"Se."

A few years back, when I was in the midst of a situation I was completely unsure how to handle, and desperately needing God to direct me clearly, one early morning I found a message written in the sunrise-pinkened clouds. It was one word, and that in a foreign language, but it's the only foreign language I know any of. There in the east, where He knew I'd be looking, was the word se. In Spanish, it means, "I know."

In that moment, in the midst of all the questions raging through my heart and mind, all the uncertainty and nervousness and even doubt that I'd be able to discern God's voice amid the storm of my own emotions, that one word spoke volumes to my soul.

It was a reminder that He knew both my heart, and my situation. He knew. He knows. Intimately, at levels only He could ever understand, the levels I can just never seem to get into words or music or any other means of expression--He knows. Always. Se is present tense; and our God is ever-present.

It was a reminder that He was aware of more than I could be. He knew not only where I was, but what lay ahead of me. He knew every moment leading in and out of things, all the ways He was preparing my heart and setting the stage to speak to me in ways that would be undeniable.

It was a reminder that I didn't need to know it all--that my role was to trust Him. The more often I find myself in circumstances where I must deliberately give up my desire to know all the answers, the more often I wind up realizing later that if I'd known, I either would have fainted and given up, or my brain would have exploded. Either way, not very pretty. God's ways are truly higher than ours, and His thoughts are as far above ours as the heavens are above this tiny blue-green planet we call home for now.

So if you don't know what comes next, or how you're even supposed to make it through today, find your rest in the One who knows. He is our answer. Trust me, I've been there, in that place of fear and uncertainty and complete cluelessness, feeling like a shipwreck about to happen. But He's been there with me, every step. It's not that I've never faltered, but that He's never let me go.

He has walked with me through seasons I soon looked back on with anguish and regret, wondering how I could have been so blind and foolish, and certain that nothing beautiful could ever come of these ashes. But despite my certainty and my desire that such periods be erased from my history, He has used them. He's used them in ways that continue to blow me away, for He was not oblivious to things even when I was. He knew. He always knows.

There is nothing on this earth that ever happens without Him knowing about it, without Him seeing it happen. It may seldom make sense to us, why He allows so many things to happen, if He knows. But that's the thing: He knows what's at the end of it. He sees our pain, but He also sees how it will be worked together for good in the end. Miraculously, He takes even such darkness as sin and death, and uses them to beat Satan at his own game. Our Father is never caught off His guard by anything that happens. But in His sovereignty, He works all things together for the good of those who love Him--those He's called according to His purposes. And you know what our good looks like? Being ever nearer to Him.

So whatever you may be going through right now, know this: He knows. And not just that, but He knows how He intends to use it all for His glory and your good. Those things are oddly one and the same, for our very purpose, the thing we were created for, is to glorify Him; and His glory is manifest in the way He causes all things to come together to draw us unto Him. He knows. He's got this. Trust Him.

Singing Ugly

There I was in a roomful of mostly teenage boys, all of them belting out the words to "Blessed Be Your Name" as I strummed my guitar and sang it out with them. We'd sung it the past three or four weeks in a row, but they still weren't tired of it. Not in the way many people would be by that point. In fact, they were the ones who'd requested we sing it. Sometimes singing sounds a bit more like shouting, though. And although some music majors I know might have cringed had they heard it, I would never have traded those minutes of hearing our guys sing out passionately to Jesus, much less the privilege of singing to Him with them. 

To some, it may have sounded overly-boisterous. To others, perhaps a bit off-key. But for me and the other youth leaders present (if I am allowed to speak for them), it was beautiful. True, a few of the boys may have only been singing so loud simply because they knew the words to this one, and one or two might have been attempting to show off (or goof off). But many of them, you could tell, were truly worshiping. 

Very, very few things in my twenty-two years of living have ever impacted me quite the way those moments did. My heart wanted to burst inside me with joy and thankfulness and awe, just seeing glimpses of what God was doing in these kids I love (and now miss terribly. I still pray for you.), how He was drawing their hearts after Him. It felt like I got a sneak-peek in that moment of His Fatherly heart, for He delights to hear His children sing.

God doesn't demand a series of perfect notes; more often I think He wants to hear our broken dissonance. Anyone can practice and train until they can mechanically produce just the right sounds, but is it just me or does flawless performance sometimes seem to be lacking in feeling? Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying you shouldn't work at singing "better." But I can tell you that after hearing students of music hurl all their disgust at a Christmas concert because at one point the audience was invited to join in and they "weren't singing it right" or were way off key, my heart was not pressed much towards worship; it was broken, because all they could see were the notes and not the far more priceless souls of the people uttering them. 

There's this theory I've run into at times, that some people can't sing. I, personally, think it's hogwash. I invite and even plea with you to sing ugly. Please. Do it for me. Because on the days when I'm focusing more on hitting the appropriate notes than on the One I'm singing to, I need to hear you behind or beside me crying from an earnest heart like some of those youth-group boys in Jackson were that night. I need to be reminded it's less about my perfect performance (though I dare say I've never given one of those anyway), and more about the One we're singing to. 

I very much look forward to the day when all God's people are gathered together in one place to worship the one true King and desire of our hearts. I don't know whether we'll all be able to sing perfectly then or what, but I have a feeling we won't so much care what we might sound like individually at that point. Our eyes, our ears, our hearts--they will be focused elsewhere. They'll be focused where they should be in the here and now. 

So if singing beautifully comes more naturally to you, don't look down on someone else for singing off-key. Learn to find delight in their willingness to sing anyway, even if perhaps its a more humbling experience than it is for you; or maybe it's not because they can't hear themselves. Maybe none of us should care to hear ourselves. I for one sing best (I think) when I'm not focusing on the singing, but on Jesus. I can't say that for sure, because honestly when it happens I'm not really listening to myself. Because it's not about me. It's not about my voice, or yours for that matter. It's about the One who gave us a reason to sing--who is the reason why we sing. 

There's just something about hearing multiple voices raised in praise and surrender to Him. It's beautiful. It's encouraging. It's a teeny, tiny piece of heaven here on this earth. So don't sacrifice that by putting overmuch emphasis on how you or anyone around you is singing. Just worship; get lost in awe and joy and the sovereignty of the One who is our hope, our King, our Redeemer. He's worthy of all our praise, and then some. Let's put the emphasis where it's due. 

Fiercely

Jesus,
teach me to love fiercely--
to not give up for being wounded,
to not despair when change is not instant.
To not hold back for fear
or self-preservation.

Teach me not to accept,
but to love.
To open myself to all the pain of knowing fully.
Teach me to rebel against that which is not as it should be--
in my own heart as much as in others',
if not more.

Train my hands to fight.
Help my ears to hear.
Remind me it's not up to me,
that You are stronger,
and it's You who will deliver.

Train my eyes to see
where the past and the future meet,
to know the moment that is now,
in which all our histories collide
with the only story that can change their trajectory.

Teach me to love recklessly,
to hold nothing back, nothing in reserve.
Life is not lived when my eyes are on my own supply
or my own preservation.

Teach me not to back down from a fight,
not to assume I have no part to play,
not to pretend it's not my job to pray;
not my job to love those who are broken,
no matter how well put-together they appear.

Teach me to stand
when it seems everyone else is running,
to hold the ground next to someone
whom others fear will be struck by lightning.
Not to show they're right, but to prove they're loved.
Not to let things slide, but to hold them to a standard.

Let my brokenness reflect Your light.
In my weakness, prove Your thundering might.
We all know I'm not perfect.
We both know if it's up to me it's doomed.
Because my track record is a perfect row of failures,
But Yours is an unbroken streak of wins.

I've seen You redeem what seemed unfixable.
I've watched You bring victory
where all we've ever earned is loss.
I've seen You embrace the worthless
and pour all Your worth into us.

Teach me to love like You love:
to fight, to pursue, to defend;
to break myself to spare another;
to hope when all seems lost,
to grin in the darkness,
and sing in the desert.

Teach me to love with a heart of fire,
light as dangerous as it is warm,
unafraid to risk dying out
as it reaches to spark the nearest branch.

I have one life, one fleeting flame.
And I'd bet it's better to spend
what resources and time I have
trying to spread that fire rather than quench it,
striving to burn out brightly
rather than slowly wane.

So, Father, teach me to love,
and to love fiercely.