Friends Who Pray

This evening ends “Day Nine” of my chemo-journey.

Here’s what I want to say to each of you, “Thank you, your prayers made a difference.”

At this moment those few words capture what I believe to be true of your prayers for me over this past week.

Yet, as I write those particular words I realize how overused and cliché they can sound.

“Your prayers make a difference” can sound like the religiously canned illusory response effective shtick that drafty “spiritual” professionals commonly use. I ought to know I’ve been a trained, tried and true spiritual-director/pastor/Pharisee.

My four days of Chemo this last week were brutal, discomforting, painful and filled with a sobering awareness of my helplessness in spades. At the same time God came in heroic ways for me. I was acutely aware of his presence, goodness, love, comfort and sovereign strength. I saw circumstances unfold in my favor and that reflected his heart, physical reactions that were relatively “mild”, and his provision of people, words, grace, beauty, joy and hope. On top of all this, he gave me eyes to see how ALL of this was connected to and influenced by your prayers.

This week I ached, groaned and worshipped.

Feeling good enough now to write, I wanted to give my heart voice to the gratitude I feel. In doing so I found myself using, what, to some, is a platitude, that I have ingenuously parroted in the past. For that I now repent.

Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

 

A week ago Sunday was “Day One” minus one. (In my treatment plan “Day One” is the first day of a twenty-eight day cycle, with the first three or four days involving an IV infusion of Chemo)

Having just taken a taxi to M. D. Anderson/Jesse Jones Rotary House I’m rolling our luggage across the threshold/doorway into the building when I’m swiftly T-boned by a wave of emotion. I can’t immediately name it, but its deep, good, powerful and a complete surprise… “Ahh… its God!” He doesn’t speak; I’m simply overwhelmed by his presence. And it lingers.

An hour later, Lori and I are enjoying a Reuben Sandwich on marbled rye and a Chipotle Salad with a couple tall frosted glasses of Houston Municipal water with a wedge of lemon when mid-bite I’m staggered to tears again as God shows up. Immediately I’m multi-tasking, trying to swallow, compose myself and interpret what God’s up to. Lori wonders out loud the very words I’m trying to spit out, “Safe, are you feeling safe?” Yes, that’s the word, “Safe”. I’m engulfed by safety, sheltered in some unassailable strong hold!

And then, in His presence at that lunch table in Rice Village, he began to unpack the word “Safe” for me.  

“I am your fortress, your hiding place, a rock, your salvation, and your refuge. You are cherished, free from harm, impervious to assault, out of harm’s way, hidden, shielded… under my care and guard.”

"Rest, lay your sword down… this battle is mine.”

 This wasn’t a pre-chemo catharsis, an expression of powerful positive thinking, a breakdown or me “bucking up”. This was My God bringing into my entire being all that he promises us. This was the Word. The Living Word, God being God!

And a zillon passages came to mind; here are but two:

The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me; Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, 
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever. - Psalm 23

Because he loves me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation." - Psalm 91:14-16

I wasn’t to fight, I didn’t need to. I was to rest in safety, to be still and know he is God. He is a Warrior and he had me tucked away in his fortress 979 miles from the front.

Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

 

Days Three & Four.

By all standards, statistically and anecdotally my oncology nurses assured me I was experiencing relatively mild side effects compared to 70% of the patients receiving the same treatment. I totally believe them… I walked the halls and saw suffering on an exponentially higher scale than my current one.

Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

My big-hearted Jesus loving, Mama comforting, compassionate, joy-bearing soul sister nurses were God to me! There were other nurses I could’ve had, but didn’t. I was surrounded with life-givers. (I cried saying goodbye to them Friday).

Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

Fatigue is the most disheartening and challenging side effect I’m experiencing from the Chemo. There are times this world changing apostle of joy who’s liberating captives and prisoners around the world has wondered, "How I can possibly move the 12 foot span between my bed and the restroom?" 

I have been close to total helplessness. Safe but helpless.Preparing to leave Houston I feared all that was required of me to get back home. Check out of the hotel; get to the airport, through security, to the gate, the plane, to the car and home.  At the same time, God was there… in “it”, over “it”, all over “it”. I knew, really, really knew in places far deeper than my fear that God would come for me in anyway I really needed.

No horse pucky, he came! I had strength, endurance and an “I’m on top of the world” attitude all the way home. It was God! I was strong in him.

Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

 

Days Five & Six.

These were the most agonizing days so far.

God had ushered me back to the front and with validating words told me to pick up my sword and join him in the battle. (The breaks from the front are not yet unending.)

I could find no comfort. TV and music were no distraction, I couldn’t read, sleep, sit, stand or walk. The icing on the cake was opening a delightfully demonic inspired letter that had been sent over night from my insurance company informing me they had reversed their decision and would not cover any of my cancer treatment expenses at M. D. Anderson!?@#*!.

We fight, we resist and at times we’re withered from the battles our lives bring but we never war alone. I was not alone in the trenches… somehow I knew that, and that was all I needed to know.  

 I have tasted sweet victories this week, other victories are yet to come, but victory is certain.

Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

 

Days Seven & Eight.

For brevity’s sake I will be uncharacteristically short. I feel great! Not 100%, but great!

I don’t think my journey is really much different than yours. My best advice: love God, live free and fight viciously every foe trying to take your life.

 Thank you, your prayers made a difference.

-Craig McConnell

 

 

 

A Second Opinion

When cancer intrudes into your life it comes with a boatload of baggage. Some of it you’d expect: anxiety, an in-your-face mortality smack, physical symptoms, warring hell’s vermin, lifestyle changes and a profound desire to live and love as you never have. Some of the luggage catches you off guard. Shame for example, “Why am I so ashamed of myself, my life, my health, and every choice I’ve made in life?” Then there are the waves of confusion; hopelessness and despair that you thought your long storied walk with God would insulate you from. It didn’t for me.

 Another piece of cancer’s luggage is the “unknown”. The “unknowns” about your specific cancer’s “personality”, the staging of your disease, the multiple treatment options and ultimately your prognosis. All too soon your cancer seems to metastasize to your marriage, children, finances, plans for Christmas, career and interest in UCLA Basketball.

Hoping a “Second” opinion from the best cancer center in the world, M.D. Anderson, would bring greater clarity, rid us of the unknowns and calm our troubled souls; Lori and I flew to Houston earlier this summer.

How do you describe the experience of God coming for you through a hundred different people over the course of three days? That was our experience!

In ways it was a rescue. We were anchored again, reoriented, saved,  “found” and now rooted in some borderless circle of God’s grace and presence.

I came to this research center expecting scientists to view me as a specimen from which to draw blood, poke, prod and take tissue from; brainy nerds focused on numbers, levels, and statistical categories more than me… my heart… my life. 

We stayed at the Jesse H. Jones Rotary House, a Marriott “Ronald MacDonald” like hotel that is attached by sky-bridges to MDA. Given that the hotel is limited to cancer patients we feared it would be a horrifying combination of a convalescent hospital and battlefield surgical recovery room, with the walking dead moving through the halls. We’d been told it wasn’t that; I’m not sure we believed the reports.

 Our fears were totally unsubstantiated.

Every, and I literally mean “every” person we interacted with, on any level, was Christ to us. From the hotel Staff, the other patients/guests (some who looked like they’d been on the battlefield), the MDA team, the shuttle drivers, bartender, food service, housekeeping…

In a hundred different ways and encounters God came for us.

We sat with those suffering greatly and found Jesus in their words, stories, prayers and example. We cried and found hope. The weak spoke of strength. Death’s curse and threats seemed strangely silenced. One day I had a couple of hours free and was excited to spend it walking the halls and sitting in the lobbies so I could simply be with Jesus.

 My friend John Moorhead shared a quote of Dallas Willard with me, “Where there’s Goodness, God is there”. We lived and breathed, swam in, drank in and were covered by Goodness… by God.

 This next week I begin a new part of the journey.

I’ll be in an “Infusion” room with a few fellow sojourners for my first chemotherapy cycle… four days of cancer killing kick ass drugs through an IV. I’ll be chillin’ in a brown Barcalounger, covered by a blanket with an igloo packed with snacks nearby. Lori will be on one side of me, Jesus on the other as we pass the hours watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles, just sitting and talking about “stuff”, listening to my “Worship A” playlist, napping or flipping through the out dated People magazines laying around.

I’m so glad I’m not going through this alone.

There’s still a lot of unknowns and tears, but at this moment, full of hope and strength I can say, “I’m good, God is good, I’m alive and free… and cancer sucks!”

 - Craig McConnell

 

 

My Tax Day Tradition

It’s tax time.

I chafe paying the amount of taxes I do. 

I’m not an anarchist imagining “there’s no country… nothing to kill or die for and no religion too.” Nope, I’ve been there, done that! I do believe in giving back to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s. it’s just that Caesar is more and more of a greedy !*#?%!

My grousing isn’t new or partisan. Decades ago, I began a tradition on the eve prior to sending in my Federal Tax check. I’d be fully present and engaged with Lori and our girls. As bedtime approached I’d make the rounds tucking in, tickling, and kissing each “goodnight” with a prayer and the benediction, “sleep with the Angels”. Then I’d hunt down the pint of whiskey buried either in the back of the spice cabinet, under the kitchen sink right next to the fire extinguisher or in the garage stowed in our Earthquake/Riot/Economic-collapse emergency bin.

Now, this wasn’t some high-end trendy single malt scotch; it had to be, and continues to be a cantankerous cheap unrepentant low-end bourbon. I’d take the bottle, a glass and my Bible into our living room and park myself on the couch. The room was empty, quiet and dark. The street light in front of our home provided enough light for my passionate reading of 1 Samuel chapter 8.

Chapter 8 is the story of God’s people demanding a king to lead them instead of looking to and following God as their King. God’s response to their rejection is a solemn warning...

 "This is what the king who will reign over you will do: He will take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses, and they will run in front of his chariots.  Some he will assign to be commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and others to plow his ground and reap his harvest, and still others to make weapons of war and equipment for his chariots. He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers. He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive groves and give them to his attendants. He will take a tenth of your grain and of your vintage and give it to his officials and attendants. Your menservants and maidservants and the best of your cattle and donkeys he will take for his own use. He will take a tenth of your flocks, and you yourselves will become his slaves.  When that day comes, you will cry out for relief…”

Okay, every year at this point of the story I'm doing two things: I’m crying out for relief and wondering why? Why? Why did those schmucks choose a king over the King of Kings... the living God!!! 

And the story continues…

...the people refused to listen to Samuel. "No!" they said. "We want a king over us. Then we will be like all the other nations, with a king to lead us and to go out before us and fight our battles."

 When Samuel heard all that the people said, he repeated it before the LORD. The LORD answered, "Listen to them and give them a king."

Here is where, according to tradition, I throw back a shot of my gnarly hooch and begin to rant, deprecate, fuss, protest, wail and yammer against the growing grip of kings… and all they take and all they waste. I growl at the fraud, corruption, pork, injustice, un-intended-consequences and incompetence of it all.

I may or may not have another slug, but what always happens as my evening ends is an agitation at the choice the luke-warm, half-hearted posing schmucks of 1 Samuel 8 made!

... And I'm shamed to silence confessing that I too choose some king, leader, expositor or the principles/tips/techniques/guru de rigueur over the sovereign fathering heart of God in the day to day world that is my life.  

The internal dynamic/temptation of my rejecting of God goes something like this:

 Hey... this walking with God is messy, mysterious, involves a Larger Story and often focused on internal realities... Right now I''d prefer a smaller story and a few external things to change right now... actually yesterday. I need relief, i need someone to lead me to the promised land as i envision it (and I have a extensive clear picture of how it ought to be), someone to go out before me and guarantee that If I follow him my entire life will be orgasmic bliss... with all my tormenting lions laying down with sheep... gimme someone who'll fight my battles victoriously for me .. or eliminate the battles all together... yeah, I want a chicken in my pot, a clean bill of health, a car that runs, a fat bank account... yeah baby, that's what I want in these chaotic times and circumstances! I want a king... a real life, flesh on flesh king and a new stereo! Promise this and you'll be my king!

 And somewhere in all of that I turn from the One who gives life to some counterfeit "king" who takes all I have and all I am, leaving me with nothing. 

Like my ancient forefathers, I'm crying out for relief.

Lord save me from my idolatry, forgive my waywardness, and know my heart, for it surely longs to surrender, abide, follow and give to You all that's due. You are my King, the Lord of Lords. I worship you!

 

A Playlist

It’s a cold snowy day here.

It’s gloomy. It feels like a ghost town... no one is outside, on the roads or roaming the malls. Everyone has retreated from the storm to their shelter to find warmth, hope and Sabbath.  

It’s a day that begs for a fire and an overstuffed leather spider web that some would refer to as a chair. I succumb with journal, iPod and tattered Bible sipping in full sagely form cup after cup of a steaming Sumatra rain forest that some would refer to as coffee… and then, later in the day, as the snow accumulates, the sun and temperature drop and an unrepentant wind kicks up, a pint of New Belgium 1554. And then another.

Though my iPod is set on “Shuffle” there is absolutely nothing random about the songs playing. The One True and Sovereign God who’s greatest joy is to overwhelm us with His glory and the ecstasy and fullness of His presence is gigging as a DJ stacking the deck with a playlist of songs transporting me back through time celebrating the romance we’ve enjoyed over the years.  

It’s always stunning when and how God shows up.

There are so many different ways, so many odd, unique and familiar venues/elements that become the point of communion with God for us. God meets some on trails, some in books or gardening, in silence, tinkering in a woodshop, bowling, writing poetry or perhaps painting. Music is one of mine. It always has been. God has immediate and easy access to my heart through all kinds of music. One of my pictures of heaven includes an epic sound system with no limits on volume blasting tunes that have us all moving and grooving in some holy passionate wonderful way that celebrates the flat-on-your-face adoration and worship of God. Kind of a sanctified Woodstock without the drugs, rain and meaninglessness… with much, much better music. Kinda.

At some point in the “Random” playlist of: 

• “Everything” (by Tim Hughes),
• “Summer of ‘69” (Bryan Adams)
• “Flight Over Africa” from the “Out of Africa” soundtrack.
• Ashley Cleveland’s “Gimme Shelter”.
• The live version of “I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For” (on the  "Rattle & Hum" CD).
• Our God Reigns” (sung by Tomlin, Charlie Hall, David Crowder & Matt Redman on the “Everything Glorious” CD)

I’m hopelessly lost in my desire to live as I’ve never have. God is here!

Song after song transports me back to the events/people/themes of my life. For hours, between mugs of Joe and one funky attempt to make nachos the music becomes a link to the long winding road that is my journey. My earliest dreams and aspirations, the wayward years, the raw naked memories of the precipice I stood over screaming out for rescue. The music stirs the innumerable memories of God behind the scenes romancing me, luring me, forever patient and relentless with me in my idolatry, my desperate efforts to change the world, my vanity and tainted "righteousness".

I am totally captive to a leather sea anemone that some would refer to as a chair... rocking the neighborhood with unheard decibel levels… in His presence feeling all the appropriate emotions that come from the clear and unarguable recognition of how very, very far I fall short.

At the same time I sense His smile over me as we reflect on those times I've lived like a warrior king and then, all too quickly, I relate like a hibernating badger who only engages with the outside world by barking away all disruptors.

The music brought to my fireside seat so many of my adventures, births, joys, tears, vows and lingering desires, the laughter and pleasures I've known; my profound brokenness; and the glorious offering my life was intended to be. 

Paul Simon, Bob Seger, Shawn Mullins and Janis all stirred up stories that are my Story. A life, presently, that’s the best it’s ever been despite the sins, chaos and failures to love and live well is, nonetheless, so very rich with a litany of transcendent moments of intimacies with my Father, my wife, my family… and my friends.

I no longer hear the music; all I hear is his invitation to more.    

I love days like this.

"They" say this storm could last another day or two. Amen!

- Craig McConnell

 

 

What Do You Go By?

As a very young boy I was given the name “Little Craig” to distinguish me from the other “Craig” that lived across the street. Since he was two years older he was accurately called “Big Craig”. At such an early stage in life it was fitting; however, a couple of years later “Big Craig” the son of a horse racing jockey seemed to have the name I should have had. I hated being called “Little Craig” as I towered over “Big” Craig… Thank God he moved to “The Little Apple” when I was in Third Grade.

In Junior High and High School my buds and I would spend every weekend or break we could patroling a teenage wasteland. We scrounged the local beach communities surfing and losing brain cells while living off gathered Coke bottles and 25 cent burritos at Taco Bell. I’m pretty fair of skin. I fried myself in the Southern California Sun and was named by a couple of my “good” friends “Tomato”… for obvious reasons.

I hated that name. It always felt like a put down on a physical attribute I couldn’t change.

In seminary I wanted the name “Doctor All-Wise-Theologian-Life-Changing-Verse-by-Verse-Bible Expositor”. Sometimes we never get the name we desired and later we’re glad that’s the case.

Presently my corner of the world includes a “Goose”; “Senator” (a spiffy and sagely legal negotiator); and a “Rose” (a name God gave a woman in our community.  There’s “Little Buster” (a name bestowed upon Morgan by “Big Buster”), I know a great cook some refer to as “Stewie” (a reference to Martha Stewart whom they say she cooks like).There’s a couple of “Ass Clowns”… so named in an online post by a critic. Ahhh… I almost forgot “Stink Eye” (I probably shouldn’t tell that story here!) There’s Kurt who’s been going by Pablo for 27 years (he flunked Spanish in 8th grade), “Jimbo” (His name is Jim… he battles with his weight and is also referred to as “Jumbo" by some).

While in college I worked at a kids camp named “Indian Village” for a summer. The Staff each had an “Indian” name. I was “Smoking Buffalo” (because of clouds of buffalo colored emissions the food delivery truck I drove spewed).  A young Gal I worked closely with had not yet been tagged with a name…. so one day she asked a group of 6th grade boys what her Indian name should be, they huddled, looked at her, huddled again an began laughing; breaking from the circle they bestowed upon her the name that stuck all summer… and ever since, “Moose Lips” (38 years later she’s a well adjusted grandmother who'll turn her head in a crowded mall to someone yelling out "Hey Moose Lips!"). I consider as friends a “Poet” putting heart and beauty into words in Oregon, a “Sasquatch” who’s changing lives in Pennsylvania, a “Prophet-Sage” from Palo “Alto and... when it comes to names, my personal favorite is a rat-sized mangy haired terrier mutt with bug eyes, a smoker’s bark and bluff charge named “Killer”. 

Everyone has been given a name or two. Some fit, some don’t; some names we bear are desired others embarrassing… sometimes crippling. Often our names become the script of our life. What names have you been given?

When my first grand daughter was born the family counseled together to inquire about the name I wanted to go by as her grandfather. I decided I’d go by the name “Captain”, and so it was settled, Jacqueline Ruby would be the first of a quiver full of grandchildren to love, honor and respect me with the name “Captain”.

There are names we desire and there are the names we’re given.

My habit around Jacqueline Ruby was to surprise her by popping out from around a corner or from behind a couch with an engaging fatherly “Ah… Boo!” She’d laugh and with smiling eyes beg me to do it again and again. So, the story goes that while my forever and wonderful first born daughter is wiping the Gerber’s Mixed Vegetables and Chicken Liver food off Jacqueline’s chin as she sits in her High Chair, Jac points to my picture prominently centered on the fridge door and declares “Aboo!!”

“Captain” may be the name someone else goes by but in the McConnell Clan I’m thrilled to be known as, and respond to “Aboo”. 

Now, let me add, though others make the connection, Jac had no knowledge of the character from Disney’s Jungle Book named “Aboo” who was a thin haired middle aged warrior-monkey with droopy eyes, odd sense of humor with a smoker’s laugh and a bluff charge also known as “Craig”. 

God too has a name for us. What do you go by?

- Craig McConnell

 

Burglarized

Lori, our two daughters (who were 8 and 11 at the time) and I were out mid-day doing something…

Cheer leading practice? Shopping for wardrobe updating deals at GAP? Picking up NKOTB’s new CD? A little time on the beach? I don’t recall.

Returning home I scrape a hub cap pulling the mini-van up to the front of our house and notice that our front door is open. Huh???

As I walk up the front walkway and then up to the front porch I'm suspicious, nervous and very confused. Something is wrong.

There are moments when some event that is so outside our experience of life confronts us and freezes our brain’s processing ability. Zzzzzit... errrkit... buzz... shiiiii ...clunk… you have to reboot at break neck speed… What is this?      Pillows by the front door… overturned chair… it wasn’t like that when we left was it?      NO!      Huh... what?    I pause at the front of the door with a confused look that’s turning into one of shock-fear-rage… our home has been ransacked? Burglarized? I gasp in disbelief, shock… Why? When…. Are they still inside?

I ask Lori to go in to check things out while I stay with the kids.     I'm kidding!!! 

I walk in telling the family to stay curbside… I grab the first thing that’ll serve as a weapon; it happens to be a ruler sitting on a stand by the door… the house is trashed.

I now know what the word violated means but I can’t come close to describing it.

We call the police and take a first pass at damage assessment. All dresser drawers have been dumped, closets emptied, the floor is covered. The Stereo is gone. Lori’s jewelry is gone. It’s only a moment later that the weight of the loss hits Lori. She weeps deeply over her mother’s heirloom jewelry being stole… to the despoiling pillaging snake it’s a few quick bucks, to Lori it’s something of her mother she can still touch, it’s generations of memories taken forever.  Vile marauders from hell!

A bunch of stuff is gone. The final insult was that the creeps even took my 8 year old daughter’s pink piggy bank!  (A small satisfaction came knowing that upon breaking open her porky bank the punk ass thief would only find some change and an I.O.U for most of the cash… I’d robbed it about a week earlier! Hey… there wasn’t an ATM close by!)

A full inventory of all that’s been lost from any violation, robbery or otherwise takes much longer than you realize. We reported to our insurance company all we could materially identify but then a week later Lori says, “Honey, grab the camera as were walking out the door to go to a picnic”. I go to the closet where we keep the camera. It’s gone. Oh, they stole that too!

A month later we’re having company over and are trying to find a silver platter… we’re looking everywhere accusing each other of not putting it where it belonged after its last use… Ahhh… the slim took that too.

The police said the intruder was only in our home a few minutes but for a long, long season it seemed as if they were still there. Often it seemed like there were a dozen sleazy red beady eyes looking through the windows or from around a corner snickering at our loss, our pain and our fear. It was as if these pirating rodents were mocking the security and peace we once enjoyed as a family; celebrating their intrusion into our minds and setting into motion an anxiety every single time we return to our home.

“Is it safe… is someone inside… have we been crapped on again? Are they prowling about, scheming to rob us of everything they haven’t already… or to steal all we’ve acquired since…  our new stereo, camera… a silver tray or another night’s sleep?”

I've often thought back on this trauma. It was horrible. And I realize it wasn't the first time nor the last.

 A lot got stolen from my childhood and youth through various wounds. Things like "family", innocence, identity, security, fathering, a whole lot of brain cells (circa 1967-1972)… so very much.

I remember a poker game… several good friends sitting around playing poker having a beer and then something is said/implied… unintentionally it strikes a wound, a deep wound…assumptions and agreements are made. Those good friends haven’t played poker together in 6 years. Something got stolen.

What's been stolen from you over the years?

Recent accounts I've heard:

A 12 year marriage. The husband’s wound and script for life leads him to the conclusion: “She’s too much work!” and his every attempt to love be strong, be present seems to have only failed. So, to preserve the “peace” he gives up the battle and messiness and goes passive, doesn’t care, and finds another lover on the internet or on a business trip. Something was lost, something stolen.

A colleague at work who became a friend in all kinds of missions and mischief… leaves. The transition is hard but the commitment is to stay in touch… there’s too much history to walk away from. Something happens and he burns all his bridges. Every single one. Something prized, something special is stolen or lost.

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. - John 10:10

The thief will take everything he can from you!

The good news is that he can be stopped. He must be.

And there is a life, that no matter what else gets taken, cannot be stolen from us. Ever. No way!

- Craig McConnell

 

A Park Bench

Over the last several months I hit a bottom, probably not The Bottom, but a true and new bottom for me… an immobilizing of my heart, passion, soul, relationships and spirit. I feared my state. I could share the back story but that’s not the story. This is the story…

I’m at my desk on the computer trying to paddle upstream without a paddle and accomplish something that would bring a little relief or validation to my soul when a Staff Member steps in to say something about something and disrupts my "Sisyphean challenge" to accomplish anything that might pass as a contribution to the ministry of Ransomed Heart.* I think she was sent by God to pierce the fog of my life and leave behind some sort of a “grace-bomb” with a fuse set to go off two minutes after she exited. She exited and before I could re-enter my striving to be fruitful, I had an unsolicited and seemingly random vision or picture from God.

Here it is…

I’m sitting on a park bench stretched out like a warped board slouched with my legs extended out in front of me and my head resting on the bench’s back railing. It’s a beautiful park with large grassy areas separated by a walkway slaloming between huge mature shade trees. I’m checked out, not really present staring off straight ahead over the horizon at nothing. Though I’m cognizant of my surroundings there is no conscious thought. I was in that state in which you don’t ever wink or swallow, there’s no measurable brain activity and barely a pulse… you are alive but not present. That’s me!

Somehow this old bench is bearing all my weight and the shit-load of all that’s weighing on me. I am certifiably detached from life.

It’s mid-day and there’s a warm breeze blowing just enough to rustle the leaves of the Cottonwood that’s shading me. The scene cries summer with the air full of pollen, gnat tornadoes and the musty scent of fresh cut grass. In the background is the sound of sprinklers machine gunning water over a flower bed… chit-chit-chit-chit-chitachitachitchit. Straight ahead, a little to the left, is an old park table with four young women enjoying their Grande coffees and the reunion they’re having. To the right is a young brother and sister on their bikes playing some form of follow the leader where the leader tries to lose the follower (kinda of like the Pastor I worked under at a Southern California Mega-Church).  Almost 90 degrees to my left a bunch of pigeons are trying to enforce a clear pecking order while scrambling to eat a handful of feed someone threw out for them.

I’m taking this all in but unmoved by any of it. It’s clinical; I’m an observer of life but not a participant in it.

As my vision pans right, back from the birds to resume my vigilant dazed and confused gape I notice or sense something peripherally… right next to me.

It’s a person. I can’t hide my being startled by this out-of-no-where stranger who’s suddenly  sitting eight inches from me on our shared little bench.

It’s a man, an older man with weathered but not leathered skin. Actually it’s God.

Oh my God, it is God! I don’t know how I knew, but I knew (it’s kinda like living in Los Angeles and passing one of a gazillion Mexican restaurants… you intuitively know that this one serves a great combination plate though you’ve never seen it, been in it or heard of it. You just know!).

Now this whole picture/vision seemed to be unfolding in a millisecond and in the next millisecond I notice my bench friend, The One True and Eternal, Just and Holy, Powerful and All Knowing God hasn’t yet said a word or even made eye contact with me. Furthermore, like me, he is slouched and staring straight ahead. And then I notice there’s a tear forming and then falls from the corner of his eye.

Huh… he’s very human, common… real. Fully God truly man.

One of the things that struck me as odd throughout this picture or vision is that my posture doesn’t change, I don’t sit up straight on the bench or fall on my face… my demeanor and countenance remain the same. Though God is stretched out eight inches from me I am, outwardly unfazed! Equally as unexpected is that he’s un animated, silently slouched on a park bench apparently killing time. If you were to have walked by us and seen us you may have muttered under your breath the commentary, “Get a life!” 

There we were, the two of us sharing a bench for what felt like hours with nothing said, no eye contact… just sitting and staring off into nowhere.

His tear and silence were the most stunning part of the picture. He didn’t say anything?!

He was silent and that was okay. That he said nothing said so much. He was just there, next to me… with me... and I was in his presence and... he’s crying.

He was silent, but his tears said everything. From his tear I knew that He knows all that I’m facing: the losses and pain; the struggles and terrors; my failures and ache to live and love well. I could tell He knew, and knowing that he knew everything about me, my life and this season… brought a tear to his eye. He’s crying with me, for me, over me. The tear is everything!

He didn’t offer affirmation with deeply validating words, “Craig, you have lived so well in this difficult season. Well done my son… you’re so on the right track… I love you! Keep it up”. That he didn’t offer that seemed to say I didn’t need it. Wow!

He didn’t call me out either. There was no exposing of another deeply rooted profoundly governing historic and systemic sin that explains my struggle to live and love well from a heart of true adoration and worship of God. That he didn’t go there seemed to say so much. So, so very much. Apparently there was something more important than going over all of that.

I cannot explain all this picture/vision of God and I sharing a park bench meant and had for me, but a mere moment in the presence of God felt as if time stood still… It was as if I was in his presence for hours and hours. And in those moments everything lifted.

In his presence I was in a zero-gravity-of-the-soul state. The poundage, burden, pressure… the crushing of heart, soul, spirit and desire was lifted. There was no sin; no idolatry or fear; no loss or tears: every desire we have in life-this-side-of-heaven was gone… the longings and groaning for life and all we were created to have were, in his presence satisfied. Nothing lacking, nothing missing, nothing wanted… nothing but pure, full, expansive and deep satisfaction, joy… life itself is what I had in his presence. The whole “My burden is light” thing made sense for the first time ever.

With the weight I carry, that you carry, lifted we can breathe, live, laugh, worship, dance, love… In his presence is life, everything changes because you are in His presence.

Well, as it always does in the here-and-now the picture, the vision these moments with God transitioned... it ended and I was sitting alone in my broken desk chair like any man whom God has visited. Stunned, surprised, wanting to fall on my face in worship… I spent the next hour and then hours over the next week unpacking the beauty, power, affirmation, hope and life of these moments.

Almost immediately I was aware that while nothing had changed with my life everything had changed with life.

My cancer hasn’t disappeared, nor the anger a couple dozen people have so powerfully expressed toward me, my pesky neighbor hasn’t moved, the financial issues remain, my internal battle of withdrawing continues, an old friend still prefers being an ex-friend and my freaking car is now acting up. Nothing has changed with difficult circumstances and challenging relationships of my life.

But having been on that bench and experiencing all that comes in being in his presence I have been introduced to something very new, though I’ve probably taught it eloquently for years... Being in the presence of God changes everything. Everything!

You do not see life the same, in his presence. The very, very real troubles of life look very, very different in his presence. Somehow, in his presence worry, fear, hatred, weakness and pain cannot exist. You see yourself most clearly in his presence. Everything I yearn for in a world that is so violent, parched, deceptive and unforgiving is found in the presence of God. (I have often sought God’s words, voice, counsel, understanding, guidance and validation. Each of those are valid and necessary pursuits to go to God with. What’s new for me, in this season is to simply pursue him and all the other things will be taken care of).

I can't tell you where I spend most of my time but it isn't in the presence of God... I can tell you that one moment on a park bench with him is better than a thousand elsewhere.

Oh God, extend the times we're together.

- Craig McConnell

* Note: Some of my best friends have an eye for grammar that I lack. While I may leave them breathless, at times, from my inclination for run-on sentences, I still maintain that a good winding is a legitimate literary style. 

Glorious Ruins

Okay… some of my recent time with a sage/guide/counselor was focused on my being an “unfinished” man. One might think that little time need be spent on that topic at all. But alas, it was needed! 

While God has romanced me since birth, and I have chosen to follow him for 37 years… there is still much more for me to experience of God’s transforming and gracious fathering heart. There always will be. I can point to significant healing/change/growth over the decades yet I there are times, people and circumstances, in which I, still, do not live, love or relate as I want (Romans chapter 7).

“Still crazy after all these years” – Paul Simon

There is a grace, and a freedom in recognizing that in this life, Act III of The Larger Story, we will always be “unfinished”… in need desperate need of God, humble, able to embrace and offer forgiveness.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that my wonderful counselor saw a part of my soul that was closed to God and others, detached and self-protective… but I was!

While that is all true a more important reality I was reminded of is that I, like you, am also a glorious image bearer who was wonderfully crafted in the womb by God for a unique and mythic role in this grand story of the Kingdom of God invading planet earth with the Good News of deliverance, freedom, restoration, life, hope and joy! I regularly forget this!

It’s actually amazing that God chooses to use “unfinished” man to accomplish his redemptive rescue of others! You’d think he’d wait for our perfection, for our being “finished”, a little further along in our sanctification prior to using us in significant ways wouldn’t you? After all, it’s to everyone’s benefit that I’m a little holier, more loving, more “present”, stronger and wiser isn’t it?

Picture God’s “Army” hitting the beaches and the front of the landing craft opens to spill the invading force upon the enemy. It’s not a squadron of well armed finely tuned special forces that storm the enemies pill boxes… its more like Ms. Evan’s third grade class wandering ashore, it’s  a guy in a Hawaiian shirt with a book and his beach chair strolling off,  two guys wearing uniforms but missing their guns, its a slick dude in a business suit and a gal carrying a big Bloomingdales bag followed by an overweight middle aged guy from Pittsburgh with stains on his shirt finishing off his little carton of Kung Pau Chicken. You’re in shock, “That’s God’s invasion force? Those are the ones he’s entrusted his rescue of mankind to?”

Yep!!!!!!! That’s the Army he’s chosen… and we're a part of it.  God has chosen the weak, the unfinished, and the not-quite-all-together to bring the Kingdom. Amazing! We’re unfinished and we’re a part of this grand mission.

AND IT WORKS… It’s always been that way…

Remember Moses (Exodus 3) God sees the misery/oppression of his people and taps Moses on the shoulder while he’s in attending to the routines of life (tending the flock) and calls him to be the deliverer of God’s people from the Super-Power of the day. Moses, knowing he’s not quite the “deliverer” type responds, “Who me? Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”… to which God responds, “I will be with you”. Very few of us would evaluate ourselves as being up for the task/role God has for us.

Then Gideon (Judges 6) is scared to death and hiding in the hills from the dreaded enemies of the day and God shows up and addresses him as “Mighty Warrior”???? – and assigns him the task of setting the people free from oppression.  Gideon, like us, is skeptical that God could really have such a role for him. He’s unfinished… yet God chooses him! What has he chosen you for? What name has he called you that, perhaps, at the moment, seems absurd? 

There’s David (1Samuel 16) the runt of the family being chosen over his seven older, “more suited” brothers to be king of Israel.  Solomon – (1Kings 3) confronted with the task of being king cries out to God, “I am only a little child and do not know how to carry out my duties”. He’s unfinished man who is about to be a king! Jeremiah as well (Jeremiah 1) responds to God’s call saying, “I do not know how to speak; I am only a child…".  Unfinished!

The Minor Theme is we’re unfinished, a ruin, a wreck… I let people down, detach, hide, withhold friendship/relationship, get distracted…. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I have hurt people by the way I've lived... I wish I was much different... and I am different than I was a year ago... "Oh God come for me, continue to restore and transform me!".

AND The Major Theme is that, you and me are key players, glorious beings God is using to bring life, salvation, deliverance to others.  We are changing the world! I needed a sage to remind me of that.

 

- Craig McConnell
 

A Guide

I am amazed at the invitations of God to find Him anew in some profound and deep way again and again over the years.

Long and true are the stories of victory, healing, growth and intimacies with God we each have and share, yet, we are always unfinished, in need of more, thirsting and longing for another story of His work in our soul. I am a different man than I was thirty years ago, twenty years ago, ten years ago… two years ago - and I hope to be much further along in my holiness/communion in the years ahead. Much, much further.

These last weeks, actually 2 months, have been memorably disruptive as God has pointed out a barren place he wants to inhabit.

It’s seems premature to draw clear lessons from what’s unfolding, yet I had to begin to speak about it and in doing so hope that more clarity would come.

Recently I spent some time with a gifted sage who shared all he saw in seeing me.

He saw things about me I couldn’t believe, both glorious and marred. With unique gifting and skill he confronted and called out things in my heart, soul and relational style that some have seen and felt but haven’t put words to. Both glorious and marred

I’d be embarrassed and ashamed, at the moment, to share some of what he saw. We are… I am both a trophy of grace and a man so in need of more grace

Much of our time was spent on my relational style… my heart and desires are good... but in significant ways, my heart is not seen or felt... not present to some. It was disorienting to find that in some ways I don’t see clearly. I do more so now… but, as it is when you get that first pair of glasses, I’m a little dizzy.  I’m so grateful for my sage and his eyes. He sees what I can’t and is courageous enough to share a bit of what he sees in seeing me

A couple of weeks ago a John and I went fishing on the Green River in Utah. With a guide we floated the river and had a phenomenal time fly fishing. The Guide knows this river having fished it most days of the year…for years and years.  I think he knows every fish we caught; he certainly knew where they hang out! In any case, though he and Iwere wearing similar sunglasses, and looking at the same stretch of water he saw trout I didn’t. He’d point to a seam in the stream 20 feet away and say, “Craig, cast to those 5 big browns in the far side of that seam 10 feet from the pyramid shaped rock”.  I see the rock, I see the seam, but I don’t see the fish. Time and time again throughout the trip he kept observing, pointing out and enjoying the vast number of fish lurking in the eddies and currents of the Green. I rarely saw what he did.
I kept telling him, “You see trout that I don’t!”

We need guides. Guides who see things we don’t. A strong, loving, kind sage that delivers God’s invitation to the more God has for us in the deepest parts of our soul. The invitation to life.

"Love & War"

There is so much to say about the last month yet everytime I sit down to scribble out some thoughts I get "Writers block", "Brian freeze"... a mental-spiritual-word paralysis. God's doing some pretty disruptive stuff and, seemingly, not allowed me to write about it. I hope to soon

I'd appreciate your prayers in so many ways. Thank you.

I did wanted to tip you off to an offer Ransomed Heart is making. God is doing some incredible things in marriages through John and Stasi's new book, Love and War....  and to get the "word" out we're giving away a free copy of Love and War to the first 500 bloggers to respond. We would love to have our blogging allies  take a few minutes and write a blog on  amazon.com review on Love and War.  If you have interest in receiving a free copy of Love and War, click here! Click away. - Craig