A certain question has been running through my mind since before Christmas. What would it be like to know that you sinned but there was no way to be forgiven?

A couple of months after Annabeth was born I was trying to get back into aerobics. One evening I jumped in my Jeep with a smile on my face and a hop in my step and headed to the gym. I took a shortcut through my neighborhood, but I immediately realized I’d made the wrong decision when I saw about ten kids playing in a yard next to the street. If I’d seen them I would have taken a different route. I drove very slowly until I passed them and then I picked up speed (although I did not even reach the speed limit). All of a sudden a little dog came running down a driveway toward my car, barking all the way. I slammed on my brakes but I couldn’t avoid him. To my horror, I hit the dog. A terrible chorus of ten children screaming – including those of the dog owners – filled the street. It was one of the worst moments of my life.

One of the boys who lived there went running through the front door that had accidentally been left open and got his parents. They came out and got the dog who was still alive but was writhing in pain and crying. The other little boy was in hysterics. I stood in their driveway trying to apologize and explain but no one could speak to me.

“What can I do?” I begged.

“Nothing.”

I was completely devastated. Not only had I hurt and possibly killed this dog, but I had hurt this family and traumatized all of these kids. They would be able to look down a long street and see my car – the instrument of destruction – parked in our driveway. I was convinced that we’d need to move because I would be known as the wicked witch of the neighborhood.

It felt like my life was over. I went to the store and bought a card. I wrote a note about how sorry I was and how I would be praying for the dog and their family. I included my phone number in case they wanted to call and yell at me or to tell me how the dog was doing. I couldn’t bear to show my face there again, so Curtis took it over. I wanted him to tell them how sorry I was. They weren’t home, so he left the card on their doorstep.

Later I called my friend who lives near that family. I told her what had happened. “That was you?” Word had traveled fast. She’d heard that the dog was in rough shape. I felt sick.

I know in my mind that there was nothing I could have done to avoid the dog. I wasn’t speeding and I wasn’t being careless. As my friend suggested, maybe the Lord would use it to teach the children to be careful around the street. Even so, my heart desperately craved forgiveness.

It never came. We never heard from the family. Thankfully, I did hear from my friend that the dog was going to make a full recovery. That was such beautiful news to my ears. We have even seen the dog being walked down our street. I’ve wondered if they recognize my car in the driveway. Are they still mad at me? Were they ever mad? I know it’s selfish to think of my own emotional needs in a situation like that. I have chosen to release it to God and move on. Although I promise you I do not take that shortcut anymore.

Last week at Passion we heard the story of 30,000 children in Uganda who were kidnapped by a rebel army and turned into soldiers. They were forced to torture and kill others, sometimes starting with their own family members. These are the “Invisible Children” you may have heard about. Many of them returned to their homes upon release and found that their parents were dead.

A husband and wife named Gary and Marilyn Skinner have taken in some of these children and put them in homes with a loving mother. They found these child soldiers wandering the streets with blood on their hands. There was no one to wash it off. They had nowhere to bring their guilt. The Skinners knew better than that. They are teaching them about the hope of Jesus Christ. These boys and girls who have carried the guilt of violent bloodshed have been told the good news that Jesus can forgive them. God loves them. They can be made into new creatures and they can stand righteous before God. They can be justified and renewed.

Is there anything more glorious? Imagine that you are eight years old and you have been made to kill a little baby with a stick by some sick man standing over you. Your life feels like it is ruined forever. You feel worthless and guilty. But a Savior reaches out to you. You are rescued from guilt, condemnation and despair.

Without the birth of Christ, without His sinless life, without the horrible death He suffered on the cross, without God’s wrath toward our sin that He endured, without His resurrection from the dead, we would remain in our iniquity and guilt. We would stand guilty before Almighty God with no way to be forgiven. But WITH these things there is grace, forgiveness, life, beauty, wholeness, restoration, and innocence.

Thanks be to Jesus Christ our Lord who has rescued us from our sin and guilt. He has made peace between us and the Father by His own blood. When our faith is in Jesus, we are justified in the sight of God. Instead of our sin, the Father sees Christ’s righteousness.

I don’t know where you’re at right now. Maybe your heart is overwhelmed with guilt and shame over something in your past. Or in your present. I’ve been there. The Bible says that we’ve all sinned. No one is exempt from the corruption that is born into the human heart. The good news is that anyone can receive forgiveness through faith in Christ. You can have it right now. He delights to give it to you.

We were told that one of the head soldiers in charge of training these children to kill and destroy has given his life to Jesus.

Redemption.

Time and time again I am struck by how divine the story of the Gospel is. It did not originate in the human mind. No man could invent something so beautiful.

My Dear Siestas,

For starters, I have two words for you: Who knew?

WHO KNEW??

As, under the heavy burden of responsibility bequeathed to me, I pen my official findings on this hot button of Christendom, we have barreled past 1000 comments, each vital in unquestionable contribution. Doubtless, our humble community is the frantic talk and frenzied tweet of interior designers all over the world for, clearly, we have uncovered the very underbelly of furniture rearrangement. You just can’t plan a movement like this. It either happens or it doesn’t.

It could very well take months before I, myself, can fully absorb the depths of our spontaneous discovery. The well is deep. Without far greater deliberation, I am forced to offer you the merest bucket from this unbridled spring but it will be replete with meaning for those willing to delve. Multiple readings will help the true student plunge these depths.

And, now, without further ado, my ten top findings:

1. Siestaville is a diverse community comprised of formidable teams of both movers and immovers (the false noun form of the adjective “immovable.”) As Holly pointed out, immovers appear to prefer daytime and movers are undeniably night owls. (As are vampires.)

2. Approximately three people in Siestaville appear to possess the remotest moderation. The rest are confident extremists. (Which explains why a like roll call of Calvinists and Arminians will not be forthcoming.) We are obsessive in both our rearranging and our utter refusal to budge a single bar stool. No wonder I’m your Siesta Mama.

One example:
“My friend Donna came over in 1997 when I added the sunroom to my house. She arranged the wall of white bookshelves with my treasures (books, mostly) and I literally made little pencil marks under everything so that when I dusted I could put it back in the right places.”

There were a few exceptions. Amber was one of my favorites:
“Can I please be both?”

Yes, Darling. Since you asked so nicely, you certainly may.

There were a handful that would fall under the category of what Skubaliscious called “semi-movers” but most admitted that their moderation was in space and budget. Not taste. As Liberty Ruffles waxed with eloquence, “I am a mover stuck in a non-mover’s house.”

While most Siestas had no few words to say about either extreme, Mercy4Drew simply commented:
“Non Mover.”

Impressive. How does she do that??

Some movers rearrange so obsessively that, among those married, many coinciding husbands don’t put down their brief cases after coming in from work until they see their own wives’ faces. They simply never are sure they’ve walked into the right house. And God forbid that they get up during the night and try to navigate their way to the bathroom in the dark. Many have been discovered in various stages of brokenness. Ronda’s husband claims never to begin his descent into a sitting position until he has checked carefully to make sure a chair is still there.

Many movers, Ocean Mommy among them, just happened to mention that they love to rearrange the furniture once a month. I’m just sayin.

Others had no specific pattern. I suppose we might say they are movers with irregularity.

Some immovers are more naïve than unwilling. PraisinYahweh was willing to take us back to the basics by begging the question,

“Moving furniture? Can we do that?”

For others, reluctance to domestic change is not their fault. It’s their phobia. “MadeforHim” says of her and her man:

“Truly we are both scared to death of color. Our walls are all white.”

Speaking of fears, one of my very own trusted sisters described in her insightful comment what I fear – and she pegged – could be me:

“My friend Laura is like you. Gets it like she likes it and leaves it alone. She moved into a new house a few years ago, and when I went to see her I walked in the front door and died laughing. EXACT same floor plan as her old house, just bigger and with one more bedroom. Tickled me to no end.”

Yes, and I’m nearly crying. Is your friend Dr. Laura, by chance? Does she have some psychological insight into the healthiness of human immutability that the less informed public knows nothing about?

3. Siestas had strong and diverse opinions concerning the optimum matter of whether or not the piece of furniture that sprung such controversy – one might say a movement – is indeed a sofa table as said worship leader claimed. One went so far as to say she was certain that it was not but, alas, she did not know the name of what it actually was. (Some fancy foreign name that kept slipping her tongue.) Another simply stated that the moment the piece was moved away from the sofa, it was no longer a sofa table. Sensible.

As for me, I have no idea. You be the judge:

(I can’t wait for Melissa and Amanda, both camera lovers, to see the stunning artistic touches in this selection. It took me a total of two tries to fully capture the scene. Notice how I included a reflection of the fire place in the mirror. If I stay home from work a single day longer, there is no telling what other self-discoveries I will make.)

4. There is some evidence to suggest that anger plays a role among movers. Lori said, “I like to change [around the furniture] when I am really mad.” Another Siesta referenced herself accordingly as “the angry decorator.” Another claimed to only have the urge to paint a room a new exotic color when her husband went hunting. Repression. As you can see, the issue has now broadened considerably in complexity. Is is no longer, “Am I a mover?” but “Why?”

5. This public admission earned the right to be a point all by itself: “Just me-bobbie jo” not only rearranges her own furniture. She arranges other peoples’ furniture in her mind. Watch her carefully if she comes to your house. Invite her on purpose or not at all. Never let her slip through the door with a friend. If you’re as unsure as I am about what she looks like, card every visitor to your home that you don’t recognize.

6. Many Siestas reacted to their own blog Mama’s claim to never have moved a stick of furniture in 31 years with nothing less than shock and awe. Indeed, they’d thought better of me. I couldn’t have astonished them more if I’d confessed to chicken skinning on the side for extra cash. Does it help to know that I rearrange old outfits all the time to make them look new and sometimes I’m so proud of myself, I clap my own hands? (As opposed to clapping someone else’s. You’ve clearly nearly pushed me over the edge.) Does it also help to know that, while I somehow lack adequate concern about the ever-changing interior of my home, I am obsessed with my yard and oversee the changing of flowers multiple times a year?

I would nearly have despaired over having so drastically lowered Siesta expectations had I not seen Jennyhope’s comment like a beacon of light in the darkness. A mirage in the Siesta Sahara. She admitted to my own inclination but then prided herself in having added several “extra leafs” to her dining table recently, and, with great relief, believed it to qualify on the blog post as a rearrangement. My favorite part was that she voiced uncertainty over whether or not it was even spelled “l-e-a-f” (like the kind on a tree). And, as I live and breathe, I do not know either. However, that small unsettled issue does nothing to dampen my exhilaration as one who ALSO added a leaf to her dining table recently, if only for the Thanksgiving meal. Thank you, Jennyhope. We can hold our heads up high. At the very least we are seasonal movers. Sniff.

7. Military wives and pastors wives are movers but not by choice. They are movers by trade. Sister3 writes,

“Are you kidding me? I’m married to a United Methodist minister! Not only do I rearrange furniture, I exchange houses with another minister’s family every 4 – 5 years!”

We better write our pastors’ wives a thank you note this minute. And, while we’re at it, our military wives, too. Many of them rearrange a new dwelling every year. Yep. That was my mama, the Major Dad’s wife of 55 years. Maybe that’s my problem.

8. Wives are not the only movers in a marriage. One brave brother (identified as randommumblings) added depth and texture to our landscape by characterizing himself as the mover in his family rather than his bride. After only three short years of marriage, his wife “FORBID” (his word, not mine, and in all caps) him bringing home any more “discoveries” for their budding décor.

9. Some compulsive movers admit that they might have the slightest obsession but that it’s all relative.

Bekah writes, “I not only change furniture with a fervency, but I change ROOM purposes any old chance I get. I have a three bedroom house that I will have lived in ten years come this summer, and by that time, each room will have served as master bedroom, guest bedroom, and office at some point in that time span. It’s a blessed good thing my kitchen and bathrooms won’t uproot without significant expense. It’s probably a sickness, but I figure there are worse ones I could have.”

Yes, I know for a fact that there are. Still, I may move a twin bed into the den tonight. I wasn’t the least tempted to be a mover until you turned it into a psychological disorder. Then, true to form, I began to manifest it.

10. One Siesta was under particular inspiration when she unknowingly summed up my considerable intellectual contributions to the blog world with this:

“I just love that you talk about everyday stupid stuff.”

I have never loved y’all more.

UPDATE ON WEDNESDAY MORNING: One of my favorites ever. Y’all kill me. You just kill me. I am watching these closely and you may look forward to a post hopefully later this evening or tomorrow morning on my findings and reflections concerning movers versus immovers here in the imaginary city of Siestaville. You will not want to miss this life changing message. Until then, I’d simply like to say that some of you don’t get enough sleep. I just brought in over 200 comments that were written during the night. As for me, I am currently spending my night hours putting on extra jammies because I’m cold then taking them off one piece at a time because I’m hot. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to say that I’m annoyed. Last thing: don’t get worried if you don’t see your comments posted for a couple of hours. I’ve got to go to the back doctor today and will be out for pockets of time throughout the day. I promise to get all of them in by afternoon. You’re my bffs right this minute. Even you movers.

ORIGINAL POST:

OK, Y’all. After 31 years of marriage, Keith and I just experienced a FIRST. Remember that beautiful Christmas tree he had his nephews deliver to me while he was out of town after my surgery? Well, ever since we got home from Passion, I’ve been hinting about how that tree sure does look dry and those needles sure are piling up on the carpet. I adore the Christmas season and love all the decorations but by 12:01 AM on New Year’s Day, while the neighbors do their bottle rockets, I’m obsessing about getting my house back in order. Normally, Keith is MIA this time a year and I, like the Hoss I pretend to be (if that’s a bad word, I don’t know it so forgive me), haul that tree right out of my house single handedly and drag it to the curb. But alas, I presently have two strikes against independence: 1) a persistent large herniated disk and 2) only four weeks out of surgery and can’t lift more than ten pounds for four more interminable weeks.

You can probably imagine that my hints are about as subtle as my biker friend who likes to sit on the front row at church wearing intense black leather and about 65 pounds of chains. I love him because he loves Jesus. And I get a kick out of the novelty and wonder if God does, too. So, anyway, Keith got on his heavy gloves and grabbed that Christmas tree by its wilting throat, leaving that typical four-inch deep train of pine needles. He walked back in the house and I said in my meekest, most apologetic voice, “Honey, did you know I can’t sweep either? I’m not supposed to do that side to side motion.” He got the broom. I’m pretty sure he liked me better last night when he was watching that deer show all by himself and I was blogging.

Of course, true to form, none of this is my point. Nor is it our big first I wrote to tell you about. What happened is this: he had to move the furniture around to drag out the tree and when he put it all back, since I could offer him no assistance, he ended up putting a table in the wrong place. It was one of those tables that goes behind your couch. I think there’s a name for it but goodness knows I don’t know what it is. Instead of putting it where it had been since our remodel, Keith shoved it against the wall. I stood in the den staring at it for the longest time and finally said, “Hey, Sweetie, did you realize you put the table in the wrong place?”

Him, squinting at it like it was a hog under a distant deer feeder: “I knew something was off but I didn’t know what.”

Me: “You’re not going to believe this but I think I like it.”

Him, staring at me in disbelief, wondering if it could be the low estrogen. Can he really trust anything I have to say right now? Finally, he breaks the silence: “Uh, I think I do, too.”

And, so, we left it there.

First time in 31 years.

I have never one time – I said never one time – rearranged the furniture. When we moved into this house 25 years ago, the movers put the furniture down and I have not scooted around one single chair since. When Melissa was graduating from high school and we were having guests over to our house to celebrate, I asked Keith if I could get some new den furniture…then proceeded to put the new couch exactly where the old couch had been. The coffee table exactly where the old coffee table had been. And so forth.

Three and a half years ago we remodeled. Our friend, Vicky, was in charge of the entire project because I don’t care what color paint goes where nor would I know a silk pillow from polyester. She positioned the furniture and I’ve haven’t moved a stick of it since. I mean, why mess it up?

Until today.

We actually rearranged a piece of furniture. I’m so excited. It’s only one but I feel a sudden recklessness. I may march right into the master bathroom and change out the decorative hand towels with the gold tassels. I am feeling dangerous. Edgy.

So, what about you, Siestas? Are you the type that loves to rearrange furniture and spontaneously redecorate a corner of your home? Or are you like me and once it’s there, it’s not going anywhere? And either way, what do you think that says about us??

I can’t wait. You’re so much fun.

UPDATE HALF HOUR IN: OK, this is a blast. I’m going to do an approximate tally in a day or two and tell you how we shake out on this life-altering issue here in Siestaville.

NEW UPDATE AN HOUR IN: Travis just sent me a two-word text: “Sofa Table.” TRAVIS told me that. My worship leader had to tell me it was a sofa table. I’ve had it. I’m going to get furniture therapy.

Anybody who doubts the power of Siesta prayers hasn’t been hanging around this place long enough. Of course, all of us know it’s not the power of prayers. It’s the power of God sought in prayer. I praise Him to the highest heavens for His kindness. I cannot thank you enough for praying me to Atlanta and back, for the entire Passion conference and for over 20,000 young lives who represent the Church of tomorrow. I had no idea when I stepped on that platform Sunday morning whether or not I had the unction to still be up on my feet an hour later. Regathering the strength to walk to the end of the street and having the stamina to deliver a message in a large setting are two wildly different things. In all these years I’d never been in that situation. If Melissa said once, she said a hundred times to people while we were there, “I’m just saying that we need to be careful with her. We’ve barely gotten her out of the house. And now here we are.” (I kept whispering behind her back, “I’m really okay.”) You might say she sort of took on the role of bouncer. She was scared to death I was going to get about half way through the message under those hot spotlights and drop straight to the floor. Not one time, Siestas, NOT ONCE, did I even feel light headed. It wasn’t the best crafted message a soul has ever heard, but, Girlfriend, it got delivered. And God alone got it done. Then turned around two hours later and did it again. My hat is off to Him. My knees are bent. He alone.

But here’s the thing. I want those answers for you, too. He loves you so much and is so intently watching over you and ordaining details to let you know He’s there. Oh, that He would give us eyes to see! My deep hope is that many of you who shared such seasons of turmoil through your comments to the Exodus 33 post have also seen evidence of His heightened activity and answered prayer. You are never forgotten. Never overlooked.

“So we must not grow weary in doing good, for in due time we will reap, if we do not give up. So then, whenever we have an opportunity, let us do good to all people, and especially to those who belong to the family of faith.” (Galatians 6:9,10)

Continue praying for the conclusion of Passion 2010. (I had to come straight back home.) It will wrap up tomorrow and thousands of young people will spread back out over this globe with the challenge to live to the great glory of God through the gospel of Jesus Christ. I cannot think of a more important time in all of life to have your heart completely stolen by God. What more strategic age could there be? Please also pray them all safely home. Many of them will get back on the road with bleary eyes.

If you can spare one more prayer, please remember our resident blog master and my darling firstborn. Amanda and her man, Curtis, will get back on a plane to Missouri tomorrow, spend the night with his parents (who have so graciously afforded them this time alone) then start the long trek home with Jackson and Annabeth in the car. Honestly, if I don’t get my hands on those babies pretty soon, I’m going to get violent. Really, I just want them to make it home safely, no matter how long it takes. Thank you for remembering them.

OK, Keith’s making me get off line. The thing of it is, the only reason I got on here is because he was watching a deer hunting show that was on skin diseases they can get (the deer, not the hunters) and I couldn’t stand it another minute. I whined for us to “watch something together” and I warned (“I’m not kidding. I’m not watching this another second.”) and then I withdrew to the world wide web. He is now repentant for having rejected me but only because the show is over. I am being summoned to the den. And submissive woman that I am, I will bid you adieu.

Anyway, WHEN DOES 24 START?? IS THERE NOTHING DECENT TO WATCH?????????? I love a good show and I don’t mind telling you I’m in an entertainment drought. I am so sick of bad TV that I could throw up. If you know something worth watching, speak up!

Let’s give praise to God, Siestas, for such faithfulness to us in 2009. Pause for a moment and glance back over the last 12 months. Most of you have had the same kind of year I’ve had: a mixture of joy and pain. Others of you have crawled on your hands and knees through an unrelenting season in the valley of suffering. I pray with all my heart that 2010 will be a glorious respite for those of you, our faithful sisters, who have spent the year with fears and tears.

I often think back on Exodus 33 when an overwrought Moses asked God to show him His glory. Moses didn’t understand that he wouldn’t have survived the kind of revelation he’d requested. Instead of giving His servant what he asked, the Lord said to him,

There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. (V.22)

The next part is so wild:

Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen.

Metaphorically speaking, the same thing can happen to us. When a shadow overtakes our lives and the light dims nearly beyond recognition, we may not see a single evidence of His arrival in our crisis. Sometimes we’re in such blackness, we may go weeks or months that we don’t sense God right by our side or feel the presence of His abiding Spirit within us. Those are the seasons when we make the choice whether we’ll go by what we see and feel, or walk by what we know to be true. These are the places we learn what it really means to walk by faith and not by sight. To sow the seed of Scripture in our tears. It’s often not until the crisis begins to dissipate that we look back upon the outstretched horizon and see God’s hand prints all over it. No, we do not see His face, because, as Scripture says, our mortal bodies are not equipped to bear the sight. But, in a beautiful sense, we do indeed see His “back.’ As the season draws to a close, we see that He took every single step we did.

We are quick to assume that all darkness is demonic but sometimes maybe the shadow over us is the hand of God covering us while His glory passes by.

I wonder if any of you can glance back over 2009 and see the “back” of God. Maybe you didn’t see His face. Maybe you weren’t even positive at times He was there. But now, as you look over your shoulder at the months behind you, the fog clears and you get a glimpse of His back, leading the way to your exodus.

If you’ve experienced such a thing over the course of this year, share it as succinctly as you can so that your sisters can read each one. If you haven’t been in a season of overshadowing difficulty, write a prayer for one of your Siestas who has. One of the most fulfilling things I see in this blog community is the way you respond to one another. Let’s end 2009 and begin 2010 doing exactly that. Let’s be the Body of Christ, free of our divisions, prejudices and partialities. Let’s make the Spirit feel so welcome here, offering Him a place where He is free from our misconceptions.

I am honored to close this year with you and greet another. May we each be astounded by the power and abiding Presence of God in 2010. May we continue to spur one another on to love and good works. May we see His glory…or sense His hand.

You crown the year with Your good blessings, and You leave abundance in Your wake. Psalm 65:11