"What a broad world to roam in, what a sea to swim in is this God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ." -- A. W. Tozer
As a family member asked over the Christmas holiday, I now wonder to myself, "What has been the best thing about living in Moscow?"
It is not what many would expect. And, really, words cannot even encapsulate it. Indeed, there are a great many 'good' things to be thankful for -- the sheer experience of living in a foreign country: immersion in a rich and different culture: deep history: appreciation for dissimilar people groups and ways of living: family bonding and increased closeness: seeing the world wide body of Christ: the people, themselves, etc. ; the list can go on.
These, though, are not what my heart cries. There is one thing I count more precious than all else. It is this - to know God more, to see Him more clearly, more as He truly is.
By that, I do not mean my 'idea' of God, or what I imagine Him to be. Nor do I mean what others would tell me or have me believe about God. Not the God that Joel Osteen peddles -- spit, polish and coax until Magic Genie Jesus gives you your best life now. (If that's so, what's Heaven meant to be?) I don't want the many surface, small and empty rip-offs that some try to sell. I want the real thing. I want to know God. The One who made me. The One for whom I am made. Too often, I have lived as if it is the doing for God that is valuable, rather than the knowing of God. Lately, though, that is changing...
It began as we were preparing to leave the scenic, southern city of Nashville, Tennessee for a hustling, bustling metropolis half the world away. 'Moscow, here we come!' Looking back, those first days and months are slightly comical... Ironically, we arrived on the coldest day of the year, and unfortunately, winter in Nashville had made pansies of us all. Here we were - a family of five - suddenly dropped in (what felt like) the middle of the artic (and, kind of is -- haha). Cold has a new definition for us now, a uniquely Russian one.
That, though, was simply the beginning. Much has happened since - more than can be put into paragraphs, most of which many would count uninteresting, and all that I eternally grateful for.
I will include one such incident. Nothing spectacular. Mundane, yet magnificent.
Saturday morning. You find me in the kitchen sipping my black fuel, perusing a book. Claire enters with a dejected disposition, "Mom, Rory won't let me be her helper in art class. She only wants me to be her student."
Pause here. In brief, Saturday school was in session - at least at our house. Rory, being the eldest and most bossy (she came by it honestly, mind you) takes the role of teacher. And, rather than be Rory's subservient pupil, Claire wants to be 'assistant'. This, however, does not align with Rory's grand vision, and, thus, she will not allow it.
At this point, I have a few options. Instantaneously, two move to the forefront of my mind; I could visibly intervene, exact justice and ensure fair treatment OR, I could attempt to train Claire - help her see what she ought to do, how she ought to respond and equip her for what is sure to come (about a dozen more years of the same - ha!). I choose option #2.
My exact words matter little. It is the choice. I confess I do not always take this route. Sometimes, intervention is necessary. Sometimes, consequences must be meated out. Sometimes, there is no other choice. But, in this moment, I decide NOT to exert my power as authority. While I certainly have the ability and right to step in, take charge and bend the children to my will, in this moment, I choose not to.
To Claire, my counsel and approach might have seemed lazy or uninterested. She might have felt as though I had left her on her own, without aide. She could have thought that I did not care or would not defend her. After a little more consideration and questioning, she may have concluded that I do not take good care of her, that I do not love her as I ought. Then, perhaps, she would have decided to ignore my advice, and make/take her own way.
Claire, though, expresses none of this. I doubt even a hint of such stuff crossed her mind. Instead, she quietly attended to my words. You can guess what happened next. Yes, she did exactly what I suggested. She trusted me, and obeyed.
For me, this was a picture in real time. I, too, have an Authority, a Father - who sits on His throne above; He has created me, and chosen me to be His child. His training, unlike my own, is perfect - without mistake, EVER. Yet, the thoughts above have raced through my brain and seized my own heart on countless occassions. It's ironic. My child of six displays more trust in her faulty, imperfect parent than I do in my holy, heavenly Father. How often I fail to ascribe such pure and positive intentions to Him?! How quickly I recall the power of God, but forget His love. How soon I assume the worst.
In that moment, I repent. For God is showing Himself - as He really is - to my dense, sin-encrusted heart. He is teaching me what I expect my own children to know (and never forget): I love them. And, although my love is tainted by sin, I do what I do out of love and for their good... even if it doesn't always look that way. Even if sometimes it hurts.
He, though, loves perfectly - never selfishly or impatiently. He always gets it right. His counsel, His plans, His purposes are always good and for my/our good...even if it doesn't always look that way. Even if sometimes it hurts.
Forgive me, Lord, when I doubt and fear. Remove the mistrust and misunderstanding of Your divine character. Help me see You more clearly, as You really are, and so know You more fully. May my faith in my Father be like the trust and dependence of my own dear child.
As a family member asked over the Christmas holiday, I now wonder to myself, "What has been the best thing about living in Moscow?"
It is not what many would expect. And, really, words cannot even encapsulate it. Indeed, there are a great many 'good' things to be thankful for -- the sheer experience of living in a foreign country: immersion in a rich and different culture: deep history: appreciation for dissimilar people groups and ways of living: family bonding and increased closeness: seeing the world wide body of Christ: the people, themselves, etc. ; the list can go on.
These, though, are not what my heart cries. There is one thing I count more precious than all else. It is this - to know God more, to see Him more clearly, more as He truly is.
By that, I do not mean my 'idea' of God, or what I imagine Him to be. Nor do I mean what others would tell me or have me believe about God. Not the God that Joel Osteen peddles -- spit, polish and coax until Magic Genie Jesus gives you your best life now. (If that's so, what's Heaven meant to be?) I don't want the many surface, small and empty rip-offs that some try to sell. I want the real thing. I want to know God. The One who made me. The One for whom I am made. Too often, I have lived as if it is the doing for God that is valuable, rather than the knowing of God. Lately, though, that is changing...
It began as we were preparing to leave the scenic, southern city of Nashville, Tennessee for a hustling, bustling metropolis half the world away. 'Moscow, here we come!' Looking back, those first days and months are slightly comical... Ironically, we arrived on the coldest day of the year, and unfortunately, winter in Nashville had made pansies of us all. Here we were - a family of five - suddenly dropped in (what felt like) the middle of the artic (and, kind of is -- haha). Cold has a new definition for us now, a uniquely Russian one.
That, though, was simply the beginning. Much has happened since - more than can be put into paragraphs, most of which many would count uninteresting, and all that I eternally grateful for.
I will include one such incident. Nothing spectacular. Mundane, yet magnificent.
Saturday morning. You find me in the kitchen sipping my black fuel, perusing a book. Claire enters with a dejected disposition, "Mom, Rory won't let me be her helper in art class. She only wants me to be her student."
Pause here. In brief, Saturday school was in session - at least at our house. Rory, being the eldest and most bossy (she came by it honestly, mind you) takes the role of teacher. And, rather than be Rory's subservient pupil, Claire wants to be 'assistant'. This, however, does not align with Rory's grand vision, and, thus, she will not allow it.
At this point, I have a few options. Instantaneously, two move to the forefront of my mind; I could visibly intervene, exact justice and ensure fair treatment OR, I could attempt to train Claire - help her see what she ought to do, how she ought to respond and equip her for what is sure to come (about a dozen more years of the same - ha!). I choose option #2.
My exact words matter little. It is the choice. I confess I do not always take this route. Sometimes, intervention is necessary. Sometimes, consequences must be meated out. Sometimes, there is no other choice. But, in this moment, I decide NOT to exert my power as authority. While I certainly have the ability and right to step in, take charge and bend the children to my will, in this moment, I choose not to.
To Claire, my counsel and approach might have seemed lazy or uninterested. She might have felt as though I had left her on her own, without aide. She could have thought that I did not care or would not defend her. After a little more consideration and questioning, she may have concluded that I do not take good care of her, that I do not love her as I ought. Then, perhaps, she would have decided to ignore my advice, and make/take her own way.
Claire, though, expresses none of this. I doubt even a hint of such stuff crossed her mind. Instead, she quietly attended to my words. You can guess what happened next. Yes, she did exactly what I suggested. She trusted me, and obeyed.
For me, this was a picture in real time. I, too, have an Authority, a Father - who sits on His throne above; He has created me, and chosen me to be His child. His training, unlike my own, is perfect - without mistake, EVER. Yet, the thoughts above have raced through my brain and seized my own heart on countless occassions. It's ironic. My child of six displays more trust in her faulty, imperfect parent than I do in my holy, heavenly Father. How often I fail to ascribe such pure and positive intentions to Him?! How quickly I recall the power of God, but forget His love. How soon I assume the worst.
In that moment, I repent. For God is showing Himself - as He really is - to my dense, sin-encrusted heart. He is teaching me what I expect my own children to know (and never forget): I love them. And, although my love is tainted by sin, I do what I do out of love and for their good... even if it doesn't always look that way. Even if sometimes it hurts.
He, though, loves perfectly - never selfishly or impatiently. He always gets it right. His counsel, His plans, His purposes are always good and for my/our good...even if it doesn't always look that way. Even if sometimes it hurts.
Forgive me, Lord, when I doubt and fear. Remove the mistrust and misunderstanding of Your divine character. Help me see You more clearly, as You really are, and so know You more fully. May my faith in my Father be like the trust and dependence of my own dear child.
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