# 44

    

Have you ever set a goal? Aspired to grasp something that seemed far beyond your reach? Dreamed a really big dream? I have. A little over a year ago, clad in my blue graduation attire, I walked down the long, aisle to the musical strains of Pomp and Circumstance. Tassel swinging, smile beaming, eyes bright with anticipation for the future, I accepted my diploma, and with it, accepted something else – the challenge to go out and do something with my life. Caught up in all of the excitement of completing high school, celebrating with family and friends, and realizing that a brand new chapter of my life was about to begin, my heart soared. I thought about the endless possibilities, the opportunities, the experiences and the adventures that awaited me on this new journey.

                One year later, at 19 years young, I looked back on that momentous day and smiled. Reading old journal entries that had been written the summer prior to my trek across the country to college, I could almost feel the enthusiasm, the anticipation, and the expectation that seemed to leap from the pages before me. As I read, I came across a list.  It was an organized, specific list of things I was going to do before I die. Don’t worry; it’s not as morbid as it sounds. This list wasn’t focused on death, but rather, on life and how I wanted to spend the time God granted me.

Sitting there, sipping my iced coffee with extra whipped cream, and feeling the cool breeze of the summer night, I scanned the page, reevaluating the goals. Some things seemed of less importance, others had lost their urgency, and some just seemed ridiculously absurd. But there was one thing that was still just as important to me as it was the day I had written it. It was the final number, 44, and it read these words written in big, bold letters: “Change the world.”

 In the past year while being away from home, I had learned a few lessons. Lesson one:  The world can be brutally hard. Lesson two: Everything does not magically fall into place. Lesson three: No matter where you go, you will never find someone who cooks as well as your mom does. Lesson four: People like to belittle your faith and ambitions. Glancing again at my list, I sighed. Changing the world now seemed like an awfully big undertaking for a girl like me with no outstanding IQ level, no spectacular talents, or powerful connections. However, none of those things seemed to matter a year ago when I penned number 44, I thought. It’s funny how the world has a way of taking a person with a dream, a true optimist, and turning them into a diehard pessimist, void of the crucial element needed to survive in this crazy world – hope. 

                Without hope you can’t aspire. Without aspiring, you can’t dream. And when you stop dreaming, you slowly begin to stop living. That wasn’t going to be me. I was not going to allow the world to steal my joy, my dreams, or anything else. Staring up at the night sky I whispered a prayer. “God, I still want to change the world. . .I want to make a difference for You. . . but I don’t know how I can.”

                Fast forward – three sunrises later and it was Sunday, my favorite day of the week. I was running late and the humidity was making my hair look like the wild mane of a ferocious lion. Grabbing my shoes and Sunday school bag I snatched the keys off my dresser and made a beeline for the car. A short while later I found myself picking up a few stray crayons that had fallen under the table and handing the artwork of four and five year olds to their proud parents.

              As the Sunday school hour ended, I gathered my things and turned to leave. But then, I felt a tug on my dress. Looking down I saw two beautiful, blue eyes staring up at me. “Miss Katie? I like your hair that way.” I smiled; at least someone found frizzy hair attractive. “Thank you, Nick,” I replied. Continuing out the door, the strains of Nicks little voice filled my ears. “Miss Katie? I like your dress.” Laughing, I stopped and thanked him again. Then we walked side by side to the sanctuary. We had almost reached his parents when once again, Nick spoke. “Miss Katie? I just like you. And I like you for teaching me about Jesus.” Before I had time to even think of a response, Nick ran to his parents, proudly showing them his drawing. They raved about how wonderful it was and I was certain that the colorful masterpiece he had created would soon be displayed on their refrigerator in their home.

Later that afternoon, I went to my room and found the bright, pink shoe box stowed beneath my bed. Reaching down into the box, I rummaged around until I uncovered the journal I was looking for. Pulling out the list, I took out a black sharpie and drew a line through the words following number 44. It was time for some editing. That morning God had used a sweet, four year old, boy to open my eyes to the valuable lesson He was trying to teach me. Suddenly, the ambition of leaving my mark on the world no longer seemed so important. I had a bigger dream. A better one.  Above the line, I scribbled these words: “Change the world of a person; make a difference.”

I decided to try a new approach, set out in a new direction. Did I give up? Come to the realization that my previous goal was set too high? Absolutely not. Instead, I got my priorities straight. I found what I wanted to pour my time and energy into. I didn’t want to change the world. I wanted to be the person God used to change the worlds of others. I wanted to make a difference.

Someone once said that “we cannot all do great things, but we all can do small things with great love.” I like that. I’ll save the medical discoveries that cure cancer and the major breakthroughs of the sharpest minds in the world to make the dynamic changes that I will never be able to make. Changing the world is a task I will leave to those who God has given extraordinary talents and abilities.  As for me, I just want to be a vessel that God uses to change the life of one person. And then maybe two, or three. .  .

The elderly man sitting alone in the nursing home day after day, the teenager with the troubled home life, the cancer patient without hope, the abused child with no advocate, the homeless, the helpless, the outcast. Changing the worlds of these people may seem like a small goal in comparison to changing the entire world, but to me it’s huge. Maybe by God’s grace my feeble attempts will make a lasting impression for His glory. Well, that’s my prayer anyway. Maybe, just maybe, that elderly man will smile more because someone took the time to sit and talk with him. Maybe that teenager with the troubled home life will find the listening ear he needs to help him cope. Maybe that cancer patient will find a glimmer of hope. Maybe that abused child will find love.

Emily Dickenson seemed to understand this new goal of mine and expressed it with lovely words that far outshine anything I’ll ever be able to write. She wrote - “If I can stop one heart from breaking, touch one life, soothe one weary soul, I shall not live in vain.”

           Well said, Emily.

It was a humble building full of humble people. Lacking in extravagance, there was something comforting about the simple elegance of the small sanctuary. The wooden cross, the  alter that bore testimony of the time God’s people spent on their knees in prayer, each tattered pew,it all captured my attention. In the cornor, I spotted the small, upright piano. It's keys were yellowed from age and the sound expelling from the antique was quite flat, but somehow, I found it beautiful.

There couldn’t have been more than 50 people present in the little, brick church building, yet the spirit within the hearts of the few people making up the congregation was sweet. Moved by the love for Christ that was evident in the way they worshipped, I took it all in as the sound of their voices resonated throughout the room. It was once said that if you live close to God, if you rest in His infinite grace, you need say nothing for those around you to know, because it shows on your face. There’s something amazing about the countenance of those who have true joy inside of them. They are like a bright ray of sunshine on a stormy day.

The preacher who stood behind the old, wooden pulpit wore his Sunday best, his graying hair combed to the side, his worn Bible opened to a familiar passage. His deep voice, with a hint of a southern twang, brought forth a message that to many may have seemed like an ordinary sermon on loving God and being consecrated, devoted, committed . . . you know the story. But to me, this was no simple message. It was convicting. It caused me to consider my life. Although I’d heard plenty of sermons on the same passage, the same chapter, and the same verse, this time it was all different. It’s amazing what God can do through a vessel that is willing to proclaim His word regardless of how politically incorrect or unpopular it may be. It’s hard to find a loyal Christian whose lifestyle proclaims where he stands more than his words do.

                Staring up at the pastor, I studied him. What was it about him that I found so compelling? Was he a phenomenal speaker? No, far from it. Did his sermon title or opening words make me want to hear more? No, they were nothing spectacular. Yet, by the time this old preacher with the deep, rumbling voice, and worn, black, leather Bible had closed his sermon and the invitation had begun, I could hardly move. No, I wasn’t having some kind of extreme “mega- spiritual experience” that you see on TV. (You know, the kind that creeps you out and makes you want to run and hide. . .) But one thing was certain - I was convicted. It's indescribable when you know deep within your soul that there is a God and He is real and at work in your life. Though it may seem cliché, the invitation was given and as the song Just as I Am was played, the music and words echoed throughout the sanctuary. But that’s not the only place they echoed. The words penetrated my heart, and as the music surrounded me, I thanked God for this little church with the people overflowing with goodness, for the piano that would hurt the ears of any trained or untrained musician, for the preacher, for the wooden cross that stood before my eyes, for what that cross symbolized . . .  

Many times attending church becomes tradition. Ritualistic. A felt need of “Christian duty” for those who have at some point in their lives experienced the forgiveness of sins and the renewing of their souls. There are even those who have no personal relationship with Jesus, yet they are dedicated to occupying their pew and making their Sunday appearance. Emphasis on the word appearance. Here we are again, sitting in the same old pew, singing the same old songs, listening to the same old Bible verses, seeing the same old people, and painting that same old smile on the masks that cover our faces. These masks hide our insecurities, our doubts, our pain, our hurt . . . our brokenness. The real us, the person we want no one to see, remains hidden and because of this, the healing, help, encouragement, and peace we need is unattainable. Whatever happened to real people who have a genuine relationship with God? I know they’re out there, but to me, they seem outnumbered when they have the potential to be the majority.

I myself am guilty of wearing a mask. There have been times when I have gone to church for all the wrong reasons. You can probably relate. We act as if we are all perfect people, living in a perfect world, leading perfect lives, when really, that is the furthest thing from the truth. But as you live, you learn. And I have learned that if I am willing to be transparent and lay down my selfishness and my pride, the church can become the place where I worship and serve. It can be the place where I am encouraged and refreshed. But, it will never be any of those things unless the mask is removed. God doesn’t use fake people. He uses real people.

                In the end, all that will matter is you and God. When we reach Heaven, all of those things and all of those people that seemed of upmost importance will quickly fade away. I hope we won’t be a disappointment to our God. I hope He won’t be ashamed of how we’ve decided to live. Isn’t life too short to pretend? Isn’t it too short to focus on appearances and the opinions of others?

                Isaac Watts asks the crucial question in his hymn: Am I a Soldier of The Cross?

        "Am I a soldier of the cross,

                    a follower of the Lamb,

                    and shall I fear to own his cause,

                    or blush to speak his name?

                    Must I be carried to the skies

                    on flowery beds of ease,

                    while others fought to win the prize,

                    and sailed through bloody seas?

                    Are there no foes for me to face?

                    Must I not stem the flood?

                    Is this vile world a friend to grace,

                    to help me on to God?

                    Sure I must fight, if I would reign;

                    increase my courage, Lord.

                    I'll bear the toil, endure the pain,

                    supported by thy word.

                    Thy saints in all this glorious war

                    shall conquer though they die;

                    they see the triumph from afar,

                    by faith they bring it nigh.

                    When that illustrious day shall rise,

                    and all thy armies shine

                    in robes of victory through the skies,

                    the glory shall be thine."

Perhaps it’s time for a reality check.

You either love Him, or you don’t. You either claim Him, or you don’t. You either live for Him, or you don’t.

 It’s that simple.

Behind Bars

The metal door slide shut with a sound of finality. I was in and could hardly wait to get out. After passing through security, I continued down the long hall with a small group of people. Flooded by a feeling I’d never before experienced, I took a deep breath as a buzzing sound filled the room signaling the unlocking of the next door. Glancing around me, I saw the faces of a handful of men, women, teenagers, and small children who all had something in common: each had someone special to them occupying a prison cell. An hour was all the time we had to visit the inmates, but an hour was all that was needed to change my way of thinking and touch my heart where it had never been touched before. This transformation began when. . .

 A teenage boy with a chip on his shoulder wore a hard, cold expression of defiance on his face. When his mother walked into the room, clad in her prison jump suit, he didn’t bat an eye. This was just another routine visit. Or at least that’s what he wanted everyone to think. But he didn’t fool me. I saw the look of longing in his eyes as she crossed the room and opened her arms to embrace her son. As he left the visitation time later that day I could see the hurt, the pain. He needed his mother, her touch, her words of encouragement, her presence in his life. But the choices she had made had separated them, leaving them both with wounds that were far from being healed.

 In another corner, a man held tightly to the hand of his preschool aged daughter and searched the room until his eyes found those of a pretty, dark haired woman. His wife. Even dressed in the drab prison uniform with her hair tied tightly behind her head, she was beautiful. Or at least that’s what he thought. It was evident in the way he looked at her. He wrapped her in his arms, kissed her, then laughed as he remembered there was a little person present with them. The three would have been the perfect picture of a perfect little family had they not been surrounded by the walls of the prison.

On the other side of the room a mother could be found seated at a square table across from her inmate daughter. The girl with the wavy, raven colored hair sat with arms crossed, chin raised slightly, eyes glaring at the woman sitting before her. While she maintained her stern look of insolence all throughout the visitation hour, when her mother walked away the anger in her eyes melted and a look of sorrow filled her young face. Anguish. Regret.

As the guard announced the ending of the visitation hour a mother knelt beside her little boy and wiped the tear that was trickling down his cheek. She caressed his face and wept as he stood there looking up at her, his innocent eyes searching her face. The hour had ended all too soon and now a familiar hand was once again pulling him away from his mother.  Lower lip trembling, the tiny child turned back to look one last time at the face of the mother he loved and needed, then the prisoners were escorted out of the room. . .

            Sometimes in order to better understand someone you need to step inside their world. You have to put yourself in the shoes of another, feel what they must be feeling, understand what it must be like so that you can better reach them. And that’s what I did.

From inside those prison walls I discovered not brutal, ruthless, or inhuman people who had committed heinous crimes (although some there may have possibly fit that description).  These inmates were people just like you and me.  For some of them, once upon a time they had a home, a job, went shopping with friends, took a weekend camping trip with their family, attended school, took long walks with their boyfriend, lived life. For others, their once upon a time consisted of abuse, living on the streets, selling themselves, barely existing. They not only saw the ugly side of life, but they experienced it every day. Women from all walks of life crowded the prison cells. Women who had made mistakes and were now facing the consequences .

I think it’s easy for us to fall into the habit of forming negative opinions about people based upon what we hear about them or see in them from the outside looking in. We assume and act upon our assumptions without any supportive, conclusive evidence. But if all we do is cast disapproving glances their way, turn up our noses, and distance ourselves from these people, we fall into a vicious cycle of judging them when we really need to be loving them. It is easy enough to criticize, but compassion is costly, and draws deep from the soul. Anyone can condemn, but compassion comes only from a heart that possesses the willingness to sacrifice, to give, and to love. During this short visitation hour, I saw the hopelessness of these prisoners. Their choices had forced them to travel down a long, weary road that led to regret and heartache. If anyone needs hope and compassion – they do.

As I walked out of those doors, leaving behind me the dark halls of the prison, my eyes were opened to a need – the need to love more, to love fuller, to love deeper. However, I am not to simply love those who are kind, and good, but also, those who have hurt others, who have committed unacceptable acts, who have caused pain, who are suffering and have made others suffer.

After all, that was me once. An unlovely sinner. One who hurt the heart of God, committed unacceptable acts towards Him, caused Him great pain, made Him suffer in agony. I was the recipient of an indescribable compassion. Who am I to refuse that compassion to another?

"...To preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised..." - Luke 4

The Race

The Race

"Quit, give up, you're beaten"

They shout at you and plead

"There's just too much against you

This time you can't succeed".

And as I start to hang my head

In front of failures face

My downward fall is broken by

The memory of a race

And hope refills my weakened will

As I recall that scene

Or just the thought of that short race

Rejuvenates my being

Childrens race, young boys

Young men, how I remember well

Excitement sure, but also fear

It wasn't hard to tell

They all lined up so full of hope

Each thought to win that race

Or tie for first, or if not that

At least take second place

The fathers watched from off the side

Each cheering for his son

And each boy hoped to show his dad

That he could be the one

The whistle blew and off they went

Young hearts and hopes afire

To win and be the hero there

Was each young boys desire

And one boy in particular

Whose dad was in the crowd

Was running near the lead and thought

"My dad will be so proud"

But as they speeded down the field

Across a shallow dip

The little boy who thought to win

Lost his step and slipped

Trying hard to catch himself

With hands flew out to brace

And amid the laughter of the crowd

He fell flat on his face

But as he fell his dad stood up

And showed his anxious face

Which to the boy so clearly said

"Get up and win the race"

He quickly rose, no damage done

Behind a bit that's all

And ran with all his night and mind

To make up for the fall

So anxious to restore himself

To catch up and to win

His mind went faster than his legs

He slipped and fell again

He wised then that he had quit before

With only one disgrace

"I'm hopeless as a runner now

I shouldn't try to race"

But in the laughing crowd he searched

And found his fathers face

That steady look which said again

"Get up and win the race"

So up he jumped to try again

Ten yards behind the last

If I'm going to gain those yards he though

I've got to move real fast

Exerting everything he had

He regained eight or ten

But trying hard to catch the lead

He slipped and fell again

Defeat, he lay there silently

A tear dropped from his eye

There's no sense running anymore

Three strikes, I'm out, why try?

The will to rise had disappeared

All hope had fled away

So far behind so error prone

A loser all the way

"I've lost, so what", he thought

I'll live with my disgrace

But then he thought about his dad

Whom soon he'd have to face

"Get up" the echo sounded low

"Get up" and take your place

You were not meant for failure here

"Get up", and win the race

With borrowed will "Get up" it said

"You haven't lost at all"

For winning is no more than this

To rise each time you fall

So up he rose to run once more

And with a new commit

He resolved, that win or lose

At least he shouldn't quit

So far behind the others now

The most he'd ever been

Still he'd give it all he had

And run as though to win

Three times he'd fallen, stumbling

Three times he'd rose again

Too far behind to hope to win

He still ran to the end

They cheered the winning runner

As he crossed the line first place

Head high and proud and happy

No falling, no disgrace

But when the fallen youngster

Crossed the line, last place

The crowd gave him the greater cheer

For finishing the race

And even though he came in last

With head bent low, unproud

You would have thought he'd won the race

To listen to the crowd

And to his dad he sadly said

"I didn't do too well"

"To me you won", his father said

You rose each time you fell"

In today’s society I see a mentality in my generation that is centered on getting something for nothing. Instead of working towards a goal, taking steps towards accomplishing a feat, or finding a way through a roadblock, we give up. We give in to the voice that whispers in our ear “You’ll never make it. You won’t succeed.” But what exactly is success? Some determine success by how often you’ve won, what level you’ve reached, how much you’ve earned, or what mark you’ve made. The truth is success is not for those who never fail. It is for those who persevere. The real winners in life are not those who never lose, but those who never quit.  Perseverance - It’s not giving up when things get tough, even when the opportunity presents itself. It's striving to overcome obstacles and to triumph over a trial. It's looking impossibility in the eye and saying, "All Things Are Possible with God". Perseverance is trying, failing, and getting back up again. It's not giving into defeat, but relying on God to give you the strength to be victorious. A timeless story of perseverance, The Race quickly became a favorite poem of mine because its words proclaim a powerful message. Don't give up. Don't give in. Don't quit.