You had shorter hair then." Perhaps that was enough for that day, because she has rummaged through appreciated my jewelry boxes once or twice more since then and not mentioned it again. Her amazement on the next visit was that I have sisters, and a mommy and daddy, and a grandma??!! (The italics multiply when she comes to visit. She's as emphatic as she is adorable.)

This encounter has lingered in my thoughts since then, as though there's still something it has to teach me. That something may be for me to look in the mirror and ask God to show me the good things this present me has which that me lacked. It's still easy to focus on the losses of the intervening years, especially of the last three. No, four. No, five, starting with my grandfather's death. I tend to look in the mirror (which Amore says is my first mistake) and see how tired and worn that face looks. To my eyes, the last three years seem to have aged me disproportionately, relative to any other three-year period in my life.

God's breathed-out Word, however, says, "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose" (Rom. 8:28, ESV). The next verse clarifies that in part, at least, "good" and "His purpose" here mean "to be conformed to the image of His Son," His Son who was rejected, mocked, scourged, betrayed, crucified, resurrected, and ascended to the right hand of the Father.

How, then, am I more conformed to the image of Christ than I was in 2004? The three-year retrospective post, "Balance Sheet," answers that in small measure. Some of the other things God has been doing do not belong in this post and possibly not on this blog. Perhaps we need outside witnesses to to be our mirrors and reveal some of the rest, and my friends are generous in their words of affirmation about how they see the fruit of the Spirit in me. Perhaps also we could not bear to know in full measure how we have begun to become "little Christs," which is the meaning of "Christian," lest we be tempted to pride beyond our strength.

Today marks three years of the existence of this blog. It's quiet at Wits' End this afternoon after a medical appointment and errand earlier and chores in progress, and I am pondering in what good ways I might be a "different me" than in that first post, written at a time I was too weak to unload the dishwasher without stopping to rest. Physically I am stronger than I was then, though not what I had been 6 months prior to that flare and not where I'd like to be 6 months from now.

The biggest difference, perhaps, might be that I'm a better socially-supported me. Through friends directly from this blogging journey and friends I've met at the ladies' Bible study at my new home church, I have no shortage of praying friends, and I'm not ashamed to call on them for back-up in the battles of life. (I love my biological family and am blessed to have one who prays, but when one's whole family seems to be under fire, it's ever so consoling to have the prayer and support of my family in Christ. Maybe you've been there too?)

Part of living out the life of Christ in this mortal tent-body means taking my place in His body, embracing my dependence on the rest of it, and letting others depend on me. By God's grace, I may be a bit more integrated into the whole after three years. To think He could have used confinement to my home for six weeks to broaden and deepen my relational foundation! Truly His ways are unsearchable. Inscrutable.

Thank you, kind Crumbles, for helping me along this path God has appointed. I truly do thank Him every time I remember you, which is often. May He pour into your lives all you have poured into mine and beyond, pressed down and running over. Grace and peace be multiplied to you in our Lord Jesus Christ.

For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.

Romans 11:36

P.S. Stay tuned for a small giveaway post soon. If I don't manage it today, look for it tomorrow. For now, the laundry beckons, and I'm thankful today's me can sort, fold, and stash it.

In case any of you were wondering, which--let's face it--you probably weren't, the gratitude journal is still fully operational, even though it hasn't been published here as consistently of late. I'm still counting "the ways God loves me" day by day. Are you on a joy hunt yet?

Inner Silence {Reflections on Prayer}

“Lord, Lord, don’t You care that we’re perishing?”  In my sense of helplessness, panicking at the waves swamping my little boat, I barge into Grace’s throneroom, spewing forth my fears like an incoherent child with a scraped knee.  How thankful I am that the King of grace is my loving Father, well-pleased to take me in His lap and whisper, “Peace, be still,” as much to my anxious heart as to the waves about me.

There, in the silence, He administers the balm of His Spirit of comfort to my aches and pains.  As a Father asks His child to “show Daddy where it hurts,” as a Shepherd examines His sheep on their entrance to the fold at night, so He gently responds to our, “Search me, O God, and know my heart; Try me and know my anxious thoughts, And see if there be any hurtful way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way” (Ps 139:23-24).

 It is in the silence after the tears that we relax into the knowledge that He is God, the Mighty One, Ruler of the wind and the waves, and He never says, “Oops!” (Ps 46:10).  The torrent of words slows to a trickle, then ceases.  “My soul waits in silence for God only; From Him is my salvation” (Ps 62:1).  Weary of striving, we can make Amy Carmichael’s prayer our own:

O Lord, my heart is all a prayer,

But it is silent unto Thee;

I am too tired to look for words,

I rest upon Thy sympathy

To understand when I am dumb;

And well I know Thou hearest me.

I know Thou hearest me because

A quiet peace comes down to me,

And fills the places where before

Weak thoughts were wandering wearily;

And deep within me it is calm,

Though waves are tossing outwardly (Gold Cord, 54).

What a comfort it is at those moments to know, in the deepest part of my soul, that “in the same way the Spirit helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He intercedes for all the saints according to the will of God” (Rom 8:26-7).

Sometimes, though, the silence frightens me.  I want to hide from God’s searchlight, afraid of what He may show me, what He may command me, how He may change me.  Like a child fleeing from the needle that removes the splinter or stitches up a wound, fleeing from the hands which wish to set the broken bone, what if the cure gives added pain?  Like my dog fleeing his bath, it’s not that I like being dirty, but that I dislike the cleansing process.

And so the torrent of words resumes.  Or I seek to quench the silence with noise, or busy myself as a distraction.  Even the prayer of words can be an attempt to distract myself when God seeks to deal with me in silence.  “After all,” I think, “if I am still, who will bail all this water out of the boat?”  Then, when silence seems least affordable or desirable, I need it most.  Turning off the radio, the TV, the computer monitor, even physically leaving all the things crying to be done and getting away for as little as fifteen minutes, I face God in the silence and receive His peace.

“My soul, wait in silence for God only, For my hope is from Him.  He only is my rock and my salvation, My stronghold, I shall not be shaken” (Ps 62:5-6).

More Grace from Annie Johnson Flint

Annie Johnson Flint (1866-1932) entered my life during my freshman year at university. At least daily, sometimes more frequently, I would work out my troubles in a practice room with a hymnal and a piano. During those therapy sessions, I discovered Miss Flint, in particular her hymn "He Giveth More Grace." Although none of my church homes over the years have included it in corporate worship, it deeply blesses me in private worship. Over the last two weeks it has sung often in my heart and given comfort.

When I searched for a little biographical information to share with you, I discovered that she suffered from severe, disabling arthritis. In fact, she only turned to composing poetry when her illness excluded her from teaching. Isn't it a kind encouragement of our Lord to bring us together with those who have preceded us along a particular road of affliction?

Today (Monday) I heard the words to this hymn two different places, on the Revive Our Hearts radio broadcast and in the Audible audiobook of Evidence Not Seen. I've shared this poem with y'all before, but it's worth sharing again. As I reviewed it just now, it was the third verse, the only one I don't know by heart, which most directly encouraged me, especially as some loved ones face daunting needs and heavy loads and I approach a second epidural pain injection Thursday morning. I love the contrast in this hymn between God's "more" and "full" and our exhaustion, failing strength, and "hoarded resources." How much time and energy I waste fretting that He will not give me aid the next time I need it! How gracious He is, and how much I value encouragement by the saints of days gone by. Perhaps Miss Flint and I may share a cup of tea together in the eternal Kingdom, and I can thank her for her testimony.

Whatever burdens, labors, affliction, trials, and needs you face today, beloved, may you discover in experience the truth of this song (and the Scriptures, before that): God giveth, and giveth, and giveth again. However dire your circumstances, however impoverished your resources, He is enough and more. Cry out to Him, and watch how His mercy and peace meet you in your need. May you taste and see that He is good.

He giveth more grace when the burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase;
To added affliction He addeth His mercy;
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father's full giving is only begun.

Fear not that thy need shall exceed His provision,
Our God ever yearns His resources to share;
Lean hard on the arm everlasting, availing;
The Father both thee and thy load will upbear.

His love has no limit; His grace has no measure.
His pow'r has no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again!

     ~Annie Johnson Flint

Here are two more of her poems, less familiar than the first perhaps but no less encouraging:

Better Than My Best

I prayed for strength, and then I lost awhile
All sense of nearness, human and divine;
The love I leaned on failed and pierced my heart,
The hands I clung to loosed themselves from mine;
But while I swayed, weak, trembling, and alone,
The everlasting arms upheld my own.

I prayed for light; the sun went down in clouds,
The moon was darkened by a misty doubt,
The stars of heaven were dimmed by earthly fears,
And all my little candle flames burned out;
But while I sat in shadow, wrapped in night,
The face of Christ made all the darkness bright.

I prayed for peace, and dreamed of restful ease,
A slumber drugged from pain, a hushed repose;
Above my head the skies were black with storm,
And fiercer grew the onslaught of my foes;
But while the battle raged, and wild winds blew,
I heard His voice and perfect peace I knew.

I thank Thee, Lord, Thou wert too wise to heed
My feeble prayers, and answer as I sought,
Since these rich gifts Thy bounty has bestowed
Have brought me more than all I asked or thought;
Giver of good, so answer each request
With Thine own giving, better than my best.

The Pruned Branch

It is the branch that bears the fruit,
That feels the knife;
To prune it for a larger growth,
A fuller life,

Though every budding twig be lopped,
And every grace
Of swaying tendril, springing leaf
Be lost a space.

O thou, whose life of joy seems reft,
Of beauty shorn,
Whose aspirations lie in dust,
All bruised and torn,

Rejoice, though each desire, each dream,
Each hope of thine,
Shall fall and fade; it is the hand
Of love divine

That holds the knife, that cuts and breaks
With tenderest touch,
That thou, whose life has borne some fruit
May now bear much.

Prayer and Helplessness {Reflections on Prayer}

"For we are powerless against this great horde that is coming against us.

We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”

2 Chron. 20:12, ESV

"Prayer and helplessness are inseparable.  Only those who are helpless can truly pray."  These words from O. Hallesby's book Prayer surprised me at first, but as I reflect on them I realize that perhaps this partially explains why I still do not know how to pray as I should.  I don't, you know.  In fact, the longer I walk with the Lord, the greater my realization of that shortcoming and of the corollary that I don't pray what little I do know.

More and more I become convinced of my own helplessness:  to walk in a manner worthy of my Lord, to be the woman and wife He calls me to be, to minister where He places me, let alone to pray faithfully for all the needs around me.  Pray as I should?  How often I am helpless even to find a quiet place in my own heart to meet with God in the truest sense.

So how do I respond to this sense of inadequacy?  The pride native to my sinful flesh, that Adamic spirit of independence, resists even asking for help.  To admit that I am in fact beyond help, unable to change anything in my own strength, puts that "self-sufficiency" on the cross, so that I am reduced to trusting God and Him alone.  How easy it is, instead of coming to Him in helplessness, with empty hands, rather to convince myself to try harder or ask Him for "help" when His real desire is to do in and through me what I cannot do for myself.  My view of myself is still far too great, and my view of God far too small.  (Oh, that He would increase and I decrease!)

On the contrary, "The greater your self-sufficiency, the greater your potential for disaster.  Helplessness is our greatest source of strength," as Charles Stanley once observed.  Only when I come to God openly confessing my inadequacy and inability even to gather and still my thoughts, can I truly pray.  Hallesby goes so far as to define prayer as "the helpless soul's helpless look unto a faithful Friend."  No words, no struggle, only a look up to hear Him say, "Cease striving, and know that I am God" (Ps 46:10).

When I do this, His grace--which always flows downhill--meets me in my point of need.  Throughout Scripture we see God's delight in filling truly empty hands.  Frequently He reduces His children to blatantly impossible situations to demonstrate His sufficiency all the more in their weakness.  Hundred year-old Abraham and the promise of a child, Moses and Pharaoh, David and Goliath, Gideon and the Midianites, Elijah and the prophets of Baal, Daniel in the lions' den, the disciples and the loaves and fishes, . . . the most impossible of our "impossible situations" are no match for the infinite resources of our matchless God.

True progress in prayer, then, comes when I start from my helplessness, when I make my "last resort" the first resort, when I come like Jehoshaphat:  "we are powerless. . . nor do we know what to do, but our eyes are on Thee" (2 Chron 20:12b).

As I learn to do this, to come with empty hands to God, He never fails to meet me and quiet my heart.  "Do not fear. . . for the LORD is with you."  God doesn't need my help to rule the universe.  His great desire is simply to be with me, and for me to be with Him.  Helplessness opens me to the full enjoyment of His presence.

"Lord Jesus!  I ask You this day to enroll my name among those who confess that they know not how to pray as they ought. . . .  May a deep sense of my ignorance, of the wonderful privilege and the power of prayer, of the need for the Holy Spirit as the Spirit of prayer, lead me to cast away my thoughts of what I think I know, make me kneel before You in true teachableness and poverty of spirit" (Andrew Murray).