Thoughtful thanks

One of my favorite writers, in whose words I find the greatest comfort and challenge, is Elisabeth Elliot. She is a woman of deep wisdom and strong faith, the epitome of a godly woman with remarkable courage and confidence of God's hand and provision.

As Thanksgiving is upon us, I'd like to share an excerpt from one of Ms. Elliot's newsletter articles (which I read in the compilation Keep a Quiet Heart, but can also be found on her website - listed in my links section). I hope that none of us are at a loss about what to be thankful for this year - but hopefully this will stir you to more a more thoughtful and creative Thanksgiving.

...As an editor my father spent his life reading other people's writings and never thought of writing a book. Three collections of his short writings were published in book form, however, one entitled New Every Morning (published by Zondervan in 1969, now out of print). Here's the title piece, an exercise in thanksgiving, and a glimpse of the man he was. I think you'll see why I'm thankful for such a father.
"Blessings taken for granted are often forgotten. Yet our Heavenly Father 'daily loadeth us with benefits' (Psalm 68:19). Think of some of the common things which are nevertheless wonderful:
--the intricate, delicate mechanism of the lungs steadily and silently taking in fresh air eighteen to twenty times a minute;
--the untiring heart, pumping great quantities of clean blood through the labyrinth of blood vessels;
--the constant body temperature, normally varying less than one degree;
--the atmospheric temperature, varying widely it is true, but never so much as to destroy human and animal life;
--the orderly succession of day and night, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, so that, with few exceptions, man can make his plans accordingly;
--the great variety of foods, from the farm, the field, the forest, and the sea, to suit our differing desires and physical needs;
--the beauties of each day
--the morning star and growing light of sunrise, the white clouds of afternoon, the soft tints of a peaceful sunset, and the glory of the starry heavens;
--the symphony of early morning bird songs, ranging from the unmusical trill of the chipping sparrow to the lilting ecstasy of the goldfinch and the calm, rich, bell-like tones of the wood and hermit thrushes;
--the refreshment that sleep brings;
--the simple joys of home
--the children's laughter and whimsical remarks, happy times around the table, the love and understanding of husband and wife, and the harmony of voices raised together in praise to God.

All these and many others come from the bountiful hand of Him 'who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies; who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's' (Psalm 103:4,5).

'It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness' (Lamentations 3:22,23).

'It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord, and to sing praises unto thy name, O most High' (Psalm 92:1)." - Elisabeth Elliot, "An Overflowing Cup"

The only story I need to hear

Today is officially "C.S. Lewis Day" on my blog. Grab yourself a nice cup of English tea and read along.

I read The Chronicles of Narnia last winter, and found more life lessons and profound thoughts in those stories than I could ever capture in a single reading. I look forward to reading them again one of these days.

In the third book in the series, The Horse and His Boy, one line is repeated in two different instances. It is a statement that has echoed in my mind constantly since I first read it. When a character begins asking questions about the events that have unfolded in the life of another, Aslan gently chides, "Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own."

Stay in your story, dear one. It is the only story you need to hear, and it will all unfold in perfect time.

I am not very good at staying in my story. I get impatient and, like a little child, try to turn the page too soon. I get curious about what's unfolding in other people's stories. Their stories begin to look more interesting than my own, and all too often, glancing over at someone else's page leads to discontentment that is nothing short of sinful.

Jesus's disciples fell into this trap - wanting to skip to the end, straining to eavesdrop on someone else's story. At the end of the book of John, after Jesus has been resurrected, he tells Peter "by what kind of death he was to glorify God". He tells Peter that he will be martyred, and then says, "Follow me." Peter looks at John, then says to Jesus, "Lord, what about this man?" How will his story end? Jesus's reply to Peter is somewhat less than gentle: "If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow me!" (John 21:18-22)

What is his story to you? I am telling you your story, and that is all that matters. Listen to me, follow my lead. Trust that my will is being done in the story I tell.

Jesus, my worries, my impatience, my envy of what others have all add up to a lack of trust in your perfect will. Help me to set my eyes and my mind on you and follow. I know that you are the all-wise, all-creative, all-powerful Storyteller, and you are weaving the most intricate and beautiful story that could ever be told. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of that.

He's not safe - Book Report #3

I've been reading The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis, and good ol' Clive continues to speak boldly and wisely into my life. I wholeheartedly recommend this book, though I'd advise against making it your introduction to Lewis. It can take a little while to get used to his voice, but once you do, hopefully you too will feel like you're hearing from an old friend, or perhaps a doting and highly intelligent grandfather with the proverbial twinkle in his eye.

The admonishment that I most needed to hear as I read this book:
If I am sure of anything I am sure that [Christ's] teaching was never meant to confirm my congenital preference for safe investments and limited liabilities. I doubt whether there is anything in me that pleases Him less (120).

Oh, how often this congenital preference wins out in me, and how that must displease my wild, daring, and wholly trustworthy Savior!

How is it that we come to love?

I continue to ruminate on some of the thoughts I posted in "109 Little Words", and to ponder love in general. Some words I read weeks ago have surfaced in my mind once again, and I want to post them here. Perhaps you can join me in chewing on them.

And as we behold the glory of Christ in the gospel and savor his purity, we come to see sin as repugnant, and salvation as magnificent. We see people no longer, as Paul says, "according to the flesh" (2 Corinthians 5:16), but with a love that "bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things" (1 Corinthians 13:7). We despair of no one, because in spite of human depravity, "with God all things are possible" (Matthew 19:26). And we see culture no longer merely with the eyes of seduction or despair; but with eyes of hope. The sovereign, living Christ will someday claim this world for himself. Our spirit is wakened and enlivened by beholding the glory of Christ and his passion to make all things serve the glory of his Father.

As our spiritual perception of all things changes by keeping Christ in our steady gaze, our conformity to Christ becomes very practical. Our behavior changes. "A new commandment I give to you," Jesus said, "that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another" (John 13:34-35). As we behold the glory of the Lord in the gospel, the glory of his moral perfections more and more become our desire and our experience, especially the glory of his love for his enemies [...]

As we fix our mind's attention and our heart's affection on the glory of Christ's love, more and more we become loving. John Piper, God is the Gospel, 94.