All is Well - Part 68

The Rebellion of Harmony

May 22, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

I love to sing. Loudly. (Last night, at choir practice, I think someone actually moved away from me, to preserve their hearing.) I’m not very good, but singing has always been important to me.

Of course, being a PK/MK and always at church–always, always at church–Hymns were the earliest music I learned. And, the once-a-month Sunday night “Pick Your Favorite Hymn” night was my favorite. Not only could I wear polyester slacks or–on the crazy rare occasion–jeans that night to church, which was preferable to a dress for so many, many, many different reasons, but I also was pretty much guaranteed to get the chance to sing my favorite hymns. Loudly.

Victory in Jesus “He plunged me, to VIIIICTORY….” (This song is best sung with a healthy dose of twang)
Footprints of Jesus (that make the pathway glow….so, how does that work, exactly? Someone explain it to me, ’cause I imagine Jesus stepping in a vat of glow-in-the-dark paint and stomping around making awesome footprints)
Shall We Gather at the River (the beautiful, the beautiful)
Since Jesus Came Into My Heart (Extra points if whoever got assigned (stuck) leading worship that night held out the words “Siiiinnnccee” and “Rollllllllllll” for a couple of extra measures.)
Wonderful Grace of Jesus (Now, this was just fun to sing)
There is a Balm in Gilead (And this one was just fun to giggle at. Poor Gilead got blown up by the bomb, repeatedly)

Early on, I somehow figured out how to sing harmony to the hymns. I’m not exactly sure when or how that started. I don’t remember anyone every really teaching me how, it just sort of happened. And when I started taking piano lessons (O, Alicia and Joy, if you happen to read this, how did your poor mother put up with all of us?) and learned about chords, it gave me a name or structure to what I was singing. Before that, I just sang what I thought sounded good, notes that seemed to “fit” the note that everyone else was singing. (though I’m quite certain that many times, it did not. Sound good that is. Loud, always, though. Loudly wrong, I’m sure.)

Part of what I liked, in singing different notes from everyone else, was exactly that–I thought singing what everyone else was singing was boring. I thought it sounded prettier if there were different notes mixed in. I wanted to be different. A little bit of rebellion, I suppose. (Not really, I wanted everyone’s approval far too much to be rebellious. Then. When I was young. However, I certainly made up for that, in the years that followed.)

Fast forward far more years than I care to admit. Much life has happened. I have gone from trying so hard to please God–to make Him “happy” with me, as a young girl, to dissolving in rebellious confidence that He couldn’t possibly exist, to discovery of authors that think like I think, and a discovery of hope, too, and eventually an earnest, though sometimes-wobbling, faith that He is who scripture says He is.

And, kind of like how my–relationship to? belief of? faith in?–God has changed, so has my connection to hymns.

Before, they were fun to sing. Now, many of them, are so precious to me.

Some I now recognize as consisting of bad theology. But many are so solid, so foundational. So scriptural. Truth.

Be Thou My Vision
When I Survey the Wondrous Cross
Hallelujah, What a Savior
Blessed Redeemer
Arise My Soul, Arise
All I Have is Christ

And so many others.

One morning this past week, friends from my church pulled into my driveway. They brought me a gift worth more than gold to me—a box full of musty, old books. (A thousand thank-you’s, Tim and Kay!) Goodness, what a priceless gift. I couldn’t believe it. Such a gift. Most were hymn books, published in the late 1800s. (The picture above is just a small sample of what they gifted me with.) Small, little volumes with tiny notes and tiny print, that I imagine were held by hundreds of hands.

And now, here I am, 141 years later, holding these treasures in my hands. And marveling at the words on the pages.

Some hymns make me chuckle. Like the one “Sung by the congregation, to the pastor, to welcome him back home to his congregation after he has sojourned.” And, my favorite: “Ask Me Not to Sip the Wine” (Oh ask me not to sip the wine, the sparkling ruby wine, In ev’ry drop a serpent lurks, to sting the trusting heart, And lure it from all love-ly things For ev-er-more to part.) Hmm. But, still. Very funny.

Some hymns, though, penetrate both my mind and soul a bit.

“Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,

Wretched wanderer, far astray;

“Found thee lost and kindly brought thee

From the paths of death away;”

And so many others.

I imagine folks sitting in old, clapboard churches, fanning themselves because no air conditioning of course. Little ones nodding off drowsily. Mischievious ones plotting their after-church exploits. Mom’s pinching the mischievious ones for not paying attention. And, everyone singing. Loudly.

In four-part harmony.

I think it is the harmony that gets me. The words, always and yes. The longest collection of words in scripture are honest words and prayers put to music. I love that. I cherish words.

But, I also cherish harmony.

Singing harmony is kind of like saying to God: God, I know scripture is truth. And I know these words I’m singing are truth. God, I know that you are God. You have to be. Please be. Please. More than tradition. Be real. Make this mess that I have made of my life, not so discordant.

And, when we sing harmony, there is truth in doing so, that John Piper describes as this:

When we all sing the same melody line, it is called unison, which means “one sound.” But when we unite diverse lines of soprano and alto and tenor and bass, we call it harmony; and everyone who has an ear to hear knows that something deeper in us is touched differently by great harmony than by mere unison. (Piper)

There is beauty in the unity that comes from “one sound”, or unison. But there is a richness in the uniting of “diverse lines”, that points to something deeper, something beyond the melody, to the richness and fullness found in the one to whom the words point us to.

A rebellion that says “You are more than one-dimensional. You are more than tradition. You are God. You are real. You are real. And You we worship.”

……be filled with the Spirit, ¹⁹addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart, ²⁰giving thanks always and for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ….

Ephesians 5:18-21

Unto the Lamb – The Object of Our Longings

May 17, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

My mind often turns to the idea of Home…..of heaven, whatever that will look like.

But often, for very selfish reasons. Self-serving reasons. A longing for rest. A yearning for a life without sin which so easily tangles. A desire for all that is wrong to be made right. A hope for a settled-ness that endures–a mind that is settled, a soul that is settled. No more grief. No more capacity to do wrong, to sin, to hurt others.

My motives, as always, are skewed incorrectly, because far too often, these longings become the focus of my hope, and not the one who is the object of my hope..

Not that the things listed above are wrong desires and longings. They aren’t–as long as they do not overshadow the One who is the very source of all of those longings.

Sometimes, I forget that the chief aim of the eternal life that salvation grants, is the “joy of self-forgetfulness” and the awe of no longer seeing as though through a mirror dimly, but seeing Christ face-to-face:

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. 1 Cor. 13:12

I am, so very selfish. Self-Centered. Even, sometimes, in my longings for home.

Interrupted sleep has characterized this night, and with the interruption has come thoughts of home. Strong yearnings for home. But maybe now, after some study over the past hour or so, there is perhaps an all-too-often absent focus of those thoughts and longings.

O, all the same thoughts are there–the same yearnings, the same desires. I don’t think those will ever disappear; nor do I think that they necessarily should. There lies hope in those desires. Proverbs 13:12 tells us that “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” There is life–eternal life–in the fulfillment of that hope which will come when home is realized.

But it is the object of that hope which creates the joy that home will bring. It is the sitting at the feet of Jesus in worship, that creates the very fulfillment of all the things longed for in going home. The settledness. The peace. The absence of ability to sin. The absence of grief. The righting of all things wrong. All of these are only possible through the object of our worship. And the object of our worship–the lamb of God, the perfect sacrifice–is the chief aim. These other aims, these other desires, though good, should be secondary. Are secondary.

I’m not sure that I always grasp that, in my sinful selfishness. But I need to. More. And more.

Earlier tonight, before interrupted sleep, I came across one of the best articles I have ever read, on corporate worship, though I don’t think I fully grasped what it was saying until sleep was interrupted, and the longings for home overwhelmed. Located at the Desiring God website and written by David Mathis, I imagine it is an article that I will return to often. I urge you to read it; your time will not be wasted in doing so. While the focus of the article is corporate worship within our churches, and how worshipping together with fellow Christ-followers is a means of grace, his words also seem to point toward corporate worship together–not alone, as I so often imagine it–at the throne of Jesus, once the old earth has gone and the new has been established–once we go home.

In particular, this paragraph right here, is not nothing:

The answer is that our focus should not be self-consciously preoccupied with how we’re being strengthened or what grace we’re receiving. Rather, our focus together is the crucified and risen Christ, and the incomparable excellencies of his person and work. Which illumines all the various spiritual disciplines. Corporate worship is a means of grace not when we’re caught up with what we’re doing, but when we experience the secret of worship — the joy of self-forgetfulness — as we become preoccupied together with Jesus and his manifold perfections.

No, the longings and desires for what home will bring do not change. I know, for my own soul, those longings are deep. So deep. But maybe my focus–and yours, and ours as a corporate family of Christ-followers–needs to shift more to the “crucified and risen Christ, and the incomparable excellencies of his person and work”, far above what we gain and receive in the fulfillment of our hopes and longings.

Or, to put it another way, I, and we, need a fresh realization that He is our hope. He is what we desire. He is what we long for. And, in Him, these things are found. They are by-products of the very grace that He is.

“To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
be blessing and honor and glory and might forever and ever!”

“Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty,
who was and is and is to come!”

The Value of Hard Work

May 12, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

I did not want to do work today.

And not just the work that pays the bills and provides for my family. I mean any and all work–the soul work that occurs during prayer and study, the health work that occurs when I stomp around the neighborhood to get 10,000 steps and 5 miles done, the hard work of parenting, the work of cleaning and weeding and calendaring and organizing. None of it. Sinfully, I’m sure. But also weariness.

For several different reasons, I did not want to do the work that this day–that each day–requires. Mind reasons. Soul reasons. Physical reasons.

Fortunately, though, reason and habit won out, and the work got done.

And then, as life would have it, I was reminded three different times today of the value of hard work.

The first came as I stomped (what I do can not, in all seriousness, be called walking. Walking is graceful. I am not.) around the neighborhood this morning. Usually I use that time to think and sort things out, and pray some. This morning, though, the only thing running through my mind was a sort-of mantra: “Do the work. Do the work. Do the hard work. Work hard. Work hard, do you hear me self? Work. Hard.” And, similar to how sometimes just writing out scripture over and over again will start to settle my mind, so does “doing the work”. Sweat equity, I suppose.

Later on in the day, in between work calls and before my crew came home from school, I went outside to knock out some more mileage as a stretching break from the computer and phone. I didn’t get very far, though, because a church member/neighbor was outside, and called me to his yard to chat. Our conversation turned to God, and God’s view of the world, at-large, and God’s view of us, and our view of God. He made a remark along the lines of “you are so strong in spite of everything”, and he asked me how can this be? My response, first and foremost and always and always and always, is that I am standing because of the completely undeserved grace that God has granted. And, of course, the completely undeserved kindness of my church family, other local churches, our school district, and our county that I’ll never be able to repay, though I wish I could.

But I also told him this: there is a kind of salvation in hard work, too. Not salvation that saves the soul from death–not the salvation that only the cross can deliver, but there is a type of salvation. A saving of the mind, if you will, which helps settle the soul. There is something settling in knowing this: “Today I will do hard work. By God’s grace, I will accomplish it. And then, tomorrow, I will get up and do hard work again.”

Interestingly enough, the very same thoughts came to me tonight, while sitting with a church member at the soccer fields, watching our boys play soccer (on opposite teams). As we chatted about normal, every day stuff–kids, soccer, work, church, food–out of the blue she said something, too, along the same lines as my neighbor earlier in the day.

And, for the third time today, sitting by that soccer field, I was reminded of the importance of working hard. And the grace of working hard. Which has led me to writing about it here, because of this: I wonder if it is kind of like what Paul says in 1st Corinthians 15:

But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain. On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me.

The first few times I heard or read this passage, my reaction was “Good grief, Paul, that sounds so arrogant…the whole ‘I worked harder than any of them’ bit, is a bit much don’t you think Paul?” It even sounds whiny, to an extent. Maybe I read it that way, though, because I recognize the nearly constant arrogance and sinful pride in my own life. If I had said what Paul said above, it would have been out of pride and arrogance. But I am nearly fully convinced that wasn’t the case with Paul.

Instead, I think that maybe Paul has hit upon something important here.

There is grace in work. There is grace in working hard. There is grace in putting in the long hours doing documentation and hosting meetings for work, in putting in the miles and steps physically, in cleaning the toilet and repairing the van yet again and paying the bills and doing volunteer work. There is grace in chauffeuring children and reviewing homework and listening to your child’s dreams and fears and worries and attending sporting events and concerts and parenting. There is grace in caring well for others through the privilege of sitting with and listening. There is grace in working hard–doing hard work–and then, knowing at the end of the day, that the work that will be there the next day can be counted on. It is trustworthy, reliable, sure and steadfast.

Hard work is kind of like God’s mercies. New every morning. There will be work to do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. It is trustworthy. It will not abandon. Hard work will not despise me. There is always work to be done. Brain work, soul work, physical and health work, job related work, parenting work, responsibilities work, organizational work, disciplines work, caring for others work.

And, there will always be grace to be able to do the work.

I find Proverbs 13:4 to be interesting:

The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing,
while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.

I think I find it interesting, because it doesn’t speak of bank accounts or houses and boats and goods and retirement accounts, which is what we most associate with hard work.

No, instead it speaks of the soul.

There is soul work that is done through the hard work of putting one foot in front of the other each and every day. Of doing the tasks laid out before us each and every day. I know the pull to do nothing. I know the pull to hide. I know the pull to just stop. To give up. To quit. To go Home. I know these things well; I knew them even today. I may know them again tomorrow. I hope not, but I may.

And you may, too.

But I also know the settling and grace that infuses hard work. And the reliability of hard work.

I know that, by grace, tomorrow there will be hard work to do, and the grace with which to do it.

Thoughts from Chicago….

May 10, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

*Disclaimer: The words below are a bit rambling. But writing is how I process, and so, once again, I’m throwing words onto virtual paper to sort out the myriad of thoughts in my brain after this weekend here in Chicago. Also, pics from this weekend are in the slider above, you can click through them to see pics from both graduation and my adventures in Downtown Chicago.

Parenting is such an odd thing.

You give birth to this tiny human who is completely dependent upon you. They spit up, they poop, they cry and cry and cry. They thrill you with their first steps, and exhaust you with their “terrible two’s” (or 3’s, or 4’s, or 13’s, or 17’s). There is no manual, no reboot, no do-overs. As a parent, you get one shot and raising this child that has been entrusted to you (because, they aren’t really ours, are they?).

And, it is scary.

We pray. We plead with God to protect them, to be real to them, to keep both their minds and their souls well and safe. We beg God to influence their decisions, to help them make wise choices. To keep them from doing the ridiculously foolish things.

And then, we hold our breath. And watch.

As a single mom, I think some of this is compounded or intensified by being out-numbered (if you have more than one child–or, maybe even if you have one child). There is no one to tag-team with; no one to bounce ideas off of, or to get another opinion from when making decisions for and about your child. There’s no one to take over when you just can’t parent another minute. There’s no one to be afraid with, no one to be worried with, no one to rejoice with, no one to celebrate with. There’s no one to pull the good cop/bad cop off with–you have to be both good cop and bad cop. It’s exhausting.

There’s no one to go to Boot Camp graduation with.

It’s just you. It’s a strange place to be in.

Yesterday, my oldest boy graduated from Navy Boot Camp.

It was such an amazing, incredible experience. I loved everything about it. (With the exception of the parent meet and greet, which I left pretty quickly. I have better things to do than watch 200+ strangers–fellow parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles and friends of recruits–drunkenly dance to “You’re in the Navy” and practically knock each other over to bid on raffle baskets full of items they probably don’t need.) I loved watching all the graduate families at my hotel decorate their doors and sit around the lobby together. I loved the military band playing Souza marches during graduation, I loved the sense of anticipation before the cargo doors opened and the Divisions marched in, I absolutely loved hearing the divisions shout the Sailor’s Creed and sing (shout) Anchor’s Aweigh. I loved watching the military dads (I’m sure there were moms as well, though none seated around me) joining their sons/daughters and standing to shout the Creed and sing Anchor’s Aweigh. And, I loved hearing the M.C. call out “Liberty” and watching the newest U.S. Sailors break ranks and run for their families sitting in the stands.

Loved it all.

But, most of all, more than all of the pomp and circumstances, I marveled at the child–now a man–that I spent the day with. And loved every minute.

He stood taller. He spoke confidently. He spoke non-stop–full of stories from the past 8 weeks. He even called surviving the gas chamber “fun”. He was so proud to give me his Boot Camp picture and the frame he bought me. He told me all about his upcoming life–what he thinks “A” school will be like, his hopes of being stationed in Japan, how he wants to save enough money to fly me there if he does.

It was tremendous.

The past 8 weeks have changed my boy. He’s still who he is…goofy, laid back, takes everything in stride, works hard to make everyone happy around him. But, there is something different. Besides the new muscles and the huge weight loss and the fact that, after his shower, he folded his towels, and the incessant checking of his watch to make sure he’s not late.

He walks differently. He holds himself differently. He demonstrated a new level of respect for everyone around him—I noticed it especially with strangers.

And, he thanked me. Not for anything in particular. Just in general. There were no tears shed this weekend, but there was a bit of a catch in my breath when he spoke those words.

I almost wish he hadn’t thanked me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that he did, because I want him to continue to grow to be the kind of man that is grateful–deeply grateful–to God and to others. I want to cultivate and encourage that in him.

But it was a bit hard to hear those words. I have not parented well—not when I observe how others parent so well, so naturally. There is much grief in that. I have failed my crew time and time again. I do fail them, much.

However, there is also tremendous gratitude to God, for His mercy and grace even in my immense failures. My crew deserves better then what they have in me; and yet He somehow mixes grace and mercy with my ineptness and is helping me raise these four incredible people. People that I not only love deeply (there was a time that I struggled with that, as ashamed as I am to admit it), but also like and respect greatly.

I am so very proud. Of all four of my crew.

And, this is truth, because, well, I just know that it is, because I live it (and pray it, as I pray for my crew) every single day: 3 John 1:4 : I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.

Random Notes on Chicago

I’ve not been here in years. Here are my thoughts:

Illinois in General

Gosh, I had forgotten how not pretty Illinois is. It really isn’t. I kind of remember parts of Springfield, IL, being pretty, but I know south of Springfield is not, and neither is Chicago. Lake Michigan is, at best, interesting. But that’s it.

Our United States Navy

It amazes me that they graduate 100’s of sailors each and every Friday. Surely, though, they must have weeks that they don’t–like Christmas or Thanksgiving? I don’t know, but it is mind-boggling. It was incredibly cool to be on-base and walk around a bit and hear my boy tell me about all the different buildings. It was also cool that everywhere we went, my son was stopped and asked if he was a new graduate, and told congratulations (he had to remain in uniform the entire time we were together). While here, the threat level to the nation’s military was bumped up for some reason (I’ve not investigated to see why), and this whole area went on lock-down. For example, when I got back to my hotel (Navy Lodge) tonight, the garbage cans outside have been taped up to prevent anyone from putting anything in them, like explosive devices. I have a much deeper appreciation for those who defend our country after this weekend.

Chicago Deep Dish Pizza:

Yes. A thousand times. Giodorno’s.

Create-Your-Own-Cheesecake:

It’s like Ben and Jerry’s except with scoops of cheesecake. Enough said.

Exploring Chicago:

I had no idea how long I’d have with my boy before he had to fly to Pensacola for school, so I made my reservations through tomorrow. I joined Tim at O’Hare airport early this morning and waited with him at his gate (hello, military family status. That’s cool.) until he and his shipmates boarded at 11:00am. On a whim, I decided to explore downtown Chicago. I did some quick research and figured out how to take the “L” train/Subway system to downtown. Once there, I walked. All over. I saw:

The Bean:

It’s big. It’s shiny. People like to take selfies of it. The official name makes it sound mystical–“Cloud Gate”. It’s not. Mystical, that is. It’s big. It’s shiny. That is all.

Millennium Park:

Houses the Bean (Cloud Gate) but also much more, like the most amazing playground I have ever seen. And a very odd duck fountain with digital faces that have eyes that blink and whose mouths pour out water on occasion. Which I found a little yucky, actually. But, still. Interesting.

Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower):

Once I finally found this, it was very cool. Second Tallest building in the world. Super fast elevator to the top, where it is actually quite skinny, which was fascinating. But the whole reason I went was so I could step out onto the 3 layers of 1/2 inch think glass so I could look straight down 1,353 feet unto the street below me. I think it was last year that the protective coating on the glass cracked one day while someone was sitting in “the box”? Looonnnngg way down.

On Being Lost:

My phone died about 1/2 way through the day, so I had no way to navigate. I am, and remain, hopelessly directionally challenged, if today is any indication. I could not, for the life of me, find that “L” train platform to return to O’Hare. And goodness, the Windy City lived up to its name–I was freezing cold and still am. I only had a t-shirt on and capris on–no jacket, and I ended up walking a total of 7.03 miles and 16,310 steps, according to FitBit–the vast majority of which was me wandering around looking for the blasted Bean, Tower and the train. Sheesh. I finally found a Barnes & Noble, went inside, and looked at a map. Which didn’t help a great deal, actually.

On Mother’s Day:

I generally don’t give too much thought to Mother’s Day. I consider it to be a pretty useless holiday; just one more way for card companies (and restaurants) to make more money. I have no expectations of being “honored” on Mother’s day–I think that’s kind of silly, actually. And definitely not deserved. However, I am a bit more aware than usual this “Mother’s Day” (and have been for a couple of weeks) of the story of Timothy (from the Bible) and his mother Lois, and his grandmother, Eunice. Scratch that, I think those names are mixed up. Anyway, the point is this……my faith is so often wavering, so often not solid. I want so much more than my shaky faith for my crew. I want their faith to be solid; unwavering. Their faith is theirs, as it should be, but I pray much that God will grant them assured faith. In addition to that, though, I deeply desire for them to see, in me, at least a fraction of what Paul saw in Eunice, and Lois, and Timothy–a sincere faith, even if it is shaky at times.

Earnest faith, if nothing else.

I thank God whom I serve, as did my ancestors, with a clear conscience, as I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. ⁴As I remember your tears, I long to see you, that I may be filled with joy. ⁵I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well. ⁶For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands, ⁷for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control. 2 Timothy 1:3-7