Christ Archives - Kristen Anne Glover

{5} A Rescuer

Day 5 of our 31 Days series: From Enemy to Heir
Click on the image above to begin at Day 1

Obscurity did not expect to open her eyes again. She had always feared death until that very moment when she realized it was winning the chase.

That is when she saw the good of it. She would simply close her eyes and cease to exist. Where was the fear in that? The pain would disappear, along with the failure, the torment, and the heartbreak. She would slip quietly from obscurity into oblivion.

It was a small step to make for someone who had been nearly dead her entire life.

But pain woke her. Her body screamed. She was dead. But she wasn’t.

Slowly, her mind woke to the betrayal. Where was death? Where was the oblivion she had been promised?

She had failed. That was all there was to it. She had failed to end it all. Even when she was handed the opportunity, she had messed it up, just like always.

Bitter tears welled up inside her and she groaned because it was not over, it was just worse than ever.

Then a thought came to her, like a whisper in her ear. There was still a chance she could succeed, and quickly. Surely there was a sharp rock or a poisonous plant somewhere nearby. She knew she had the courage to do it, if only she could find the right tool.

Obscurity forced her swollen eyes open to look around, and gasped.

A man was leaning over her.

He spread his shadow over her while the rising sun, already scorching, burned a halo around his head. “What has happened to you? Are you injured?” His face creased with the weight of concern.

She crouched back, searching her mind to see if she knew him. She felt that she should, if she could just think. Something about him seemed so familiar.

The man was dressed like a beggar, but his face, though plain, was not marred like one. He had none of the brutal marks that came with living in a land of dragons.

I should know him. I should know him, her mind insisted. But it could not come up with the secret.

“Please, come with me,” he was saying. “I can help you if you come back with me.”

Those words snapped her back into the present. “Come back with you where?” she sputtered.

“To my kingdom,” he said, as if surprised by the question. “I am the prince.”

The power of his name threw her back into the shadows and she screamed. Senseless with panic, she scrambled to get away from him, wishing more than ever that she had not survived the night.

She did not fear death, but she feared life with the prince more than anything in the world.

In all of her worst nightmares, she had never expected to be staring into the face of the one who desired to enslave her. But here he was, plain-faced and pathetic, sneaking in when she was at her weakest. It was just like the Enchanter had always said.

He thought he could take her without a fight, she thought. But Obscurity was nothing if not free, and she had just enough stubborn will left to resist the prince’s powers.

Like a wild, injured animal, Obscurity flung herself at the prince. But either her injuries had left her weaker than she knew or the prince was stronger than he appeared.

She could not prevail against him.

And he would not be dissuaded from trying to help her. “You will die if you stay here,” he said, holding her wrists so she could not beat him with her fists.

“What if I do?” she screamed. “It would be better for me to die!”

“Better if you die?” the prince repeated, softly and sadly. She did not understand the look on his face. What did he care if she died?

“What a waste of a precious life,” he said, and she cried out at the words because they stung like slap.

No one had ever spoken to her like that, and it hurt worse than a punch to the face.

Long ago, when her memories where still forming, Obscurity remembered being precious to someone. But it didn’t last because hers was not a precious life.

She swallowed the aching feeling in her throat. “Let me go,” she demanded, though she did not expect her captor to comply.

He dropped her arms.

It shocked her so much she did not even think to run. Truth flashed before her eyes and for the very first time in her life, she began to see through the cracks in the Enchanter’s lies.

He was not a captor at all, but a rescuer. And she, of all people, needed a rescuer.

*Join us tomorrow for Day 6!

Beautiful Bones: 100 Beautiful Days of Motherood {22}

The makings of something beautiful

Mrs. Smith has sent another chicken carcass over to my house. It is meaty because Mrs. Smith isn’t interested in the economics of meat the way I am. She doesn’t mind doing a half-hearted job on a four-pound fryer, especially since she knows my children love the way she roasts chicken. Something about the way she uses a half-stick of butter to baste it makes it taste better, they tell me.

Mrs. Smith saves her chicken bones for me because of Jonathan. Once, when he was helping Mrs. Smith with some chores around her house, she asked him to throw away some chicken bones for her.

Jonathan was a little perplexed. Those bones were a good two meals away from the trash can, and Jonathan thought he must have heard her wrong. “Don’t you want to make soup out of it first?” he asked, agonizing over the benevolent bones.

Mrs. Smith was surprised. “Oh, I can’t be bothered with that anymore,” she said. Although, Jonathan knew Mrs. Smith could make a fine stock, back in the day when she used to sell lasagnas to her bosses for fifty dollars a pop. “I used three different kinds of cheeses,” she explained, as if to justify their extravagant purchase.

Jonathan listened and considered what to do. It was a very meaty chicken carcass. There’s never that much meat left on a chicken that’s been served at our table. Mrs. Smith hadn’t even touched one whole wing, and bits of white meat mocked him from the bones.

“Can I…can I bring this to my mom?” he asked.

It had not even occurred to Mrs. Smith to save us her chicken bones.

Now, whenever Mrs. Smith roasts a chicken, which seems to be more often now that my husband is out of work, Mrs. Smith packs the leftovers in a casserole dish nestled inside of two grocery bags, paper on the inside, plastic on the outside, and calls Jonathan to come and get it.

Sometimes, she’s only taken a little bite out of one half and says she can’t eat any more, and we all marvel because it is completely ridiculous for a single woman to roast a whole chicken for herself.

But Mrs. Smith is not roasting it for herself. She’s roasting it for us.

And Mrs. Smith tells Mrs. Greenlee that I make chicken stock out of the bones, and Mrs. Greenlee tells Mrs. Smith that I bake my own bread, and they both smile and nod and steel up their resolve to feed my children more cookies because they both know.

They know what it’s like to feed a family out of the scraps and the leftovers and the would-be discarded things. They’ve both done it. Nearly every mother from their generation did, not because it was fashionable but because it was necessary.

And while it might not be the most glorious thing, to pick through bones and skin, scavenging for some redeeming bit, they both know there’s a tremendous joy in that, in gathering up the parts that might have gone to waste and making something of it.

I feel that joy myself because I love redemption in any form. I love it in a stock pot full of bones and discarded vegetable trimmings that could’ve been thrown to the compost pile but instead have been saved in the freezer for such a time as this. I love it in the hands of Christ, breaking bread and serving not-enough fish to a crowd that ended up with plenty. I love it in the call to sinners so broken, they can’t possibly be worth a thing. Yet theirs is the Kingdom of God.

It is the leftover things, the scraps, the nothings that make up the beautiful story of the cross. It is the leftovers, the scraps, the nothings that allow me to nourish my children richly and deeply. It is the leftovers, the scraps, the nothings that make up such a beautiful part of my day.

So on this beautiful day, as the rich stock simmers on my stove and the smell of garlic and onions makes me happy to be inside, I am thankful that nothing is lost. Nothing is discarded. Everything can be redeemed.

Today, I get to do a little redemptive work myself, transforming the broken bones into something good. It is a small thing, but it is a godly thing. And on this beautiful day of motherhood, I am happy for the small and godly things that speak of the truest parts of heaven. Broken. Cast off.

Redeemed.

30 Days to Enjoying Your Children More: Results {Day 25}

Welcome to our series! Find Day 1 here.

My oldest was a pretty stellar Terrible Two. If Terrible Twos got awards, she would have earned top prize.

One day, she asked for a snack. I said, “Sure, let’s go see what we can find.” After a few minutes of near-tantrums because I dared to suggest something she had no intention of eating ever, I offered her a slice of cheese. This made her happy. I proceeded to slice the cheese and my child turned into a raving lunatic.

“No! Not that way! Not that WAAAAAAAY!” She yelled and threw herself against the floor. Apparently, my knife skills were sub-par.

“If you behave like this, you will not get any cheese,” I said.

“NO YOU DON’T!” My little darling thrashed against the cupboards. I scooped her up and plopped her in her crib, where she continued to spiral out of control.

I stood in the living room while she banged her crib against the wall and screamed at the top of her lungs. I was stunned. I had done nothing to provoke this kind of behavior from her. In fact, I had done everything right. Still, she responded with willful disobedience. Her actions had nothing to do with my parenting skills or lack thereof. They had everything to do with the sinfulness of her heart.

Later that day, when my Terrible Two was sleeping like an angel, I thought about how parenting is like a three-legged stool. My husband and I are one leg. God is another. But my child is the third. And sometimes, my child does not want to be part of a three-legged stool. My child wants to be a Pogo stick.

All the perfectly cut cheese in the world will not make that child compliant to the desires of the other two legs.

It is in those moments, when my child is not responding to my labors with an overgrowth of the Fruit of the Spirit, that I must remember I am not in charge of the results. That is a work of God. God must change my child’s heart.

How God chooses to work in my children’s lives is sometimes messy, frustrating, and discouraging. It does not always look the way I think it should. But the results of my work do not change my calling or my commitment to parent in a godly way. I labor diligently and faithfully because God has commanded me to do so. I love God. I love my children. He does all the rest.

Sometimes, He allows me to see the fruit of my labor right away. He gives me a child with a very moldable, sensitive heart and my good parenting almost always results in immediate good fruit.

But another child may have a very different disposition. I might struggle with that child on a daily basis, and I may never see him come to obedience. My heart breaks at the thought! I am tempted to cry out to God, “Please, don’t give me a child who will not come to know you!”

I have grieved so much over the hearts of my children that it borders on idolatry. The salvation of my children, and their hearts of obedience, mean so much to me that it threatens my faith in a sovereign God. I am tempted to work for them instead of for God, to hope and trust in their goodness rather than in the goodness of God. And that is idolatry.

I must trust the sovereignty of God more than I desire the salvation or sanctification of my children. I must follow Him even if my children do not. I must work for Him regardless of whether or not my children join me in my labors and give their lives in service to Him as well.

That is a hard word. That requires a level of faith and trust that aches. I must trust in the goodness of God concerning my children, even if that means He takes them over the long, hard road. Sometimes, He lets a child suffer the consequences of having a rebellious heart. He lets that child’s hardness break him, and He lets that child’s hardness refine me.

That, I find, is the hardest thing I’ve had to trust God for.

But it is also the best thing, because if I could work for the goodness of my children, and was guaranteed of the results, I would not need faith. Parenting would become a work, and I would subject myself once again to the slavery of a law I am incapable of fulfilling. I would be lost, and so would they.

I cannot save my children. I cannot even save myself.

The beauty and the agony of the cross is that salvation, and every other good thing on this earth, is a free gift of God. It does not come as a result of my works, even the good work of faithful parenting. It only comes through the work of Christ on my behalf. That is a perfect work, the results of which are guaranteed effective. Christ’s blood always purchases those for whom He died. My children are His to save, and His to refine.

When the results of my work are not what I expected, and my goodness to my children is returned unwanted, it is an opportunity to trust that God is at work for His greater glory. I do not always understand. I do not need to. My job is simply to be a faithful servant, and leave the rest to Him.

Sometimes, good parenting results in good fruit…

…and other times, it’s just plain messy.

Please join us tomorrow for Day 26: Boundaries

For further thought:

1) Read Ephesians 2:8-9. What good work can you do to ensure the faith of you children? This is a trick question.

2) When your children display ungodly behaviors, make it a habit to thank God for showing you their sin. It is better to bring sin to light than to let it harbor in the dark. You may feel like a parenting failure when you see these things. Instead, pray for wisdom to help your child grow in these areas.

3) Consider this verse as it applies to your work as a parent: “Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord, rather than for men knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance. It is the Lord Christ whom you serve.” Colossians 3:23-24