Lord,
The motor under me is running hot.
Lord,
There are twenty-eight people
And lots of luggage in the truck.
Underneath are my bad tires.
The brakes are unreliable.
Unfortunately I have no money,
And parts are difficult to get.
Lord,
“Jesus is mine”
Is written on the vehicle,
For without Him I would not drive a single mile.
The people in the back are relying on me.
They trust me because they see the words:
“Jesus is mine.”
Lord,
I trust You!
As I sat in our time of silence, two conflicting images emerged for me, images from my past, images of darkness ... at first I remembered my first mission trip to Cuba in the late 90's. We had all of the right licenses, knew all of the rules of engagement and felt deep heart connections with the people in a small church in Jovellanos, located in the Matanzas district. They were the most gracious hosts and I had need of nothing while I was there. They had little in the way of material possessions but my dear friends had an overflowing, loving, generous spirit. They were passionate about reaching people with the message of God's love in Jesus Christ. We went mostly to help them spread that word through small "house" churches. As I stood in each one, I thought, "this must be what it was like as Jesus traveled place to place with his small band of disciples." One evening, I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere (it seemed like to me) with one of my female traveling companions and a female missionary/interpreter to speak with a group of woman who had small children. At the end of our time we walked back up the road and waited in the dark ... do you know that kind of darkness in which you cannot even see your hand in front of your face? We waited for a very long time ... at one point we joked about how we could get back to Jovellanos if they forgot about us. Our laughter was a little uneasy but underneath the darkness, there was a simple trust. I trusted the people, I trusted God.
The second image that emerged was much more unsettling. Perhaps this image emerged because we just yesterday passed the nine year mark since Hurricane Katrina. The darkness that enveloped the New Orleans area in the aftermath of the storm was not so friendly to my soul. I remember ... watching from afar, listening to the people on the radio late at night through earphones as I slept, hearing their desperation, wondering who lived and who died, calling friends and hearing only silence on the other end, praying and praying and praying.
I remember our first trip back, the trip you took to see what was left of your home and your life. And there it was ... standing tall, damaged but not destroyed. wow. The beautiful bradford pear tree was broken but the mis-shapen little oak tree stood where it was. Of course. The chimney was blown out and twisted at the top and but was still attached to the house. Yay! The house was missing some pieces of siding but it still looked good to me compared to what it could have been. So it went ... and happy we were that we had bought a raised house. The electricity was not yet on so we cleaned up what we could and let the house BE. One of our neighbors stayed to watch all our houses as they sat, quiet and alone in the darkness.
I remember driving back home with my son after my neighbor told us we had electricity on our street. My husband now in a corporate apartment in Houston only returned once to the house after that initial clean up trip, to load it up and move it out. Because there was not yet complete electrical restoration, there were no supplies in St. Charles Parish at that time right after the Storm. We stopped on Hwy 90, the best way for re-entry it seemed to us, to pick up supplies. Supplies ... and a knife. Yes, for some reason that little knife made me feel safe. It's the little things, right? I still have it, it still makes me feel safe but mostly it helps me clean wax out of my candle holders.
I remember driving by the Circle K and seeing the National Guard ... soldiers with sub-machine guns. Really ... in my neighborhood ... across from my church? Really? I felt like I was disconnected from reality. This cannot be happening. But it was.
I remember picking up lots and lots and lots of diapers on my way into town because some of the first persons back found that was the need we needed to meet ... and so we created a circular path for people who came, usually after picking their MRE's. Not long after we started, a local pediatrician called and offered to supply formula. We asked the people how they were, offered to pray for them and ... oh, the stories they told. Sometimes, I thought I would break down from the stories. We created a small chapel prayer area in the Sanctuary for people to pray ... and pray we did, but I never cried. I had created a visual on the altar with a special place for all of the prayer cards and had placed a "brokenness" cross in the center. The cross had been created especially for a Kairos Prison Ministry weekend I was leading by a friend of mine who is a potter. It was a large clay cross upon which broken pieces of "reclaimed" pottery were placed in the center. We bring our brokenness to Jesus and the cross, yes? We had a prayer service to close down the "baby depot" and the prayer chapel. And I didn't cry. After it was over, I sent everyone home and prayed through the cards one last time. I carefully began folding material and gently taking things down from the altar. And suddenly it happened. The cross fell from it's perch and broke ... and suddenly I broke too. I cried for what seemed like hours just holding all the pieces in my lap. "What good is a broken brokenness cross" I wailed. Then, I gently wrapped the pieces, put them in their box, and tucked it away.
I remember driving into New Orleans after the Storm. I remember driving along the streets, carpet piled up on the curb ... house after house after house ... and thinking, "this is not just carpet, this is people's lives and we'll never be the same." I remember driving a friend home in the dark ... that same dark I experienced in Cuba ... and panic set in because the buildings, landmarks in silhouette against the dark sky, they were gone, all of them ... gone. I didn't know where we were. That unknowing was more than physical. Suddenly, I felt very lost as I drove home alone.
I remember sitting at a table with some people at a retreat at Camp Allen in Navasota, right outside Houston, after we moved. I was referred to as a "refugee" after I told people my story. I said, "oh, I'm not a refugee." She didn't really ask a question but said, "Did you live there before the storm?" I said, "yes." She followed with, "And now you are living here, at least for the time being?" I said, "yes." She said very adamantly then, "Sweetheart, YOU are a refugee." I think that was my lowest moment, my most alone moment as all of the people looked at me with "that" look. Do you know the look I'm talking about? Actually, I hope you don't. In an instant, the conversation turned and I was completely alone in that room full of people. And I determined never to share my story with strangers again.
Several years later, I remember being asked to deliver a message with a personal testimony at the Gospel service at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary using passages from Isaiah (60 & 62)
Arise! Shine! Your light has come;
the Lord’s glory has shone upon you.
Though darkness covers the earth
and gloom the nations,
the Lord will shine upon you;
God’s glory will appear over you.
Nations will come to your light
and kings to your dawning radiance ...
the Lord’s glory has shone upon you.
Though darkness covers the earth
and gloom the nations,
the Lord will shine upon you;
God’s glory will appear over you.
Nations will come to your light
and kings to your dawning radiance ...
You will no longer be called Abandoned,
and your land will no longer be called Deserted.
Instead, you will be called My Delight Is in Her,
and your land, Married.
Because the Lord delights in you,
your land will be cared for once again. ©CEB
and your land will no longer be called Deserted.
Instead, you will be called My Delight Is in Her,
and your land, Married.
Because the Lord delights in you,
your land will be cared for once again. ©CEB
As I packed for that trip, I couldn't get that broken brokenness cross out of my mind, I thought I was going crazy. I knew it was still packed away somewhere but finally I made a deal with myself. I'll open one box and if it is in that box I'll take it with me. Lo and behold, there it was, in the first box I opened. But I still didn't know what to do with it! I hadn't yet unwrapped it, looked at it, touched it. Finally, the night before I was to stand before the people ... I opened the little box and pulled the wrapping from around the pieces, and looked at it. I gasped! How could I not have seen this? There, among all of the tiny pieces and the three big pieces was the small cross, the cross that my potter friend put among the broken pieces as a sign of hope ... resurrection ... new life. Suddenly, I realized that we not only bring our brokenness to Jesus for him to fix. Jesus, the risen Christ, walks among our brokenness, healing us and creating beauty from all of the broken pieces of our lives. And my own determination was broken down in the midst of the risen Christ who filled the room. And I shared my story once again with a room full of strangers the next evening.
I remember several days later as I was meditating on John 6 ... these words shimmered up off the page and into my heart (as they frequently do) ... in verse 12, Jesus says: “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost.” In the silence, I heard Jesus say to me, "I will pick up the pieces of your life and put it back together again." That was the birth of MOSAIC Spiritual Formation Ministry ... creating beauty from the broken pieces of life ... in my heart.
And all of this remembering emerged from a prayer from the heart of the people in Ghana ... and the silence within which we held it. Suddenly the darkness is not dark anymore, the Lord is shining! And the risen Christ walks among us.
“Jesus is mine.”
Lord,
I trust You!
Amen!
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| My Broken Brokenness Cross created by Jane Knight, Painting to left by Merilyn Hully |
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