Alive Project - The Carpenter, a debrief

I desperately want to move on. To write one of the two competing stories in my brain. However, this would mean leaving behind the space The Carpenter is taking up in my mind and since this story has so much to offer I can't simply leave it unrecorded. So I'm offering myself a sense of debrief by pausing the thoughts that are unfinished in my head and completing The Carpenter.

The night I read The Carpenter to my children I was not expecting their response. Let me be clear by saying that we allowed The Horse and His Boy, a volume of the great work by C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia, to go unread for the evening for this little story I had written at our kitchen table. I'm not sure about you, but when your kids choose you over your one of your most influential heroes it does something to boost your confidence.

So, I confided in them my little gem. This story that had bubbled up inside of me like a little spring that had been waiting to reach the surface. I allowed them to see the gnarled village and the love of The Carpenter as he scratched his way into the old man's home. I took them on the journey of the old man and the people who followed him up to the New City. I let them see a piece of my heart and the work that Jesus had revealed to me about the foundations of sand and stone.

When we were finish and I was tucking them in, I leaned over to kiss my daughter and she said lightly, "I know who The Carpenter is. It's Jesus." My sweet daughter could hear the voice of Jesus calling to her through this story. She knew it was Him by His love which is her deepest connection to Him. "But," she said, "who is the old man?"

This was a good question and could be a confusing one for my 5 and 6 year old. My daughter tried to wrap her head around it, "not Jesus, that's the Carpenter...but God? Maybe God?" I think instinctively she knew the answer, but her brain was not ready to make the leap. Here is where my son stepped in.

As I kissed his cheeks he whispered to me "It's us." That's right. It's us. The old man is sent by The Carpenter to tell others about what he has seen. He isn't asked to live solely in the New City nor only in the Valley. He's allowed to straddle both worlds in order to identify as a member of a new citizenship and also extend the love of The Carpenter to his tribe in the valley. My son knew it was us because of his deep connection to Jesus as well, his sense of mission.

The story of the wise man and the houses built on sand and stone took up new meaning for me during the writing of The Carpenter and through the responses of my children. Jesus tells us that this is what we are like when we hear the voice of God and follow the call, strong and steadfast. However, if we miss His voice or dismiss it, the Amplified version of Matthew 7:27 says our fall will be "great and complete".

I'm not sure I understand completely what our great and complete fall would be. However, I am certain that part of that fall will be missing the wholeness of being built up on the rock. That what we feel proud to call our achievement or autonomy may be the thing that is actually counteracting our solid footing.

I also know that part of that building is being willing to be the voice of God for others to hear so they too can be built up on the stoney foundation that leads to our strong standing. To be willing to step out in faith and into the torrents and storms to welcome others into the Kindgom because we are certain we will not fall. Our houses will stand. To not be afraid of the village because we know that the New City is right above our heads.

I am grateful for The Carpenter. I can't wait to see what else Jesus will show me as I dig deeper into His stories.

The Flame of St. Brigid

This weekend I did something I've been dreading for over a year. I went on a women's retreat with our church. Some of you think I'm nuts and others of you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know who you are; you ones like me who wait to sign up until the week before hoping there won't be any slots left.

This retreat was especially difficult for me as it was the first retreat I've been apart of since joining our church over a year ago. It was a huge step for me. HUGE. And it was scary.

Then we arrived. I felt pretty good. The first session started and our topic was revealed, "Wounds." Great. That doesn't sound vulnerable or raw or anything. Way to keep it light ladies. This was a topic I'd rather avoid because the source of my deepest wounding was pretty much exactly this same scenario. Vulnerability inside the church. Ouch...I'll just go home now, thanks.

Sparing details that really deserve their own post, I began to reveal to my small group the source of my hurts within the church from a very early age. How I have felt praised and encouraged for my giftedness and at the same time silenced and shamed because of my gender. The "if-only's" of my past came flooding out of me, and I realized in fresh ways the scars I've carried around as a woman with the gifts of teaching and shepherding in a church culture that says only men can lead the flock.

On Saturday afternoon we were encouraged to take an hour of silence to reflect on the weekend and allow the Spirit to minister to us. As an external processor I began to clamor for ways to get around the silence mandate. However, since everyone seemed compliant to the request I was pretty sure I was not going to find a rule-breaker to consult with. 

Before the session we were in was over I started thinking of ways to process and found myself meeting a character in my mind through which to write my story. This little sheep was sweet and special yet different and misunderstood. Immediately I knew her and she needed a name. 

While final announcements were getting wrapped up I started thinking through what to call her. Margot? Katie? Mary? That seemed appropriate, but not quite right. Then like a flash I knew her name, Bridgette. Ummm, okay? Bridgette. It was clear this was her name. Suddenly I knew what to do with my free time. Find out who is Bridgette! After the session I gathered my things, found a comfy spot and typed "the meaning of the name Bridgette" into Google. 

I don't know if you've ever experienced hearing the voice of the Spirit. Often times we hear His voice and we choose ignorance or second guess that this truly is the voice of God quickening our hearts. Most times we have to take what has been said to us on faith, we have to give ourselves over to the fact that the Spirit often speaks in indeterminate ways. Not this time, my friends! 

Immediately the Spirit spoke through Bridgette to me. Bridgette is a French name that means Strength or Strong. This alone was worth naming my little lamb Bridgette. However, I also learned that the name Bridgette is a French version of the Celtic name Brigid who also just happens to be an Irish Saint. 

Allow me to tell you her story... 

Born to a Druid father and a slave mother, who may have been a Christian, Brigid found God on her own and gave her life to Christ. Her legend has it that after plucking out her own eye to avoid a marriage due to her disfigurement she replaced the eye and was miraculously healed. 

After this incident Brigid went on to found the Monastery of Kildare (which means Sacred Oaks :: Isaiah 61:3) where, get this, men and women studied the word of God and lived in communion with God and each other. Here at the Monastery of Kildare many beautiful texts were written and a flame was kept burning by the women of the monastery. This flame was never stamped out and was said to have no ash though it was fueled by wood. 

The Flame of Kildare was kept continually burning by the women of the monastery for 500 years until after the Reformation when religious authorities saw fit to extinguish the fire St. Brigid had so carefully kindled. This flame was not relit until 1993 and is now tended and kept burning in honor of St. Brigid of Kildare.

For me this story held so much significance. The Spirit spoke so powerfully to me of the worth and strength He has put not only inside of me but every woman - every human. More than that the Spirit reminded me of a truth He had spoken to me years ago, which is, Kingdom Equality is a value that cannot be ignored. 

We have been sold the lie that Gender Equality as well as many other kinds of Equality are tricky inside the Kingdom. We have made up ways to allow people to feel less than and brand it as Biblical truth. We have twisted the giftedness of so many because we are afraid of offending someone. 

Often, we are afraid of offending God. Even writing this makes me shudder. The thought that for my whole life I have made excuses for people telling me that the Gifts that God has given me are actually offensive to Him makes my heart ache. 

I know this journey for me will continue...and that long blog posts tend to garner waning interest. So I will end with this excerpt from Isaiah 61:1-3, a prophecy to the people of Israel and truly the world, as I feel it so significantly sums up the way I feel about what the Spirit taught me this weekend.

"The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
Because the Lord has anointed and commissioned me
To bring good news to the humble and afflicted;
He has sent me to bind up the wounds of the brokenhearted,
To proclaim release from confinement and condemnation to the physical and spiritual captives
And freedom to prisoners,
2 
To proclaim the favorable year of the Lord,
And the day of vengeance and retribution of our God,
To comfort all who mourn,
3 
To grant to those who mourn in Zion the following:
To give them a turban instead of dust on their heads, a sign of mourning,
The oil of joy instead of mourning,
The garment expressive of praise instead of a disheartened spirit.
So they will be called the trees of righteousness [sacred oaks] strong and magnificent, distinguished for integrity, justice, and right standing with God,
The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified."
*brackets mine

For those of you who are wondering, I did make friends this weekend. A lot of them. And all of them responded to my wounds not only with love but with healing. 

They were the first to see the rough draft of Bridgette the Black Sheep.

The Alive Project - The Carpenter

*This short story is part of The Alive Project, an experiment in my own creative capacity.

The Carpenter

Once there was a small town of sorry shacks on the sandy shore of a murky lake that no one really liked going through. In fact the town hadn’t had any visitors since the oldest man who lived in the oldest house at the end of the oldest street could remember. The people of the town were hard and difficult. They each only gathered enough grain for their own families and never planted more than what was necessary to take care of their own children. No one grew fruit or even raised chickens for eggs for fear that someone else may take their fruit because of it’s sweetness or that their extra eggs would go rotten before they could eat them all themselves.

No one shared anything and because of this the houses were in shambles. If someone knew how to fix their shed but didn’t have a hammer, they would never ask, and if someone had a hammer but didn’t know how to fix shed they’d cross their arms and sulk that they couldn’t get what they needed. But no one ever asked for help and no one ever gave it.

Because of this no one in the town ever worked very hard. Tending enough wheat for each family wasn’t hard, but it left people hungry. And not having the tools or knowledge to fix anything meant no work could ever be done. So mostly people sat on their sagging porches and sneered at each other. Everyone told everyone else what was wrong with their houses, or children, or clothes, or the way they grew their wheat or even the way they sat on their porches sneering. Everyone liked telling everyone else what to do, but no one wanted to help anyone actually do anything. So nothing ever got done.

That is pretty much how every day in the town past. Sour faced people with rumbly bellies and leaky roofs all whispering behind each other’s backs and giving advice without lifting a finger. If you had walked by this town I am sure you would have gone the long way around because it was so dusty and depressing and going through town would most certainly mean seeing the very worst of people. Thatis exactly what everyone thought about the town and that is why in a 100 years there had never been one well-fed, generous person who would dare be called a visitor.

Until the day The Carpenter showed up. The Carpenter had heard that the people of the town were living in sorry little shacks on the sandy shore of a murky lake. He had heard about all their finger-wagging, uncaring, selfish, prideful ways and decided it was time he visited the town to see for himself what was happening and maybe lend a helping hand.

So The Carpenter didn’t just ride through the town with a pack and a horse. No, no. When The Carpenter came to town he brought a wagon full of everything he would need to build. He was determined help the people fix their leaky roofs and sagging porches. So even though it was evening and beginning to get dark when he arrived, he stopped at the first house on the corner of the first lane in the town and knocked. Well, he tried to knock, but when he did his fist went straight through the rotted wood of the door. From inside the house he heard a shrill scream “Get out of here you! We have no extra grain, we don’t grow fruit or raise any chickens! We don’t want your hammer and we don’t know how to fix your wagon! So get, you hear! Get out of here!”

The Carpenter’s face fell as he slowly backed away from the door. He hoisted himself into the back of wagon and rummaged through his materials until he found a bright clean new door made of the finest wood. It wasn’t fancy,  not carved and decorated, just a simple clean whole door. He carefully dragged the door back to the porch of the house and returned to his wagon for his tool box. With his tools in tow he slowly and quietly removed the old door from it’s hinges and laid it by the rotting fence in the front yard. He fixed what he could of the door frame and artfully hung the new fresh door in the place of the one that had been rotted and broken. He wiped his brow and tucked his handkerchief into his back pocket.

He picked up his tools and the old door and headed back to his wagon. He lugged his tools into the back and then propped the splintery door on the wheel of the wagon before climbing in and settling down for the night in the makeshift bed he made for himself because no one in the town would dare house a stranger for the night.

In the morning he jumped down from his wagon and stood astonished by what he saw. The old rotted door was leaning haphazardly back in its original frame. While it was blocking the doorway, it certainly couldn’t keep anything out or in. And flung onto the overgrown weedy lawn was the fresh door. When The Carpenter approached the door it was clear it had been ripped from its hinges with nothing more than sheer force which had torn the screws from the wood and battered the surface so it was practically unusable. Scrawled into the face of the door were the simple words “WE DON’T WANT IT!”

It was clear The Carpenter was not welcomed. So he hoisted the door onto the back of the wagon, dusted off his hands, and turned himself down the street. He walked up to the next door and this time found a firmer place to knock. The response was the same as the night before “Get out of here you! We have no extra grain, we don’t grow fruit or raise any chickens! We don’t want your hammer and we don’t know how to fix your wagon! So get, you hear! Get out of here!”

The Carpenter knocked once more and again was rejected, “Can’t you hear me! WE DON’T WANT IT!”

Up and down the streets, one door after the next The Carpenter knocked doors and rang bells. At each house the response was much the same “Get out of here you! We have no extra grain, we don’t grow fruit or raise any chickens! We don’t want your hammer and we don’t know how to fix your wagon! So get, you hear! Get out of here! WE DON’T WANT IT!”

You would think The Carpenter would become discouraged. That he would see the town, every person, would not open the door, would not accept what he was offering. But instead of being discouraged, The Carpenter seemed more determined with every rejection. And at every shack he visited he changed something. The trail of where he’d been could be easily followed, but not in the way you would hope. 

At the corner of 5th and main you could see glittering shingles laying in the gutter flung from the roof of the neighboring house. In the 200 block of Elm five freshly painted mailboxes lay dented in the street having been struck from their posts shortly after installation. And down on the sandy shore by the murky lake gaping holes had been pried in the new boardwalk leaving it completely impassable. But still The Carpenter pressed on leaving his handiwork behind. Handiwork that every last townsperson threw back in the street.

Finally, The Carpenter had been to every street, lane, boulevard and avenue in the town. He had visited every run-down house, every decrepit old building, every tiny shack. Having been turned away from every door the Carpenter arrived at the entrance to the oldest lane. He took a deep breath, picked up his tool box and stepped deliberately onto the rocky gravel that lead to the oldest house owned by the oldest man.

The lane was long and after years of neglect had become pocked and pitted, making the long walk through low hanging branches difficult and dangerous. As The Carpenter approached the house he could make out the rooflines and details that suggested this house had once been regal, elegant, beautiful even. However, as he continued to walk his feet began to sink heavily into the sandy soil that was no longer supporting the grand old home. As he trudged through the sand he realized the building was also sinking, little by little over time into the gritty earth below. In fact, by the time he reached the front of the home it was clear he would have to stoop to enter, if he was allowed in, for the door itself was half buried and covered with grime.

As he had done a hundreds times before The Carpenter knocked confidently on the door. From inside the familiar response came “Get out of here you! I have no extra grain, I don’t grow fruit or raise any chickens! I don’t want your hammer and I don’t know how to fix your wagon! So get, you hear! Get out of here!” It was so familiar, however The Carpenter noticed something a little different about this man’s reply. His heart quickened and he knocked once more. “I -- I -- I don’t want it.” The voice from inside formed the familiar words, however the way they were said was hollow and some would say longing.

The Carpenter stood on the sand where the porch should have been and admired the hints of beauty that could still be seen on the old house. He lingered slightly longer than he had before and decided this time to knock once more. 

Faintly, this time, there were no words, however The Carpenter could clearly hear a sound he had not heard before in this town. While he had to strain to hear it, there was no mistaking, inside the house the old man was weeping.

The Carpenter dropped his tool box which landed with a thud on the sand and ran full speed back to his wagon at the beginning of the lane. He lept into the back and seconds later you could see him dragging his own makeshift bed from among his tools and materials. He rolled the thin mattress quickly and tucked it under his arm before turning and running once again straight for the old house.

When he reached the door he flung the bed roll to the side, fell to his knees and began to dig. He dug through the wet, heavy sand with his bare hands becoming covered with grit and grime until he revealed enough of the entrance to pry a space just large enough for himself and the mattress to fit. He squeezed through the door and disappeared into the collapsing old mansion.

Now no one knows for sure what happened in that old house that day. Later, when he was asked, the old man would simply reply “He came.” And come he did, right into the old man’s old house at the end of the old lane. He went in and didn’t come out. Not for one day or two or even three. No one can quite remember how long he took up residence in that rotted sinking manor, but everyone remembers the day he came back out again. It was the day before the rains came.

When The Carpenter emerged from the doorway he wasn’t alone. The old man was with him looking happier and younger than he had looked in decades. Together they walked right past the toolbox The Carpenter had dropped outside the door the day he arrived and instead of walking down the lane they turned the corner of the old house and continued into the backyard. They walked through the tall thickets and tangled brambles all the while laughing and joking about something no one could seem to understand which was strange because they were loud enough for everyone to hear.

They were only about 100 yards away from the old man’s house when the ground began to feel more solid beneath their feet and they began a gradual hike upward towards the bluffs surrounding the town. When they reached the plateau at the top of the cliff The Carpenter and the old man stopped to survey the landscape below. They couldn’t have been more than 75 feet higher than the town, but they might as well have been a world away. They stood talking to each other for several minutes before someone said they thought the old man wiped a tear from his eye and then turned their backs and disappeared, out of sight, beyond the edge.

The Carpenter was suddenly gone leaving behind his toolbox, his wagon, even his bed in the town. Everyone assumed the man and The Carpenter were gone for good. And then the rain started.

It rained and poured for days and days. The sandy shores of the murky lake became soaked with water and the houses built on the sand began to shift and sink, much like the old man’s house at the end of the oldest lane. The rains came steadily and as the townspeople’s homes began to sink panic spread throughout the town. Swarms of people raided The Carpenter’s abandoned wagon for tools and supplies trying desperately to save what was theirs. However, no one knew much about fixing and if they did they wouldn’t help their neighbor so there was no denying it, the town would inevitably sink straight from the sandy shores right into the murky lake.

Then one day, just as before a visitor came into town. Shielded by a large umbrella and walking steadily on foot the old man appeared on the edge of the bluff. The Carpenter was not with him, but had clearly shown him the easiest and most efficient way down into the valley below. He plodded systematically down the steep embankment, past his old home, down the old lane and out into the town square.

In the square he found that the top few stairs of city hall were still standing above the sand and climbed up to the portico. He folded his umbrella, tucked it under his arm and began to speak. As the rain poured onto his head soaking him from head to toe he spoke these words. “Up on the bluff there is a city. We could not see it, but it’s always been there. This city is built on the rock of the bluff so that it will not shift like this sand here below. Since your homes are sinking we would like for you to come. We will help you build your houses next to ours. We have plenty of extra grain, we grow sweet and delicious fruit for all to enjoy and we’d love to have some friends to share the eggs our chickens lay for us! We’ll need whatever hammers you have and if you know how to fix things we’ll need your knowledge too! So before you sink right into the lake, come with me and get out of here soon!”

The people in the town felt desperate. Each of them knew that their houses were sinking, each of them was sure they would be swallowed by the murky lake. However, some of the townspeople replied in the all too familiar way “WE DON’T WANT IT!” They dug in their heels and retreated into their swampy living rooms determined to wait out the storm.

However, others trusted what the old man had to say. Many of them had known this man their whole lives. While they had never seen a house on the bluff, this man was not a liar and he looked well fed and happy; while they could still feel the furrows in their brows and the rumbling in their bellies. Some went right away, following the man up the bluff and over the cliff, but others stayed until the man came again the next day with the same message, and the next and the next.

Each day as the rains expanded the lake the man came and each day houses were further and further surrounded, first the porches, then the windows, then to the rooflines. Each day one or two or ten families followed the man, but there were still some who refused. The man’s invitation never changed and he never pleaded or begged. He simply offered and those were ready followed him up the hill as he told the story of how The Carpenter came and the ways of the people on the bluff.

Eventually the man realized that the lake would soon wash away the path he had been using to visit the people of the town. He decided one morning this would be his last visit to the valley. He delivered his message as normal and before leaving to return to the bluff he stopped at each remaining family's home and scrawled in the rotted wood of the rooftops “COME! WE WANT YOU!”

The rains continued to come until the houses were covered, leaving only a few scattered rooftops peeking out from the midst of the murky lake. Each of which reads “COME! WE WANT YOU!” 

The people who remained in the valley have all moved into canvas tents and tiny lean tos around the edge of the lake. They grow sparse foods and their homes are even more rickety than before. Their bellies are just as rumbly and their brows are even more furrowed.

Thousands of the townspeople found their way to the New City on the bluff following the path The Carpenter had made with the old man on the first day they disappeared over the cliff. You can still see today where there is a ladder flung over the edge to aid anyone in the valley below should they want to make their way to the New City. Every day you can find someone from the New City among the sagging structures with a basket of eggs, new canvas for better tents, or strong wood for roofs. Sometimes one of the people from the valley will take something out of desperation and occasionally a family will allow someone from the New City to stay awhile and help them rebuild with the new materials. However, most of these items lay discarded on the banks of the lake and often, even after a tent or lean to has been remade those who live in the Valley rarely ever leave.

However, every so often you will see, sometimes in the dark of night, one or two people emerge from their tent and climb up the ladder towards the light that is always left lit for those who will come up onto the bluff and over the cliff into the New City where The Carpenter is building with them side by side, every day the homes he has always been wanting to give them. Homes built on the solid rock of the bluff that will never shift or sink into the sandy shore of the murky lake.

The Alive Project - A Reintroduction

Almost two years ago I embarked on my first Alive Project. That project sent me on an incredible journey learning to understand and identify with women in the margins. In the time between that project and this posting I have lived a different kind of Alive Project, one which you can read about in my Adoption posts. These eye-opening experiences have changed my experience with the outside world and I am so grateful for the love and passion for people that has been cultivated in my heart since beginning The Project. 

I have found that now is the time for the Alive Project to turn inward. For the last two years, especially in the last year, I have relied heavily on the pragmatic side of myself. In order to keep the wheels of life turning I unwittingly sacrificed the creative side of me, my true self. I have believed that who I am as a creative individual is not as necessary or fulfilling to the Kingdom of God and have exchanged abundant living for sacrificial work. While these things go hand in hand they are void without each other.

I would like to reintroduce the Alive Project back to the blog. Admittedly, I am hesitant to categorize this next chapter as The Project. However, I feel as though creativity and self-expression often produce the most beautiful portraits of the Kingdom. I have certainly believed that for others and I find that Jesus Himself told beautiful stories and used His creative power to show and tell us about the Kingdom of God. In fact, the jump start for this project is a passage of scripture where Jesus describes why he told stories to people. He tells the disciples He is laying ground work for hearts that are so unaccustomed to hearing news of the Kingdom that they need a softer version of the message to ready them for the gospel.

During this chapter of the Alive Project it is my intention to post at least one creative project per week. I will draw inspiration from the Parables and Miracles of Christ and from the Work of Jesus in Nature and Humanity. I have already begun the project and will post my first short story based on the Parable of the Houses Built on Sand and Rock soon. 

I encourage you, as you read through the Alive Project for the next few months to join me. Reflect on your true self and try something that is purely for joy, for abundance and to feel truly yourself because this is an Act of Worship. Please post in the comments links to your blog or pictures of what you are working on. Let us encourage one another in the ways we have been made. Let's celebrate together the diversity of the Kingdom and the Savior who has set us free to be exactly who He has created to be!