Bicycle Salvation

Growing up in a large family meant lots of things—lots of chaos, lots of bickering, lots of laughter and lots of hand-me-downs. Being the youngest in a large family meant that I was the prime target for most of the hand-me-downs in the Cooper house. Some of them were greatly coveted and cherished—like my sister Michele’s bell-bottom jeans with the patches on them or my sister Lee’s cassette tape deck I inherited when she went off to college. Some of the hand-me-downs were much less of a joy to receive—like the Dorothy Hamill haircut Michele and I sported for about 4 years in the early 80’s.

However, there were some things my parents knew needed to be “brand-new” if at all possible and my first bike was one of those things. I remember it clearly—we were living in Jacksonville, Florida at the time and I was 5 years old. For Christmas, I got my dream bike. It was everything I wanted—from the blue glittery banana seat with the white trim to the matching streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was perfect. Sigh. This bike was also the second scariest thing I had ever faced in my five long years on Earth. (The scariest event to that point was my first American Halloween—I dressed as Little Orphan Annie and sat in shock as my parents sifted through my American candy to make sure there were no needles in them. Talk about scarring.)

But anyway, back to my perfect bike. Sigh. I loved that bike and I loved it when my Dad (mutton chops and all!) pulled me into the church parking lot beside my house and taught me to ride my brand new bike. Sigh. I remember being so scared, but excited at the same time. I remember my Dad running beside me as I pedaled as fast and as hard as my little legs could. I remember the wind in my hair—this was WAY pre-helmet days—and the scenery passing by in a blur.

I also remember falling many, many, many times. And each time I did, my Dad came running over, gently brushed off the dirt and brushed away the tears, and put me back on the bike and ran along side me as I regained my confidence. I remember crying “Don’t let go, Daddy—I am not ready yet…” and sure enough, eventually he let go and I actually was ready. For about 15 feet. I’d crash land and then we’d start all over again.

Eventually 15 feet became 20 feet and 20 feet became forever. I can still hear my Dad yelling pointers at me as I rode circles around that parking lot. “Sit up straight!” or “Don’t run into that bush!” When I started to lose my balance and fall off kilter, he was always there. Helping. Soothing. And sometimes chastising me when I deliberately did something foolish. No matter how good at riding my bike I became, I still had spills and tumbles. But I took them in stride. Falling off is just part of the gig. But, Dad was only a shout away and always came when I needed help getting back on the bike and back on track.

Tonight I was at Lee’s house and having a discussion with Lee, my 16 year old niece Emily and my 14 year old nephew Nathan. We were discussing the sermon our pastor preached this morning on the second coming of Christ. Nathan, in a fit of frustration said, “I know! I know! Once saved, always saved… But how do you know if you’re really saved to begin with?!” And so began this journey. I tried to articulate to him that it’s just something you know… but the HOW part was coming up short.

On the drive home, I began to really ponder this conversation. HOW do I know that I really am saved and don’t just think I am saved because I am ticking all the right boxes? Church? Check! Bible reading? Semi-Check! Prayer? Check! Tithe? Uh…

Then it hit me. How do I know I am saved? I know because when I am riding this bike through life and I fall off, I hear that voice that says, “Jenny—don’t run into that bush!” I hear the voice of God encouraging me practice good form and sit up straight. I sink into the embrace of the Holy Spirit comforting me in my grief. I feel the hand of God when I feel shaky—as if my balance is so precarious that I could fall off the right path at any minute. And when I do fall off the right path and make sinful choices? I am chastised and brought back to the right path.

In all my ways and sinful dealings, I can always hear the voice of God calling me home and convicting me of my wrongdoing. It’s like learning to ride that bike—God’s there beside me, directing me and encouraging me. And when I fall off? I still know he’s there—pointing me in the right direction to get out of the mess I have fallen into and holding my hand all along the way. All I have to do is cry out to Him and He will be there. It’s because of that voice that convicts and chastises that I know.

And in that conviction and chastisement I find comfort.

IAMBUT's

In this culture of discontent, we often find ourselves unhappy because of things we cannot control, choices we’ve made or the circumstance we find ourselves in. I am a perfect example of that. You see, I suffer from the “IAMBUT’s.” It’s a very serious disease that I was made aware of by my college friend and blogger Jon Acuff. I am fairly certain it has reached epidemic proportions. (I have thought about calling the CDC to get exact statistics, but I am not sure if they give those out to just anyone.) We live in a world of instant gratification where a prayer to God--the Almighty, Creator of all life and knowledge, Lover of my soul--sounds more like a wish to the genie in the bottle rather than unadulterated praise and worship and where life is “what you make it” instead of what HE makes it.

If the truth be told, there are two different strains of IAMBUT’s going around. Not everyone has a terminal case of the IAMBUT’s. Like in many things, intent plays a huge role in how your IAMBUT’s are diagnosed. For example the moment I said, “I am a sinner but I want Jesus to be my savior” was the day I became His. Unfortunately, many people who suffer from the IAMBUT’s aren’t wishing for Godliness, eternal life or spiritual wisdom. We are wishing for circumstantial changes--job, relationship status, or physical appearance. We are seeking earthly happiness not eternal joy. I am living paycheck to paycheck but I want to win the lottery.

In my mental meanderings on this subject I have been thinking a lot about Job. If anyone deserved to have a justified case of the IAMBUT’s, it was Job. (I’d totally give him a free pass to wallow for a day, a week... However long he needed, really.) How easy would it have been for Job to say, “I am suffering but I want to be well.” Or even “I am trusting in God but I want this trial to be over.” But he didn’t. Job trusted that it would all turn out well in the end. No “ifs”, “ands” or “buts...”

That little word “but” in the middle of the sentence changes everything. You go from acknowledging who or where you are to imagining yourself as omniscient. Job seems to have understood that. He knew that through all his pain, suffering and sorrow he was where he needed to be, doing what he needed to be doing. He never once said, “IAMBUT” selfishly. He simply trusted. Oh to have the faith the size of a mustard seed...

We all to often forget that we are who and where we are for a reason, just as Job was suffering from famine, death and disease. God was glorified in all Job said and did. I wonder if God is glorified in my words and actions?

God designs our life--nothing in our lives is a surprise to God. We were fearfully and wonderfully made--and made with a purpose in His mind. God doesn’t make mistakes--even when I do. (Though he does reserve the right to discipline and shape me when I have those lapses.)

When I hear myself think, “I am single but I want to be married,” I may as well say, “I know better than you do, Jesus, so send that Christian hunk my way. Pronto.” I am making myself and my wishes a false idol at which to lay my disappointment, sorrow and discontent when things don’t go like I planned. And no matter how much my heart desires it and my actions will it, I will have the “IAMBUT’s” forever. Or at least until the the “I AM” is enough.

So here is my list of “IAMBUT’s” It is raw. It is real. But it is no longer enough. I am exactly where God wants me. (Right now it feels like the part of town you hesitate to drive through past sundown and never without the doors locked, but that’s OK.) So rather than harbor these shards of discontent in my life I am giving them up. Every minute of every day. Sometimes every second of every minute. And sometimes I will fail and pull them back off the table and nurture their bitterness in my heart because they are familiar and they are comforting. Until they cut and burn me. Again.

I am single but I want to be married.

I am flawed but I want to be perfect.

I am working in publishing but I want to be teaching again.

I am me but I want to be good enough.

I am broken but I want to be mended.

Today, I am giving up my “IAMBUT’s.” It’s scary. It’s nerve wracking. However, it’s what I am called to do.

"You shall have no other gods before Me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, or any likeness of what is in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the water under the earth.” Exodus 20:3-4

Cursors Taunt

I love to write. It's my secret passion. Not many people know I write. I wish I were better at keeping up with it. I am not. I can tell when I am emotionally in a bad place--I don't write. I hear something that triggers a thought and I sit in front of a blank screen and watch the cursor blink off and on--taunting me. It's like it's saying "Come on, you idiot! You THINK you're a writer... Well, you're not." And so I buy into it. And suffer from the biggest writer's block known to man.

So this is a terrible blog. I know it's a terrible blog. But you know what?! I need to write. Even when I don't feel it and even when I don't want to, I need to. I feel my soul withering up and I need to stop it. SO... Thanks for letting me write--even if it is writing. Terribly. Because it is--writing terribly. Ugh. But, first and foremost, it's writing...

The Prodigal Journey

This isn't my most recent writing--that one is next, but this is one I never posted and feel the need to post now...

We all know the story of the prodigal son—it is such a beautiful picture of God and of his unyielding love for us. He never stops waiting at the door for us to return. He always welcomes us home. He runs to greet us with open arms.

I cry just about every time I read that story. I love the simple beauty of it all. But as I was reflecting on this story today, I had a thought… What about the journey the prodigal son took to get home to his father? In the parable, recorded in Luke, Jesus doesn't tell us what happened between the pigsty epiphany and the reunion of father and son. It just says that the son got up and went.

So what was this prodigal journey like?

I have quite the imagination, so as I ponder this question, I have a mental image of the son, setting out on this journey, dressed in rags, weak from hunger, and in general, in bad shape. Knowing what I know about Jesus' day, I am fairly certain that there were no sidewalks for him to walk along, and he had to maneuver through roads that today would be called wild terrain. I imagine a "road" that was narrow, filled with rocks and animal manure, and probably with trees with thorns. Again—that could just be my imagination.

As he walked along this "road," (again, I hesitate to call it a road in our sense of the word) I think of him stumbling from weakness, and probably falling flat on his face on more than one occasion. His hair was probably matted with dirt (and who knows what else!) but he didn't care. No matter how many times he fell and no matter how terrible he looked, he kept putting one foot in front of the other out of hope, but probably surrounded by a little fear, too.

And when he finally got close to home, it happened. His father saw him, and ran to greet him. Again, my imagination runs away from me sometimes, but I imagine the son sagging into his father's arms. I see him collapsing, and relying on his father to hold him up. The journey was hard, and now that he is home, he is going to let his father take care of him—clothe him, nourish him, and give him rest.

The son in this story had strayed so far—so far, in fact, that I am sure he never thought he would see his father again. And there he sat in the mire and muck that is a pigsty. (Not that I would know, because let's face it, those of you who know me know that I would never end up in/near/around a pigsty.) And it hit him—the son thought, "I don't HAVE to be here. I have a perfectly good home with a father who loves me. What am I doing here?" So without a second thought, he got up and set out for home.

And here is where it gets hard. The journey for the son could not have been easy. The story doesn't say he saved up some money from his job, or that he went home and got provisions. It says he got up and went. No looking back.

And as I said earlier, I don't imagine the road home was an easy road. Each rock that caused him to stumble was a consequence for his choices. Each time he fell from weakness –that was a consequence. Each thorn that cut his flesh, each rock that cut his foot, and each ghost that whispered failure in his ear were consequences to be endured.

As I am walking my own prodigal journey, I am reminded of the consequences of my actions. Not just my sin, but my actions, too. Everything I do—each of my actions, has an equal and opposite reaction. (Shout out to Mr. Pace—my high school physical science teacher…) The journey that I face as I walk back to my Father is wrought with consequences—the consequences of my choices. Some of them are good—but some of them aren't. And like the prodigal son's journey, my journey will end with open arms.

I read a quote today that struck me. It was by, of all people, Leonardo DiCaprio. He said, "We're all after love, aren't we? Love is what people are hungry for." Love is what people are hungry for… I totally agree with that statement. But the love people are hungry for isn't on this earth—it is in the open arms of the father—waiting for my return from my prodigal journey.

Broken to beautiful:

Growing up in Korea had so many benefits. One was kimchi. For those of you who know what it is, you are in one of two camps. Camp 1: best food ever. Camp 2: who wants to eat fermented cabbage? How disgusting. Love it or hate it, it was a benefit. (Clearly I fall into camp 1!)

In order to make kimchi, you have to get these clay pots, called *drumroll* Kimchi pots. I know. Creative. They come in a variety of sizes, but all the same shape. They are shaped like a vase—narrow opening that bows out to its widest point, and then it comes back to a narrow bottom. Oh yeah, with a lid. They are sturdy—Korean’s make beautiful pottery called celedon. These kimchi pots are not in the same category. These pots are definitely function over form.

Anyhow, back to the point. As I grew up in Korea, kimchi pots were everywhere—from the side of the road, to the local market, to… you name it. But another thing that was prevalent was the broken shards of pottery we would find while playing outside.

One day when I was four or five, my friend Jason McCoy and I were hiking the mountain behind our houses. It was just something we did. We definitely grew up in a different time, different place! So there we were, hiking around, probably playing something like war. But I remember tripping and falling and cutting my hand on a broken piece of kimchi pot. I remember thinking, “Useless broken kimchi pot—get rid of it…” OK, so those might not have been my exact words, but you get the gist.

Fast-forward 25 years. Over the last 2½ years, God has brought me to remarkable highs—closer to Him than ever before. When I lived in Korea the four years previous, I took a little vacation from seeking God. I pretended to seek Him, but for the most part, I sought my own pleasures. (BTW, it didn’t work out for me so well…) When I moved back here, God got my attention—subtly, because that is whom He chose to be at that point. And steadily, over time, God brought me closer to him. And I loved it—every minute of it.

And then, I went and shattered it all. I have been making such unwise choices these last few months. I have broken my life—and my functioning into a million little pieces. Like that kimchi jar from my childhood, I feel useless, broken and disposable. Just throw me away.

You see, I keep thinking that I was created for one purpose—like that kimchi pot. And once broken, it no longer serves a purpose and should be gotten rid of. But my God—creator God, provider God, loving God, has other plans. Thankfully. You see, just because I started out for one purpose doesn’t mean that is my only purpose. I may have started out as a kimchi pot, but that doesn’t mean I will stay one forever. In fact, brokenness comes, no matter how well cared for things are.

I am offering up to God my brokenness right now. I don’t see any value in the shards of my life—my most recent purpose is broken, too. But God doesn’t see brokenness when he looks at me. He sees the potential for my next stage in life. He is taking the broken bits of pottery that I am crawling on my hands and knees to offer him—and it is all I have to offer him, and he is beginning to rearrange those bits.

No—I don’t look like a kimchi pot any more. I don’t know what I AM going to look like when He is done. But this much I know is true—whatever it is, I will be a new creation—just with a lot more character.