Shattered Ruby Glass

My heart shattered into millions of pieces this week. Spring rains had been the heaviest on record, raising the water table level. A subterranean well flooded in the night, spewing geysers of water against the fragile dam. It was built of ruby red crystal and couldn't stand against the onslaught. Rather than developing a crack that widened, it exploded into ruby shards.

I was caught in the swirling waters, slung into the river's chasm, and thought I would drown. The whitewater rapids yanked me under until the very last second, when I surfaced for a gulp of air before being shoved under again and dragged down the river. Over and over again, I'd find a breath, then submerge again. Each time I'd come up above the waves, I'd search downstream for the end of the rapids, but only after I gave up on it did I enter a calmer stretch. As I did, Jesus waded in alongside me and strapped on the lifejacket of grace. He arranged the back part to cradle my head above the water, then put on his own lifejacket and took my hand. He floated with me into a quiet eddy. I could see slivers of ruby glass settling to the bottom as they washed along.

In that safe place, I cried into Bo's shoulder and said, "I feel like somebody died. Somebody I loved a lot."

We must have floated all night, but I'm not sure because I fell asleep. I woke on the shore in dry clothes. I could tell the sun was fully up because of the golden glow all around, but whatever the view, it was obscured by a fog curtain. I could make out the basic structure of the landscape--large, mature trees and boulders--but that's all. I didn't know what to do, so I sat on a rock with a smooth place on top. I propped my chin in my hand and thought about what had happened.

Somebody had died. It was the old Kathy and the old "normal." She was familiar and comfortable, but she was gone now. I realized in the morning light that grieving over her loss was a lot like crying when your 100-year old Christian mother dies. You know she's gone to heaven and that she's whole and well, maybe for the first time in years, and that you're happy for her. But you miss the familiar. You miss her companionship, even her physical presence. So you cry.

The old Kathy was a companion I loved. She was familiar and I had grown used to having her around. I don't know the new Kathy yet. The fog hasn't lifted and I can't really find her. I'm sure I'll like her, but she'll take some getting used to.

The last thing I remember about that monrning on the shore is glancing over toward the water's edge. Littered all along the beach were pieces of shattered ruby glass.

Burned Up Prayers

One night last week I had a weepy crisis moment feeling damaged, broken, and ugly. The next morning, my Bible reading took me to Ex. 29. This is where the Lord began His earnest work on me.

Actually, we need to begin with Exodus 28 and the role of the priest. He bore the names of the tribes on his shoulders before God. But he also wore them over his heart. He carried them before the Lord. He carried the judgment in the ephod. He bore the judgment of the people as we would "bear a burden" for someone in prayer, but in a deeper sense. It was almost as Jesus bore our judgment on the cross. The priest wore a sign that said, "Holy to the Lord" on his turban. He bore the iniquity of the holy things of Israel. He was their intercessor for holiness and it all came back to him. The buck stopped there. He was responsible for the people.

I have taken my freedom as a priest in Christ much too lightly. It is a grave, life-or-death responsibility. Not just for me, but for those on whose behalf I intercede. It was Aaron's life-time calling and must be mine.

It was also a thing of beauty to behold and a delight to hear. Aaron wore a beautiful robe with tinkling golden bells on its hem. I want my life to be beautiful and sound delightful--like tinkling golden bells to the ears of God.

How can that happen? What needs to happen in my life? I read chapter 28 the morning preceding my crisis night. The next morning brought me to chapter 29.

The anointing of the priests involved sprinkling blood on them and their beautiful robes. Every time they put them on, the blood stains reminded them of the holiness of God. Then the altar was anointed and every offering was burned as a sweet aroma to the Lord. A morning burnt sacrifice and an evening burnt sacrifice. My prayers are that sacrifice. But have they ever been burned up before? Have I ever gone through a fire hot enough to burn up my prayers? No, and that is the part of the "refiner's fire" I missed.

In our "Christianese" language, we talk about "dying to self" and all, but I wonder, are we willing not merely to die, but to be consumed by fire for God's enjoyment? The sacrifice on the altar of the tabernacle was killed, quite dead. But that wasn't the end. It was then burned up. Consumed by the fire of God for His pleasure. This was what produced the sweet aroma to the Lord. I have never been to the place where I was willing to be consumed before.

The altar area of the courtyard was a place of death. A dead, burned carcass is an ugly sight. The only beauty was found in the stunning attire of the priests--blue, purple, scarlet, precious stones and gold, tinkling bells. All spattered with blood stains from the anointing ceremony.

What has to be burned up? All physical traces of the sacrifice. The only things I have to offer, the things I've held as precious, are really dead carcasses. Only as I allow God to burn them up do they gain any value--that sweet aroma. Every physical thing that brings me pleasure must be presented on the altar. All my physical attributes that I prided myself on, my good figure, my healthy, fabulous hair, will be taken from me. I never thought I had a pretty face, but that's all that will be left. Every physical comfort is being destroyed by chemotherapy. My body will die from the inside out. I will become the priest and the sacrifice and my prayers will ascend through fire almost literally. At this point, there is no beauty except what God makes of it. The only beauty I'll have will come from my priestly robe. The gorgeous, blood stained robe that signifies who I really am.

If I don't put on that robe, there will be nothing but ashes left of me. My only choice, my only desire now, is to wear that robe. To be found covered in blood stains and offered up as a sweet aroma before my Lord. Consumed for His glory.

How will I live that out every day? What will it look like? I have no idea. I have no further plans of my own.

Before I started chemotherapy I was terrified of it. If I think about the science of the process too long even now it sort of freaks me out. But I was so gripped in the four days I had between being told I would have it and the first treatment by fear and terror that it was hard to think of anything else. The dream I had of walking toward hell certainly opened my eyes to the suffering Jesus went through--especially as the time drew nearer for Him to go to the cross and then into hell to conquer it.

But the truth behind it escaped me even then. Ever since God created people, He has been consumed by us. Everything He has ever done has been geared to our redemption. Every plan, every action, everything He even thinks about is for our good. I've always known the Bible teaches that God loves us, loved us first, and that's why we love Him--because He first loved us.

But the reality of God being consumed by us really escaped me until now. When I realized I was willing to be consumed by God simply for His pleasure, I still didn't understand what a small thing that really is. After all, Jesus was consumed for me. And thoughts of me consume His time now. How else could He "ever live to intercede for us?"

So it must play out like this--I will ask myself every day, "Are my thoughts consumed by Jesus? Are all my words and actions consumed in praise and glory of Him?" If the answer isn't yes, I'm still just a dead carcass.