The Prisoners Next Door

My friend lives next door to a group of witches. They're white witches, which doesn't mean that it's "always winter and never Christmas"...  Instead, white witches claim they only use their magic to do "good".

Sometimes at night my friend can hear the witches engaging in voodoo practices. Their satanic ceremonial chants penetrate the wall that separates their townhouse from my friend's townhouse, sending eerie chants ricocheting throughout her living area.

Occasionally, these witches parade about, clad in white ceremonial garb as they make sacrifices to the spirits. Their pure white gowns and "good" intentions have blinded them to the fact that they are prisoners in the kingdom of darkness. They have no idea that Satan is prowling around like a lion, hoping to devour them.

Or maybe they do know.

Awhile ago one of the witches, a young mother, knocked on my friend's door late at night. Her white gown was torn and spotted with blood and she appeared to be intoxicated. In a trance-like state, she confided in my friend, spewing out the details of their Satan worship.

As she talked, she began to come out of her trance-like state and grew embarrassed. She picked herself up off her chair and hastily asked my friend if she would babysit her three kids later that week. "I know my family could watch my kids," the mother hesitantly motioned to the witches' house next door, "but I know in my heart my kids will be safe with you." Her eyes pleaded with my friend.

Does this young witch know she's a prisoner? Is she hoping someone will break her heavy chains and free her from the powers of darkness?  As she plunges herself into Satanic worship, does she worry about the destinies of her children?

Several weeks ago her family sacrificed a lamb in their garage to the spirits. That dead lamb will not free her from her bondage.

"The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, 'Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!'" John 1:29

"You were rescued from the useless way of life that you learned from your ancestors. But you know that you were not rescued by such things as silver or gold that don't last forever. You were rescued by the precious blood of Christ, that spotless and innocent lamb. Christ was chosen even before the world was created, but because of you, he did not come until these last days."
1 Peter 1:18-20

Last week the white witches spent 6 consecutive hours chanting, calling upon the name of Satan.

"A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus' lips. When he had received the drink, Jesus said, 'It is finished.'" With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. John 19:21-30

"At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split." Matthew 27:31

When was the last time we spent 6 hours calling upon the name of Almighty God, praying for the salvation of people like the white witches?

"But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.  'Don't be alarmed,' he said. 'You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen!'" Mark 16:4-6

This week I keep picturing the white witches standing in a circle, looking down at at their dead and bloodied sacrificial lamb, hoping his cold corpse will appease the spirits, while the Risen Jesus stretches his scarred hands toward them and calls them by name, offering them Hope.

Will you join with me in praying that this young mother, her children, and her family members experience the power of the King of Light and entrust their lives to the Perfect Lamb?
 "For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins." Colossians 1:14

Jesus, Lover of Our Souls

"He [Jesus] took Peter, James, and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled.  'My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,' he said to them."

Mark 14:33-34

You know those times when your soul is so impregnated with pain it feels like it is about to burst?  In these moments you realize your body is unaccustomed to such pain and it's too finite and weak to deal with the sorrow.  Desperately, you try to release the pain, to let your soul somehow seep out of your body to a place where it can expand with the grief that overwhelms it.  But such attempts are futile.  Your body and your soul are inexplicably intertwined.  You cannot escape your pain.

Jesus knows how that feels.  

Face to Face

You know those moments when a kernel of truth that has been forever imbedded in your brain wiggles its way down to your chest and penetrates the layers of your heart? These moments are always life-changing because those little kernels of truth have a way of turning tough, scaly hearts into liquid hearts that refresh the hearts of those around it.

Yesterday a kernel of truth finally made its way from my head to my heart.

I was wearing a tall black hat that I hoped looked sort of "priestly" and I spoke with my most authentic foreign accent. Standing at the front of my classroom, I did my best impression of Saint Valentine for my students. I talked about true love, the source of true love, and how we can love others truly. Then I had my students open to 1 Corinthians 13, the looove chapter.

I've read this chapter a million times. I can't count the number of mugs it has graced, songs it has inspired, or household toilets it has hung above. But yesterday I read something that took my breath away.

1 Corinthians 13:8-12 "Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part, then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

"Then we shall see face to face..."

Of course I've tried to envision what it will be like to see God face to face. I usually fall on my face somewhere between "J" and "esus!" But what will it be like to look at the people I love in heaven, where they will have no trace of sin, no soul scars or spiritual burdens, no sadness, no regrets or physical ailments? What will we be like when we are stripped of the sin that discolors and mars our essence? How glorious will it be when I can see the people I love as they should be, the way God wanted them to be at the dawn of time?

In a sliver of a second I thought about everyone that I love. I like to think I know these people's quirky tendencies and admirable strengths pretty well. My sister Rebecca will identify who is hurting or uneasy in any social situation, and my mom will always find humor in stressful situations. My brother Aaron plays the guitar as a therapeutic outlet, and my littlest brother Marc pulls his chin in when he's making an especially funny joke. And then there's my dad whose integrity is unwavering and who cooks a mean dish of chicken pasta. My roommate Megan squints her eyes right before she's about to laugh really hard, and Stacey's eyes light up whenever she talks about her most recent educational pursuits. My college roommate Rachel asks the most poignant questions, and Cara feels fully alive when she's dancing.

I know it's cliche, but I could write books and books about these people that I love so dearly. So, what will it be like to see them face to face? How glorious will they be when I see them in their, "true form" one day in heaven?

Geroge MacDonald speculated about what it will be like in heaven when we stand, for the first time, face to face with the people we love. I'm not sure what MacDonald is implying about the resurrection of our bodies in this quote, but I love his idea about knowing each other. "I think then we shall be able to pass into and through each other's very souls as we please, knowing each other's thoughts... and so being like God."

I reveled in my thoughts during this truth transfer. Then, with 20 pairs of curious eyes on me, I continued to read the latter part of 1 Corinthians 13:12, and I think the little kernel of truth grew roots and made itself a permanent fixture of my heart.

"Now I know in part, then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

I am known. When God sees me, he sees me in light of the cross, not in light of my sin. He sees me the way I should be. The way he intended for me to be, back in the Garden of Eden. I have once again been hit with the reality that as I continue to be united with Christ and his Body, I become more myself. I grow more like the Sarah Jackson God had in mind when he formed the foundations of the earth.

Fellow followers of Christ, today I feel so blessed to be able to watch you press into Jesus and begin to take on your true form. And I cannot wait until I see all of you face to face.

Sleepwalking

I think working with 21 tirelessly energetic third graders has finally caught up with me. All day I felt like I was wandering from activity to activity in a semi-comatose state. Naturally, I haven't had anything remarkable to blog about lately, with the exception of my comatose state thoughts. So, loyal reader, here's a glimpse at my brain-foggy day:

1. I am tired of picking up my students' dirty snot rags. I regularly find them lying in the most absurd places.

2. I have had the harmony from the worship song "Everlasting" stuck in my head since 7:30 am. My kids have heard me sing it at least 6 times today.

3. My classroom is beginning to smell like a hamster's cage.

4. I love flannel sheets.

5. Every time I've left my classroom to go outside today, I've gotten a pebble stuck in my shoe.

6. The pebbles kept reminding me of the movie "Ever After". Consequently, when I wasn't singing the harmony to "Everlasting" today, I walked around thinking, "How can you love a pebble in your shoe?" in a shrill British accent.

7. My kids were quietly and diligently working on their essays when I was suddenly overcome with an unstoppable urge to burst out singing, "A Mighty Fortress is our God" in a loud nasally voice. About halfway through the first line my students began to look sincerely unsettled.

8. I have eaten the same thing for lunch everyday for weeks.

9. I couldn't pronounce words with the /bl/ sound today.

10. Am I the the only one whose mind runs away without warning for indefinite periods of time?

Arise and Repent, Oh Ye Sinful Hens!

I am going on four hours of studying the cultural, historical, and literary contexts of the New Testament, and although I am thoroughly enjoying learning, I am beginning to get a little bit delirious. Fortunately, chapter 3 in my textbook is ending strong with some comic relief.

Here are some excerpts from chapter 3 regarding the Jewish Pharisees' scrupulous observance of the Mosaic and rabbinic law:

"Some rabbis in the Pharisaical tradition forbade spitting on the bare ground during the Sabbath lest the action disturb the dirt and thus constitute plowing, which would break the prohibition of working on the Sabbath."

"A woman should not look in the mirror on the Sabbath lest she see a gray hair, be tempted to pluck it out, yield to the temptation, and thereby work on the Sabbath."

"It became a moot question whether one might lawfully eat an egg laid on a festival day. Were such eggs tainted even though hens lack an awareness of festival days?"

No wonder these guys had problems with Jesus. After all the effort and energy they poured into observing their plowing, plucking, and egg-laying laws, Jesus had the audacity to tell them they were like white-washed tombs. Then he asked them to stop obsessing over their appearance and challenged them instead to, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.'" (Matthew 22:37)

It makes me wonder, what "plowing", "plucking", and "egg-laying" ideals have distracted me from loving Jesus with all my heart, soul and mind lately?

Parched

I'm not a great poet.  At all.  But lately, I've been reading my little brother's friend's poetry and I'm beginning to think that one day, (maybe in heaven?) I'd like to write poetry.  Until then, I'll just keep drinking in other people's poetry.  

Is your soul thirsty today?  Read this:

http://underthegreenumbrellatrees.blogspot.com/2009/01/his-madame-her-malady.html

A Binder Prayer

So, it turns out my job is one of the most heart-warming, confidence-boosting jobs on the planet.

I recently spotted this on one of my student's desks.

Phonics Feast

Today I introduced my students to the adrenaline-producing, euphoria-inducing world of diphthongs. I began the lesson by asking if any of my students knew what a diphthong was. A dear, shy little boy in the front row quickly threw his hand up in the air, his eyes bright as he grunted and wiggled, trying to get me to notice him.

"Yes Johnny?" I tried to mask my surprise at his enthusiasm for this delightful topic.

"A diphthong is when you have a big ol' bowl of dip, and you dip your chip in the dip, and when you pull your chip out, there's a thong hanging from it," he gleefully announced.

Mmmmm. Forget cheese balls. The diphthong will undoubtedly be the favorite at any party.

After a good inner chuckle, I steered the discussion back toward phonics. I have to give little Johnny credit though; it turned out to be a pretty fun lesson. :)

Special Delivery

I gave one of my students a bouncy ball, the cookies from my lunch, 3 nickels, a new whistle, a box of crayons, and three sticks of gum in exchange for this ;) : 

It'll Only Get Better

The other day one of my students decided that the cake in heaven will be good.  Really good.  Even better, he declared, than Betty Crocker.  

Preach it brother.  

The Valiant French Canadian, Part II

I frantically spewed out my predicament for a second time, and then paused to catch my breath. Alarm flooded the young French Canadian's face, and in that instant I knew I had found a kindred spirit. Not the romantic kind of hunk that would sweep me off my feet and whisk me into the Costa Rican sunset, but the type of man who would fly into a maniacal panic when necessary. Like that night.

Without hesitating (and shoeless, I might add), he did fly out the door in a frenzied panic, yelling something in French (or was it English?) that I still haven't figured out. I followed him down the steps and back toward the main lodge, a warm feeling of peace flooding my body as I watched his bedraggled hair flap over his frazzled countenance.

Breathless, he burst through the front door of the lobby and began pounding on the office door. "'Ello?!!! 'Eello?!!!" No answer. He ran up the stairs to the darkened cafeteria. No one was in sight. He ran back outside and began turning in circles, surveying the cabins surrounding the main lodge.

This feels vaguely familiar, I thought as I thanked the Lord for our rescuer. He may not have done a thing to change our situation yet, but at least he was running to and fro, shouting like a maniac, and panting loudly. There's nothing more comforting than rescuer who is a blur of movement and oozes determination.

"Eez your friend 'aving an allergic reaction?" The French Canadian stopped in his frantic tracks with a concerned look on his face. "Oh shoot." I took off running up the hill, yelling a warbled , "I don't think so!" over my shoulder as I ran.

I shoved through our little cabin door and looked at Megan, relieved to see that she hadn't blown up into a giant, bumpy blimp. Closing the door, I ran back down to the French Canadian who was hopping down the hill toward town while he tried to put his shoes on. "I think she's OK!" I shouted.

"Good. I am going to town for 'elp. You run around and look for the secureety guard," he grunted as he continued to hop downhill and pulled on his left shoe. I sprinted off in the opposite direction and then froze. I spun around and yelled, "Wait! Do you speak Spanish?"

"No." A new realization dawned on his valiant face. "Do yoo?"

"Yes. I'd better come with you."

"Gude zinking."

Together we hopped/sprinted down the hill and almost ran full throttle into the security guard. In a hodgepodge of Spanish/French/English/Pig Latin we urgently filled the security officer in on our dilemma.

I will fast-forward at this point esteemed reader, only to spare you the painfully dull details regarding the reaction of Mr. Security Guard/Sloth-in-human-form. Suffice it to say that, after ages of very slow ambling, our "heroic" security guard managed to make it up the hill to Megan and produce: (drum roll please....) half a lemon. He asked Megan to rub it up and down her arm to sooth the pain. He also, after some superfluous comments and unnecessary laughter, found the scorpion, which he promptly declared the "good" type of scorpion (do try to get stung by this type, if you must), and then fed it to his dog.

Meanwhile, the French Canadian sprinted down to his cabin and back up to ours 4 times. He brought with him Benadryl, a flashlight to search for the scorpion in dark corners, and the results of some internet research on Costa Rican scorpions he was conducting down in the lobby. Each of his trips ushered a little beacon of light and hope into our dark cabin.

It was at this point in the saga, dear friends, that I realized a true hero doesn't necessarily save the day. A true hero is the very definition of empathy and concern. A true hero forgets that you are complete strangers and treats you like family. A true hero moves quickly, even if he is shoeless and has no clue where he is going. A true hero does not crack pointless jokes poking fun at the damsels in distress. A true hero usually has some sort of mysterious accent. And a true hero produces more than a half a lemon in a time of dire need.

Thank you, dearest French Canadian (wherever you are) for being a true hero.

We will remember your kindness forever and ever.

Amen.

The Valiant French Canadian, Part I

It was a dark, blustery night in Monteverde. Rebecca, Megan and I were snuggled up in our bright Costa Rican comforters talking and reminiscing quietly as we listened to the menacing mountain wind whip around our small cabin. Warm and content, our girlish chatter distracted us from the ominous weather outside.

In the middle of describing a particularly rosy memory, Megan suddenly squealed in pain. "Something bit me! Something bit me twice!" She jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to nurse her throbbing, but barely visible wound. Rebecca and I laid rather unfazed in bed. I, for one, was convinced it was nothing more than a small jungle spider.

Megan walked out of the bathroom and began peeling back the blankets on her bed, searching for the guilty insect. "Hmmm. That thing looks like a squished raisin." She pointed at a bug lying still on her sheet and leaned in for a closer look. "Um, actually I think that is a scorpion" Megan stated calmly, as she watched it crawl toward her pillow.

"Impossible." I replied in my most confident, know-it-all voice. "No scorpion could survive in this climate." Right? Aren't scorpions notorious for hanging out in the desert? Has anyone ever seen National Geographic feature a mountain/jungle scorpion? I think not.

While Megan tried to get a better look at the feisty jungle creature, I laid in bed, calm and confident, my years of watching Oregon Public Broadcasting giving me unwavering peace of mind.

"It is a scorpion," Megan said quietly, interrupting the video I was playing in my head of a large orange scorpion scuttling across a sandy desert. Instinctively, Rebecca and I jumped up on the bed. Speechless,we stared in dismay at the little culprit.

I stood there waiting for my mind to kick into emergency situation mode and hastily form a plan of attack. Instead, I felt my lips forming a string of monosyllabic gibberish. "Ooooh. Uuuummmm. Ahhhh." I desperately looked at Rebecca, and then back at the "squashed raisin" as it pranced across Megan's bed, its venomous tail swaying arrogantly.

Megan picked up a very small drinking glass, apparently with valiant intentions of using it to capture the dangerous creature. Her movement interrupted my train of nonsensical babbling and my body snapped into action, with my mind trailing far behind as I tried to figure out what was my body was doing.

I jumped off my bed, ran out the door into the torrential downpour and heard myself shout, "Don't touch the scorpion. Just leave it!" As I sprinted down the slippery, wet stone walkway toward the main lodge, I tried to block visions of Megan's poor body going into shock from the scorpion's deadly sting.

Breathless, I burst through the front door of the lobby and began pounding on the office door. "Hello?!!! Hello?!!!" No answer. I ran up the stairs to the darkened cafeteria. No one was in sight. I ran back outside and began turning in circles, surveying the cabins surrounding the main lodge.

My eyes rested on a large, lit cabin to the left of the main lodge. Perhaps the lodge owners lived in this cabin. I ran up and knocked on the door. A wiry older man answered the door and looked at me expectantly. Skipping all formalities I burst out, "My friend got bit by a scorpion and I don't know what to do. It's still in her bed. Do you know where I could find a security guard?" He stared at me blankly. I immediately recognized the look in his eyes. He didn't have a clue what I was saying. I switched over to Spanish but his blank look persisted. Then he interrupted me with broken Spanish. "El Senor," he said, motioning to the back of the house.

He walked to the base of the stairs and began yelling in French. A young man in his late twenties came running down the stairs, a mop of longish dark hair spilling over his forehead. Wide-eyed, he rushed to the door and with a thick French accent asked, "What is zee problem?".

To be continued in part II of The Valiant French Canadian.