Elisabeth Adams

substantial

Sunday, I parked myself on my couch and spent most of the afternoon reading The Normal Christian Life by Watchman Nee. I can’t claim to read many books of such substance, but I’m glad I tackled this one. I’m still feeling the lightness in my spirit days later at the sheer simplicity of the gospel: I can’t live this Christian life. I can give up, and let Jesus be Himself through me.

And! He talked about Hebrews 11:1, which was the theme of my last post. Nee cast about for an English word to express what is really going on in the Greek, and here’s what he came up with: “Faith is the substantiating of things hoped for.”

Think of it in terms of a really good investigator: he has a strong hunch about the mystery he must solve…and as the story unfolds, he substantiates that hunch. Fingerprints. Witnesses. Confessions. All the real-world facts are there, just as he “knew” in his bones they would be. Only faith is stronger still, because it actually knows something it hasn’t seen yet!

Or as Nee wrote, “Faith makes the real things to become real in my experience.”

I can’t get last week’s adventure out of my mind, because this is exactly what happened. If I hadn’t spoken on the phone with a woman, somewhere in Jerusalem, who told me she’d seen a wallet with my name inside it, I probably would have given up. And never have held in my hand what actually was waiting for me all along.

Not all dilemmas are solved by a morning’s worth of persistence. But it is a pretty elegant nutshell-sized illustration of much more life-wracking problems.

I took one of those to Jesus recently. And oh, the sweetness of His answer! It’s from the story of Lazarus, when Martha is bewildered and grieved by His delay: a delay that cost her brother his life, and left him 4 days in the grave.

Yes. Jesus arrived on the scene, and cried along with her. I imagine it was over the utter heartbreakingness of being human, stuck in time, not in eternity, with all the grief and disappointment to be lived through a moment at a time.

And yet. He was so full of anticipation over what He was about to do!

Here’s what He said:

Didn’t I tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?

Elisabeth

March 29, 2012

Life in the Land

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found

It’s really humbling to meet the things that make you Much-Afraid, and believe me, my impending doom (er, dentist visit) really had me licked last week. I spent some time white-knuckling Bible verses and hymns, but in the end, Jesus got through to me.

Through my parents, who talked my fears down to a reasonable size, and my brother, who promised prayer in a comical way. Through Deuteronomy, because “The eternal God is is our resting place, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” And through my dear friend, who suggested I see the dentist’s hands as His.

When the dust cleared, I discovered that my dentist is quite a kind guy. That I get to keep my tooth. And I can laugh, even in the dentist’s chair.

Lost courage: found.

But when I walked out of the dentist’s office, I discovered that my wallet was lost.

Seriously? Was God trying to teach me some kind of lesson? I didn’t know. All I knew was that somewhere (most probably in the bus I’d ridden), my wallet and I had parted ways.

I couldn’t imagine I’d ever see it again, but I scraped together my pitiful crumbs of faith, and called it a mustard seed. Maybe I had been careless. Maybe I didn’t have much trust. But I could ask Him to show off His power. So I did.

Still with little confidence, I started off in hot pursuit of His answer, not knowing there would be many answers…

Beginning with the fact that I was with friends, and wouldn’t need to walk my shekel-less self all the long, dark, chilly way home. And continuing with the friendly uniformed bus official who just “happened” to be standing at the bus stop, ready to give me a phone number.

Then there was the chap on the other end of the line who spoke English. Which is really good, because I still don’t know how to say “lost and found” in Hebrew. I did know how to say “wallet.” Which is also really good, because once my call was forwarded to lost and found, I largely limped along in Hebrew, deeply thankful I had any words at all.

But they didn’t have my wallet.

So I put my credit card on hold, went to Bible study, and asked my friends to pray. Then I called again. And gave them my name. And (could it really be true?) they said they had my wallet! I set up a time to retrieve it the next morning, and went to sleep incredulous, but happy.

“Hope,” the Bible says, “is the assurance of things unseen.” I was about to need every speck of assurance I had. Not in a stressful way, but in the merry, topsy-turvy chase that second-culture life often leads you on.

The next morning, I made a beeline for the central bus station, a bustling, mall-like building. The hunt took me through unmarked swinging doors, up dingy stairs, and past the employee cafeteria to a tiny room crammed with purses and bags, where a very patient fellow explained there are actually many lost and found offices in the city.

Uh-oh.

A glance at the number I’d called pinpointed the office I wanted, but the next question was whether my wallet had been sent in the once-weekly shipment of items to the central bus station or not. A bit of waiting. Several phone calls. And apparently neither office had it?

Hope is the assurance of things unseen. Finding some chutzpah I didn’t know I had, I got insistent — in Hebrew, no less. There was a pause, and then: “What is your name?”

The other office had it.

It was a whole new adventure finding the right bus, but I found it. And the small staff trailer on a bus parking lot, full of fellows on coffee break who didn’t see me until I laughed at my own seeming invisibility. And the man behind a desk, who waved them away, reached into a cubby and pulled out —

my wallet.

Just days before, my friend had told me, “The smaller we are, the larger He can be in our lives.”

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may spread a tabernacle over me.

PS A friend just pointed out that it’s FAITH that is the assurance of things unseen. And that makes me smile.

Elisabeth

March 19, 2012

Life in the Land

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life

There’s a joke about Jewish holidays and it goes like this: “They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat!”

But honestly, there is a dangerous side to being an ordinary person who loves and is loved by God. It’s called jealousy, and fear, and even hate. And sometimes, an attempt at total annihilation.

Enter Haman, villain of the biblical book of Esther. One Jew won’t kowtow to him because of a silly religious scruple? Let’s not be stingy: all the Jews will die!

Or not. Thanks to a girl called Esther — and God’s rescue-mission through her, we have the Jewish people, and a rollicking holiday called Purim. (Complete with costumes, and yes, lots and lots to eat).

That’s life. Snatched out of certain death.

It’s spring around here, for the moment. That means bliss-making sunshine, and flowers (and flowers and flowers!) — even in the Judean Wilderness. Even by the Dead Sea. Where it’s barren and rocky and hilly. And hot. And dry. And only dotted with scraggly bushes and lonely acacia trees, and wound around by the trails of hungry goats.

But where the winter-torrents ran, and where the spring rain fell

There’s life.

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Elisabeth

March 12, 2012

Life in the Land

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fear

It was just a bowl of popcorn.

It was also my ticket to a roller-coaster plunge into fear. A handful of that popcorn included an hidden hard kernel. A short scuffle with my molar, and it emerged victorious. And out popped my inordinate fear of all things dental: the costs, the cosmetics, and the possibility for pain. (I have some excuse: a past experience that was uncomfortably close to medieval).

Still, it seems pretty ironic, given the great trust I’ve gotten as a gift from God. I have so much hope in His plans for my unknown and much longed-for future. And yet, I cannot seem to trust Him with something as simple as my teeth.

Perhaps it reminds me that though I serve an all-powerful, all-loving God, He sometimes gives the nod to a little suffering. Or a lot. Like a young woman I know with a smile of great joy, a great love for children…and just a month or two left to live. She has no time for a family of her own. I think that for her, as for my uncle who also died of cancer, heaven is hanging low right now. I think she and her husband truly have joy in their suffering. But suffering they are.

My Abba knows my Achilles heel: the kind of fear that hits me hardest and most unexpectedly, as silly as it seems to my mind. He knows I scrape and scrabble and grab out for His hand. He knows I want to trust. I spend a day or two calling out to Him, in a silent conversation on what I cannot do…and how I know there’s no other way but to trust and obey.

And He says (so tenderly) “I have prayed for you, that your faith may not fail.”

And it doesn’t. I flounder back up to the surface, and remember my last crisis, when His answer came flying out of the empty sky: so right, so real, and so unlike anything I could have dreamed up for myself. And I look ahead and shade my eyes and say, “This answer is coming too.”

It’s faith boot camp. It’s faith doggy-paddling, and faith breast-strokes and swan-diving into faith.

But at least I’m floating in faith, not in fear.

PS Yes, we had snow in Jerusalem.

Elisabeth

March 5, 2012

Writing Life

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watching

Every spring —

Well, actually, late every winter, when we’re still pleading rain, still watching the water in the Sea of Galilee inch (centimeter?) up above the danger line, but I’m tired of wearing wool socks and sweaters inside (try a stone house if you want to live life cold) —

Then I go looking for the almond blossoms. Fluffy, pink, whole treefuls of them scattering a mess of petals on the ground and looking for all the world like spring has actually arrived.

And I can’t help it. I snap pictures and I talk (again and again) about that passage in Jeremiah, where God turns to puns to get His point across:

“Jeremiah, what do you see?”

“I see an almond branch.”

“You have seen well, for I am watching over My word to perform it.”

Now, the early-bloomer almond (in Hebrew) is sha-ked.

God calls Himself sha-kad —

The watcher.

Sleepless, eager, and alert to hasten His word from promises into facts on the ground.

PS It does me good, just seeing it over and over. If you’d like a copy of this photo as a desktop background, just leave me a note.

Elisabeth

February 23, 2012

Life in the Land

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rich

You know, if I had been assigned to create the world, I’m pretty sure I would have come up with just one of everything: one kind of fruit, one kind of bird. A tree, a flower, a vegetable.

There. Done.

But God, on the other hand, seems delighted to splash about variety and creativity in unfathomable amounts. It’s one of my favorite parts of His personality. He is no lazy novelist, dealing in cliches and stock characters. He is no harried cook, pulling a generic meal from the supermarket freezer. He is no mindless designer, who thinks in cookie-cutter shapes and shades of grey.

He “richly provides us with everything to enjoy.”

He is extravagant.

And this is rarely clearer to me than when I encounter a new culture. A new language, which arranges its mental world in a totally unexpected way. A new climate and a new cast of unique plants and animals — sometimes so different from mine that I almost feel like I’m on a different planet.

That was Mexico — and it was a stunningly beautiful new planet. Cactuses grow on green mountains among green grass, and not in the stereotypical desert. Houses are painted every shade of happy. (Selling paint there must have so much more scope for the imagination than it would in my very staid hometown).

I walked down the street with no idea of the social cues. Is it bold to make eye contact; is it rude if I don’t? Should I wave at strangers in my neighborhood?

I was introduced to dear friends of friends, and wondered. Do I hug him? Or do I shake his hand? I see she kisses their cheeks — but is it an air kiss like Israel, or is it a real one? Not all my split-second decisions were the right ones.

I encountered food that made me say “Is it a fruit, or a vegetable? (I still didn’t know, even after I cut it open). “Should I eat it raw or cooked — and how in the world do I remove the spines?” I encountered food with familiar names — that hardly looked (or tasted) like what I had a home. And that was a very (very) good thing.

I know: I’m incredibly blessed to see more of this wide world He made. To see more signs of what is going on in His mind. To say again, and with more conviction than last time I said it: “He has done all things well.”

And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.

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Elisabeth

February 16, 2012

Writing Life

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texture

I’ll admit to being smitten with details. It’s what makes me a good proofreader…and a very long-winded writer, if I’m not careful to budget my details and my words, words, words. But oh, I’m fascinated with life as it is, with people as they are, with this land where I am, with the God who dreamed them up. They’re all so much more rich, so much more real, so much more…textured, if you will, than anything that comes into my head.

I didn’t know that some days I’d walk out my door into grey: the Sahara Desert comes to visit in powder-fine dust that looks like mist.

I didn’t know the rain would run so wet and so wild down the streets that the longest skirts aren’t the warmest because they’re six inches wet at the hem. And the wind would be so strong that abandoned, lamed umbrellas are a common sight to see.

I didn’t know there’d be no real personal space on a busy day at the shuk. That I could stand still and wait forever for a break in the crowd — or wade right in with my elbows (as if I would!)

I didn’t know my eyes would change. That my clothes would match more casually, that such bright colors would catch my fancy, that black would seem more boring — and less chic. (And yet I’d wear it anyway!)

I didn’t know how blunt kind comments could be. How I’d hear “Your Hebrew is so poor?” and wince — and still smile, knowing no offense was meant, and so no offense was taken. (And stung so gently, I’d leap back into my studies with new zeal!)

I didn’t know I’d be blessed so soundly — and by blessed I mean strangers pronouncing blessings on my life. A sneeze? “To your health!” No husband? “With God’s help!”

I love this gritty, chaotic, bold and bright story that God’s writing in my life, and in His land. And I wonder how He felt, when He stepped into the wide-world story He was writing, and saw the texture right up close. Was it new and yet familiar? Surprising and expected? So this is how it feels to breathe this dusty air, to be a carpenter, to touch the wood, and look into these eyes!

I wonder. No air-brushed world is this: it’s raw and piercing and loud and wrong — and oh, so very right. And I love the real that came from His mind. And I’m glad I can walk in his steps.

Elisabeth

February 9, 2012

Life in the Land, Writing Life

4 comments on texture
note

My dear blog,

Are you miffed that I ignored you for so long?

(Or perhaps you are relieved to have fewer words! words! words! in your life for a while).

What kept me away?

Not wild horses, no. But many fascinating things: Coughing. A conference. Caring for the people in my life. Playing Prince John (and Sir Hiss) to a 7-year-old’s Robin Hood. Dreaming up new articles (which may never step foot outside my scribbly notebook). Writing real letters (which have already commenced world travel). Misspelling Hebrew words in ever more creative ways. Baking. Not taking pictures, except with my eyes. Rainbow-chasing. Braving rain. Listing more and more ways in which He loves me.

And did I mention coughing? (Marveling at how fearfully and wonderfully I am made: involuntarily doing the work of dozens of sit-ups, sore muscles included, all in protection of my lungs, and breathing, and life).

Please rest assured that you have been, and still are in my thoughts and plans.

your author

Elisabeth

February 1, 2012

Writing Life

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merry?

You may think Christmas is over, but we’ve still got the last (of three Christmases!) showing up on Thursday. That’s one each for Western, Eastern, and Armenian churches.

Clearly, to live abroad — and especially in Jerusalem — is to continually find yourself out of sync with somebody — perhaps even a whole lot of somebodies — and most especially with folks at home.

But feeling left out is not place or time specific. It happens to all of us: travelers and homebodies, singles and marrieds, the childless and parents, rich and poor, the lonely and those who wish they could be alone, for once.

On Christmas Eve, a commenter called E asked me, in essence: how do you make the day special when there’s nothing particularly special happening around you?

How do you feel merry, when you just plain feel…

left out?

I can’t claim to have cracked the code, but here are some things God has very kindly and tenderly taught me:

Yes, there’s a lot you’re missing, but don’t focus on that. Find the things you can’t do at home, and savor them! Find someone else who feels left out, and bless their socks off. (Blessing has a real tendency to ping-pong back and forth repeatedly between giver, recipient, and the Author of giving — so be prepared for unexpected awesomeness).

I’ve learned to choose a few traditions from home, and make them happen — creatively, if need be. At the same time, I’ve learned not to get too fixated on any particular tradition because…if I keep my eyes and heart open, God always, always provides a way to comfort me, help me think about Him, and bring joy into what otherwise could be a very lonely season.

This probably sounds more noble than it really is. There’s no doubt that I have felt wistful and lonely and sad at times, but my memories are predominantly happy.

And the sadness? Oh, the sadness just makes heaven all the more attractive to me — no more being separated by time and space! No more feeling out of sync — because there I’ll be eternally and completely at home.

Meanwhile, the merry treasure hunt of finding God’s grace: right here and right now.

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Finding signs of the season (look closely!): at a church and restaurant in Jaffa, in an olive wood creche from Bethlehem, caroling on Christmas Eve, decorations at the New Gate in the Christian Quarter in Old City Jerusalem, winter green as a result of God’s Christmas gift of rain, a not-so-green native evergreen tree gracing a guesthouse, and carols on the organ at the often-somber Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

Elisabeth

January 16, 2012

Life in the Land

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first

Generally, I don’t take to new things right away; I have to be coaxed into them.

This new year was no exception.

I began it quietly enough, with a Bible in the lamplight — fireworks crackling over the city outside my window. With silent regrets on my mind, there seemed little to anticipate. I hadn’t put my Best Friend first as loyally and fervently as He deserved in 2011. I know myself. How could I expect the new year to be anything more than more of the same?

This time He coaxed me through the ink-splattered pages of Isaiah. For my regrets, He offered a clean slate. For my doubts, He offered Himself.

Fear not…I will pour water on him that is thirsty

Come back… I have redeemed you!

C’mon. You and I can do this. Like we did last year, remember?

Once He shook off my amnesia, of course, there was plenty to remember: new-old lessons like tree rings, layering thicker and stronger in my life with every passing year.

Apply the power of thankfulness. It cuts through the fog of self-pity and entitlement that often surrounds temptation. It snatches me out of the swamps of a self-pitying life and sets me down, exclaiming, “My borders have fallen in such pleasant places!” It’s the antidote for jealousy, for fear of the future, for doubt. No wonder He says “in everything give thanks.” I think you could call it a universal remedy.

When in doubt, be a good steward. Left to myself, I’d fritter away countless opportunities just because of uncertainty in my life. But the guy who was entrusted with a talent in Jesus’ parable didn’t get off so easily. Don’t know when your master is returning? Invest. Don’t know where I’ll be living next month? Find this location’s opportunities and use them well this month. Not sure if this is the man I’m going to marry? Unselfishly invest in his well-being while I am part of his life. Not sure if I’ve found my life’s calling? Just enrich God’s kingdom however I can today.

Trust. Just do it. I can’t keep procrastinating on trust. If I can’t trust Jesus with this unwanted, anticlimactic, homely, nubbly, little faith-tester of a circumstance (whatever it happens to be today) I won’t be ready to trust Him tomorrow with something more grandiose. Either I trust Him, or I don’t. Right here is where the rubber meets the road. And what, exactly, is trust? Just slipping your hand in His, and walking up that road together. Because He has proved faithful in the small things I can see, I trust Him in the big things I can’t see.

Like last year at this time, I’m thinking about the simple word first.

First: Jesus.

Life is too short, and too full (of bad and even the wrong good things), not to put my Best Friend first.

So by His grace, I’ll…

Make the junk in my head wait (and wait) in line, while thanksgiving has first say.

Put investing in His kingdom first.

First (and last, and always), keep my hand in His.

Elisabeth

January 3, 2012

Writing Life

3 comments on first