Chosen

But you are a chosen people,

a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God,

that you may declare the praises of Him

who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.

1 Peter 2:9

 

 

Life has been a whirlwind of cross country meets, orthodontic appointments, replying to Craigslist adds and home school lessons. The impending threat of cold weather on the horizon has us living in limbo between hoping that we might actually be able to get the house moved and enjoy a lake view before snow flies, or being content to settle in for another long winter at the farm. That wouldn't be so bad either as this old farmhouse is well insulated and has a wood stove to boot. Compared to a the new/old farmhouse we're looking at, with probably next to no insulation, we might appreciate being here come January.

 

But our hearts are already at the new place, stolen by the peace that envelops us every time we visit. Alexis reminds me that it probably has more to do with not having a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes rather than the place itself fulfilling us. Yes, my wise young lady, probably so. All we have to do at the new property is to lounge on the discarded lawn chairs and gaze at the lake view.

 

We've never had to wake up there to the realization that has become our life for the past two and a half years. The battle has not had to be conquered yet on that soil to call God's ways right and perfect, to call death a lie, to force truth to reign over emotions. The enemy has not prowled there, seeking to destroy with the thousand-and-one reminders of a son whom we long to be where he used to be. The woods hold no memories that cause a flood of tears, no overgrown trails that are too painful to walk. There is no dining room table to recall where salvation took place, no empty desk full of school books that were intended to be finished, no empty wall where a near-teen-age boy used to lie in his bed waiting for a kiss good night.

 

I allow the thoughts to twist with their torturous pain, ripping through my heart. Wallowing in them. Knowing the hurt on an intimate level. Knowing there is nowhere to escape it. It consumes as it threatens to choke out any hope.

 

"But you are a chosen people," Peter wrote so long ago. "A royal priesthood, belonging to God, to declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light. Once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy." (From 1 Peter 2:9-10)

 

My mind wrestles with the chosen part. Going back to the beginning of First Peter, the apostle says that we are chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father. A God whose ways are higher than mine, higher than the heavens are from the earth.

 

Chosen, then, to suffer. Chosen to endure grief. Chosen to extol the glory of God through a trial I cannot endure on my own. Chosen to be refined by the fire. Chosen to sort where my affections really lie. Chosen to have my eyes pointed heavenward. Chosen to lose all in this life for the hope of the next. Chosen to be poured out. Chosen to reveal absolute weakness for Christ's incomparable strength to shine through. Chosen to know a taste of God's agony, to know what it is to give up a son. Chosen by a God who is faithful and true.

 

Chosen, so that above all, I would be granted the power to be able to declare the praises of Him who called me out of darkness into His wonderful light.

Daring to Draw Near

 



Again on our home school schedule, right at the top, is the daily requirement of Bible and prayer. It has been there as long as there has been a school schedule in our unscheduled lives. But this year I have chosen to torture the children and really require that they pray. Not just crossing it off the list, or quick praying before we eat, or passing the prayer basket, but to dive deep into conversations with the Almighty. To make it worse, they have to do it sitting next to their brothers and sisters. And, harder yet, most of them aren't saved.

The pull came out of a personal desire, a need for an accounting in my own prayer life which has leaned more towards the Jonah side: fleeing from God rather than drawing near. Numbness is easier than the constant tears, so I've chosen that route rather than bowing before my Creator; traded wooden floors and humbleness for a comfortable recliner and cup of coffee. Mornings are hard enough. Conquering the flesh, getting to gratitude for a son in Heaven before my feet hit the old wooden floor has been something that I've too easily passed over. And, because of that choice, find myself heading straight towards apathy. Holding God at arm's length rather than daring to draw near.

Personal prayer with God alone is powerful, but as Scripture says, where two or more are gathered Christ is there as well (Matthew 18:20). Corporate prayer breaks down walls that we easily hide behind when our eyes are wide open, and especially when we live together twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with no escape from each other than the occasional cross country practice. Our battle weapons get dull when we don't refuel with honesty and by drawing deep from God's well. My greatest desire is to see God glorified through my children, and that will only happen when my children are truly satisfied in Him, so I have set off on a determined effort to train them up and give them the daily habit of authenticity before their maker.

Have you been there? Real, raw, spiritually naked before God?

Lately I find myself not even needing to tell God my heart, not faking the hurt, because He knows. The searcher of hearts knows. My sister reminds me that I am right where He wants me. Right now I don't like where He wants me and He knows it, so there is no point of denying it. Not in anger pointed at God, but honest, lay it all out on the alter, sort it out, hash it out for the ten-thousandth time until joy in God's plans becomes my honest joy. But the majority of that starts with prayer. And prayer is hard work.

After the giggles around the kitchen island, God lead the kids and I to begin our prayer session with acknowledgement of who He is. As children who have been raised in church events their whole lives my kiddos know how to start and end prayer. "Thank you God for this, and heal so-and-so, amen." How pathetic. They know they're not saved and God knows that they're not saved. We think we fool Him. We think those piddly prayers honor Him. But He says that He hears the prayers of the righteous, that honesty is what He desires, that only those with faith please Him (James 5:16; 1 Chronicles 29:17; Acts 17:11).

So we started at the beginning: Who is God?

We all thought we knew. But when our answers are only based on what Scripture says about who God is, it starts to put things into perspective. Eyes closed, five voices getting solemner by the moment, claiming the claims of Jesus Himself. Rather than starting prayer with "thank you" we started with acknowledgement. How hard that proved to be, to break our own rote prayer style that has been acceptable to our lazy selves for so long.

That prayer session revealed much- our doubts as well as our own self righteousness. Pride boiled near the top, but sweet voices longing for eternity were mingled in as well. Prayers spanning between an eight year old boy to a forty year old tired mother revealed where our hearts really are.

Day two brought the discovery of a book on the shelf of our home library by John White called Daring to Draw Near. It is full of insights on prayers that are recorded in Scripture and how God is revealed through them. Not a how-to-pray book, but a peek-at-God-through-prayer book. What an amazing concept: to turn prayer into being about God rather than about us!

If my children can get past the torture concept, past the giggles, and God chooses to reveal Himself to them as they dare to draw near His throne I will give them all A's. And God, Lord willing, will have created a few more powerful warriors for His kingdom.

When Hope Survives

 

CreateSpace has been my friend this summer. They have this wonderful feature where you can get a proof copy of your un-finished manuscript printed for about $5.00, cheaper and easier to handle than printing nearly two hundred pages on my archaic printer. I have been plugging along on my devotional, When Hope Survives, grappling with concepts like this revelational thought that popped into my most recent pity party:

We look here for temporary substitutes to replace God

which ultimately only bring discontent, depression and despair.
 

The pitiful things that I replace Jesus with condemn me in themselves.
 

Real joy is found only in God.

The key to joy, then, is to look to Him alone.

Not exactly what I've been doing lately. Hence the reason why writing the theological parts for the book might be a bit of a struggle right about now. The cloud of discontent, worry and grief have overruled lately.

The recent triggers: a little brown leather ball and a different seventh grade boy in a white and purple jersey. Another home school year with only four names on the schedule again. Those baying dogs in their boxes in the back of the old beat-up hunting trucks that continue to pass by on our quiet road. The next fifty years of my life to look forward to with everyday beginning with the thought that my son is not here to enjoy them with and battling to sing the praises of God for that. Fighting my flesh to call this good, seeking God's ways rather than mine, reminding myself to rejoice in the blessing of suffering.

Some days I honestly can rejoice. I am able to keep my focus on eternity, realizing the gift of having my eyes opened to it. Looking around watching so many people living carnal lives, only desiring the next recreational excursion or new toy rather than looking forward to Christ's return when we will marvel at Him, when His glory will be revealed, when our souls will be fulfilled in His presence, when the accounting of our lives will be reckoned and the grace of God will be shown for how it carried us. The gift of suffering becomes clearer, then, as I realize that it brings with it the desire to focus on eternity.

The book is still a long way off from being worthy of publishing, even self publishing. I pray for the words to write, but fear writing them at the same time. To attempt to permanently describe God, a black and white representation of the Almighty... it's a scary thing. I tread upon the responsibility with great respect and patience.

But then at the same time I feel the need for it to be finished. Now. I see the desperate need for a reminder of hope. I see grieving mothers, friends, and people I've never met (besides myself) needing to be redirected back to the promises of Scripture, back to Jesus, back to the gospel, back to the source of joy. Not just for those grieving a child, but those walking any road of suffering. Trials consume a person. Blinders need to be removed so that hope can shine forth. The truths of God penetrate the darkness.

So I continue to pick up the proof copy, continue to edit, edit, edit and wait for the perfect words to flow when it's God's time.

A Bit of Advice

There is probably a good reason behind the old adage about those who are grieving, the ever popular response of, "I don't know what to say, so I won't say anything." Even as a grieving mother I stand guilty as charged. Too often I have kept my mouth shut, too, because there really aren't any right words to say. But to all the Christians out there, let me offer my advice on what truly not to say:

*Don't turn the grief back to personal emotions, instead turn it to Christ.

*Don't wallow with said mother in the now, but rather, change her focus towards the glory to come.

*Don't discredit the feelings, but point out that they are feelings; point out the truth of Scripture, the truth of eternity, the truth of Jesus.

*Feel free to give that poor, unsuspecting, grieving mother in the midst of her pity party a good, swift kick in the behinder. I have a sister who is very good at this, and very unafraid to do it. Wham! "Get over it! Open your eyes! Heaven is a far better place to be. Jesus saved your son, He even showed you that He saved your son. Get out there and fight for more souls."

*Then let that poor blithering mother melt into a pile on the floor right before your very eyes until her tears stop. And next week, do it all over again.

***********************

 

To all those who have been brave enough to point me back to Christ in this trial,

my unending thanks

Without Fault

 

To Him who is able to keep you from falling

and to present you before his glorious presence

without fault and with great joy.

Jude :24

I've been sicker than a dog all week. Another splendid side of grief I am finding. Even two and a half years later my body's resolve to fight anything other than the constant barrage of spiritual and emotional attacks is low. Illness strikes with a vengeance and sends me to bed, or the doctors office, more often than ever, revealing yet again another result of the curse of so long ago. Being in bed, feverish and hacking away, leaves the household to go awry. I made an attempt to rule from under the three quilts I was huddled under, but it just wasn't the same.

At the low points seems to be when God moves. The weakness that the apostle Paul so often talked about is where glory shines the brightest through our lives. I hate that weakness. I hate the face-to-face honesty that is found in it. Total dependence on something outside of myself. The tears flow too freely as well as the first ammunition of protection: anger. Stupid this and stupid that, until I only have God left to accuse. Stuffing is the wadding over the cannon ball that eventually ends up exploding, so I try to balance it all. But then there are the tears; too many tears. The headache kind of tears, the smearing all over your face and sopping wet t-shirt kind of tears. It's unbelievable where they all come from and what simple things they come over.

I said goodnight to Rob last night. He looked at me strange. "What did you say?" he asked. Just goodnight. "I thought you said 'Goodnight Trent.'" The look, after twenty-four years, after two years, the look before the tears. I remind myself that eternity is going to be a long time. I pray for all of my children, for all those God has given me to love, that they would be there. That they are those who have been called and loved by God, that they have this testimony in their hearts.

Sin weighs heavy in these weak moments as well. It blares its resounding siren in my soul, reminding me of the depth of depravity that I am capable of. Revealing the expanse between sinful me and a perfect, holy, glorious God. An expanse so wide that one slip may be all it takes to turn that love into eternal separation. How I wander so easily from the promises I am not sure. Fear maybe, or too many voices echoing over the years. A healthy respect of a glorious God who isn't kidding, perhaps.

"To Him who is able...."

The words penetrate the pain. "To Him who is able." My eyes have been looking the wrong way again. This is not a performance test. This is not about me. None of it. It is about revealing God. Revealing Him who is able, Jesus Christ.

In this weakness God's word has gone forth. I have noted since the beginning of this grief journey that when the word of God, especially the gospel, is being poured out is when the attacks seem to hit the hardest. I should not be blindsided by the connection anymore, but I still am. Trent's story, or rather, God's story of Trent's life, has been shared umpteen times these past couple of weeks in various ways. As a mother, as a vessel of God, as a spokesman for His gospel, I press on to share it with as many as possible. God makes it too easy sometimes. As I wallow in my pity party in bed, He is doing glorious things through words that He ordained to be wrote many months ago.

He is able. Yes, Jesus is able.

The next part of the verse, "able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy" covers every false whisper of the enemy. I just finished reading in 1 John 2:1b-2a, "But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense- Jesus Christ the righteous one. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins." The combination throws a powerful punch. Combined with John's encouragement that belief in Jesus Christ promises the reality of eternal life brought more tears. Always tears these days.

Tears over the washing of my own sins that I have no excuse for before a holy God, but more so, tears to realize that Trent has been presented before the glorious presence of God, escorted by Jesus Himself. Brought before Him without fault and with great joy.

A few months after Trent's accident the thought terrorized me that when we die we immediately face judgment, not the refining fire of judgment of our works that Paul describes in First Corinthians 3:12-15, but the salvation judgment of Hebrews 9:27 where we stand before God face to face to give account as to what we did with the testimony of His Son, Jesus Christ. I long for a glimpse into this eternal realm where sins are as if they never were, where justice comes through scarred hands, where the Savior died for His very creation. To understand glory. To look upon it, unblemished. Ushered into the very courtroom of God with great joy. The thought of my son having walked that walk overwhelms me.

The pressure seems to continue that it's time to get over with grieving. But I never want to get over longing to be where my son is, longing for heaven, longing to be where there is no fault, no sin, no fear. The privilege of being given this suffering is to be able to share the hope of the Savior who made the promises. I battle to hold on to it above anything else in this world that so easily consumes. I strive to keep my eyes heavenward. To live seeing eternity as a reality, not a distant possibility.

The illness, the pain, the weakness, the intense grief of a mother's breaking heart are the necessary requirements for revealing the facade of what surrounds us. They all point toward what really matters: eternity. Eternity and where we will be found before this glorious God when we arrive there.

To the only God our Savior be glory,

majesty, power and authority,

through Jesus Christ our Lord,

before all ages now and forevermore!

Amen

Jude :25

 

 

To Beat a Dead Horse

Victory. Today I had a taste of it. The relief of immense pain, a glimpse of the hope to come, laughter and smiles. I wake up now and my immediate thought is no longer that Trent is in heaven. My immediate thought lately has been "why is that bird singing at 5:45 a.m. again?" At night I make the choice between sweltering hot or a morning solo, shutting out the cool breeze or leaving the window open. Most nights I've chosen the heat. After a couple of swipes at the snooze button I realize I am awake and thinking about the events of the day: kids to get on that big yellow school bus, chores that need to be done, which rows need to be weeded in the garden....

I realized tonight that I wrote those words over a month ago. Then I realized that it's been nearly as long since I've written anything authentic. Stuffing has been the menu choice of the emotions as of late. I am feeling worn-out in this grief journey by other people's opinions. Or, rather, my opinions of what I think other people's opinions are. I can't stomach the game of small talk anymore. To bring up your dead son, or not bring it up, is exhausting. And I'm just plain tired of processing this. Tired of it all, actually. Of always hurting. Of always trying to theologically sort everything. Always defending. So I've just kind of shut down.

And attempted to go through the motions of living.

I literally look up every once in a while and force myself to remember Trent's presence in our home. I hate it that I can hardly conjure it up. Where he sat- the seat is not so empty anymore. Seeing him lying on the living room floor in his sleeping bag for movie night. The open wall where the bunk bed used to be. The hand on my back. Him asking for Mom. Kickboxing. Smiling. Kissing and popping noises. That giggle that always made you laugh with him.

That's why I stuff. If I don't, the avalanche of tears begin. Instead, I steadfastly resolve to wait for eternity. When I look around, I go insane. I am tired of reading theological fluff of people who have never suffered. The actresses rendition of Corrie TenBoom tonight in the Hiding Place movie spoke my heart. I hate this, too. Please, Jesus, please carry this when I can't.

Those pictures. I forced my children to smile. Literally forced them. It cost them an extra weeks worth of chores plus cleaning out the barn. Their rebellion for not wanting to take pictures without their brother either. One obedient child, who's heart showed even as she plastered on the smile, broke down afterward. Sometimes this feels like too much. Too much to ask of a mother.

The lies are so subtle: this isn't worth it, there is only the bottomless pit of the pain that the hand of God won't reach so far or stretch so wide or hold so much. Give in. Let go. Quit yapping about all this Jesus stuff.

If I would only run to Him.

And quit fearing man.

Clenching to the Word. Waiting patiently. Loving the promises instead of doubting them.

Satan likes to mock Christ's saints. I see him dancing around Jesus in the gospels, tempting, taunting, so alluring.

Back to the word. Back to the truth. Standing solid.

One day every knee shall bow, every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord. One day it will be made right. One day eternity will begin.

I'm not remembering that victory of a month ago tonight. God has been teaching me weakness instead. Showing me a taste of just how weak I am. Making it all be by only His strength. Pitifully, I still fight. Wanting to be the strong one, strong enough to endure anything. Stubborn and bullheaded, instead of submissive and patient. My head is about bloodied beyond recognition for how many times I've beat it against His sovereignty.

He holds me in the end. When I quit thrashing. He is there. Bottling every tear. Calming His child. Pointing me again to what matters: Jesus. Only Jesus

Servants

I became a servant of this gospel by the gift of God's grace

given me through the working of His power.

Ephesians 3: 7

Years ago I had started memorizing the whole book of Ephesians. Somewhere in the events of the past couple of years the majority of the words have escaped from the recesses of my memory, along with most other minor and major details of life. Often a night still finds me crawling out of a panic attack reciting the first few verses, though. I don't get much past the grace, peace and praise before the words have started their calming effect and I am able to breathe again. Breathe, just breathe.

Delving back into the book during my Bible reading schedule has been an exercise for my brain. Somewhere I recall these passages floating around in the neurons of my brain, but again, at the same time, they are fresh and new. The theology baffles me- predestined, chosen, God's purpose and will, the times reaching their fulfillment, glory, seated on a throne with Christ- but the Holy Spirit allows some light to shine through once in a while.

Ephesians 3:7 stopped me today. Paul calls himself a servant of the gospel, right after referring to himself as a prisoner of Christ Jesus. Images immediately spring to mind with serving being so common in our home. Serving ten children tacos, then doing it again with round two of seconds for some hard working kiddos. Chasing goats out of the flower garden, road and chicken coop numerous times in one afternoon. Waking early to nurture young students, preparing bodies and souls for the day ahead. Loving a husband, talking to friends on the phone, encouraging sisters, delving deep with daughters, praying for opportunities with strangers. Somehow sprinkling the gospel in every action and striving to point everything to Christ - forgiveness of sins to the glory of God through Jesus' death.

Paul talks about his position with pride. Not a sinful "make it about me" pride, but a pride because God chose him to be a broken vessel whom He would pour out His glory and power. God has been splitting that hair in my life lately, the "who is it about" hair. I can mouth that it is all about Him, but brokenness is when truth comes out. The battle starts when our flesh is crushed, trying to determine where it hurts the most and what the crying is about, revealing what we so easily cover up.

God makes it all about Him in a believers life. Above everything else that He does to sanctify us, He makes sure that His glory reigns above all. He quiets us in the midst of the storm, not always taking it away, but granting us one more opportunity to see His power, confess our trust in Him, let go and let God lead. Another opportunity to quit fighting Him, quit fighting where our position is, quit forcing it to be about us.

A servant of the gospel. To be granted the privilege of sharing Christ. Not in our own power, but all by the grace of God, to the glory of God's eternal purpose.

That word again: eternity. It's on my lips when I wake up and when I go to bed. Eternity. My brain can barely grasp its meaning. But I know its reality. To deny it would be to deny my very own son. So I beg constantly to be used in such a privileged way as Paul was, to become a servant, even a prisoner. To ask that the God of the universe, this eternal God, would choose to grant such a high honor to display His glory through this broken vessel of clay.

There is a Day Coming: The Day of the Lord

"As testing comes on God's people He is removing the love of other things because you realize that is not the most important thing." Tom Kelby Revelation 6 "It doesn't mean that you won't have days when you'll say, 'I don't like this. I would give anything to be out of this.' A good God who loves you will keep you through it and prove your faith."

Incomparable

The ache doesn't end. It hit like a two-by-four to the backside as I stood by the kitchen sink yesterday. Wham. Instant gut wrenching, tears refusing to pour out, dry sobs instead. Then in the bathroom, once the door was shut, on my knees, the same heaving heartache longing for a release. Too scared to allow myself to feel it completely, too scared even to pour it out before God, too scared to be drawn nearer. I am so tired of crying. Tired of grieving. Tired of missing my son.

Three o'clock in the morning seems to be the time my mind runs away with its real fears. I finally realized what the panic attack was about this morning at five forty-five when Grace crawled into my bed already showered and dressed for the first day of summer school. Perhaps that has been why the last few days have been so full of anxiety. More pictures without Trent, more experiences without a firstborn son, more grief. The guilt constantly swirling around with it, ever near, telling me that I am a horrible mother to the ones left here. So I paste on the smile, grab the camera, and try to start the day without a cup of coffee. I see them excited for the new adventure, so glad that they have joy, jealous of the innocence.

Cole's words still haunt my memory from last night, my desire for him to talk about his brother's death being immediately followed up with a desire that he wouldn't have. "I was sitting on Lexi's bed this afternoon and when I looked down my hands were so pale, as pale as Trent's were when he died. Why do you think?"

I think I don't want to think about Trent's pale hands, Trent's pale body, a dead son's body lying on an emergency room gurney over two years ago. I try to answer with some know-it-all home school mother explanation, how the hands are so far away from the heart and take longer to pump the blood to them, therefor maybe he was letting them dangle and cut off the circulation.

"Then why were Trent's hands so pale?"

Well, you see, when our bodies die the heart quits beating, causing the blood to quit circulating, which causes your skin to look pale. Standing in front of the mirror together, giving him a quick hair buzz, a closeness both physical and emotional that has been scarce since the teen years started and it's not so cool to show love for your mom anymore. Longing to run, run somewhere where son's aren't dead anymore, where spiritual explanations are accepted easier than cold answers, where there is no balance to giving God the glory when everything is about your rival brother, where things don't hurt this bad in a mother's soul, somewhere safe that emotions can be exposed, heaved up rather than pushed down, down, down.

Incomparable.

The word was used twice, less than ten verses apart in the book of Ephesians (1:18-19 and 2:7). The second time made me stop and reread the passages. I've been trying to compare this grief to something that is incomparable. The pain that I so often feel that should be impossible for any mortal woman to carry is met by a God with incomparable great power to sustain me; a never ending well to drink my fill from. The glory to be revealed and the riches of His grace to be poured out will come from the hand of an incomparable Savior.

Somehow this battle has shifted into being a battle of worth. The subtlety of Satan, and being careful to not give credit where credit is not due, the subtlety of my own deceiving flesh has shifted the gears again and has put God on trial. Being careful, of course, to frame it appropriately so as to still sound Christian, but to actually insinuate that He is a liar. How twisted our thinking becomes in pain. How consumed we get, how far we run, what lies we tell ourselves and convince ourselves to believe. Ephesians woke me out of my stupor for a moment, if even for one tiny glimpse, one more miniscule longing for God and eternity in this blinding time.

God's power is incomparable to sustain me. He promised that the riches of His grace to be revealed will be incomparable as well. As the apostle Peter says, these trials, which last only a little while, are achieving the end result, the salvation of my soul (1 Peter 1:3-9).

And then, for the umpteenth time, my brain asks where it is, where glory is revealed, where our eyes can take it in? For the handful of seconds that I can actually allow myself to try to comprehend Heaven, I realize that Trent is there, before this incomparable God, this God that I am always trying to compare. The gut curling tears come just as hard as the painful ones during these moments. How, where, and why can't I be there? The longing never ends to be in God's presence, consuming me as much as the longing for my son.

As if in answer to my many questions, God once again used Jon Bloom's writing along this walk (God's Mercy in Making us Face the Impossible, May 17, 2013, Desiring God blog).

There are times when God orders our circumstances in such a way that from a human standpoint his promises are impossible to fulfill. And if at that point we find these promises almost unbelievable, as did Abraham (Genesis 17:17–18) and Sarah (Genesis 18:11–14), what God has exposed are the boundaries of our faith — boundaries he means to expand.

 

Resting in the promises of God is learned in the crucible of wrestling with unbelief — seasons, sometimes long seasons, when everything hangs on believing that God “gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist” (Romans 4:17) and there is no safety net.

 

If you’re in such a season, as difficult as it feels, God is being incredibly kind to you. Because such seasons are when we really learn that nothing is too hard for the Lᴏʀᴅ (Genesis 18:14). And the joy in God that results makes any agony endured not even worth comparing.

 

Abraham and Sarah “grew strong in [their] faith” (Romans 4:20) because God pushed them to believe more than they thought was possible. For the sake of our joy he does the same for you and me.

"So suck it up buttercup," I repeat to myself. Resist the devil and he must flee, the victory has been won, and it is an incomparable victory. Take heart, stop the runaway emotions and feel the tremble of the earth awaiting its approaching King, groaning in its longing for a Savior that is coming soon. God is reigning from His throne, He is on the move, the battle has already been won. His glory is going to be worth it all, His grace beyond my feeble imagination, the joy unending. This same God that Trent stands before now is the same God who will carry me until that day.

Seeking Joy

The thoughts won't quit. Busy days, sunshine and hard work, it should all equal a solid nights sleep. But the thoughts still don't quit. The mornings only come earlier, the desperation greater.

From the beginning of this grief process numerous people have encouraged us that time would heal. Lately, the push of the general consensus has been that it's time for us to find our joy again here. I almost listened, my people pleasing nature being quick to conform rather than to trust the whispers of God.

There is more than here. So much more.

Jesus endured for the joy set before him. Paul lived for That Day. The Apostle Peter said the inheritance was waiting ahead of us, not here. What good would it have benefited Trent to have lived only for here, only for now? Twelve years, his entire life span, compared to eternity. An eternity that is somehow based on what we do here for our Savior. Rewards and treasure to store up there, trials and sanctification that are achieving for us an eternal glory. A sovereign God in complete control of it all while at the same time we are responsible for our own actions in it. Our very decision to respond to the gospel, to choose heaven or hell in a sense, and I should just be content to be happy with some new hobby.

That concept of seeking out ultimate joy here is no longer a reality. My soul screams out the insanity of all these well wishers' kind words. The demeaning of the gospel in exchange for my fleeting pleasure. Idolatry in its subtlest form.“Seek it here,” repeated over and over again.

What a fool I must be portraying myself to be to those who have never tasted of this depth of pain, this desperate need for there to be more, with the only satisfaction being found in God. What else is worth seeking out? What field is worth selling all of my possessions for, even the giving of my very life? How could the more be in this life? How could more joy be found in experiences rather than in a Divine Creator?

It's pretty easy for somebody who has held their child every night for the past twenty-seven months to tell us to just be happy here, while really implying that we'd quit making them feel guilty, to stop talking about eternity all the time. So many professing Christians have mastered trying to convince the outside world and themselves that everything is all about Jesus when really it's not. Only torturous pain will drive you to look deep enough to ask the hard questions, to seek only God Himself. When you're bucked off the soothing carousel ride of life and are lying flat on your back is when you finally look up.

Christ talked about heaven constantly, trying to explain it to his followers. Eternity. Eternity. Eternity. He didn't seek His kingdom here, in fact he denied a worldly kingdom when it was offered to him. He didn't build castles, establish Facebook friends or make sure he saw all the sights and crammed every imaginable experience into thirty-three years, rather he sought fellowship with God, pursued heavenly missions, battled for obedience, waited patiently for the glory due him.

The Apostle Paul was warned about how he would suffer for the sake of the gospel. Somehow, his joy was found in that honor. How my brain battles with this concept. How much easier it would be to content myself with believing the words of those who encourage me to just seek out the good things God has given me for the rest of the days I am here. “He made them for your joy, so enjoy them,” I hear over and over.

Common grace, yes, but past the sun and the croaking spring frogs and the new birth of farm animals is God himself. I can't get enough of Him to fully notice the rest. But there's not enough of Him that this sinful flesh part of me can drink in because of the physical separation of heaven and earth. It's not that I've grieved too long, or I need to get on with life, or I need a new hobby. It's that I truly long only for God. Substitutes won't satisfy. It really is all about God, glory and the gospel.


 

Day Seven Hundred Ninety-three

Day seven hundred ninety-three is the day that insanity hits. You may have thought that you were already there several times before this day, but you realize by the depth of the freshness of the emotions that you haven't been.

Day seven hundred ninety-three is the day that you switch from repeating the mantra of "I can do this, I can do this, I can do this" to really not wanting to do it anymore. The insanity part kicks in because you begin to realize that there is really only one option available: to live the rest of your life without your child.

The sun shines after a long winter, you actually smile inside and out, old plans are rejuvenated, and you even begin to dream again. Then the mere sight of the woods haunts you, annual vacations become thoughts of torture chambers, and the new spring calves make you cry. Insanity begins to sound better than the alternative.

I've heard it likened to the breaking of a colt. Until there is no fight left there is no real submission. Until I quit fighting God there is no real submission. On the outside I am functioning with the concerns of today, but my heart keeps longing to go back to Egypt like the Israelites (Acts 7:39). My heart keeps going back to two years ago instead of looking ahead.

As I wiped the dust off of Trent's picture I told him, "I'm not ready yet. Not ready to live without you."

And those pictures, the ones that drive you closer to that insanity with their beckoning questions of heaven and eternity. Constantly I wonder when mine will start and I will get to see God, then I am reminded that Trent does see God, right now.

I sit down hard, dumbfounded, trying to wrap my brain around that concept.

I open my Bible and read Jesus' words about this eternal kingdom, Paul's words about the unspeakable glory of it, and John's words about the indescribable visions he saw. Our lives are as a mist, Scripture says, so on day seven hundred ninety-four I just try to figure out what is worth living for until the sun shines and dries up the mist and I see the Son.

The Prosperity Gospel

Waking up again in the middle of the night desperate. Desperate for God. Lying there acknowledging all the things that I use to replace Him, all the things that look like Christianity. Piper's words echoing through my brain, "God is enough. God is enough. God is enough." Years of falsehood shed in one YouTube video. Yet another removing of everything my flesh clings to that isn't God. The things that rise to the top surprise me, the first one I realized was my own trust in my knowledge of Scripture. What a fine hair to split in this whole heart revealing process God has brought me on. Verses are not enough, theology is not enough, fill in the blank is not enough. Only God is enough.

Esther

Let us not become weary in doing good,

for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

Galatians 6:9

February 15, 2013. That was the date I had wrote on the calender for Esther's due date. Over two months ago. Every day she was under scrutiny. Signs, no signs? We checked pretty consistently: swelling, ligaments, udder, anything? Looking at her big belly and trying to imagine the thoughts of God as He was designing His new creation inside that caprine womb. Maybe a sign, nope, definitely no signs.

Then a few weeks ago, once we had finally given up hope on the February due date, the signs started. Maybe next week, we said. Then, maybe tomorrow. Don't leave home, don't schedule anything extra, don't live lest she deliver those kids without us. Then the tomorrows came, and the signs didn't change. The middle of the night checks waned, then the middle of the day checks, too. The early morning races to the barn soon became solo walks of enjoying the scenery. Halfheartedly now we check on her in the middle of chores. I'm sure some day she has to have those kids.

Two years after Trent's death, a date that I hadn't had wrote on the calendar, I find myself much at the same place as with Esther. The anticipation has waned. I keep telling myself that heaven will come one day. I'm sure Jesus really meant soon when He said He's coming back. The middle of the night and early morning worship services have dwindled to hiding under the covers until I absolutely have to get up and face another day. The arms haven't been raised as much and the prayers have become pathetic groans.

Weary? Yes. Like Anna and Simeon in the gospel account of Luke, I wait {un}patiently for the day that I will see my Savior. I wonder how many weary days they waited. I wonder what they did in the meantime. Then I wonder at the overwhelming joy that they must have felt when the promise was finally fulfilled.

One day we will make that trek down to the barn and, Lord willing, there they'll be – kids more beautiful and intricately formed than we could have ever imagined. We will forget the long months and weeks of waiting, and we would have gladly made those middle of the night trips all over again when we see momma with her babies.

As we stew in frustration over “when will Esther have those babies” a miracle is taking its time to form down in her stall. The pain and hard work will belong to Esther alone, the price that she has to bear for it to be possible that there is such beauty for us to behold. Like when Jesus delayed before going to Lazarus' tomb, His glory is often times seen more divinely when there's waiting involved.

Total Trust

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding.

Proverbs 3:5

The round block of wood sits in the windowsill above my kitchen sink. The words “Total Trust”engraved in it as a way to pass the hours while Trent was at a friend's house for a weekend many years ago. I see it every time I fill up the coffee pot, every time I wash a dish, every time I look out over the farmyard to make sure there are no critters running around on the wrong side of the fence.

Total Trust.

Often times it convicts me to read those two simple words. It pierces my heart and makes me ask again and again, am I trusting? Total trust? Like the challenge course at summer camp, when they ask for a volunteer for the faith drop. Stand up on this ledge, now turn around, close your eyes and just fall backward. We've got you. Don't be scared.

I was never brave enough to volunteer. I'm not even sure if I ever had any vital part in the actual catch. Nobody asked me this time if I wanted to be the one on the ledge. God doesn't call out, seeking for courageous volunteers. He chooses you. He sets you up on that ledge and inquires, “Do you trust Me?” His loving, fatherly hands held beneath us all the time as we stand there, knees shaking, doubting the goodness of the very maker and sustainer of our existence. Once He asks, the rest of our lives are spent answering that simple question.

Total Trust.

Sometimes that round piece of wood changes its tactic and is not convicting, but rather encouraging. It's as if those two small words are whispering to my soul. Yes, total trust. Peace envelopes like a warm ray of sunshine, and for a moment a flooding of joy overtakes the heartache. The anxiety attacks stop and falling-off-the-ledge-trust becomes easier. Eternity feels closer. The promises are clearer. Desperate pleas turn once more into prayers, sorrow shifts to rejoicing, and a smile even forms from the inside. Eyes turned again to Jesus, towards a Savior who has this all in His hands and under His sovereign control.

Total Trust.

To Know Christ in His Sufferings

Spring is in the air. The month of April has brought with it rain showers and even several bursts of snow, but we refuse to let go of the hope of green grass and sunshine. Grace has been so happy to finally be able to get out and ride Sassy again. Jumping is her sport of choice for this year. Not so sure it's mom's sport of choice, but the smile that never leaves her face while she's riding is worth the fear of her falling off.

Sassy continues to give her a run for her money, definitely living up to her equine name, but it's a good challenge. Two stubborn, feisty girls battling it out for who's going to be in charge. At the end of the ride they're both happy, one with grain the other sore muscles. Born fighters wouldn't be happy without a fight.

Grace got her hair cut. She hasn't had it this short since she was three years old and took a scissor to it herself. She's been begging for the transformation, and was thrilled to donate the cut portion to Locks of Love, happy knowing that somebody else would benefit from her beautiful gift. She's turned into a different girl in so many ways.

Horses are one of the harder parts of grief. There is only so much emotion and strength to go around, and some things are just too hard to revisit for the extra energy it takes to live them without your loved one. Too many memories to relive, and too hard to make new ones with the same horses minus one kid. Grace informed me that I haven't rode with her for over a year. So much is lost in grief, more than just your child who is gone, the ones here suffer for it as well.

I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings. Philippians 3:10a

The words finally made some sense when I read again them last night. I always wondered, who would want to suffer to know Jesus? It is such of a backward way of thinking in our society of ease and pleasure. But the verse has haunted my thoughts for years, moreso of course since Trent's accident. To want to know Christ in His sufferings.

Then it struck me as I read it for the hundredth time: Without suffering we wouldn't know Jesus to the same degree as without it.

Poor Rob happened to walk in during the middle of my revelation. I sputtered at him, "You know how it was when we met Amos and Sue, and we didn't have to explain to them what it was like to lose a child to death on a ski slope? Do you remember that instant connection, regardless that we lived worlds apart? Remember the knowing, on both sides, without explaining to them what that suffering felt like?"

Yep. He knew.

That's what Paul means: to know Jesus in his suffering is like knowing Amos and Sue, or the many others parents we know who have lost a child. You don't have to explain what it feels like to receive that dreaded call, or to walk into an emergency room and see your child's dead body lying there, or how to choose what color of casket you want for the funeral. They know. They just know.

You don't have to explain tears for over two years straight. Or why you haven't answered the phone in two days. Or why riding horse might be hard. They just know.

To know Christ in His suffering is to know Christ. You can almost feel the whip He felt, and feel the shame He endured for trusting God. You know the tears He cried, and the hope He had. On some level, you set your face as flint towards eternity and the waiting glory just as He did. You begin to live as He lived, not for this world but the next, not for joy found here, but for the treasure found there.

And when you realize that it is all filtered through a Sovereign Father's hand you can even rejoice in it. The participation becomes an honor, just like it is an honor to wrap your arms around a newly grieving mother and try to point her to Christ. To repeat the promises to both her and yourself, willing you both to hold on and not lose hope. Looking forward to what's ahead, not looking behind, but trudging through the deep waters that God wants you to walk.

To know somebody in the trenches of suffering is to truly know them. There is no room for fake, no reason to talk about the weather, no Sunday smiles. There is only full exposure of the heart in sorrow. God is the searcher of hearts. He reveals through suffering, both our hearts and Himself. What a joy, then, to be sought out. What a joy to experience His grace. He disciplines those He loves. He wakes those up whom He loves.

Therefor, it is easier to say it again:

I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings. Philippians 3:10a

Why? Because I know there is much more beyond the pain of today.

Our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body. Philippians 3:20-21

That the Legacy May Continue

 

One of Trent's many joys in his young life was fishing. Often times I would find myself wondering, after observing this obvious gift from God (if fishing can really be called a gift), how it was going to be used for God's glory or for advancing the coming Kingdom of Christ. Shortly after Trent's death God revealed a bit of the answer.

 

Although it took nearly a year to come into fruition, once the shock of the accident started to wear off we shifted into high gear and printed a gospel sharing booklet written in fisherman language. Shortly after it arrived, we contacted our local newspapers and announced a fishing scholarship in honor of Trent. Gift cards to be used towards a fishing license, plus the books, were handed out to anyone buying a license at our local Holiday station bait store who wanted a scholarship until supplies ran out. 

 

With Spring right around the corner, we are planning our second year of scholarships. Our hope and prayer is that God would be glorified through the suffering in our life that has resulted in the gospel message going forth so that many would have an opportunity to hear about this offer of salvation.

 

Trent loved fishing, but ultimately he came to find a greater joy in his Savior Jesus Christ, which has proved to be invaluable when he died at the young age of twelve. 

Can we be a blessing to your Christian fishing program?
If so, please contact us at MoreGlory@grantsburgtelcom.net to discuss the details.



Bible Study ~ Genesis 18-19

Genesis 18-19 

Who is it about? God or us?

“The Lord appeared to Abraham...” Genesis 18:1 Just let that thought sink in for a moment: The Lord appeared to Abraham. Visits from the Almighty were a regular occurrence for Abraham, much different than our experience today. What was Abraham's response? Did he recognize who these visitors were? Who were they?

After tending to their needs (washing their feet, feeding them, giving them rest) the visitors ask about Sarah. Where was she? They reiterated again God's promise of a son. What was Sarah's response? Why was her laugh rebuked when Abraham's was accepted? (Abraham responded in faith, Sarah responded with doubt and distrust.)

God includes Abraham into His council and tells him of His plans to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. Why do you think God would have discussed the matter with Abraham? Was God needing advice? What was Abraham's request? Why do you think God chose to grant it?

The angels were sent ahead to Sodom – what did they discover? What was the response of the future sons-in-law? (Verse 19: 14 “thought he was joking”) Was God just in destroying the cities? Explain...

The angels woke the family early in the morning and granted them escape. Why had Lot not left before morning? Why would he be hesitant to leave? Lot pleads to change the requirements of the escape, and the angels consent and allow them to only flee as far as the nearest town of Zoar to make it easier on the family. Lot's wife looks back (ignoring the angel's command not to) and is turned to a pillar of salt.

We see that even though Lot's family just saw the result of sin first hand, and the serious consequences of it, within a matter of (probably days to weeks) there is more sexual sin already manifested in their lives. The sins of the father/culture had certainly passed along to the children. How does our culture compare to that of Sodom and Gomorrah? Do you see any similarities? What is the core of the sin that abounds in our country? (The denial of God leads to depraved, unchecked hearts- Romans 1:21-24, God turns us over to our sins when we refuse Him – Sodom is the epitome of what manifested sin looks like.)

The Ammonite and Moabite tribes that resulted have brought much strife throughout history for the nation of Israel, but ultimately the extent of God's grace to forgive every kind of sin, and use it for His glory, is seen through the hereditary line of Ruth (Ruth was a Moabite who was in the ancestral line of Jesus Christ).

If all Scripture points to Jesus Christ and all events will ultimately glorify God, how is that seen in this historical account? How is this account a representation of the hope found through the gospel? (Salvation is found in Jesus Christ alone, God is able to forgive every sin through the atonement of Christ.)

The God of all grace is capable of making every situation glorify His name. But this same God will not tolerate sin. Jesus is coming soon (Revelation 22:20) and will deal once and for all with sin. Where are you with God? Are you ready to meet Him face to face?

 

 

Bible Study Credits: Terri Stellrecht http://howmysaviorleadsme.blogspot.com/

The Harvest Field

“I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b

Too often, I forget to look up at the fields. My head downcast, or so preoccupied with “self,” or looking at somebody elses field, my own easily gets ignored. The glamor of a different ministry becomes appealing, maybe a stage somewhere, or a big platform, or being a missionary across the seas where I would be “super Christian” and be worthy of the title. Not the mundane of another day of home school in March with two feet of snow still left on the ground to battle through to do chores with a predicted high of only thirty-six.
 

In the midst of my pity party I am impelled to go back and re-read the words of Scripture:

“I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b

I literally look up and see a teenage boy sitting at the island eating breakfast and reading his Bible. Either way, if even only for the sake of duty to cross it off his daily list, the living words are still being drunk in. I watch him for awhile, wondering where thirteen years have gone. I pray for him once again. No earthly desires top the list, only eternal ones. I beg God, please God, grant salvation to this son, too.
 

I am reminded of long-ago prayers whispered over sleeping children, standing next to their beds, touching their silent forms that were snuggled under handmade quilts. Prayers, particularly for Trent, that God would use his life in a mighty way for His glory. A prayer I didn't expect to be answered in the way that it was. A prayer that I am scared to request again. My words want to stay guarded before they leave my lips, frightened of what God may ask of me next. But He knows my heart. He knows the uttering of it, He has made the longing for His glory, no matter the cost, to reign.

Fear wants to sneak its way in – fears of what might be for their futures, fears even for this day, fears of more suffering. How quickly my eyes stray from the field where I have been sovereignly placed, stray from my Savior. Quietly, the thoughts of grace eventually calm the fears. I look back to the Bible and read the words again: Jesus answered [the Samaritan woman], “If you knew the gift of God...” (John 4:1) To truly know the gift of God compels me to endure.

In grief there is so much time spent trying to learn how to live without your loved one. Whether you get out of bed or not in the morning, it doesn't make a difference, they are still not here. Every event is met with a brokenness, a neon sign reminding you again and again that all is not right. There is a continuous aching in a mother's heart and arms that refuses to be comforted while your mind is forced to learn to live with the loss lest you literally go insane.
 

As much as I am learning to live with the loss of my son, I can't escape the continuous thought of Heaven. If Trent were just spending the weekend at his best friend's house, or staying with Aunt Traci for a while, or enjoying time at kid's camp I could associate with where he was. I would not doubt his “being.” Death is only an absence to those left behind, not to the person who died. Trent is still Trent.

As I sat in my recliner late one night last week, enjoying a book in the quiet hush of this old farmhouse, the startling revelation came to me again: Trent is in Heaven. The thought nearly took the wind out of me. Tears soon followed as the reality was fresh yet again. The brevity of this life once more became glaringly apparent. The gospel of John reminds me over and over of Jesus' words, “I am telling you the truth,” and “Believe me, woman” echoing truth today while I sit drinking my coffee and crossing the Bible off my own list. (John 4:21)
 

So somehow, I try to measure everything against that eternity. The short days here, the lives around me that God has given me the privilege of influencing, my own heart that has nowhere to hide. Like the Samaritan woman, though, (John 4) I quickly tend to change the subject, busy myself with the cares of this world, consume myself here in some new project rather than face the reality of eternal life.
 

Jesus met people where they were, even sinful women going about their daily duties. There was no prerequisite, other than brokenness, to feel his healing touch. Jesus meets me where I am today. He answers my prayers and renews my longing for His word, He breaks through my vitamin D depraved brain and lights the fire again so that rather than being lukewarm I may be hot. Rather than investing a little into eternity I may see the worth, as much as my human brain can conceive of the idea, of fully longing for redemption, longing for Christ to reign, longing for that glory that Paul talks about so often.

Pictures of Remembrance

On my agenda for the past couple of years has been the project of tackling the transformation of the upstairs hallway. The orange shag carpeting has been torn out for quite some time and revealed decent, although characteristically unlevel, old house wooden floors. The lathe and plaster walls were repaired, then recently painted a neutral beige color and an appropriate border has been picked out and is just waiting to be installed. Family pictures were next. I have been purposely avoiding this part of the project. Part of me wants to see the walls plastered with all those smiling little faces, but the other part of me hasn't wanted to dig through the pictures to decide which ones to use.

Do you use all pre-accident photos, or acknowledge that life has been forced to go on and everybody else is two years older and use recent photos? Do you change them out every year, allowing the glaring reality that Trent's picture never changes to be the first thing you wake up to every morning? And then there's the actual event of digging through the archived pictures: the horse rides, the football games, the reminders of the breakfasts in bed that you never got a picture of.

Grief steals so much. More-so than just the person you are grieving, it steals your very self. It steals the mother, sister, wife, aunt, friend that you used to be. It drives you to the brink of insanity where you really don't think that just going over the edge of it would be so bad. It steals even the ability to think rationally. You start to forget that this life is a mist and heaven goes on for an eternity. Everything brings tears, even two years later.

The anniversary is over and Trent's birthday has just passed. Dear friends sent cards and emails, as well as called and visited. I cried over the ones who did, and the ones who didn't. The sweet, painful emotion of being loved well~ there are not adequate words to express how that feels.

I continuously tell God that I am so tired of crying. I can barely begin the words of a cohesive prayer anymore because all I do is lament and weep. There are no more words. My brain is exhausted by the work of searching out the glory of God in this (Proverbs 25:2NKJ). God knows my heart, He knows the depth of this agony. He has allowed a quiet hush to hover over me. A time of rest in my soul. A time of waiting as His work is being done. Simply "being" in Him. There doesn't always have to be answers to the questions.

So I went through the pictures. I relived life when there were five children smiling back at me on a computer screen all the way through life when there were only four. I sorted, debated, and created personal collages for each person in our family.

I chose the Roseman Bridge, where Trent's ashes were spread, for my collage. Pictures where I opened my hand and let go, let go of my son, let go of myself and my plans. Pictures of remembrance that mark in computer generated options my surrender to God, my attempt of the resurrection of an altar as the prophets of old used to build: an everlasting reminder of when God abundantly poured out His grace and along with it a great measure of hope. When He revealed Himself and allowed me to see and love Him more, and especially long for Him more, despite the great cost.

Bible Study ~ Genesis 12-13

Genesis 12-13 

Who is it about? God or us? Who did you learn more about ?

Genesis 12:1-3 God calls Abram and blesses him with the promise of Christ.

God chose Abram (Isaiah 41:8; Matthew 22:14; Luke 23:35; John 15:19; 1 Peter 1:20 1 Peter 2:0) from among his fellow idolaters that he might reserve a people for himself. By moving him from his country, Abram was tried whether he loved God better than all. With this command, God calls Abram to begin a journey of faith that is marked by complete dependence upon God and God's promise. This is not an easy thing for Abram. The things he must leave are mentioned in order of increasing level of intimacy: "Go forth from your country, your relatives, and your closest family." Abram must leave all he holds dear and trust God to guide him in a new land.

The command God gave to Abram is much the same as the gospel call (natural affection for our ways must give way to Divine grace, sin and all the occasions of it must be forsaken, a promise of greatness fulfilled in Christ, blessings for obedience, all sustained by God's sovereign grace for his glory).

God's promises to Abram:

-I will make you into a great nation. (Literally, Abram would be the father of a great nation.)

-I will bless you. (Obedient believers will inherit a blessing/somewhat here/more-so an eternal blessing/blessings here are a foretaste of what is to come/encouragement to continue until we see Jesus face to face.)

-I will make your name great. (Book of life/the name of obedient believers shall certainly be made great/ “Shine like stars” Philippians 2:14-16)

-You will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you/All people on earth will be blessed through Abram. (The greatest blessing to come through Abram would be that of Jesus Christ/Eventually through Abram came the Savior, the Bible and the gospel/Galatians 3:8.)

-Whoever curses you I will curse. (God will take care of Abram/all believers-sometimes not until eternity will it be “made right.”)

God allowed Abram to believe that the blessing of the Almighty would make up for all he could lose or leave behind, supply all his wants, and answer and exceed all his desires. He knew that nothing but misery would follow disobedience.

 

 *Do you believe that? Understand that? Explain.

Such believers, being justified by faith in Christ, have peace with God. They are not discouraged by the difficulties in their way, nor drawn away by the delights they meet with. What we undertake, in obedience to God's command, and in humble attendance on his providence, will certainly succeed and end with comfort at last.

Genesis 12:4-9 Abram departs from Haran, journeys through Canaan,

and worships God in that land.

Canaan was not a mere outward possession, but a type of heaven – the promised land that foreshadowed the real heaven to come (Hebrews 11:16). He journeyed through the country as a stranger, as a sojourner in this world. He continued to draw nearer to God through prayer – God revealed himself numerous times to Abram – Abram built alters of remembrance along the way.

*What “alter of remembrance” have you built to God? Have you seen and/or remembered His grace?

Genesis 12:10-20 Abram is driven by a famine into Egypt, he feigns his wife to be his sister.

Because of a famine, Abram brings his family to Egypt. This passage reveals Abram's “humanness” - although God has already appeared to him twice, he had just received great promises, and had experienced God's faithfulness he fell through unbelief and distrust of the Divine providence. He not only chose to sin, but led his wife, his attendants, and the Egyptians to sin also.

God reveals himself by delivering Abram out of his sin. God deals with his children not based on our actions, but based on his purposes and mercy all for his glory.

 

*How does this situation reveal God's glory? (God makes it clear that it is God's sovereignty, and not human initiative, that will bring the people of God into existence, God did not allow Pharaoh to hurt Abram's family, God exposed Abram's sin and granted him repentance, God kept Abram alive and continued His promises through a sinful man to reveal how deep His mercy and forgiveness goes, reveals that God's plans are not thwarted by our actions, a Christian will never fall beyond grace because it is God Himself who sustains them, points ultimately to the cross where forgiveness is found through Jesus Christ).

Genesis 13:1-4

Abram came out of Egypt very rich. The Hebrew word for rich is “heavy.” Habakkuk 2:6 says that those who will be rich load themselves with thick clay. Riches are a burden because of the care in getting them, the fear in keeping them, the temptation in using them, the guilt in abusing them, the sorrow in losing them, and the burden of giving an account to God for them in the end.(Mark 10:23-24)

*In America we strive to become rich – how can financial prosperity be a hindrance or blessing?

Yet God, in His providence, made Abram rich without sorrow (Proverbs 10:22). If prosperity is well managed it can be an opportunity to do more good than otherwise possible. In the midst of his riches, we still see Abram dependent on God and calling on his name. You may as soon find a living man without breath as one of God's people without prayer.

Genesis 13:5-9

Because of their overwhelming riches and animal stock, there was not enough room in the land for both of them (Abram and Lot). Quarrels, lying and slandering began with the servants, which was only made worse because they dwelt in the land inhabited by the Canannites and Perizzites- these quarrels would cause a reproach of their religion, and God's name. Abram wisely sought to solve the dilemma quickly. Although he was the elder and the greater of the two men, he yielded his first rights of the choice land to Lot in order to keep the peace. He understood that ultimately there was a greater land coming.

Lot, being selfish and choosing with the lust of his eyes, picked the fertile, fruitful land. Rather than looking to the morals of the country. The men of Sodom were impudent, daring sinners. This was the iniquity of Sodom: pride, fulness of bread, and an abundance of idleness (Ezekiel 16:49). God often gives great plenty to great sinners.

Those who, in choosing relations, callings, dwellings, or settlements, are guided and governed by the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, or the pride of life, cannot expect God's presence or blessing. They are commonly disappointed even in that which they principally aim at. In all our choices this principle should rule, That is best for us, which is best for our souls.

 

*How do you tend to make decisions? By that which is pleasing to you, or pleasing to God?

 

 

Commentary quoted from:http://www.christnotes.org/commentary.php?com=mhc&b=1&c=12 http://www.christnotes.org/commentary.php?com=mhc&b=1&c=13 http://www.theocentric.com/theology/gospel/the_gospel_in_genesis.html

 

Bible Study Credits: Terri Stellrecht  http://howmysaviorleadsme.blogspot.com/