Forgiveness is not my strong suit.  When someone hurts my feelings, it takes me a while to get over it.  I’ve heard dozens of people talk about the importance of married couples resolving issues before going to sleep at night.  “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger,” is the common statement, right?

WRONG.

If my husband ticks me off at six o’clock in the evening, there is no way I’m snuggling up with him at ten o’clock that night.  Eventually, I will forgive him, and most of the time he won’t even have to apologize, but I need at least a few hours to stew first.  And depending on the infraction, I might never forget.

Forgiveness doesn’t come easily for me.  It can be even tougher when I need to forgive myself.

A wise woman once told me I needed to move from a life of guilt to a life of grace.  Guilt to grace.  It does sound lovely, doesn’t it?   Of course, the concept of grace makes me think of one thing.  Yep, grab those palm branches folks - here we go with that Jesus fellow again! 

There are many definitions of ‘grace.’  Mercy or pardon.  Divine love and protection bestowed freely on people.  An excellence or power granted by God.  The state of being protected or sanctified.  Immunity or exemption; a reprieve. 

Ephesians 2: 4-5 says: God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved . . .

I once heard grace described in this simplistic, yet achingly beautiful way:  Mercy is not receiving that which we deserve.  Grace is receiving that which we do not deserve.

I do not deserve grace.  I do not deserve to be forgiven.  I’m like that child who apologizes over and over again for hitting his little brother – looks that little fella right in the eyes and says he’s sorry – then turns around and belts him again when he thinks no one is looking.   I confess my sins to God, I pray for his forgiveness, and then, even though I KNOW he’s looking, I turn around and commit the same sins all over again.  Greed, envy, idolatry, pride, lust (have you seen that Calvin Klein cologne ad with Matthew McConaughey in the Nordstrom at . . . never mind). 

Still, God forgives me.  He forgives me for everything I’ve ever done or said or imagined that wasn’t good or glorifying to Him.  He forgives me for all those things I’m going to do or say or imagine in the future that aren’t good or glorifying to Him.  I don’t have to feel guilty about my millions of past or future mistakes.  They are forgiven.  My debt has been paid.  I can live in freedom because of the grace God freely gives.

Yet, most of the time, I choose not to. 

I choose to ignore grace.  I choose to live in guilt instead.  I beat myself up and toss myself out and despise myself because I am . . . human.

I feel guilty because I went out to dinner with a friend and didn’t get to read to my daughter.  I feel guilty because I had a prior commitment and missed my son’s first goal in lacrosse.  I feel guilty because I complain to my husband about the problems with our house instead of expressing gratitude for having one.  I feel guilty because I don’t spend enough time with my extended family. 

What a slap in the face to the Lord of all.  He sent his son to become my salvation, and I fail to acknowledge it in my life at the times it matters most?  

Jesus gave his back to those who beat him, his cheeks to those who tore out his beard, his face he did not hide from insults and spitting (Isaiah 50:6) to secure my forgiveness.  Jesus, died on the cross, showing me the full extent of his love (John 13:1) to secure my forgiveness.  And in his last moments on earth, as he hung on the cross to secure my forgiveness, Jesus did just what I must do.  He went directly to the source of forgiveness, and he asked for it. 

“Father, forgive them . . .” Luke 23:34

Father, forgive them.

And Father, please forgive me. 

Well, I certainly didn’t think taking my seven year old to her very first concert was going to ignite such emotion, but hey, after the week we’ve had in America, I think it was inevitable.  And the concert was Taylor Swift.  If anyone knows writing about emotions, it’s that girl.  

Chick’s making millions off her emotions.  Oh yes, I’m sure it also has a little something to do with her talent, ambition, and well, the fact that she’s 5 feet 11 inches tall and strikingly beautiful.  Those legs of hers can’t hurt either – I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me with those things.  It doesn’t matter how much money you have and who your plastic surgeon is, there’s nobody on earth you can pay to get legs like that.  I’ve mentioned this before, but its people like Taylor Swift who inspire the question I’m certain will be my first to God when I make it to heaven. 

“Lord, don’t you think you could have divvied things up a bit more evenly when you were handing out gifts?  Does it really seem fair for one person to have the ability to sing, play multiple instruments, AND look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine?  Haven’t you heard of the phrase ‘equal opportunity’?”

Despite the fact that she’s easy to envy and idolize, both of which we are specifically instructed NOT to do by the same God dolling out gifts rather haphazardly, I am now quite a fan of Miss Swift.  I didn’t know many of her songs, I had no idea what a production a girl in her early 20’s could put on, and I honestly believe I have permanent hearing damage after the concert, but I’m smitten nonetheless.  The child is precious.  She seems genuinely thankful for her life and offers some quality messages to her admirers.  She knows who her audience is and remains true to them for an entire sixty-minute show.  Her outfits were appropriate, as were her lyrics, language, and dancing.  The two drinks I had before the show to keep me from panicking about what I was about to expose my daughter to . . . they weren’t even necessary.  And hey, although that seven year old I kept up long past bedtime was still asleep at 8:00 the morning after the concert, by that time I had already downloaded the entire Red album, which I will happily listen to now that I know how many catchy songs are on it.

Still, there is a downside to attending a Taylor Swift concert, and it has nothing to do with the hearing aids guaranteed to be in your future.  The downside is that while you bop your head and clap your hands to music that can’t help but make you smile, you look around and realize it’s all moving way too fast.  Because in every direction, all you see are little girls – young, sweet, adorable little girls – who have the whole world at their fingertips and don’t even know it.  My heart catches in my throat as I picture them now, dancing and screaming and singing with all the naiveté childhood offers.  The endless possibilities, the decades of opportunity, the unidentified dreams destined for discovery.  Those girls dancing and screaming and singing? They have an entire lifetime ahead of them, while I . . . I have already lived much of mine. 

The problem with a week in which bombs explode and workplaces crumble and you find yourself surrounded by the youth you can never again attain is that it forces you to confront your own mortality.  And when I face my own mortality, it isn’t simply the thoughts of a shortened future I find upsetting.  It’s the thoughts of the past, and how much of it I’ve wasted. 

How much time have I squandered in anger?  How many nights have I spent crying over circumstances beyond my control?  How many people have I judged without knowing their story?  How many minutes and hours and days have I spent worrying about my finances or my appearance or my reputation? 

I’ve had so much time to do the good things, the right things, and yet, I’ve wasted countless moments doing everything wrong.  I could have been dancing and screaming and singing and praying and laughing and snuggling and smiling and helping and serving and hugging and kissing and giggling and teaching and worshiping and learning and living and . . .

I can hardly catch my breath as I think about what I’ve done instead. 

So much wasted time. Why didn’t I make better choices?  Why didn’t I do the good things, the right things?  Looking back puts a vice grip on my heart, squeezing regret from every cell as I view my life as a montage of misused opportunities. 

There is really only one way to live the gift of each day, and that is to live it in love.  Yet, many times . . . most times if I’m truly honest with myself . . . I make other choices.  I choose to fold laundry instead of reading a book with my daughter.  I choose to unload the dishwasher instead of playing catch with my son.  I choose to watch a mindless television show about a dream kitchen I’ll never have instead of talking to my husband.  I choose to serve myself instead of serving others.  I choose all the insignificant things instead of making the most of every moment. 

Of course, I realize the laundry has to be folded.  I know the dishwasher must be filled and emptied on a regular basis.  The toilets have to be cleaned and the email must be checked and the groceries need to be purchased.  But how much of my time is spent on these mundane activities?  Am I filling up my life with duties that can’t possibly have a lasting impact on anyone or anything?  Am I going about the minutes of each day in an effort to check off items on my to-do list, while hopes and dreams and opportunities to love slip by unnoticed?

Time is not limitless.  Charlie is halfway to gone and Libby’s feet are almost the same size as mine.  I’ll be forty in less than three years, which means if I’m lucky, I’ve probably reached the middle of my life.  Time is fleeting.  It’s speeding and racing and . . . winning.  

I’m running out of time. 

I’m running out of time to do the right things.  To make good choices.  To spend each day hoping and dreaming and, most importantly, loving.

This week reminded me of that.  Sporting events turned deadly reminded me of that.  Fellow citizens losing their lives on the job reminded me of that.  Taylor Swift, and her audience of girls, most anticipating 22 while I recollect it, reminded me of that.  And while the reminders hold a thousand heartaches of moments forever lost, they hold endless promise as well.  They hold the hope of a future filled with blessings, as long as I cherish each day for the gift of time it is, and keep my focus on the one thing that matters most . . . the thing even an inexperienced yet extremely famous singer writes about in every one of her songs.  I will not waste even a second of the time I have left, as long as I make sure each of my seconds revolves around love.

Ephesians 3:20   To Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine . . .

Do it.  Please.  Do more.  Do immeasurably more, Lord.  We are asking.  We are imagining.  We are wailing and kicking and thrashing and begging. 

This can’t go on.  It’s too much, too many, too often.  The bleeding continues and it’s all just too much.  The bleeding and the screaming and the death.  Bodies altered.  Children murdered.  Hearts and minds and lives scared . . . scarred . . . forever.

How many more times can we witness joy turned tragic, celebration made wretched?  How many more people must suffer at the hands of sin?  How much fear, how much pain, how much grief can we take?

Do more. 

And then . . . I see Jesus hanging on that cross, and I realize, He’s already done it all. 

Maybe . . . it’s our turn.  Maybe, we have to do more . . . help more and teach more and sacrifice more and love more.  Because if we can ask and imagine and cry and plead and beg, we can also DO.  We were made to DO.  Love is an action, and we are called to it.  Not just when bombs detonate in our city streets with every intent to kill.  Not just in Boston, or New York, or Oklahoma, or in our own backyards. 

John 16:33  “In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.” 

He did it with love. 

Somehow, so must we.

I hope you will join me in praying for the people of Boston today, and for people all over the world who are asking God to do more.

Proverbs 17:17  A friend loves at all times.

I think one of the greatest joys I find in womanhood is in my friendships.  My husband has some wonderful friends – men he has known for years and who now live all over the country, some of whom he speaks to almost daily.  But Adam’s conversations with his friends are like a morning radio show on ESPN. They rehash athletes and sporting events as though being paid to do so, and then hang up abruptly, never once having inquired about one another’s wives, children, jobs, lives, souls.

Lord, how I thank you for making me a female.  I don’t ever have to talk about Tiger Woods with my girlfriends.  I can, of course, because my friends and I can talk about anything.  Yet the majority of my conversations with other women consist of meaningful discussion that truly has the potential to affect my life.

It wasn’t always that way.  The richness that exists in my friendships is not there just because I’m a woman – it’s also there because I’m an adult and a mother.  I was fortunate to have great friends throughout my childhood, and many of those friendships will, I believe, last for the rest of my life.  Still, young girls can’t possibly grasp the depth of importance their friends will have in their adult lives – when the jealousy is either completely gone or easily shared, and the focus is on love and loyalty rather than on social status and survival.  We’re in this game of life together now, as companions instead of competitors.  We want the best for each other, we help each other, sacrifice for each other.

Yes, I think the sincerity in my adult friendships with other mothers comes from the maturity only age and experience can provide.  I also believe it comes from the One who designed friendship from the beginning, He who created us to be in fellowship with others so we could learn what it means to truly love your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:31).  You see, I treasure my friends because I see Christ in them, and because, I want to be Christ for them.   

I spent a weekend with some of my favorite women recently – a girls getaway as we like to call such outings.  And while we didn’t go far, we didn’t stay long, and we didn’t do anything particularly special, the weekend . . . the women . . . touched my life, and I wasn’t at all surprised.

I see love notes from God all around me this time of year.  In the warmth of the spring sun on my back, in the dogwoods peeking through the pines, in the yellow tulips smiling at me from just beyond my front door.  But I see God most in other women.  When they laugh with me, and sometimes, at me.  When they challenge me to be myself, only better.  When they are honest about my flaws, and accept me anyway.  When they send me a thoughtful text message at just the right time.  When they lift me up with kind words and gestures.  When they encourage me to look beyond my circumstances.  When they affirm my worth in their caring.  When they nurture me . . . educate me . . . inspire me . . . forgive me.

I am so grateful to God for the amazing women he has put in my life.  They are beautiful and bold.  They are dynamic and daring.  They are smart and sweet and silly and soulful.  They are His daughters, spirit-filled and spirit-led, and they are my friends.  I pray I can love them as well as they love me.   

 “Oh Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”  Psalm 8:9

Our family went to Colorado for spring break – our first ski trip ever, and it was truly an unbelievable week.  The views, the sunshine, the snow, the fresh air, the new experiences . . . we all enjoyed ourselves so much I’ve recently been online looking at time-share condos in the Vail Valley.  After I win the lottery, I’m totally buying one.  

The thing about doing something you’ve never done is that it requires some faith.  It’s not cheap to fly a family of four three-quarters of the way across the country, and we won’t even talk about the prices of ski rentals and lift tickets and a salad the size of way too small when it’s served twenty feet from a gondola. Not to mention the fact that we chose to do all of this with a ten year old who doesn’t like to be cold and a seven year old who can’t stand to wear long sleeves and socks.  Like I said, it required some faith.  Not surprisingly, God was faithful right back, as he always is. 

I’ll never forget the looks on their sun-kissed faces after our first day on the slopes – pure joy is easy to spot on your children and it makes your heart soar in ways you’d forgotten it could.  There was joy for me as well.  Downhill skiing is both amazingly thrilling and ridiculously challenging – there’s something quite remarkable about gliding down a snow-covered hill with “things” attached to your feet that simply don’t belong there. Still, I quickly realized my thirty-seven year old body and mind could not let go of the fear of falling, of injury, of sailing off the mountain into one of the deep ravines scattered with rocks the size of small cars.  It was obvious my fear would hold me back forever, because you can’t get over fear like that when you are in your late 30’s, or at least I can’t. 

Since I knew my fear would likely keep me from ever making enough progress to enjoy a run down the blues with my kids (which they accomplished after one day of lessons), I decided to try a new winter activity on the third day of spring break. Turns out, I’m a Nordic girl at heart, and it was cross-country skiing that got my heart pumping and won me back my confidence in myself.  Who would have thought this lifetime Southerner could excel at a sport created in Norway?!?

Yet it was our last day in Colorado that I will remember long after my children stop teasing me about my ability to remain in a permanent snowplow position.  Since everyone had passed me by on the Alpine areas of the mountain, I was on my own that final morning in Colorado.  I trekked back to my new home away from home, The Nordic Center, rented a pair of snowshoes, took the chair lift to the very top of the mountain, and spent two hours entranced by Earth’s bounty.  It was just me and my God, roaming together through some of His most splendid works - pristine forests filled with alpine trees and sweeping views, miles of untouched land, snow falling, quiet enveloping, peace pervading.  It was nothing short of glorious.

And so, after our brief yet memorable time in Colorado, here’s what I know for sure . . .  

God’s providence = God has guardianship over all his creations.

God’s sovereignty = God is in control of all things.

God’s mercy = God withholds that which we deserve.

God’s grace = God’s gift of salvation granted to sinners through Christ.

God’s wisdom = God’s infinite knowledge of everything.

God’s power = God’s ability and strength to bring to pass what His infinite wisdom directs.

God’s dominion = God’s complete ownership and supremacy over everything in the entire universe.

God’s righteousness = God’s actions aligning perfectly with his holy nature.

God’s love = the primary reason for human creation and the primary purpose of life.

God’s holiness = God’s complete absence of sin.

God’s goodness = the sum total of all of God’s attributes.

And God’s majesty . . . well, that’s easy . . .

God’s majesty = Beaver Creek, where no one seems to have any idea there’s a recession going on, but where smiles prevail, souls overflow, and the incredible creations of God take center stage, as they always should.

Disclosure: The above opinions may or may not have been influenced by the warm chocolate chip cookies freely handed out all over the mountain in Beaver Creek every afternoon at precisely 3:00.

It’s one day past Easter.  As my dad would often say, I'm a day late and a dollar short.  Forgive me.  We’ve been busy traveling for both spring and Easter break, and my writing time has been hijacked by airport security lines and way too much turbulence.  Still, the most Holy day of the year has been on my mind constantly for the past few weeks.  It still is in fact, because this year, more than ever before, I see the discrepancy in Easter.

Everywhere I look lately, I see bunnies.  Chocolate bunnies.  Ceramic bunnies.  Glass bunnies.  Bunnies holding baskets. Bunnies holding eggs.  Bunnies holding jellybeans. They’re in Pottery Barn and Target and Homegoods and Publix.  Bunnies are everywhere right now, and I get it.  Bunnies are a symbol of Easter, and I’m fine with that.  Bunnies are cute and soft and cuddly. (I’ve also heard they poop more than any creature on earth, but we’ll just overlook that for the sake of tradition.)  

The funny thing is . . . Easter isn’t about a bunny.  Easter is about a lamb.  Easter is about the lamb.

Back in Old Testament days, lambs were used for sacrificial purposes.  People came to the temple with their very best lambs, ones that were perfect, unblemished, and they presented their flawless specimens to the high priests to atone for their sins.  You can blame the whole thing on Adam and Eve if you’d like – remember they were the ones that fell first – they were disobedient to God and the next thing ya know, their friends in the garden, those helpless little lambs were in serious trouble.  They became a creature man handed over to show his need for repentance.  The lambs were slaughtered, their blood shed to remind man that the consequence of sin is death. 

“without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins” (Hebrews 9:22, 26)

Of course, because we were blessed to be born A.D. (can I get a hallelujah for that?), we know that this old testament law of sacrifices was a mere hint of what was to come.  It reminded humans that sin separates us from God, and at the same time, it planted the seed of a bold new idea – that there must be another way . . . a better way.

That way is Jesus.

And he did the unthinkable. 

No, I’m not talking about giving sight to the blind or healing the lame or feeding thousands with food meant for one.  I’m not even talking about raising the dead, though he did that too.  Jesus loved so many people while he walked on earth - -people no one else thought to love.  People considered unlovable.  Jesus sat with them and taught them and broke bread with them and changed them.  Back then . . . still now . . . the way Jesus loved was unthinkable. 

There’s more.

Jesus spoke the unthinkable too.  He challenged the old rules and laws and mentalities.  He turned authority upside down with his radicalism.  He preached love, peace, forgiveness, unity, sacrifice.  His ideas were preposterous to many, exciting to some, and far-reaching even in a time when the spreading of the word came only through the mouths of wanderers.  No phones.  No email.  No newspapers or television or text messaging.  Yet all over the land, they heard about this man and his crazy ideas from those with feet willing to go and share.

At the end, even those who believed began to question.  His followers, the ones he hand-picked and diligently prepared – they didn’t understand.  Jesus can’t die, they said.  That’s simply unthinkable.  He is God’s only Son, Lord over all.  He can do whatever he wants.  He can save himself if it comes down to the brutality he suggests.  

Their unthinkable happened anyway, and it was even more brutal than they could have imagined.  It was savage and horrid and painful and bloody and tortuous and it was exactly what he said he had come to do.  When Jesus breathed his last on that cross at Calvary, naked and beaten, he accomplished his mission.  He did the will of the Father.  He established the new covenant, just as God planned from the very beginning.  His sinners . . . all sinners . . . had a Savior.  Lambs would never again need to be sacrificed.  Jesus was the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrificial Lamb of God. 

He lived an unthinkable life.  He died an unthinkable death.  And yet, the most unthinkable thing about it all is that Jesus lived this life, and died this death . . . for me.

You see that is the discrepancy in Easter.  It’s not the bunnies taking center stage when it’s all about a lamb.  The discrepancy is in the fact that the lamb hung on that cross to save me.  And when everything I’ve done and said and not done and not said screams that I’m not worth it, the lamb on that cross says otherwise.  He says my debts are paid.  He says I’m forgiven and free.  He says I’m a beloved daughter of God forever and ever and ever and ever.

Me . . . beloved?

Unthinkable. 

Except there’s Easter.  And there's Jesus.  And with Jesus, the unthinkable becomes truth.  With Jesus, the unthinkable becomes God's greatest gifts.  The gifts of redemption . . . of salvation . . . of grace . . . of eternal life. 

For me. 

For you. 

For the entire world. 

Happy Easter.