I truly am not.
Not when I trace the working of God in boyish cursive now 15 years old…
Not when I ask a question, hear in His gentle whisper a familiar strain, and then find the original answer… Written 7 years ago, to the week. 7 years before I asked.
Not when I can understand in retrospect (as if it were the simplest thing in the world) why there was always reason to praise through bleeding days. Always.
I promise you, if you can’t trust Him with your today, it’s because you’ve already forgotten yesterday.
Write. Read. Remember.
You can’t tell the future. That’s why God has given you your past.
Go get yourself a journal.
Luther. Tyndale. Huss.
Lenin. Stalin. Hitler.
Winston Churchil. William Wilberforce. William Pitt (the Younger)…
Names all that ring down the halls of history.
World changers.
Extraordinary? Certainly.
All particularly advantaged, talented, clever, wealthy and wise?
Hardly.
But they shook the world. Their tread resounded across the borders of countries and continents. In their day, greatly loved or greatly feared. In ours, household names.
They brought the horror of great darkness, or returned the people to light.
And they all had this in common:
They faced unbelievable odds, and failed more times than you and I have tried.
But they were relentless men.
Relentless men.
______
There is a reason my iPhone chimes at 11:00 am on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays reminding me to go outside and run. And it’s not because I don’t have other things to do. Ok, so exercise is good. But for this pilgrim, there’s way more strategy in it than just that.
I’m a mercy-loving man. But sensitivity being one of my stronger points, in my natural personality I sometimes have far too much mercy on myself…
I need to learn relentlessness. Just as thoroughly as I study what it means to be a world-class gentleman. Or, . . . never be a world-changer.
So I’ve set out to do just that.
That’s why I get up when I do.
That’s why I put on neon-blue Nike+ shoes and run 8 miles, Sun, Tues, Thurs…
Every week.
I don’t love running that much.
That’s exactly my problem…
______
What makes us think God is going to train us for service while we sit here?
God has no intentions of doing for us what we can do for ourselves.
Grace enables.
You decide.
Yes, you.
Some songs keep singing long after the baton is back in its sleeve.
 |
| Jared Westbrook |
In one, my heart strains after more perfect service, and my lips silent form the morning’s plea.
In the other, the lyrics to my all-time favorite choral anthem run over and over; warm, fill.
I roll out of bed.
My thoughts merge on the 8th Psalm. I play the words of the incredulous poet over in my head.
Wait.
What’s the word?
Neato (the iPad) comes into service. I memorized the 8th Psalm as a boy, but perhaps it was a different version.
Hey, were did my praise word go?
I switch to Strongs.
The word is Strength. The word is also Praise.
Same word.
Same thing?
I squint at the screen, thinking, not seeing. My finger dances at the edge of discovery.
Strength and song go together.
Wait… Give Him strength? Make that praise.
I lean back in the futon, satisfied.
Praise is strength. Song is strength.
It “stills the enemy and the avenger.” (Ps. 8)
That’s perfect service.
Both trains of thought are satisfied.
To praise Him perfectly is to serve Him perfectly.
All the way down row 12 on an MD90 homeward bound, laps are filled with open Bibles– still, at 11:00 am.
We never would have guessed…
We’ve laughed, and cried, and struck palms to foreheads over the songs you love. All 83 of them.
They’ll never fit on 5 CDs, but we’re going to start.
In one month.
Start praying for us… 🙂
Quiet, I watch jays and juncos flutter through freshly fallen snow in search of seed.
From home to Houston, and back again.
The words of my brother Sebastian ring in my ears still–
It’s a new day.
It’s a new day…
What a way to start the year.
My stare rests blank on blank journal pages… Empty lines pleading to be filled with the fullness of days behind me.
Of waking high up, under Hilton-branded down, exhausted. Of learning to trust each new logistical catastrophe with the Ultimate Authority. Of joy overflowing while directing thousands of people through registration line. Of listening to 7,000 people sing I’ll Go Where You Want Me To Go right at my feet. (There is nothing, nothing like it in the world.) Of praying with seasoned soldiers, and nervous musicians. Of watching eyes water at God’s goodness. Of investing in beautiful young lives. Of having my burdens lifted by the Merciful God through my humble, brilliant team. Of hearing God’s name praised over my broken efforts. Of 190 voices and instruments singing Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!
Of quieter moments. Behind a lens. Behind the stage. Discussing purpose with one friend, and the 85 Prime with another. Of grabbing my little sister’s arm every time I saw her. Of the joy of walking back over to the Hilton and finding 5 other Nebbletts in the room at random in the middle of the day (if only for 45 seconds). Of sunrise over Houston from the skyline patio 23 floors up. Of words– words from old friends and new that gripped; moved; changed.
My spine tingles.
And that’s not even the start. I don’t know where to start.
So I won’t even try… not now.
I’ll just tell you the bottom line. The thing I most want to remember from GYC 2011.
You’ve heard of Murphy’s law, no doubt?
I’ve learned there’s one greater.
Maybe we should call it Houston’s law.
Houston: City of Miracles. Where almost every dept. encountered some kind of logistical catastrophe, but nobody ever noticed. But called it instead the conference of conferences…
Because when the enemy is against it, but God is in it—
Anything that can go wrong, will be extra fuel for Glory.
It’s a new day.
I believe in the God-scripted life. A script writer myself, I know that he who writes the script authors the outcome, and I believe in God-authored outcomes.
So let the story take unexpected turns!
For the shepherd on the dark hillsides outside of Bethlehem, the appearance of not one, but countless angels from Heaven’s very choir was certainly just that: unexpected.
And for us, sitting in the car all night in a familiar town was that likewise. And being separated by miles and feet of snow when we most wanted to be together– this season, and father’s 60th birthday– certainly not in the plans.
But I have learned that through the unexpected God hones our expectancy towards Himself… And what is this season to remind us of, if not expectant waiting for the King? And even as space and time make loving hearts grow fonder, separation makes reunion more sweet.
So we glory in the gift of Jesus today, together. And thank Him that we have eyes to see, and ears to hear, and lives to live His script.
Wishing you all a most blessed and joyful Christmas! You are (each!) gifts to me this year…
 |
| Together! (seriously icy road…) |
 |
| finally off the mountain |
 |
| catching up (we get behind within minutes of separating) |
I never thought I would be stranded just a stone’s throw from home…
But here we are.
Midnight:
I awaken with a start in the post office parking lot where we have taken refuge from the storm. We were on our way to Texas, now we’d just be glad for a place to lay flat. A mere hour and a half from home, and now we can’t go forward, and we can’t go back. Mother and Chantée who left earlier and were to meet us are likewise stranded in Albuquerque, both interstates closed. We roll our window down to talk to the policeman who is quickly becoming our friend…
“You guys ok?”
Oh boy. We’re fine… But are you going to get that car out of this parking lot?
Joshua and I end up white from head to foot after pushing the unit out of the drift created by our very van. We decide to get out ourselves before we’re drifted in…
And in the biting wind of the worst blizzard I have ever lived through, I think:
Boy, so near, yet so far! If only we could get home…
I mean, I just drove through the worst conditions of my life to get here, but I’d still give anything to be able to head back towards my room right now.
Snow stings. I squint as I make my way back to the car.
My heart strains at receding red and blue lights. The kind policeman promised he’d see us again.
But just before I yank the frozen-closed driver door open, (to go back to “sleep”) this little thought thunders me–
He could have gone home. But He didn’t.
He stayed stranded in a cold world, on a cold night… By far the worst “blizzard” He’d experienced. Like me, part of Him probably wondered at the circumstances he found Himself in. But the stronger part embraced them.
And he didn’t run home, though He could have.
He came here, He stayed here, by choice…
Merry Christmas.
 |
| usually, there’s a road there. |
p.s. this really is real time blogging. Posted from back in the selfsame Post Office parking lot. No idea when we’ll get out of here… Did I tell you this GYC wasn’t going to be average?
© 2025 Unsatisfied By Average
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments