Chalk

The first warm and sunny Sunday after a cold bleak winter called us to have our kids activities outdoors. With hope in their hearts and chalk in their hands they tumbled out into the fresh air to decorate the sidewalk with the bright colors of spring.

The kids were already at work when I stepped out the front door. They took turns striking poses and tracing each other as they lay on the concrete.

Within minutes, the kids proclaimed that they were finished. I looked on horrified to see the unadorned chalk outlines of a dozen children lining the sidewalk of the church. Some police tape would have made the scene complete.

They were puzzled as to why my face was contorted and why I didn't think they were finished. Not wanting to point out that it looked like the remnants of a massacre, I made a declaration.

"LOOK at these children on the sidewalk. NONE of them are wearing any CLOTHES! I don't allow naked children in front of this church so put some clothes on them right now!"

For a moment they were shocked. Then embarrassment kicked in as they took the many colors of chalk and created the latest fashions within the outlines. They added some jewelry and other essential bling before going inside to wash their hands. The faces, both on the sidewalk and on the kids themselves, carried smiles.

When I've come out of the bleak winter seasons in my soul there's often little more than what feels like a chalk outline of myself left. And the start of a period of new growth can look more like a crime scene than a glorious new season.

But as I find my robes of righteousness, don my helmet of salvation, buckle my belt of truth, walk around in my shoes of peace, and add the essential bling of a polished shield of faith, I move from a remnant of the past season to joy-filled life in Him.

Because when Spring arrives in the soul again, it's time to get out and revel in the fresh Air.

Lord, you are the restorer of my soul.

Cause

The gold, low-riding, tricked out Cadillac pulled up in front of the school. Both front doors opened and two massive young men got out of the front seat simultaneously. Each was adorned in high-end gang apparel and a variety of gold jewelry. The tough anger on their faces caused everyone to pause.

One opened the back door of the car while the other reached his hand inside to assist the lady in exiting the vehicle.

She had a fresh hairdo and was dressed to the nines. As she emerged it was clear that both men were rendered helpless by the mesmerizing power she held over them.

The sheer delight on her face captivated the rest of us as she slowly walked into the school with one man on each arm. The man on her left let go only long enough to open the school door. He then took her frail hand as she laboriously navigated the step up and in.

As they waited with her in line to vote, she started a conversation with a couple of her friends who had gotten to the polls a few minutes before her. The two friends said they would wait for her afterward. With great dignity, they hobbled along with their canes toward a few chairs along the wall.

The three women sat together and visited quietly while keeping an eye out as for who had made it to the polls. Just a glance into their eyes told quite a story.

For those eyes had seen lynchings. And those feet that now needed a cane had marched. The arms that had been supported to reach the polls had been linked together in solidarity in standing for justice. They'd sat at the lunch counters and in the front of the bus. They knew what fire hoses and police dogs and night sticks could do. That day they remembered what they had been through and marked some of the fruits of their sufferings.

The men who had driven her hadn't voted. They loitered in a corner. If they even hinted at being impatient or wanting get back to their other dealings, one brief look shot across the room from her put an immediate end to it.

When I look at my role in building His kingdom of righteousness, peace, and joy, I'd like to say that I'm like one of those elderly women. Truthfully, though, I must confess my solidarity is more often with the men who were with her.

I don't clearly see or understand or begin to appreciate the sacrifices and suffering that have made it possible to fulfill my calling in His work. Be it the saints of old or people who currently give beyond their means to make sure that I have a salary, it's often lost on me.

Plus I know that there are material and emotional benefits if I deal only in the portions of the Gospel that are the opiate of the masses rather than getting fully engaged in the cause of Peaceable Kingdom. It's easier to surround myself with material possessions that show my status to others (though mostly to convince myself of my own worth) rather than to go through the hardships it takes to bring worth and dignity and justice to others.

And if I can't get my head and heart lined up around these things, how can I possibly even begin to pretend to understand the cross?

But once in a while I hear the Story again. And as I do I'm reminded that His work is not just something from the past or for the future but is for the here and now.

So I have a choice each day. I can treat Him with respect and honor. It may be a bit inconvenient and I might get impatient but for it I'll be blessed. Or, I can pay the price of joining with Him in the task of building His kingdom in the here and now. The cause is His. The choice is mine.

Your cause be mine, great Lord divine.
Your aim be my ambition:
For wasted is my greatest strength
Unless it find expression
In love the gives itself away,
In life responsive to obey
The terms of Your commission. (Bryan Jeffery Leach)