Obedient Fear

Obedient Fear

Do the thing that scares you

Look into the eyes of grace

And go where you dreamed on your darkest night

Do the thing that you haven’t been able to hear

For fears heartbeat pounding loudly in your ear

Are you where you want to be

Or sitting on your hands

Afraid of the clenched fist that they might become

Do the thing that scares you

Learn to love, with grace and forgiveness and trust

Do the thing that scares you.

And He who breathes heavenly hope into our hearts will not deceive or fail us when we press forward toward its realization. ~Streams in the Desert 3.26.~

Let me just say that 2015 has started off weird, not bad, just weird.  Namely I am sensing change is needed and realizing that most times that requires that I get up and do something about whatever is going on in my life.  Granted there are times life changes everything for you and there is very little you can do but hold on and enjoy the ride, but sometimes, sometimes the change most certainly starts when you confront that part of you that’s been scared of the great big what if sitting in the room.  And the following thought has been my diving board to the deep end of the pool.

Do the thing that scares you, the thing you look at wish could be apart of your resume of life.

I do not know how to quilt or really sew for that matter. Up until two weeks ago the last thing I had sewn of significance was a placemat project with my Aunt Ardene. I was trying to raise money for basketball trip overseas and hiring myself out for odd jobs. She decided it was time for me to learn to sew and that my first project would be learning the Lincoln log quilting pattern (it is every bit as ridiculous as it sounds).

(photo credit http://madlibster.blogspot.com/2013/05/alphabet-quilt.html)

Yup, that is it right there, each of those is a separate piece of fabric that has been cut out and then sewn together. I am pretty sure I heard brain cells exploding when she sat me down in front of the machine to start the whole thing.

Anyhow for each one of the completed squares (the above pattern is one square and mine were a little bigger) she would pay me $0.25, so basically it was the beginning of indentured servitude. I finished 4 squares, enough for one placemat (you are welcome Thompson family reunion) and then begged her for anything else to do, like scrubbing toilets. So she cut me loose and Melissa somehow got roped into doing the project and I decided that I would never ever sew again… ever.

Flash forward 15 years, I decided to try something that scared me quit frankly. You see Aunt Ardene was something of an artist, she painted with fabric, yes it was a blanket, a quilt, by all logical definitions, but art tends to defy both logic and definition, because it tugs at emotions that you were unaware of running beneath the still and silent surface. In the back of my mind I didn’t want to mess with memories happy, sad, or otherwise but I looked at my Mom and showed her some pictures of patchwork couches and said ‘Do you think we could do this?’

Do the thing that scares you.

What’s the worse thing that could happen, it wouldn’t look good? At least I could say I tried.

It is so easy to guard myself by the boundaries of things that scare me, it’s safe, I don’t get scars, you know those pesky emotional ones, especially when I stick only with what I know.

Do the thing that scares you.

It keeps echoing in my head, like a mantra I have been unaware of up until now because the pounding of my heart has been hiding this very simple truth, I am made of much more than I know.

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Father God, help my unbelief.

 

 

Ted Drews

I live in StL, I was born here, moved away while my parents did mission work overseas and have moved back ‘home’ and last night broke me.

I am not condoning the violence by any stretch of the imagination but this kind of out cry does not come from a place of feeling like a person is being heard. I can’t help but partially feel as though this is almost Jesus flipping tables in the temple begging his beautiful bride to pay attention to the brokenness I choose to walk by daily.

God is sovereign, He is not surprised by any of this. We have all been fostering this culture of fear, for crying out loud I am super guilty of it. I would rather put stamps in my passport to ‘dangerous’ countries that go to ‘that’ part of town. The fear permeates us all, it is our flesh, which means this ‘race’ issue belongs to us all, but there is hope, there is always hope.

Jesus called us all to something before He was lifted into the clouds, the ministry of reconciliation. First with our own hearts and then the world that surrounds. It is so easy to respond to anger with anger, so easy, but family how does that make us any different.

For me my frustration comes from a place of feeling helpless. For wanting to tangibly make a difference, but the heart of the matter is the broken heart and I cannot fix that. However I can boldly pray for the soil of hearts to be tilled and softened starting with my own.

Just like any mission field I must be obedient and faithful and hit the deck flat on my face and pray, plead and cry out with the broken for mercy and grace from the great healer, because He is steadfast and ever loving.

And my heart is broken, realizing there are parts of my own city I haven’t been willing to go to because I am afraid and in turn a whole mission field 10 miles north of where I lay my head at night to sleep has been ignored by me (if I am truthful I ignore the one on the other side of my driveway as well).

So for me this is where it begins and I beg those reading this to join with me because this is not just about the city that was once known as the gateway to the west. Please pray for your ‘part’ of town that you won’t go to because its not safe, then put your passport back in the sock drawer and go into your Ferguson. Our Fathers heart is broken, it is shredded for the broken and ours should be too. The command was always simple, Love (john15:9-17)

Father God, please forgive my unbelief.  Father God, help my unbelief.