Are you willing to surprise someone with unexpected grace?

Our pastor asked that question yesterday. I hate it when a speaker tosses out a nugget like that—I don’t think I heard much of the rest of his message.

Surprised by unexpected grace.

That’s precisely what God did for me. I truly believed I’d wasted the life He gave me, that I’d passed the point of no return. I thought I’d messed up too badly to ever find redemption. I saw myself as an irretrievably lost soul.

My heart couldn’t embrace what my head knew about forgiveness.

Then the injury happened. For a decade I wandered in total darkness, absolutely certain that I was so lost that even God couldn’t find me. Frankly, I wasn’t sure He was even searching.

Possibility, hope, new beginning—those weren’t even intellectual realities any longer. Purpose, meaning, relationship—those died in the ER, and I wished for my useless body to join them.

God surprised me with unexpected grace. Darkness receded. The Light of the world revealed a path marked by unmerited joy and unearned love. Where I perceived only pain and hopelessness, the Light revealed a journey filled with promise and potential.

God proved that life is always about second (and third and fourth and…) chances. He placed people in my path who refused to allow me to quit, who wouldn’t be pushed away no matter how hard I tried. They surprised, and shocked, me by demonstrating unexpected grace.

Ever wonder if you matter?

I’ve experienced how God uses people to be “Jesus in t-shirts and blue jeans.” You are that person on somebody’s path. Might be someone close, a casual acquaintance, or a total stranger. Someone needs you to reflect the Light.

In the forward to Relentless Grace I wrote that the story was God’s, not mine. That sounds like one of those things writers say with almost false humility, but it’s absolutely the truth. I couldn’t have created the story—God surprised me with unexpected, relentless grace. And He did it through people just like you.

(Self-serving aside: if you’re looking for an inspirational gift, we’re having a sale on print and audio versions of Relentless Grace. Details here.)

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds… [Hebrews 10:24]

Enjoy this amazing video, and think about who needs you to be “Jesus in a t-shirt and blue jeans.”

If you can’t see the video, click here.

Who can you surprise today with unexpected grace?

Please leave a comment.

If you’d like a humorous take on this and missed Saturday’s post, you might find a chuckle in How Will We Leave Our Mark?

This is our contribution to the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. I hope you’ll visit the carnival and check out the other attractions.

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How Will We Leave Our Mark?

How To Stop Bullying

Gasoline, Money, And Stuff That Matters

Happy Weekend!

I’m told that today is a brand new holiday. This very day has been branded “Small Business Saturday.” SBS is our opportunity to kick off our gift shopping by supporting the small businesses that have struggled through recent economic hard times.

I’m not sure we need another “special” day, but supporting small business is a wonderful idea. It’s great to save a little money and time clicking on the big-box websites, but maybe today would be a good excuse to visit a small business and give them an important gift—a portion of your holiday shopping dollars.

And it just happens that I have a suggestion, an opportunity to celebrate SBS and support one of the smallest businesses around—me!

I want to get a bunch of copies of Relentless Grace into the hands of readers who need hope, encouragement, and faith in new beginnings. As I said in my last newsletter, I believe in the power of this story. But the words don’t make a difference when they’re sitting in boxes.

• We all know folks who’d enjoy an inspirational story with a subtle romantic twist. (Guys—think about those ladies!)
• We all know people who wonder where God went in the midst of a crisis.
• We all live near a detention center, shelter, or nursing home where people seek hope and meaning.

Books pass through many hands, especially those donated to jails and shelters. You may never know who was touched by the story, but I’m confident God will get your gift to someone who’s ready to listen to Him. I’m just asking for your help in reaching out to those who need to know about God’s Relentless Grace.

I’ll spare you the cheesy sales copy. No “last-minute blowout” or “inventory reduction at sacrifice prices.” But I will share a comment from a young lady who wrote to me after I spoke at a jail last summer (shared at her request).

I read your book the first day I was locked up. Someone gave it to me, and it totally changed my outlook. I’ve made a lot of really bad choices, but after reading your story I knew I could start over. I’m using my time here to learn to know God again. When I get out in a few weeks, I’m not looking back. They need more books like that in here. Thank you.

I’m just naive enough to believe she accepted God’s invitation to give hope another chance, because I believe that’s how He works to change hearts and lives.

Thanks for your comments, notes, and support. You encourage me, and I don’t say “thanks” quite enough.

Happy SBS! Here’s a button that’ll let you include Relentless Grace in your gift-giving (at ridiculous, never-seen-before prices).

In addition to your purchase, you can help a lot by recommending this book to friends on Facebook and Twitter. Your word-of-mouth is the best word of all.

Have a great weekend. And happy SBS!

When we are young or immature, right theology makes us feel superior, but when we are older and more mature, a study of theology makes us feel inferior and unworthy, undeserved, and grateful. Don Miller

Do you ever think about the life-changing lessons you learned as a kid?

I’m not talking about words and facts from parents and teachers because they mostly fade away. Words don’t really convey the important lessons.

I always felt sort of sorry for my dad. I didn’t understand it until later, but even as a kid I had this nagging sense that there was something sad about him.

Dad was smart—not educated, but really smart. He was a high school football star and state champion sprinter. He returned from Germany after WWII and worked his way into a successful career with a lot of responsibility. I think everyone liked him; if he spent much time in a small town he knew enough people to run for mayor and win.

He apparently had a full, successful life. So why did I find my dad’s life so sad?

He was afraid. I don’t think he ever took a step backward from anyone in his life, but Dad lived in fear.

Somewhere in my past there’s a teenage kid who learned to be afraid and to react to fear with anger.

Dad never thought he was good enough. In his eyes, other people were smarter, more educated, more capable, and more worthy. He believed strongly in his own inferiority, and he believed that’s what others perceived.

He feared showing any weakness or vulnerability and hid behind a “good guy” façade that kept everyone at arm’s length. His many friends mostly didn’t know him. Those who managed to see behind the mask never dared to get closer.

I learned to fear the temper that erupted without warning when his fragile pretense of confidence was threatened. I learned that acceptance could only be earned through accomplishment, that appearance mattered more than substance, and that self-concept was totally dependent on others’ perceptions.

That kid learned well. Everything he learned might be summarized in a single word: he learned an attitude of scarcity.

There was never enough. Achievement, acceptance, self-worth—you name it, there was never enough. Life was about working and striving for a goal I couldn’t reach and pretending everything was great. Above all it was about deception, making sure nobody saw the real me. Anyone who really knew me would surely reject me.

That kid worked very hard to appear superior because he knew he was inferior.

I wish I could talk to that teenager.

I’d tell him that scarcity was a lie, that everything he fought so hard to attain was already his in unlimited abundance.

I’d tell that kid about the outrageous things Jesus said. I want you to have a full, abundant life. Take courage. Don’t be afraid. Come to me and I will give you rest. You don’t have to earn self-worth—you are worth my life.

I don’t think he’d believe me, at least not right away. Those early lessons were pretty deeply ingrained. You don’t just shrug when everything you learned from your dad suddenly turns inside-out and upside-down. You do everything possible to pound a new round peg into an old square hole.

I suspect he’d resist and intellectualize and rationalize. He’d turn Christianity into another place to achieve, so he’d learn a lot about the Bible and theology. Even after he took in the head knowledge, he’d guard his heart because that’s what he’d learned. He’d run away. The facts wouldn’t change his behavior much.

I wish I could tell him to relax a little, let it go, and quit running. I’d tell him that all the stuff he’s so worried about doesn’t matter very much, that things usually work out, and that he can’t control most important things anyway.

I’d also tell him that running is useless, that he can’t get to a place where God can’t find him, and that God won’t give up on him. I’d tell him to stop trying to prove he isn’t worthy because he can’t mess up badly enough to drive God away.

I’d tell him to stop pretending to be thankful for what he earned and instead to be grateful for the abundance he doesn’t deserve.

He didn’t know about abundant love and forgiveness. He didn’t know about Relentless Grace. I wish I could help him understand—it would save both of us a lot of grief.

What would you like to tell a teenage “you”?

P.S.—I’d also tell that kid to be more careful installing Christmas lights. But since he thought he was invincible, I don’t imagine he’d pay much attention. Spinal cord injuries and paralysis happen to other people. **Sigh**

Please leave a comment.

This is our contribution to the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. I hope you’ll visit the carnival and check out the other attractions.

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Become Like Children

Abundance or Scarcity?

The Perfect Title

Majestic.

The dining room of this old lodge overlooks the entire valley.

The cloudless sky is an impossible shade of blue. Across the valley some aspens are just beginning to turn, splashes of gold amidst the deep green pines. Aside from a narrow dirt road and an occasional four-wheeler heading into the national forest, there’s not much evidence that we’re only thirty miles from the city.

Everyone’s enjoying an afternoon of R&R. Six or seven guys are fly fishing in the pond. A few minutes ago a group of mountain bikers head up the hill. One group’s off on a hike, another headed down the valley to do some rock climbing. Individuals are scattered around the property reading, journaling, processing deep conversations and big questions.

I’m left alone for my own quiet R&R—writing and reflection. No cell coverage, no Internet or email to interrupt. No background noise from television. A weekend of football will pass without us.

We labeled this afternoon as “free time.” Does “free” refer to cost, as though the rest of the time is expensive? Perhaps it means that for a few short hours we’re not trapped by expectations and schedules. If so, it’s odd that we have to schedule time to let ourselves out of a self-constructed prison.

Men come and go, wandering between activities or sometimes just wandering. Interesting—the conversations and shared stories don’t feel at all like interruptions. There’s a sense of natural flow, as though whatever’s happening is just right for that moment. So I’m writing, and then I’m not, and somehow it’s all good. Much different from home, when anything—or anyone—who derails my train of thought becomes an unwelcome irritant.

In worship prior to our morning session, someone shared The Message translation of Matthew 11:28-30:

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

Sitting here in this calm, peaceful setting, it feels like I’m surrounded by the unforced rhythms of grace. I’m reminded that it’s a standing invitation. Come to me.

Unforced. That’s what’s different about these hours, about this weekend. We’ve agreed to retreat, to back away from hurry and worry, to stop trying to make it happen. We’ve agreed to listen and let ourselves be carried on the unforced rhythms of grace.

I suppose I should prepare for this evening, or get outside, or do something special with these hours. But this afternoon isn’t about “should.” This afternoon is about an encounter with The God Of “Re”. Retreat. Renew. Relax. Refresh. Rest.

So I’ll sit in front of these windows and watch my new friends, enjoy their tales of adventure, and practice trusting that whatever’s happening is okay. I’ll savor the solitude and reflect on the majesty of a high-country meadow.

I wonder what I’ll take down the mountain tomorrow. I wonder if it’ll be back to same-old-same-old, or if I’ll find a way to retain this sense of awe, this sense of authentic, unforced peace and grace.

I’ll figure that out later; next time (Thursday) I’ll see what I find, but not now. Right now is for right now, so I’ll just sit in this incredible place and let it speak to me.

Majestic.

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The God Of “Re”

Edit: Stories Worth Telling Part 5

Risk: Stories Worth Telling Part 4

Relationship: Stories Worth Telling Part 3

The title of the talk seemed a bit odd: The God of “RE.”

I figured I was about to discover that “re” was a Greek or Hebrew word with deep theological significance. Pastors are good at digging out this sort of stuff. I suspect it reflects a need to justify the value of their seminary training.

But it turns out that “re” is just a familiar prefix. “Re” means again (repeat) or new (refresh).

I’d never thought about it, probably because I didn’t attend seminary. But the speaker pointed out that a lot of the words we associate with God are “re” words.

It makes sense. God is all about new beginnings, so maybe He is the God of “re.” On my own, I’m hopelessly broken. The God of “re” offers renewal, reconciliation, resurrection … what others can you come up with?

If I wanted to do a cheesy book promotion, I could even mention the title of my book…Relentless Grace.

Re…

Since I’m speaking at a retreat this weekend, that word popped into my brain. My mind wandered (don’t tell the pastor) and I wondered—is “retreat” a God word?

Retreat normally connotes running away in defeat. That’s certainly not part of God’s character.

 But there’s another way to look at the origin of the word.

“Treat” originally meant “to consider” or “to analyze.” We still use it like that when we talk about how an author “treats” a particular subject. It comes from the same Latin root word that means “consider or handle.” So before it assumed its present meaning, “retreat” came from words that connoted “reconsider” or “re-analyze.”

A military commander will tell you that “retreat” doesn’t mean “running away” so much as “backing away” to take a fresh look. Retreat offers a chance for other “re” words—refresh, resupply, reenergize, reanalyze, and reconsider strategy and tactics.

Those are definitely God words. He doesn’t want me to run away, but I think He’s all in favor of the opportunity to back away, get a fresh perspective, and reenter the battle with renewed energy and perhaps a slightly revised plan of attack.

If we think of it like that, then we serve a God of retreat who offers new beginnings, a chance to reconsider, and the blessing of a fresh start.

Let’s make a list in the comments—what other words do you associate with the God of “re”?

Today we’re adding our voice to the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. I hope you’ll visit the carnival and check out the other attractions.

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Relationship: Stories Worth Telling Part 3

How To Respond To “One Of Those Days”

How To Relate In Abundance

I believe your story might be your greatest gift.

We all live in stories. God reveals Himself through stories. Your particular story incorporates a unique combination of experiences and relationships. It’s a gift, and the highest use for any gift is to enjoy it and share it in service to others.

This is #2 in a series called “Stories Worth Telling” that’s looking at some principles to consider. Last time I suggested Tell The Truth. Today I’m encouraging us all to…

ASK WHY

Why are you telling your story?

I’m thinking that there are a few reasons. Among them:

• To ask for help.
• To seek attention or approval.
• To offer hope.

HELP

For a long time I told the story of my injury in a desperate search for relief. From a very dark, lonely place I reached out for anyone who might make sense of senselessness. I imagined that somehow, if I told it enough times, completely irrational circumstances might assume some sort of logical organization.

When you’re hurting and lost, it’s good to share, to express the pain and disappointment and hopelessness. A counselor named Pete encouraged me to write in a journal, and the process really helped me to find a way out of the darkness.

I learned that telling my story—to the right people—helped. I honestly cannot retrace the precise process. I only know that, through time and tears, the darkness subsided and light gradually appeared where I’d been certain it could never shine again.

The journal slowly revealed subtle patterns I’d missed in the swirling chaos of grief. Telling my story allowed me to take an honest look at my choices, to gain perspective, to view myself as a character in a play of which I was the author. As I learned that I could write better scenes, a tale of pain and loss pointed the way to growth and possibility.

Please don’t misunderstand—I am NOT thankful for the injury or the pain. I don’t believe God intended or caused them. They were evil, but God used them for good.

I discovered that my story was an incredible gift—to myself. God used the twisted horror of my injury to show me a new life of possibility. He invited me to hope.

ATTENTION

Sometimes our stories become a competition, a way to see who can cast themselves as most pitiful or most heroic. Sadly, I’ve been guilty of screaming, “Look at me! Feel sorry for me! None of this is my fault!”

Or, even worse, “You should admire me for enduring the most horrible life ever!”

Okay, maybe I’ve never been quite that blatant about it. But I’ve certainly worked hard at times to gain sympathy or to somehow justify bad behavior because of the unfairness of my situation. (My Pain’s Worse Than Yours)

Everyone endures pain, grief, and injustice. Life isn’t a contest to see who can be most pathetic.

Attention, pity, admiration—they’re all rationalizations, weaknesses, signs that I’m wasting the gift of my story.

HOPE

Every story can be a source of hope and encouragement, because that’s how God works. He uses ordinary events to reveal extraordinary possibilities.

And there’s the subtle twist—as soon as I forget that God’s at work and pretend that somehow I’ve done something remarkable, the process falls apart. I fall into promoting ME and MY accomplishments. I do it all the time.

Relentless Grace is a story of hope, but it’s not my story. As the subtitle explains, it’s God’s Invitation To Give Hope Another Chance. That’s what I learned through those long nights writing in the journal. As difficult as it is to admit, …

It’s not about me.

My story, and yours, are gifts. We can open them, look past the exterior wrapping of temporary pleasure and struggle, and savor the opportunities inside. We can learn from them, and we can share them with others.

Every story contains the possibility of deep, intimate relationships with self, others, and God. That’s the purpose for which we were created, and that’s why it’s important to share our stories.

Tell your story in a way that encourages yourself and others to see the hope of love and authentic intimacy.

How about you? Do you struggle with finding and telling a story of hope?

Today we’re adding our voice to the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. I hope you’ll visit the carnival and check out the other attractions.

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My Pain’s Worse Than Yours

How To Relate In Abundance

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A Million Miles

Do you think your story is worth telling?

I believe the answer is emphatically “Yes!”

God tells us about Himself through stories. Most of the Bible is stories about real people in real circumstances who struggled and failed and got it wrong more than they got it right. God’s own story comes to us through tales of people and their relationships. (How Important Is Right Theology?)

I’m thinking there’s a message there, that God’s choice to reveal Himself through human stories might be telling us about the best way to tell others about Him. Maybe people learn best about God through the stories of His people.

I operate from the premise that a story is worth telling if it brings people closer to Jesus. In a non-church setting it’s worthwhile if it helps listeners embrace His principles even if no religious terminology is involved. I can talk about love, respect, and forgiveness in any context.

If I’ve learned anything through talking to people about the story of Relentless Grace, it’s that “everyone has a story.” And I believe those stories are worth telling, if …

I’d like to spend a few posts talking about the “if,” because I think we can tell our stories in ways that are more or less helpful to others.

Today’s focus:

TELL THE TRUTH

A story that’s a lie won’t be helpful to anyone. That might seem sort of obvious, but apparently it’s not. I’ve heard, and told, stories that include intentional and accidental untruths.

Many Christians seem to believe that they can only talk about the victories, the good stuff, and the instances in which things turned out just right. They fail to acknowledge the struggles, failures, and weaknesses. These folks seem intent on portraying life as an endless progression of roses and sunshine.

Even tragedies are quickly transformed into celebrations. These stories are Hollywood movies—in one scene a horrific loss occurs, and in the next scene everyone’s happy. Injuries and illness miraculously disappear, grief and pain are compressed into a few seconds, and then the violins reach a happily-ever-after crescendo.

No one benefits from stories that relate this sort of impossibly false perfection. Reality includes conflict, pain, and doubt. Look at the heroes of the Bible—God didn’t tell us only their triumphs. In fact, we often learn more from the struggles of people like King David.

I’m not suggesting that we ought to manufacture problems, because the real ones are all to plentiful. But you do no one, including yourself, any favors by hiding behind a freshly scrubbed, Sunday morning façade.

A more subtle deception happens through an unintended choice of words. An example: “I’m thankful for the experience of cancer and chemotherapy.”

I don’t believe that. I’ve watched both of my parents and my best friend struggle through horrible deaths from cancer. I don’t believe anyone is thankful for that kind of pain. I’m certainly not grateful for the “opportunity” to watch their suffering, just as I’m not thankful for the pain and loss associated with my injury.

I am, however, abundantly grateful for the many things God has taught me through those experiences. I do not believe my injury was necessary for me to learn, but I believe God works for good even within tragedy (Romans 8:28)

My principle for story-telling is Grace And Truth (John 1:14). If you tell the truth with grace and love, then I believe you take a step toward a story worth telling.

What’s your take? Have you found that telling your true story helps others?

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Grace And Truth

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The Perfect Slogan

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless–it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. C.S. Lewis

What makes a dream worth the risk?

Last week I announced my new workshop based on the story of Relentless Grace. As I said in the newsletter, this project has been a dream since the book was published. I appreciate the encouraging responses and expressions of interest, and I’m excited to see where this next adventure might lead.

Proposing this sort of event invokes a number of emotional questions. What if nobody responds? How will I handle this level of vulnerability? What if I fail?

These kinds of questions are inevitable any time you try something new, take a risk, put yourself on the line. They’re not stop signs—in fact, I’d argue that they’re indicators that you’re on the correct path.

When the questions and doubts pop up, you have to decide whether the project is worth pushing past the doubt and insecurity. Using this workshop project as context, I’d like to take a look at what makes a project, goal, or dream important enough to pursue despite the inherent uncertainties. 

It has to matter

We’ve all asked ourselves, “Why am I doing this?” I doubt if any endeavor is totally devoid of tasks that just don’t seem that important, but if I’m going to take the risks and do the work, I need to believe it matters.

This one’s important to me. I’ve said many times that I don’t believe Relentless Grace is my story or that it’s even about me. It sounds a little trite, but I sincerely believe I’ve been entrusted with an important message, and I want to do my best to share it.

I  believe this matters.

It has to connect me to people

I could write another book—I’m working on that. I can grow the online circle through the blog, Twitter, Facebook, and other tools. I’m doing that, and I love and enjoy those relationships.

If I’m going to tackle another big project, I need to believe it’ll create a different sort of connection. Discussion, dialogue, sharing ideas face-to-face—that’s what I’m seeking with the workshop. I anticipate open-ended questions, surprising revelations, and unexpected directions.

My work as a classroom teacher convinced me that you learn more from the students than they learn from you. I’m excited to experience that sort of growth around the story of Relentless Grace.

When people join the circle this workshop will create, amazing things happen.

It has to help others

It’s tempting to see this as a tale of overcoming adversity. That’s certainly one aspect, but it’s not the main plot line. This story is about hope and new beginnings. I believe it’s an assurance that God never gives up on us, regardless of our mistakes or bad breaks. He works for good in even the darkest circumstances.

Everyone encounters that moment when they ask WHY? and wonder where they’ll find the strength to keep going. If you haven’t encountered that fearsome moment yet, you will.

If I can help others to see hope and experience a new beginning, I’ll be using the story well.

I need to overcome fear

Fear attacks each of us in different places. Personally, I enjoy public speaking. I love teaching, exploring new ideas, asking difficult questions. I’m not afraid of I don’t know.

But Relentless Grace is an extremely personal story. Teaching math to middle school kids might terrify most folks, but it’s a walk in the park compared to exposing significant personal failure.

Any dream involves risks. Vulnerability, opening your heart to others—those are hard things. The only harder thing is not doing it and wondering what might have been.

Hiding in the relative security is safe, but safe and hiding aren’t what this story is about.

I need to be willing to fail

The only thing you know for sure when you try something big is that it won’t go the way you plan. Any time people and relationships are involved, you can be certain that something unexpected will occur. What if the whole direction I envision doesn’t work?

Public failure, trying something and having it happen differently than you imagined—what’s more fearsome that that?

Failing, learning, growing, and trying again—that’s what dreams are about. The only certain method of avoiding failure is killing the dream.

What about YOUR dream? What’s required for you to push past the uncertainties, risk failure, and pursue it with passion?

A ship in a harbor is safe—but that’s not what ships are built for. William Shedd

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Five Things That Get In The Way

Setting The Stage For Success

What’s Going To Happen?

Happy Saturday!

I encourage you to grab a cup of coffee, sit back, and be inspired by a 20-minute video:

 The Butterfly Circus

I invite you to leave a comment concerning your reaction to the guy in the top hat.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland. [Isaiah 43:18-19]

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Happy Monday!

For the next few Mondays, I’ll post a series of excerpts from RELENTLESS GRACE. You can read previous excerpts here.

I hope you enjoy them, and that you’ll encounter God’s invitation to give hope another chance.

THE RIVER (Relentless Grace Excerpt #11)

Note: This final excerpt includes notes from the journal that formed the basis for the entire book. I hope you experience a bit of the peace as you sit by the river.

One day I was riding my hand cycle on a bike trail. I stopped for a drink, and as I looked around I experienced a sense of peace and tranquility. I surveyed a location that could serve as the image for my place of center. Mentally re-creating these calm, serene surroundings might help me to visualize and express in more concrete terms what it means to become closer to God and to what He intended for me.

I imagined my mental “center” next to a path along a river. I could sit in the warm sunshine, or in the cool shade beneath a dense canopy of trees, solitary and isolated from the world around. Simply being in such placid surroundings prompted me to reflect, slow down, and become more aware.

The path disappeared into the woods. I could not see the approach from either direction. People appeared on the path, biking, skating, running, or walking. They traveled slowly or pushed their pace to extremes. Some seemed immersed in the beauty of this place; others focused on the path, their workout or their destination. Some traveled alone, some in pairs or groups; they were friendly, or indifferent, or even rude.

I realized that the path and the people were not about me. They were not mine to control; it was not my job to figure out why they were here or whether they were traveling the proper route. I was free to greet each person without judgment, secure in the knowledge that God had created the path and the people on it.

The river assumed different forms. Sometimes it churned with anger and danger, sweeping away anything in its path. At other times it babbled pleasantly and invited me to listen and become absorbed in its kindness and peace. Sometimes it dwindled to a slow, dried-up trickle, barely alive among rocks and mud.

I realized that the river is what it is. I could fear the torrent, worry about being carried off, wonder about flooding and destruction here or elsewhere. I could fret when the flow diminished, imagining drought and hunger, emptiness and despair, certain that it would never change. I could become mesmerized by the pleasant bubbling sounds on a lazy summer day and forget the danger and fear. None of this impacted the river.

I thought this changing state of the river had something important to teach me. I wrote some of my observations about the river:

The river is what it is and goes where it goes, as God is who he is and does what he does. Nothing I say or think or do changes it. God, like the river, just is.

I am paralyzed with fear that I might be engulfed, as though the fear will somehow protect me or change the river’s impact. I worry about its course after it passes, as though the worry will alter the river’s direction.

I lose hope when the flow diminishes, certain that there will never again be enough. I complain that it’s not fair, that the same river destroys some and nourishes others with no seeming regard for merit.

I cry to the heavens, as though on my advice God ought to change the nature and destination of the river He created. I’m certain that I know the very best state for the river. I question God’s wisdom and purpose when the river flows in such obviously “wrong” ways.

The river originates beyond my understanding and travels beyond my understanding. It is infinite, created by infinite God. I know that the river is what it is, and will go where it will go, and that it was created for and works for good.

The river just is, yet I struggle to accept it.

As I sit quietly in this place, I can gradually stop trying to change what I cannot change. As I allow myself to more fully BE in this place, I become more aware. I can watch and listen to the river in whatever state it exists, learning while asking nothing of it. I can trust that God who created it knows its proper path. Fear and worry diminish.

The river is what it is. I am detached from it, feeling no desire to alter it, aware that the river is not me, that I am not determined by its state or responsible for its course. The goals become awareness and acceptance rather than control and a self-centered need to know WHY.

I began to believe that this mental place of center could impact my perspective on nearly every important aspect of my life. I wondered about the character of the metaphor that made it speak so directly to my heart. I identified three aspects to this image, each representing a fundamental element of my identity.

I am fully functioning, “centered,” when I am in relationship: with others, with myself, with God. I am enriched to the extent that those relationships are open, honest, agenda-free encounters.

This is what I experience mentally in my place of center. Those traveling on the path represent the people that enter my life, my relationships with others. The place where I sit in solitude signifies my relationship with myself. The river concretely characterizes my relationship with infinite God.

This place by the river and the path speaks to my identity, who I AM as a creature created by God in his image. I am centered, whole and at peace when I am in relationship because that is who I am and how I was created.

Being centered means being here, right now, with another, with myself, with God. When I remind myself to “sit by the river” I’m remembering to claim the identity inherent in my nature as a person created in the image of God who values relationship.

This notion of center dominated my thinking and writing for a considerable time. The image spoke about every facet of my existence. I became immersed in its implications and applications. I experienced a wonderful sense of peace as I envisioned myself in this mystical place of center.

The metaphor offered a structure that brought order to a previously chaotic jumble as I wandered through a lifetime of thoughts and feelings. This process of reading, analyzing, and writing had an amazing settling effect. I felt free to trust that this was exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I wasn’t concerned with destination or outcome. I didn’t consider how my ideas or activities might appear to. I felt clearly that my exploration was guided by God’s Spirit; that was sufficient.

If you’d like to read the story of Relentless Grace, you can order a signed copy here or purchase it at Amazon.com.

Did you enjoy this article? Please leave a comment, visit my website, and/or send me an email at rich@richdixon.net.

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