Heartlight Articles - Together in His Grace

Under All These Masks

http://aholyexperience.com/ (Ann Voskamp) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 00:00:00 -0600

He never told us his name, that night. It's the way of the street. Concrete and asphalt and dark don't require you come with a name, for the streets christen with names of their own. And anyways, names may be forgotten, but not a face like his, never his story, the one these streets lent him.

I'm trailing the youth from our fellowship down Yonge Street, the last of the light seeping out of the autumn gold of the trees. I dig my hands deeper into pockets and warm. The grey chill's creeping in, up the wet pavement. It's going to be a long, damp night out here.

A wild mane of graying hair, he's standing, back to me, in front of the Yonge Street Mission front entrance. It's him, his tribe, we've come to minister to, to be ministered to. Tonight's not about what too often happens -- us getting to where we're going, walking wide of the crumpled hurt, looking the other way. Tonight's about the street and its people, their stories. About us each finding Christ in the other. Before I reach the entrance, he steps out in front of me, walks towards our cluster of kids. His buddy stays in the shadows, swigging long out of a 1 liter pop bottle. I feel something inside tighten, twist.

Marisa and Hadassah and Erica are up ahead, huddled together, hands drawn up into warmth of coat sleeves, waiting for staff from Center for Student Missions to meet us, give us directions for the night. Tyler and Dan and J.D. are closer to the street, checking out models of cars blurring by in thickening twilight. I can hear Dan's voice above the others, "Catch that little beemer? Sweet." Kids mingle, joke, laugh, wait.

I'm a few steps behind this bulk of back and tangled hair, watching our kids already gathered up there on the street. And I see him pull down a mask. He's pulling down a mask, walking into the center of them.

I walk faster.

I can see his hands gesticulating, but from behind him, I can't make out his words, words muffled under the plastic of the clown's mask. Yet over his shoulder, I can see the uneasiness of Marisa's eyes and see Hadassah's ashen face. Then I catch a phrase.

"Why you think I'm wearing this %*$#& mask? Hey? Why?"

Hadassah's stepping back. The raspy voice yells louder, leans into these home schooled, mostly farm kids.

"Why would I wear a *$%# mask like this?"

Tyler's not watching vehicles. Lean and lanky, sunglasses hanging from the neck of his jersey, he shifts from one foot to the other. Erica scuffs her shoe at the crack in the sidewalk. None of us know what to do with this. It's not on the itinerary.

Then this man rips the mask from his face and the blade of his howl slashes at us all stiffened to this spot here.

"I'm wearing the &%$#& mask to mask my feelings."

He shakes the painted rubber face in his hand. "I'm masking the real me! Know what I mean?"

I want to raise a hand to my own face, see if I can peel off mine.

There are more words, drifting ones, but I can't hear them. I can see his wide shoulders seem to slump, shudder. Erica looks up. Tyler chews his lip. And the night air on Yonge Street, with the traffic still whistling by, fills with this guttural moan, this pitched wail. It's the exposing of a naked soul. He's crying. Sobbing. I catch snatches ... "I'm so *&$**# up ... Jesus ... Savior ... need ... know what I mean? ... Just so ... Jesus ... Lord ... know what I mean?"

Bared, he writhes, storms past me, a flurry of tears, hair, hands. A mother in the group calls softly after, "Jesus loves you ..."

He stops. Half turning, he tries to steady his voice between the wracking of sadness, tries to find the face that went with that voice. "Yeah, He does. And He loves you too, lady."

The wind whips at his hair and he blusters down the street.

If the story had ended there, we would have had questions, knots I'd have worked long at loosening, and his face, that mask held up in clenched fist, would have lurked in memory alleys of that night. But God has more on the itinerary.

Later, we run into him again at the door of the mission. His mask's still in hand.

His eyes dart, desperate, driven. He's not done. He stands in the middle of the street, blocking the way of our Street Mission worker. There's more to this story, lines he's got wrong, parts we haven't understood. Do we have time to listen?

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay, lady? I've got issues, know what I mean? I'm like, bipolar."

His buddy spews his drink, mocking. "You're not bipolar." Like graffiti, the label's smeared across the coming dark, a cuss word. But the scoffing doesn't deter. It's us he's got to say something to, whatever this is.

"Hey, I'm *&%$#* messed up, man. Look at me!" He steps into the company of young people. Some look away. "Look at me!" His rage shakes us.

So I look. His nose is crooked, busted up somewhere, healed all wrong. His mouth clings to a few brown teeth. His skin's pocked, ruddy, and his eyes look like a childhood friend's. Maybe he's my age.

"I'm a **%$& retard. Fried my brain on crack, know what I mean? Gotta pacemaker in here." He pounds his chest. "OD'ed just down there," he waves his hand, "and it took them five hours to find me. Don't do crack, know what I mean?" His eyes are fiery, searching the faces of these country kids.

"Don't get &*%*$# messed up like I did. Love your mom and dad cuz they love you, know what I mean?" He's choking back emotion.

I wonder where his mom and dad are -- if they know he's here, like this, if they care that he's in all this strangling torture.

"Gotta Bible?"

He's in Erica's face.

But this, this is what we came for. But we didn't think it'd be like this.

Erica manages a slight shake of the head.

"Who's got a Bible?" he hollers at us all.

I'd had one in my small backpack all weekend, but for tonight's street walk, we'd been instructed to bring no money, and I'd left everything back in a locked church basement.
He rummages in his duffle bag. Kids look at each other. But we don't move.

He shoves a dog-earred red Gideon's Bible at Erica.

"Read Romans 7:14 to Romans 8."

I can hardly hear over the traffic, the rumble of the city.

"Louder. So they can all hear you!"

Then comes Erica's voice, calmed by these words she knows and the Person in them.

"... I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do ..."

And a low bass throbs.

It's his voice. He's mumbling the words from memory, his eyes penetrating, his hand keeping beat with each word Erica reads, "... but I hate what I do."

I still inside, rapt. His cerebellum's scorched with fraudulent relief and yet these words are branded deeper, right into his core.

"... I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature." He slurs some of the words, stumbles. Erica reads on and he marks each word with a swaying hand, his voice echoing hers, "For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out."

He's rocking his whole body to the cadence of ancient words, this cry that his flesh weeps. He turns my way and I look into tearing eyes, begging eyes ... "What a wretched man that I am!"

He's peeled it all off and here stands the cold, bare skin of a soul. I can hardly look.

Then there's an exchange of words that I can't hear, our mission worker saying something, nodding and he muttering something in return. Then our group spills past, escapes. And when I, the last one, trickle past, he makes eye contact, asks, "Did I get it right this time?"

Something right. Did I get something, anything, in this busted body right? Do I do any of the good I long to do? The plea madly tugs. Doesn't it echo off the walls of humanity?

I can't fix the consequences of his past, but I can nod, look in deep. "Thank you." I say the words slowly, hoping they soak into his pores. He'd wanted to share hope and Jesus with us. Had his second encounter got it right? I don't know really, but this heart knew the howl of his, and I nod again. "Thank you for sharing."

Into the Toronto night we walk, carrying glimpses of Christ we'd see in the other. For isn't the worst kind of homelessness these masks we wear -- homes outside of Christ?

Later that weekend, I'd come home, pull back clean sheets, tuck my own boys into peace. And, with no warning, little Malakai's lip would waver and tears brim, and when I pulled him close, he'd whimper words I didn't know where they came from, or why then. "I just sin so much, Mom. I can't even remember all the sins and bad things I've done." His chest would heave and the words lurch out. "I ... just ... sin ... so ... much."

And I'd hold him and gently say the last verses, ones a wild man groaned, "Who will rescue ... from this body of death? Thanks be to God -- through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Romans 7:25).

On a Sunday night while the rain fell, I'd hold my little Kai and let him cry into me, and stroke his still-soft cheek. And I'd think how names don't matter, about how we are all the same under all these masks, and of a nameless man, somebody's boy too, and me too, with my own messiness and brokenness.

We're all just wretched ones clutching, unmasked and naked, to the Cross where He hung naked, our only hope.

"Thanks be to God ..."

Ann helps us see "the holy" in laundry, listening, and liturgy. Her blog, "Holy Experience," is a fresh breath of air for the soul.

Website: Holy Experience

Horrifying Halloween

phil@heartlight.org (Phil Ware) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 00:00:00 -0500

Halloween was horrifying that dreadful night over ten years ago. However, the horror didn't have anything to do with costumes, horror houses, or dastardly tricks. After all the candy was gone and the "trick or treaters" had retired for the evening, we heard the horrifying news. A barefoot three year old child was found crying in the street carrying a nine day old sister. The police could not find the children's mother and their grandfather wanted nothing to do with them.

These cold, forgotten, and neglected children were dirty, malnourished, and scared -- a sad reminder of the millions of other neglected children in our world. What can we do to make a difference? Solutions are not easy! But let's pick three beginning points for action.

First, let's love, cherish, and nurture our own children, grandchildren, church children, and neighborhood children. Children are precious gifts from God, but not gifts we possess. We're merely stewards. They're really God's children. They come from Him. He made them and sent Jesus to remind us just how important they are. Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these." If children are within the circle of our influence, they're our responsibility. What we do for them, we do for Jesus.

Second, let's insist on children being valued for who they are -- eternal people made in the image of God. The Fall did not strip away our likeness to God -- every child bears the likeness of the Heavenly Father (Genesis 8:6; James 3:9). In addition, God is at work making each child special, even when the child is unseen in the womb of his or her mother (Psalm 139:13-16). God knows this unseen child and has a plan for her or his life. To lose the gift of a child, to see it snuffed out by neglect or abuse, is to lose something precious from God himself.

Third, let's financially, prayerfully, and personally support groups which help vulnerable and forgotten children. These may be crisis pregnancy centers, foster care programs, organizations like Compassion International, children's homes, adoption agencies, special poverty relief programs for families in need, Big Brothers and Sisters, and shelters against violence. We must not abandon God's precious children to the trash heap of despair, abuse, and isolation.

As children, we learned to sing that all children are "precious in His sight" because "Jesus loves the little children of the world." Let's make sure they know they are precious in our sight as well. Don't just get angry and grieve over the neglect, join me and make an eternal difference in the life of at least one of these children whom God loves.

Phil Ware is minister of the Word at Southern Hills Church of Christ in Abilene, Texas. For the past 10+ years, he has also been co-editor of HEARTLIGHT Magazine. For more details, click
here.

Website: Southern Hills Church of Christ

Improv Parenting

jenny@screamfree.com (Jenny Runkel) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 00:00:00 -0500

"Life is a stage and we are all players in it" (William Shakespeare).

If you think about it, parenting really is similar to theater. In the space of two hours, you can experience comedy, drama, tragedy, and maybe even a nude scene or two -- depending on the age of your child. There is, however, one critical difference: in parenting there is no script. Life sure would be easier if there were, but it just doesn't work that way. Try as you might, no scene you envision with your child will go exactly according to plan. That's because kids have an uncanny ability to shake things up, to bring about the element of surprise, to steal the scene right out from under you.

This brings to mind one of my favorite TV shows, "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" If you haven't seen it, you are really missing out. It is a show based on improvisational (or "improv") theater where the actors never quite know what will be thrown their way. The results are often hilarious and always unexpected. These professional actors make incredibly difficult tasks look easy up on stage. They are so creative, so calm, so talented. What you might not know is that they have all been well trained in the rules of improv acting. These rules allow them to access their creativity and turn any scene, no matter how strange or unexpected, into something great. So, with that in mind, I though it might be a good idea to take a look at a few of these rules and see how they might apply to what we do every day.

"Rules of Improv"

Keep the scene moving forward by saying "Yes, and ..." rather than saying "No!" The worst thing you can do in improv is to negate what someone brings to the scene. You are killing any chance of progressing the conversation. In parenting, this rule is particularly helpful for those times when your child is whiny or complaining.

When it's chore time and your little darling moans about how disgusting it is to clean the bathroom, there is simply no point in negating him. He is right after all -- cleaning the bathroom is unpleasant -- so say "yes, and". "Yes, honey, cleaning the bathroom is awful, and I think the toilets are the worst part." There's no gauntlet for your child to pick up. There's no battle to fight -- there is just a bathroom to clean ... as disgusting as it may be.

Always check your impulses and retain focus. Improv demands intense focus and concentration. We can't do that if we allow ourselves to get sidetracked. Kids are masters at hooking us in to arguments, and if we're not careful here, we'll end up functioning on their level of maturity. When you find yourself really wanting to lash out or throw your hands in the air, reign in your impulses. It's ok to want to go ballistic; it's just not ok to actually go ballistic. By staying focused on how you want to behave, you can quiet those impulses and allow your principles to say a few things.

Never enter a scene unless you are needed. Way too often, when our kids are complaining about something, we take that as our cue to jump in and fix the situation. We either "set them straight" and let them know just how easy they have it, or we lighten their load in order to shut them up ... I mean, help them out. But, just like in improv, that can kill the natural momentum of the scene.

Kids are just like us in some respects. Many times, they simply want to vent. Give them space and hang back a bit to see if they can work out the scene on their own. The same goes for sibling arguments. Encourage them to work things out without your intervention and they'll become much more self reliant in the process.

When in doubt, break the routine. If you find yourself in a position where you've tried to keep the scene moving and nothing seems to be working -- do something totally unexpected to shake things up.

If you're having the same battle with your daughter over getting dressed that you've had each morning for the past two weeks, I've got a newsflash for you: whatever you're doing isn't working. So do something totally out of character. Switch roles. Let her pick out your clothes and wear them, no matter what. Or better yet, you put on her clothes since they're not getting much use in her room. Trying something different even if it is silly -- maybe especially if it is silly -- is a great way to break the monotony. After all, a good case of the giggles makes everything seem a little easier.

Some of the greatest scenes in movies come out of improvisation. Those actors who specialize in this form make their fellow actors look better and they make it all look easy. But, just because they make it look easy doesn't mean that it is. As you can see, good improv takes hard work and self discipline. I'm pretty certain that the same is true of parenting. So, this week, give a few of these rules a shot and I think you'll have to agree with Joey Novick, comedian and improv teacher, that, "Spontaneity. Creativity. Increased intelligence. Emotional connections. Being in the moment. It is impossible for all these things not to be there when improvising."

Jenny Runkel is a writer with ScreamFree Living, Inc., a company she co-created with her husband, Hal. Through publishing, speaking, training, and their website, www.screamfree.com, Jenny, Hal and their team are committed to calming the world, one relationship at a time. Jenny has also been directly influencing and forming children and families for over ten years, having taught preschool, ministered to teenagers in church settings, and taught professionally in several high schools. Jenny currently teaches high school at Greater Atlanta Christian School. She and Hal have been married for 13 years and try to remain calm while parenting their two wonderful children: Hannah, 9, and Brandon, 7.

Website: Scream Free Parenting

Friendship and the Abundant Life

ron@faithfitness.net (Ron Rose) — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 00:00:00 -0500

Preparation

After a glorious day, camera in hand, exploring the beauty of Colorado Aspens in the fall, I sat at dinner witnessing color and warmth and richness of a different kind. Playing just across the table from me was a colorful comedy. The meal took backstage to the humorous adventures and countless stories of old friends.

Not only did I glimpse a vision of friendship vividly played-out in front of my eyes, I was an invited guest. I got to share, to be part of the moment.

The stories were detailed and dramatic. That night God gave me a vision far greater than Aspens in the fall. Nothing celebrates life more than old friends sharing memories. The abundant life God intended us to experience is impossible without friendship. It is our most prized possession.

God's masterpiece of creation isn't found in glorious sunsets, or mountaintop panoramas, or spectacular fall colors; it's invested inside the people who inhabit this planet. God put his HD in us long before someone thought of 1080i, but you can't find it by yourself, it takes friendship to see it. In fact, living in HD (High Definition) is only possible within friendship. As your book of life unfolds and the chapters are written, you will discover that nothing is more valuable than friends.

Tragically it seems friendship, true friendship, has been devalued and discounted. Some have never experienced it. You can get your face on the cover of "Time" or "U.S.News" or "Forbes," millions may know your name, but without real friends it's an empty achievement. You may be networked to thousands in "Facebook," "My Space," "Twitter," and "Plaxo," yet still have zero best friends.

Best friends know you; they know your strengths and your weaknesses, your secrets and your stories. They are invested in you and you are invested in them. They encourage you and bring out the best in you, but at times they get in your face and say what needs to be said. Their words, even if they hurt, always matter; they become part of your story and you become part of theirs.

Jesus said, "Here's how to measure your love: the greatest love is shown when people lay down their lives for their friends. You are my friends if you obey me." Want to be a best friend? Show your love; invest your life in others. Jesus pointed us that way.

If you want your joy in life to overflow, then get your focus off yourself. Choose a friend and invest your lives together in something bigger than either of you: build something, take a trip, share secrets and deal with tough issues, work on a project, stay up all night talking and dreaming and laughing. Experience life together.

Inspiration

Eric was having one of those, "I don't really want to do this" moments. He wanted to stay home and "veg-out." But, God pushed him forward anyway.

For several weeks now the group had been gathering on Tuesday's for coffee and questions and Eric was growing a little disconnected and bored, even though he was supposed to be the leader.

But this night changed everything.

She had been coming for weeks, but had remained silent and mysterious. So her words held a double-whammy.

Her voice was soft and engaging, but stinging: "Christians talk so much about the abundant life, but it seems all your decisions are based on fear. It seems you become Christians because you are afraid of going to hell. You live a 'good' life so that God won't punish you or the church won't get mad at you. You don't share your faults because you are afraid of looking bad ... fear, fear, fear. Fear of hell, fear of punishment, fear of displeasing God or others -- honestly, that doesn't sound like abundance to me."

Ouch, what a zinger! The group was stunned. She put into words what each of them was afraid to even think. No one had an answer. She had taken a big risk to make a statement like that and no one knew how to respond. They left with her words still hanging in the air.

Eric asked, "Can we sit and talk awhile longer?"

That night became a holy moment. God used a stinging question/statement to launch a friendship that has reshaped faith for both of then and left them blessed by a touch of abundance.

Motivation

Do you have a best friend or two? Does he or she know it?

Find a way this week to reclaim your friends. Share a lunch or dinner. Write a note or an email reliving a moment in the past. Invite a potential new friend to trust you enough to move past the surface stuff and talk of serous things. Get involved in a ministry with new friends. Reconnect with old friends and see what God does with it.

Prepare for a touch of the abundant life.

Ron Rose is a noted author and Director of Faith in Families. His new email minsitry, Faith Fitness, provides practical resources for growing faith. For more details, click here.

Website: Faith Fitness

The Dance of Life!

ron@faithfitness.net (Ron Rose) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 00:00:00 -0500

In his book, "Dance Lessons for Zombies," Peter Hiett tells about the night Philip and Janet Yancey came for dinner.

They didn't know the Yancey's very well and they wanted to make a good impression, so they sat their kids down and set up some rules for the evening. "There will be no booger stories, there will be no burping stories, and there will be no passing gas stories. We laid down the law."

The dinner was good and so were the kids, but they were stiff, like little zombies. "I knew why," said Peter, "In their minds they were reviewing the list of unspeakable words and untellable stories. They were constantly occupied with what they were not supposed to say. They were living by my law and dying by my law. The law was killing them."

Finally Peter's daughter, Becky got caught up in one of Janet's stories and said, "That's like the time Coleman ..." Then all at once she put her hand over her mouth, her eyes got big, and she said, "Sorry, I'm not supposed to say that."

Janet responded, "Becky is there a list of things you're not supposed to say in front of us?"

"Uh huh."

"Oh, wow! Becky, tell me everything on the list."

After that, the rest of the evening was filled with laughter and fun and life!

If you feel lifeless and powerless ... you may be an undeclared legalist, dying under the burden of law, looking good on the outside, but dead on the inside. Remember God doesn't want zombies; he is the God of resurrection power. He has put Jesus in you. Unwrap Him and set Him free.

Look for dead people this week. You'll know them when you see them. Don't just walk past them -- get their attention. Share a story you're not supposed to share, something funny, something mysterious, something unexplainable ... Invite them to a party; show them what they're missing. Infect them with life.

Then, put in a good word for Jesus. He is the only one who can give dead people life. Believe it. The initial faith step is surrender. Stop walking around ... bury the dead person and let Jesus raise up a new person with an unending, exciting, outrageous, and extravagant life worth living.

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all ... are being transformed into his image with ever–increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit (2 Corinthians 3:17-18 TNIV).

Ron Rose is a noted author and Director of Faith in Families. His new email minsitry, Faith Fitness, provides practical resources for growing faith. For more details, click here.

Website: Faith Fitness

Long Fire

http://aholyexperience.com/ (Ann Voskamp) — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0500

Like a teenager, September can't make up her mind. Her moody clouds, bursts of rain, can only be patiently endured. Then, she turns.

And the boys, two cousins, pause in their Sunday afternoon game of glorified croquet and sit with me a moment, too, on a park bench, in a patch of unexpected warmth.

"What grade you in now, Caleb?" Andy's eyes are closed, his face turned up, basking in her happy sunshine.

Cale's bent over his club, curling his back under reprieve of heating rays, and I hardly hear him answer. "Eighth. You?"

"Ninth."

A blast of dark cold whips. I can't catch my breath, but it's not the wind. "You're in ninth grade, Andy?" I'm fixed on this boy at the other end of the bench.

He grins big, this Dutch boy with white blonde hair and a splash of freckles. "Yep."

I weakly smile, nod, then turn, looking for the face of a Dutch boy I once met in ninth grade.

He's down there with Little One, worn, grease-creased hands wrapped around hers, helping her line up the club to putt the ball. He's tanned dark from a summer of working fields under the sun. I see that smile of his, can hear him laughing, as Little One squeals in delight over the tapped ball rolling.

I glance back at Andy. Really? At fourteen, Farmer Husband looked like this mere child?

I don't remember it like that.

I remember, still feel, this spreading smile of his that made me flush, ignite. This gleam when those dark blue eyes of his glanced my way. That tall, lean Dutch boy with the big farm hands and quiet words and simple dreams and love for Jesus that kindled something inside of me.

The flame still grows higher, hotter.

In the thick of summer heat, a night this past June, that once fourteen year old boy and I celebrated fourteen married years, this gold band ringing me. (When I knead dough, I slip off gold band but a band of white through summer's brown remains. This love's written on my skin, etched into me.)

That anniversary night, we sat at wood's edge, he and I, in the still dusk, and remembered. The blushing awkwardness of fourteen-year-old grade niners, the ardent bliss of twenty-year old newlyweds, the wonder of love that embraced and mingled and birthed six new souls. And now at thirty-five, passing the halfway marker through this life, lacing fingers together in the dark, and feeling the heat of all that's been.

Then the night sparked with the white heat of fireflies.

Hundreds of flares lighting up the black, the fireflies flashed and we dared not speak, hushed and awed before these soundless, hallowed fireworks, a celebration of love vows kept.

The night blinks and I think of how love is there too, in the dark spaces, unnoticed, when I fold underwear, and he changes the oil, and I flip the eggs and he gets the next roll of toilet paper and I scrub the grime out of the bathtub and he tucks children under dream covers with whispered prayers. Silent and so often hidden, this romance, stringing through the shadows.

And, now and then, its heat blazes.

Last night, long after the putting clubs were put away, and those teenage cousins waved bye, and Little One has hugged her Daddy's neck one more time before eyes gave way to sleep, I lie in bed, watching stars wink like fireflies.

I reach over and run fingers across the nape of his neck, up through closely-shorn hair, hair thinning, receding.

And I think of how time grows a man and years stoke a fire and how, in the shadows of ordinary days, God braids a three-fold wick, igniting the night.

Lord, today, light these vows ...

Images of her "Dutch" boy working on the tractor after dark and as she puts it, "those hands of his." Images by Ann Voskamp.

Ann helps us see "the holy" in laundry, listening, and liturgy. Her blog, "Holy Experience," is a fresh breath of air for the soul.

Website: Holy Experience

The Greatest Gift of Gratitude

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0500

And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him (Colossians 3:17 TNIV).

Oksana Chusovitina didn't expect to be competing in the Olympics this year. It's "been there, done that" for the gymnast from Uzbekistan ... several times.

Oksana competed in her first Olympics in 1992, as part of the "Unified Team" that took the place of the Soviet team. In '96, 2000, and 2004 she was on the team from Uzbekistan. She's 33 years old -- absolutely a senior citizen in a sport dominated by teenagers.

Besides her age working against her, Oksana just has things other than gymnastics on her mind. Interestingly, though, it's those other things that led to her being in Beijing for one more Olympic games.

In 2002, Oksana's then 3-year-old son, Alisher, was diagnosed with leukemia. She went to doctor after doctor in Uzbekistan, always hearing the same thing: "There's nothing we can do." Uzbeki medical facilities at the time just weren't up to par. So Oksana went outside her country, to the University of Cologne, in Germany, where she had sometimes trained. Money came in from all over the world to help pay for Alisher's treatment. He responded, and got better, and finally went into remission.

And Oksana needed a way to say "thank you" to those who had helped her.

Oksana didn't have much -- only one thing, really -- to give. She was an Olympic gymnast. And so she offered to compete for Germany in Beijing.

"I don't know how to thank everyone for all their help," she would say later. "Now Alisher is in school and he is doing fine, but we couldn't have done that alone. I compete for those people."

She said that, in fact, right after the medal ceremony in which she won a silver in the vault.

It was the first medal she had ever won in Olympic competition.

It strikes me that you and I share something with Oksana. We've received an amazing gift, just as she has. God has done for us something that we could never have done on our own. He's forgiven us, saved us from death, given us hope, and made us a part of what he is doing in the world. He's done all this through an amazing gift: he gave his Son to the world and allowed the world to do with him what it would.

And, like Oksana, we have the problem of not knowing how to say "thank you" for this gift we've received. What can we offer? What can we do? How do we show our gratitude for forgiveness and life and joy that never end?

Maybe Oksana is on to something. Maybe the best way to show our gratitude is to offer what we have, what we do, and who we are to the One who has given us so much.

I'm endlessly intrigued by Paul's language: "Whatever you do ... do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him."

"Whatever you do ..." -- that's pretty broad, isn't it? Covers a lot of ground. I suspect that if we learned to take his words seriously, we would have learned pretty much all we need to know about living the "Christian life" to which the church gives so much lip service. What, really, is a "Christian life" if not the offering of every moment, action, thought, vocation, hobby, passion, talent, and pursuit as a sacrifice of gratitude to God? What is a "Christian life" if not living out every moment of every day in Jesus' name in gratitude for what he's done for us and what he will do with us?

"In Jesus' name." You know, it strikes me that we have something else in common with Oksana Chusovitina. We are not our own. Oksana isn't German by birth, of course. But when she became a German citizen and put on that uniform, she became as German as anyone else on that team. That "Deutschland" on her leotard marks her as a citizen of a new nation, and everything she does in the Olympics connects her to that nation. She's still Oksana Chusovitina, but she's chosen to give herself, at least in part, in gratitude to those who have given her a gift she can never repay. What she did in Beijing, she did in the name of Germany.

I'm afraid we don't always consider the implications when we use the phrase "in Jesus' name." Maybe it's too often something we just tag onto the end of our prayers, but to think about doing everything we do "in Jesus' name" sets your head spinning! To do everything in Jesus' name is to take his agenda for our own. It's to allow his priorities and values to supplant our own. To do everything in Jesus' name is to claim not a minute of your time, not a part of your life, not a piece of your heart as your own. It's to open your life to his scrutiny and live it out by his command. That's a huge commitment, to be sure, and not one that can be honored with only one decision. It works itself out over the course of our lives.

For a start, though, you can begin to imagine what it would look like if you did your work, not for the company or firm that employs you, or for your own financial security, but for Jesus. Would it change your priorities? Would it alter the way you spent your time? Would your interactions with your colleagues be different? How about with customers or clients? Would you work more? Less? More responsibly?

Or what might it look like if your school days were lived out in Jesus' name instead of in the name of pleasing your parents or teachers or your desires for securing admission to a better college or a higher-paying job? Would it change how hard you worked? How honest you were? How you lived with your fellow students, teachers, and administration? Would it make a difference in the goals you worked toward?

And how would it change life with your family if you were committed to doing everything at home in Jesus' name? How about friendships? How would things at church be different?

It's impossible, of course, to repay God for the gift he has given us. Thankfully, that's not what he asks. He asks us to show our gratitude simply by offering him what we have. By doing the things that we do each day in Jesus' name. While that's not always easy, it's something we can do.

So, whatever you have planned for today, whatever is on your schedule -- go ahead and do it. Finish that project at work. Clean your house. Read to your kids. Take a break. But do it, do everything you do today, in the name of Jesus. Offer it to him: to his use, to his glory, to his pleasure.

I can't promise you a medal. But you'll have shown him how thankful you are for what he's given you.
© Patrick D. Odum.

Patrick Odum lives in Chicago, Illinois, with his wife, Laura and son, Joshua. He is one of the ministers at Northwest Church of Christ, and an avid Heartlight fan. He enjoys writing and maintains a website of his work called Faith Web where you can find all of his articles. Email Patrick

Website: Faith Web