Look Likes a Mountain to Me by Lorraine Triggs

One significant fact you need to know about me is that my roots reside in the flat landscape of Detroit. This is a city where major east-west arteries are called mile roads and run unhindered through the city and suburbs. This is a city where you get on Interstate 94 and actually go west, real west, to Chicago. We don't deal with mountains, no matter how high or tall they are.

My husband, on the other hand, is from the Golden State full of freeways and roads that constantly run into mountains or foothills (which still look like mountains to me). The news of a wildfire at Lake Elsinore takes me back to the first time this midwesterner went to California. 

I do have to concede that California's freeways are built well. They have to be with all those obstacles, but you can take the 215 to the 15 to the Ortega Highway and snake your way to San Juan Capistrano from where Mom lived. I had no idea what any of this meant.

But that's exactly what my husband, his mother and I were doing, snaking our way to San Juan Capistrano in my mother-in-law's sturdy American-made sedan. Mom lived in the "inland empire," which was acceptably flat, nestled between a couple of different mountain ranges.

As we were driving, the only issue I had on the otherwise beautiful drive was those mountains that loomed large on the horizon as we took an exit to to Lake Elsinore.

I looked over at my husband who was clearly enjoying the drive on California roads again. "Where is San Juan Capistrano?" I asked.

"On the other side of the mountain."

"How will we get there?" I, the innocent flatland native, asked.

"We drive over the mountains," my native California husband replied.

I was silent. What? Was this a joke?

It wasn't. And this was supposed to be fun.

My first car ride over the mountains was a mixture of terrifying drop offs (note: no guard rails on the sheer cliff side of the road) to breathtaking beauty of evergreen trees and flowers. 

The road wound back and forth and scaled the mountain. We climbed so high that the view of the desert valley was starting to look the same as it had from the plane when we flew in. At a certain point in the drive, Wil confessed, "When I first went on this road as a kid, I was terrified."

Gee thanks. I am sure I didn't say one word until we began our descent and didn't fully relax until we began what seemed like a gentle slope down toward the beautiful Pacific coast. Note: after we returned home, all Wil's aunts told me that they would never drive that "treacherous" road.

Sometimes my walk with God resembles the Santa Ana mountain range by Lake Elsinore and not the flat miles of roads of my childhood.

I know that I'm going someplace good.

But I look up at the looming mountain of anxiety and wonder how I'll make it to that beautiful destination. Or I'm traveling back and forth, climbing what seems like treacherously high ground. I know I'm just a few feet away from a cliff and sudden and terrifying crash-and-death.

"How will I get there?" I ask God.

Over the mountain, of course, with all of its terrifying moments and unfound fears. The road God gives us is not always flat, not the familiar and easily navigated roads I grew to love and trust as a child.

But I know at the other side and along the way is the breathtaking wonder of God's peace and its guard rails around my heart and mind, and the Spirit's whisper to look beyond the mountain cliffs to where my help truly comes—the One who made the mountains and will not let my foot slip.

I lift up my eyes to hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved. . . . Psalm 121:1-3

Wholehearted God by Kylie Hultgren

The Lord is righteous in all his ways and faithful in all he does—Psalm 145:17 (NIV)

I think a good way to describe me is scrambled. Not like the eggs, but then again, maybe that is a good description. I throw small pieces of myself into so many different places. A little segment to this friendship, a bit to this relationship, a small portion to this assignment and even smaller portion to this event. I find my work and my efforts half–hearted, or maybe even a quarter–hearted. Each task sucks out a sliver of me, and the reality is that nothing has all of me. I feel spread out, but spread only into these little pieces. Unfortunately, none of these bits and pieces accurately represent who I am as a whole.

What brought me to this eye–opening and heart–wrenching understanding of myself was a clearer understanding of who someone else was. I found myself eye to eye, breath to breath and heart to heart with the very One who embodies consistency and faithfulness. He puts his everything into what he does, and nothing he ever commits himself to is partial, half–hearted or mediocre. Yahweh alone is completely and thoroughly wholehearted. 

A few months ago, I began doing some calligraphy with ink. One of my favorite things is to make cards with certain Swedish sayings or verses on them. The words seem so foreign, yet perfectly normal all at the same time, and  I cannot help but artistically write them out. Full confession here: I don't know a lot of Swedish words or expressions without the help of the Internet or my Farfar (Swedish for "grandfather"), but as I was aimlessly searching the Internet, I discovered one of the most profound and  beautifully ornate words—“helhjärtad," translated into English as “wholehearted."

I clung to this little word, because it is often un-useful for us. The reason we find it un-useful is because no one quite seems to fulfill its high demands of reliability. The word "wholehearted" or “helhjärtad” carries with it a rare commitment, one that we humans do not comprehend or know how to live up to.

Even the word itself is connected and whole. I found this out the hard way because I initially wrote “whole” and “hearted” as separate words, only to find it's one word. Think about the words quarter-hearted or half-hearted. They are split up, disconnected and scrambled. We do not know what it means to be “helhjärtad,” because we are so busy being scrambled, so busy being busy, so busy being needed. But are we actually really needed? That is for another musing for another Saturday. But the question truly is, do we ever do anything wholeheartedly?

The term wholehearted is hardly ever used in our culture, because it would be extremely difficult to describe anyone as wholehearted. The more I try to tackle this concept in my own mind, the more I am brought to the feet of the triune God who is wholehearted in all of his ways. He does not partially heal, slightly remove sin or somewhat hear his people when they call to him. He is 100% attentive and 100% involved. He is a “helhjärtad” God, wholehearted in word and deed. Totally wholehearted in the way he not only approaches me, but also interacts with scrambled old me.

Post Cave Rescue by Wil Triggs

This week, various news outlets reported an update on the Thai boys cave rescue. Like the rest of the world, I waited, prayed and hope, so I was curious what was happening since the rescue.

Updates showed the boys, post rescue, participating in a Buddhist ceremony in which they would become novice monks. One BBC header said, “Thai cave rescue: saying sorry to cave spirit Nang Norn.” Again, BBC reported, “They will stay in different monasteries until 4 August meditating, praying and cleaning their temple. The length of time they will spend doing this—nine days—is a nod to a Thai lucky number.” The boys were dressed in white robes, heads shaved.

Many of the news pieces also reported that one of the rescued boys did not participate in the ceremony because he was a Christian. Those words leaped off the page. One of the boys…a Christian.

So, naturally, I got curious about who this one Christian boy is and here is what I found out.

A news outlet in Australia called him a hero, noting that he is “proficient in five languages—English, Thai, Burmese, Mandarin and Wa, a language spoken near the Myanmar and China border. It was his knowledge of English that was crucial because it allowed him to talk to the British rescue divers on behalf of the group when it was discovered nine days after becoming stuck. Adun provided clarity to the rescuers on how long the team had been in the cave and what they needed.”

How does a 14-year-old boy become proficient in five languages? Especially a boy news outlets described as displaced or stateless in Thailand. He is from a state in Myanmar (Burma) that is not recognized internationally or by its own government. Fleeing their home, his family took him to a school sponsored by Compassion International. Between his school and their journey away from their home toward a more stable and somewhat safe country of Thailand, he learned all those languages including the all-important English, that made it possible for the rescuers to communicate with the buried boys.

George Bednar, one of our pastoral residents, spent years in Myanmar, the country Adun and his family fled. So I asked if he had heard about the Christian boy.

Knowing of the ethnic group from which the Christian boy came, George explained that these “people are warriors. Fighters. Headhunters. They are small in number, but incredibly strong. They have fought for their survival against the Burmese to the south and the Chinese to the north. They are historically very aggressive and very stubborn. The fact that this boy is a Christian is nothing short of a miracle.”

He shared with me a Facebook post from a friend as the world waited and prayed for the rescue attempt. Here’s part of the post: “I learned today that many of the Buddhists and animists believe that this happened because a spirit that lives in the cave is unhappy with the team. They think that the team must have disrespected the spirit somehow, perhaps by not making proper offerings of food or other items. Meanwhile, one of the missing kids belongs to a Christian family…[the church is] gathering around this family, and they are singing and worshipping and praying together as they wait, not only encouraging the family but providing a testimony for others around them.”

After the rescue, instead of going to the monastery, Adun participated in a service of thanksgiving. At the service, they allowed him to speak, and here is some of what he said, “By the 10th night, we were losing patience, hope, physical energy and courage. We could not do anything to help. The only thing that I could do was pray. I prayed ‘Lord, I’m only a boy; you are almighty God, you are holy, and you are powerful. Right now I can’t do anything; may you protect us. Come to help all 13 of us.‘ And then I finished my prayer, thanking God for everything that happened to myself and my friends … all 13 of us.

“Thank you to everybody who prayed for me and the whole team,” Adun said. “Thank you to everybody that helped us, and the last thank-you [goes] to the Lord: Thank you God. God bless you all.”

Wow. Jesus—our Savior, worker of miracles, God of wonder. Instead of apologizing to a mountain and making appeasement to earn good merit (and good merit, as George comments, is “necessary for the Buddhist to have good luck today and in the next life”), we are blessed to give thanks to the living God and to Jesus, who appeased God’s wrath on our behalf for today and in the next life forever. He is the Savior who dove down from heaven to bring all of us out of the pit of our guilt and shame and sin. He rescues us and brings us out of darkenss into his glorious light.

In the coming days, Adun hopes to gain citizenship in Thailand. But, isn’t it wonderful the citizenship we already share with this boy.

In the Community, for the Community by Ann Classen

“In the community, for the community.” That's what my dear lifelong friend Sherry
came up with as we began our second walking loop around Northside Park. In our 30 years as friends and walking partners, we have literally walked somewhere just shy of 30,000 miles. I guess that means we have walked around the world together.

Of course, we solve the world’s problems as we walk, but we also seek to bring our thoughts and words under the Lordship of Christ and see them through the lens of the Bible. We have hashed and re-hashed Christian marriage, parenting (and its huge range of issues from babies sleeping through the night, rebellious teens to marriage), Christian versus public schools, social media, how to limit and monitor cell phone and computer use during high school, social media, pornography, grandparenting, colleges, sermons, books, podcasts, prayer, prayer requests, Bible study, local and global missions and the occasional decorating dilemma. These are a few of the issues covered. I did mention social media, right?

We often discuss College Church's ministries, local and foreign missions, and in particular, Twice is Nice Resale Shop. All the while contemplating how we can live out our faith in a way that makes a difference to people around us and bring glory to God.

It was during one of these conversations that we ended up talking about Twice is Nice and why we love it and how to communicate that love to others when Sherry came up with “in the community, for the community."

Twice is Nice (TIN) is one of two resale shops College Church owns and operates. The proceeds from TIN go to support the Outreach Community Center in Carol
Stream that's within a mile or two of where the store is located.

Outreach Community Ministries' (OCM) mission is to, “restore hope and provide opportunities for people to become all that God intends them to be; partner with the local church to put Christian faith into action through service to the community.” I am honored that my church, our church, College Church is partnering with OCM to provide opportunities for us to put our faith in action in the local community.

The Outreach Community Center (OCC) and TIN are located in southeast Carol Stream. This area has 7,000–plus people living in apartments. Of that figure, 55% are ethnic minorities and approximately 35% of these households live below the poverty line. Of the people Outreach Community Center serves, 88% are below the poverty line and are from 36 different countries.

This is our collective community—our Jewel, our Northside Park, our Home Depot and our schools. Your donations are wonderful and always welcomed, but
for Sherry and me, it’s our interaction with people in our community that matters.

Many of our customers are from the neighborhood and speak limited English; others are “resale junkies," antique dealers and bargain hunters who know that the proceeds go to OCM. We have a lot of regulars we know by name, whom we greet with a hug, offer counsel and pray together. We build relationships with court–ordered community service workers, the eight STARS who work in our
store, OCC summer interns and volunteers from church many of whom we never
would have rubbed shoulders with if it were not for TIN.

We also keep open eyes and ears and hearts for ways to connect the store to College Church, and to speak the name of Jesus and the hope of the gospel.

Come and volunteer or shop or donate. After all, Twice is Nice is in the community and for the community.

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. (Matthew 5:16)

A Pastor's Prayer by Wendell Hawley

On this summer Saturday, may we echo Wendell's prayer for needful grace. This prayer is from his book, A Pastor Prays for His People.

Most glorious God, God of compassion, God of forgiveness,
I need your presence,
Great Physician, I need healing.
    I am spiritually lukewarm
    and unbelief mars my confidence in trusting you—
    brokenness and repeated failure occupy my attention.
It astounds me that I continually try to battle life's issues on my own.

Sin makes me forget you.

Too long I have neglected the closet of prayer . . .
Too long I have forsaken the refreshment of your Word . . .
The cobwebs of indifference and the dust of life's cares choke my soul.
Broken relationships and shattered trust have prevented the health and
    healing of your Word.

But now—this moment,
I turn from absenteeism to the mercy seat.
I praise you for permission to approach the throne of grace.

Here, I pour out my confession of sin:
    neglect,
    pride,
    willfulness,
    arrogance,
    self-sufficiency,
foolishly questioning your providence.

Divinely sweep away my soul's clutter.

Pour down upon me streams of needful grace,
Engage my heart to live more faithfully for you.
Your presence alone can make me holy,
    devout,
    strong,
    happy.

I praise you for forgiveness—
    real,
    comprehensive,
    enabling.

Accomplish in me your eternal purposes, through Jesus Christ,
    my only hope, my only Savior.

Amen

Wendell's book is available at the Sunday morning Book Stall.

Unexpected Paths by Wil and Lorraine Triggs

We got in the car near dawn on the Fourth of July to head up to Door County for a long holiday weekend with family. We made it to Two Rivers, Wisconsin, before their parade, scooted past the parade barricades in Sturgeon Bay and turned on Highway 57 for the drive up the quiet side of the peninsula.

Strangely enough we hit traffic as soon as we got to Bailey's Harbor. We would drive for several feet; then stop; drive a bit; then stop. We grew bored admiring the town's festive red, white and blue decorations. It was 10 a.m. There shouldn't be any traffic at all on July 4.

Was there a traffic accident? Was anyone injured? How long of a delay was this going to be? People expect us to be at the cabin by lunch. We were a bit slow on the uptake.

We not only arrive in Bailey's Harbor at the start of its parade, but it turned out that we were also unwittingly somehow in the actual parade line-up with no idea of how we got there. So we did the only logical thing—we joined the parade. We unrolled the car windows, gave our then young son permission to unbuckle his seat belt so he could stand up, and waved and yelled, "Happy Fourth of July" to the crowds lining both sides of the street. We even had a little flag he started to wave as we sailed through town, no longer delayed. Instead, we breezed down Highway 57, no more stoplights or stop signs to obey. Instead, people cheered and waved back at us as we went.

Wouldn't it be great if all the unexpected events in life were as fun and carefree as our appearance in the Bailey's Harbor Fourth of July parade. Unfortunately, life just doesn't cooperate. The path zigs insteads of zags. The road winds dangerously close to the edge, where the drop-off is steep—not to mention that a fear of heights.

We want to control and rein in the unexpected and make the path zag, not zig and steer clear of that edge. When there is a delay in the road, we want to know why, how long it will delay and can't God just wrap it up quickly so we can move on? What's around the next bend in the path? How will we know if our son will ever return to the Lord? Why is Andrew Brunson still incarcerated in Turkey? Why does the news every day have to be so relentlessly partisan? Can we have a fall where Kids' Harbor is fully staffed with grown ups by the middle of August?

The answer is the same to all these questions: we can't know. Not on our own. Not right now. And when our path takes yet another unexpected turn, we will trust God to make the path straight or we will cling to him even when it's not.

Though life doesn't seem to cooperate, maybe it does more than we realize. Maybe the hand that guides us through whatever is unseen up ahead or going on right now really is the kind, loving and nail-scarred hand of Jesus. Do we really believe it?

If so, Lord, open our eyes to see. Open our ears to hear. Help our voices to sing words of faith for whatever God has for us today. Give us courage to speak of Jesus to people we drive pass in the resurrection celebration that turns out to be not an accident, but a parade.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us ride in the celebration parade that is set before us.

Memorizing the Mississippi by John Maust

Driving west on I-90 toward Minnesota, I looked forward to crossing the bridge over the Mississippi River. 

I always thrilled at that great expanse of water, and this time Elsa and I enjoyed the sight a bit longer when we stopped for a picnic lunch in a rest park on the west bank of the river.

A massive barge loaded with grain or coal passed heading downriver as we munched our sandwiches and chips, and I found my thoughts turning to Mark Twain’s classic Life on the Mississippi. 

Twain recalled how every boy his age in Hannibal, Missouri, longed to become a steamboat man on the Mississippi. The time came when Twain, as a young man, got his chance. A riverboat pilot, Mr. Bixby, promised to teach him the river from New Orleans to St. Louis for $500, payable out of his first wages. 

Twain thought it would be a snap. But when he saw the pilot navigating past trees, snags and other vessels even in the pitch-black night, also docking at places not even visible, he wondered if there might be more to this than he thought.

As they traveled Bixby named aloud the different points along the river, and at one point he asked Twain to repeat some of them. Twain couldn’t. An irritated Bixby asked Twain why he thought he was naming all those places.

“Well to—to—be entertaining, I thought,” Twain stammered.

Hearing this, Bixby erupted in a continuous stream of colorful language that lasted until he was spent and “you could have drawn a sein through his system and not caught enough curses to disturb your mother with,” Twain recalled.

Then Bixby said in the gentlest way, “My boy, you must get a little memorandum-book; and every time I tell you a thing, put it down right away. There’s only one way to be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart. You have to know it just like A B C.”

As Elsa and I finished our lunch, I tried to imagine, What would it be like, how could it be possible, to memorize the mighty Mississippi River? But Twain ultimately did, or at least a long section of it.

What if we took to learning the Bible like Twain did the Mississippi?  It’s a long river of a book, but it is God’s Word and our guide for navigating through life without crashing and sinking on the snags and shoals of our own sin. Why not learn it “just like A B C,” taking notes, seeking application, even putting portions to memory?

This summer let’s devote ourselves to more concerted study of Scripture—not to entertain ourselves, but to know better the One who created all things, including the Mississippi, and to more faithfully serve His Son our Savior.    

“There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells” (Psalm 46:4).

Manna Gathering by Kylie Hultgren

“The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.” (Psalm 16:5–6)

I’ve discovered I tend to be quite similar to squirrels when it comes to anticipating winter. I always seem to expect a dry season to spring on me and catch me off guard, requiring me to fight back. I am constantly storing up in anticipation and fear of loss. Just in case my car breaks down, how much insurance should I have? Just in case I forget something on my schedule, I should constantly be checking it. And as silly as it sounds, just in case my favorite piece of clothing suddenly is out of stock, maybe I should just buy a few extras.

It sounds ridiculous, but I can be so paranoid about loss, that I neglect the One from whom my next moment is given. I somehow get into this mindset that it all depends on me—I am the hero of my own story. Just in case tomorrow brings extra troubles that can’t be accounted for by the One who saved me from the destructive pit and sustains my life, I better collect enough manna.

By golly, doesn’t this sound just like the Israelites during their desert wanderings. Sometimes we claim that we must make Scripture relevant or applicable to our today, and I do this without any effort or alteration in my quest to be like the Israelites. Hypersensitivity to loss and destruction is ingrained in us, and that means the battle against “manna hogging” must take place daily.

In Exodus 16:4-5, “the Lord said to Moses, ‘I will rain down bread from heaven for you. The people are to go out each day and gather enough for that day. In this way I will test them and see whether they will follow my instructions. On the sixth day they are to prepare what they bring in, and that is to be twice as much as they gather on the other days.’” (NIV)

Manna gathering is a daily process, receiving just enough of the bread God provides, and trusting that the next day will rain down blessings of its own. We get in a sticky situation of distrust and fear when we try to store up for tomorrow what is only meant to sustain us for today. Do you believe that the Bread of Life will give you himself and enough manna bread, too?  Perhaps it’s time I stop putting him to the test and let myself and my trust be tested, just like the Israelites I am so fond of imitating.

Charles Spurgeon addressed this worry in Morning by Morning: “When a man is anxious he cannot pray with faith; when he is troubled about the world, he cannot serve his Master; his thoughts are serving himself. If you would ‘seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness,’ all things would then be added unto you. You are meddling with Christ’s business, and neglecting your own, when you fret about your lot and circumstances… Be wise, and attend to obeying, and let Christ manage the providing” (354).

Our job is to follow Christ in obedience, not anxiously store up for what we fear might happen tomorrow. We have no clue what will happen tomorrow, but we can count on it to be good and from God’s good hand.

Recently, the Lord has been telling me that goodness is in store. I asked him, “What kind of goodness?” I wanted the specifics. He responded by saying, “The king of all goodness and mercy will be on the throne. You will be found worshiping at his feet.” 

Now that's what I can count on for tomorrow. So, I drop my basket of manna and open my hands in expectation of what is to come.