Today was the latter.

She came into the store clutching one of our brand’s bags, my clue that she merchandise to return.  As she approached me I was struck by her appearance.  She was quite slender and well-dressed.  Her makeup was expertly applied and her face had the smooth, wrinkle-free texture of a 30-year old.  The only problem was that the rest of her was obviously in her 60s.

I am certain that her face was the result of high-end products, laser treatments, and botox.  She could barely move her facial muscles at all, and it was difficult to understand her speech because she could hardly move her mouth to speak loudly or clearly.

I had to wonder if it was worth it.  Is it worth having a face that appears young if you can’t move it to even give your friends a proper smile?  Is it worth having a face that appears young if your décolletage, um…doesn’t?

Our culture worships youthfulness.  The sad consequence of that is our culture also tends to devalue the beauty and wisdom that come with age.  It teaches us to devalue ourselves, should we actually dare into the wrinkle years.

I felt rather sad for the woman.  Her appearance spoke of extreme measures to turn back the clock. But the reality is that nobody can stop time.  We can hope to age gracefully, but we are going to age. It’s helpful if we’re kind to ourselves during the process.

Some crow’s feet and laugh lines are much better than a face that looks like it might crack if it were forced into a smiling position.  Represent your age group well, no matter what group that might be, by doing what you can to appear healthy and happy and excited about life, preferably because you are healthy and happy and excited about life.

Because really…in the end, you’re not fooling anyone.

It’s usually Thursday morning.  I know I’m probably going to be fighting the crowds from the Bob Hope Village retirement housing (aka The Village People), delivered by the busload.  I know that cranky lady is probably going to be working the meat case and perfecting her customer non-service.  I know the deli workers will be moving like molasses in February, because that’s just how they roll.  At least most if the time they roll that way with a smile.

But sometimes if I keep the eyes and ears of my heart open and tuned, I’ll come across something new. Such was the case yesterday.

I had finished filling my cart and was making my way to the checkout.  I got into line and discovered that all the lanes were full.  Not only full, but very full, and the one closest to the front of the line was actually blocking access to the rest of the lanes.  Then I noticed that someone had taken down one of the dividers they use to funnel people into line, and as I scanned the checkouts once more, I noted that there actually was an available lane..  Funny…I hadn’t seen that one moments before.  I backed up, went through the hole created by the divider, and headed towards that lane.  I arrived there to discover that not only was it available, it was completely empty.

At this point my senses were on full alert.  Something was up.  All the other lanes were full with people waiting in line to unload their groceries onto the belt, and this one was empty?  Hmm.

I glanced at the cashier and recognized her as one of the regulars.  She’d totaled my groceries many times before.  But even at a quick glance I could tell something wasn’t right.  She didn’t look bad.  It’s just that I am accustomed to a certain lightness and liveliness coming from her, and today it just wasn’t there.  She wasn’t unkind or unfriendly in any way, but I could feel the heaviness on her.

I began to unload my groceries and she dutifully scanned them.  I wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to start the conversation since this wasn’t someone with whom I have a relationship.  Finally I decided to just dive in.

“Are you ok?” I asked.  ”You don’t seem your normally chipper self.”

She didn’t really look up from her work.  ”I’m not feeling very well.”  She paused a moment and then blurted:  ”And my husband is demanding I quit my job.”  She practically choked out the last sentence.

“And you don’t want to.”

She shook her head as she glanced at me quickly and then busied herself with her work again.

She went on to say that she hoped that her employers would grant her a leave of absence and that maybe that would be enough to pacify her husband.

“So we’ll pray that you receive favor from your employers and that they’ll gladly extend a leave of absence to you.”  And I then went on, doing exactly that, talking to God as if He were standing right there (because He was) and simply speaking a couple of sentences of petition and blessing over her.

She paused, blinked, and then slowly looked at me with her eyes wide open, as if she were noticing for the first time who was standing in front of her register.  I watched the realization dawn on her that she was speaking to a sister, and that I would understand things she didn’t feel she could say to most people.  Relief flooded her worried eyes.

With a deep breath, she asked me to pray for something else and then told me her pastor’s take on the situation.  I listened to her as someone else began loading the grocery belt behind me.  We only had seconds left.  I assured her that God’s got this and that I would be praying for her.  She thanked me several times as I gathered my purse and coupon notebook and turned to follow the bagger out the door.

And just like that, the encounter was over.

It didn’t require extra time.  It didn’t require money.  It didn’t require getting all weird and making strange pronouncements in King James English.  It just required noticing.  And then saying something.  And then praying a few sentences in a very conversational tone.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.  After years of five-minute encounters, it’s possible that she will move into a new season of her life and no longer be a potential part of my Thursday morning routine.  If so, I’m glad my last interaction with her let her know she was seen and worthy of stopping and listening and caring.  She was worthy of love.

Today, or maybe tomorrow, someone who needs to be seen and carried to heaven’s ears will cross your path.  Are you willing to bring the kingdom to that spot in that very moment?  Do you believe it would be worth the risk?

It’s in your hands.

“The sky is falling!  The sky is falling!”

I’ll admit…things have been rather crazy.  The news is full of horrifying reports, and I’m glad I don’t watch/read it much.  The news is a hope-killer.  Like we need that.

I find it disturbing that the response of many believers is to dejectedly moan that these terrible things are “signs of the times” and we just have to figure out how to cope until Jesus comes back.  Scripture says things will get hard, that much is true.  But I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t warn us about that so that we could adopt a fatalistic mindset that tells us that we might as well give up because the world is going to hell in a hand basket anyway.  I think He just wanted us to be aware so that we wouldn’t get distracted by it.  I think He wanted us to have some mile-markers so we’d know things were on track and that it was time to shine brighter than ever.

Scripture isn’t totally clear when Jesus will return.  There are a lot of different beliefs about that, and most of them can be backed up with the bible.  So what do you do when scripture seems to support opposite theories?

I suggest that it’s an indication that maybe these theories are less important than the things we really know.

Like how much He loves us.
Like what lengths He’ll go to in order to rescue just one ornery sinner.
Like how He intends for the whole world to know that He’s made a way for everyone to be reconciled to Him.

You can judge a tree by its fruit, you know.

If the fruit steals our children’s future and relegates them to mere survival in a dark and devastated world…
If the fruit fuels an attitude that the earth is going to get destroyed any day now so why steward it for the future…
If the fruit destroys the hope of nations who live in darkness and are still waiting for a great light…

Then that is a tree of bad theology and it needs to be uprooted and replaced with a tree of hope.

At the end of the day, the world may seem to be getting darker and crazier.  But you know what?  He doesn’t stop being good.  He doesn’t stop being merciful.  He doesn’t stop loving.  He just appears more glorious in comparison.

And us?  We’re His ambassadors, remember?  We are His hands and feet, His body…His bride.

And we don’t get a pass.  His goodness is demonstrated through us.  His mercy is demonstrated through us.  His love and demonstrated through us.  We are salt, we are light.

We cannot afford to be cynical, bitter, sarcastic, malicious, or entitled.  Like, ever.

The world can’t help but sink into despair.  It has no hope without Him.  Good thing for the world that He’s still good.

In fact, He’s better than ever.

I want to live in the realm of the impossible.

I want to see what can’t be seen.

I want to hear what can’t be heard.

I want to do what can’t be done.

I want to do it all before breakfast and then again before lunch and twice more before dinner.  Then a few times before bed, just for good measure.

And no…I am not kidding.

I hate it when that happens.

I love the idea of dancing.  I love music.  I love music that makes me want to dance.  But the moment I start to move, my inner white girl joins my outer white girl and they somehow get their feet all tangled up and end up looking like they’re either brawling or having a seizure.  It’s not that I don’t have rhythm…it’s just that I can’t seem to express it through my body in any sort of reasonable fashion.

My second confession:  I wish I didn’t care.

I would like to be the first person on and the last person off the dance floor.  I would like to be the person who can’t stand still when music starts playing.  I would like to talk to God through dancing.  I would like to not be so bad at it that all the joy of the idea of dancing is squelched the moment I actually begin to do it.  I would like to simply not care a hoot just how I look.

I would like to be this guy, minus the speedo:

Ok, I’ll settle for not cardboard, sticks, or small rocks.

I made my way to the nut section (no wisecracks from the Sparky Nation, now!) and began scanning the shelves.  Can I just confess that I don’t really get commercial trail mix?  Why do people buy all these pre-made bags of stuff they could throw into a bag all by themselves?  It’s not like there’s a recipe, short of “handful of nuts, handful of raisins, handful of m&ms”.  If you feel like getting crazy, you add a handful of dried cranberries.  Variations on gorp is still gorp, folks.  I struggle to be impressed.

But I digress.

Anyway, scanning the shelves.  As I mentally rejected the 32 varieties of trail mix available, my eyes landed on a can of cashews.  I love cashews.  Cashews give me the kind of happiness usually reserved for a bird with a french fry, although truth be told, I’m equally as happy with an actual french fry, and probably more so if copious amounts of ketchup are involved.  But at the commissary it was the can of cashews that had my attention.

And that is when I noticed it:  The can of whole cashews was $3.00, a really great price.  A can of cashew halves and pieces was $4.58.  Same sized can.

At the time something about that set off a flare in my head, but my brain wasn’t absorbing it. But my mind kept returning to it.  The whole ones were $3.00, and the broken pieces were $4.58.

The whole ones were $3.00, and the broken ones were $4.58.

The whole ones were $3.00, and the broken ones were $4.58.

The broken ones were more expensive…the broken ones cost more…the broken ones were more valuable…

Oh.

People who think God doesn’t talk to them most likely need to re-tune their receiver.  As far as I can tell, He hardly takes a breath, He talks so much.  It’s just that I only receive a fraction of what He says because I’m too busy thinking about gorp and wondering why my elbow itches.

In a season where every turn has left me face to face with my own brokenness, I’ve at times become discouraged by the sheer magnitude of fixing I require.  The cracks, the scrapes, the chipped edges and flaking paint and missing handles…such a humble state compared to the loftier (in my opinion) condition of being flawless and shiny and shellacked and burnished to a gleam.

But He says that the broken ones are more valuable, and He put His Son on the line to prove it.

The sick don’t need a doctor.  The whole don’t need glue.  The found don’t need a rescue.  The broken ones cost more because they are more valuable.

I bought the can of whole cashews, though.  Fiscal responsibility and whatnot.

Be the change you wish to see in the world.

I believe this falls apart in American Christianity more than any other place.

It often seems that deep down we believe that someone else could do a better job of changing the world.  We get really excited about the idea of others being public about their faith, especially if we believe they are in a position of influence.  If someone on American Idol says they are a Christian or sings a Christian song, then suddenly the Christian community is all over it, mounting campaigns to keep that contestant in the running, even if their talent level is questionable, comparatively.  If someone in Hollywood professes faith, then suddenly those are the movies to see, the CDs to buy.  We love a good bandwagon in the American church.

And then there are the wistful “if onlys”.  If only Oprah Winfrey would become a Christian…if only Ellen…if only Derek Jeter or Beyonce or Ke$ha or Stephen Spielberg…or anyone we perceive has more influence than we do.  Of course, I believe everyone should meet Jesus and find out how awesome He is.  Not so they can then exploit their influence to the masses, but simply because I’m sure they’d just love Him if they gave Him a chance, because who doesn’t need some abundant life?

When Jesus came to earth, it wasn’t to the heads of government or the leaders of great schools of knowledge or the shiny popular kids.  He quietly slipped into the bottom layers of society—shepherds, fishermen, carpenters, prostitutes, and tax collectors.  He never seemed concerned that those people didn’t have a public platform that would reach far with one fell swoop.  He was content to let one life change one life…and then another, and then another.  He wasn’t intimidated in the least by the idea of changing the world from the bottom up.  In fact, it seems He set it up to work that way.

Servant leaders.

I believe it’s still a fabulous plan.  Each of us has a sphere of influence just waiting to be touched by a kingdom that supersedes the rules of this world and its systems.  That kingdom is in you.  Stop looking around at others and cultivate its reality.  And though that sphere of influence varies from person to person, there’s no such thing as one too small.  If it’s your sphere, you don’t get off the hook by playing small with your life and hoping someone you see as shinier will pick up your slack.  It’s yours.  It was given to you.

Don’t expect someone else to change the world.  You do it.

And maybe, just maybe, it will become a “more than you can ask or imagine” sort of experience.

Tonight I made my last contribution to Project Jubilee.  Back when I launched it in January 2012 with this post, I purposed that a certain amount of my personal earnings would be contributed up until my birthday in January 2013.  Though my birthday was January 21st, I’m just now receiving the paycheck that included those earnings.  Tonight they became the final contribution to Project Jubilee.

The original amount I set was based on the 2011 estimation of the cost of a rescue mission for someone (or maybe many someones) trapped in slavery.  But by the time the end of 2012 rolled around, that figure was out of date.  The original $4500 became $4750 for a standard slavery rescue, and $5070 for a sex trafficking rescue.  I was torn; so many people had helped me reach the original goal, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful because in truth I was thrilled.  But I also knew that though we’d technically met the goal, it would no longer do what I set out to accomplish.  And so with just a day or two left before my birthday, I did a shout-out on Facebook, wondering what would happen.  I knew I didn’t have anything more I could contribute before my actual birthday.  But in a matter of hours, the new goal was not only met…but surpassed.

And I was, and still am, awestruck, amazed, and humbled.

This was nothing I could do on my own.  I knew that going in.  I didn’t have $4500.  If God wanted this done, and I believed He did, then He was going to have to do something I couldn’t do.  And that is exactly what He did.

A year later I am still asking Him a lot of questions about how big of a check I can write in His name.  I’m not just talking about money.  When Jesus left the earth, He left humans in charge and promised to equip us to do everything that needed done in order to bring His kingdom to our everyday places and everyday lives.  He left us with an amazing amount of authority so that we’d do wildly wonderful things that defy the systems of this world.

I want to grab hold of the amazing so that I can do the wildly wonderful.

He constantly finds ways to make my knees knock.  Before I know it, I’m in a situation where the only thing of value I have to offer isn’t mine to fulfill, and I have to force myself to get out His checkbook and start writing.  All the while I’m mumbling (sometimes hollering) “ok, I’m doing this because You said I could and it’s in Your character to do it and I’m taking You seriously about this heaven-invading-earth business, and if You don’t show up and make good, we’re all sunk!  You’re my only hope in this actually happening!”

And pretty much every time I end up awestruck, amazed, and humbled.

He’s completely and totally amazing.

It was a rainy day and so I holed up inside.  I did some laundry.  I twinked around on the computer.  I finished a book.  I napped. I petted some cats. I did some personal housecleaning.  I did a little decorating.  I ate yet another grilled cheese sandwich for lunch.

There’s just something about grilled cheese on a cool, rainy day.

I wouldn’t exactly call it a day of rest.  I did some hard work today.  But it wasn’t a day of rush.  It wasn’t a day of the glorification of busy.  It wasn’t a day of striving.

These kinds of days are good for the soul.

We’ve had a lot of rain over the past few days.  I have to wonder if the earth is taking a nice long shower, cleaning up before the arrival of spring.  Within a few days I expect to hear the spring peepers begin squeaking their little hearts out in the swollen creek behind the house.

I don’t get many days where I don’t have to go out for any reason.  Nor do I get many where I can move at a restful pace.

But they’re glorious when they happen.