as times go by

PATIENCE, original watercolor by Shelly Silva, 2020

Not long before her birthday at the beginning of June, I reached out to my dear friend Eva Marie and let her know how much I was anticipating celebrating with her. Resources were limited so I said–or texted–something like,

“I’m sorry that the only thing I have to offer is an abundance of time. But I would very much like to spend some of it with you.”

Her response was simple and gracious, and I’ve been pondering the truth of it ever since:

“Well, time is a great thing to have and a wonderful thing to give as a gift.”

…

Well, folks, I did it.

I rounded the bend, crested the hill, put on my game face, and on August 8, I turned 40.

With a little (a lot!) of help from my family and friends, my birthday celebration was one surprising delight after another.

There were floating lanterns and a beautiful bouquet of flowers, brown paper packages waiting on the front stoop, a sudden appearance by a friend who lives very far away (also waiting on the front stoop), dessert and conversation with one of my favorite people, a quiet chat with lifelong friends under the slanted ceilings of my attic bedroom, a raucous game of Heads-Up (Alissa-themed) made unforgettable by my uncle, a festive dinner with my most faithful and familiar people, a tribute from my parents, a prayer of blessing from Nathan, a gift of “the very best” from Mary Katherine, a month of Polos from Nicole, words of life from Alicia, more words of life from Catherine,… the list goes on and on.

And so does the celebration.

In June my friend and pastor Melinda (you’ll hear more about her another time) told me that 40 is a birthday that’s celebrated all year long. I immediately took her words to heart, and it became my intention and expectation to do just that. To celebrate… and to be celebrated.

…

Late, late at night on August 8 I climbed into bed. My heart was full and happy. My birthday had been marked–and very sweetly so–by what I so dearly cherish in this life of mine: the people who make up my days.

I was tired and sleepy and eager to settle in. But before I slept I checked in with Jesus, wondering if he had something more to say to me. Something of his own to whisper away from the presence of others and perhaps set a seal on this milestone of a birthday that was four decades in the making.

In fact, he did have words for me. They were simple and succinct and–as is always the case with him–rich and full of meaning.

“You have forty years,” he said.

That was it. That’s all he said. I have forty years.

Not “You ARE forty years old.” And not “You have forty years LEFT.” Just “You have forty years.”

I sat quietly for a moment with his words, but I didn’t do much pondering that night. My sleepy thoughts almost immediately settled into two places:

1. I started studying French as a freshman in high school, and the first sentences I learned to string together were “Bonjour, je m’appelle Alissa. J’ai quatorze ans.” Literally translated that means “Hello, I call myself Alissa. I have fourteen years.” 

When it comes to stating their ages the French don’t say I AM, but I HAVE. The distinction between the two may be nothing more than what my brother David would call “a linguistic nuance” and possibly not worth noting. But Jesus’ words to me did cause me to note it. He was not making a statement about who I was… but of what I had.

Which leads me to that night’s second takeaway.

2. Whatever I had, I had been given. By the One who holds my times in his hands (Psalm 31: 15). Time is not something I–or anyone–can manufacture. I can steward it, spend it, waste it, embrace it, wrestle with it, and wonder at it. (And I do a fair amount of all of the above.) But I cannot save it, create it, reproduce it, guarantee it, or stop it. Time is not of me nor from me. And the years that I have lived are not years I have made for myself. They are years I have been given by the only One able to bestow them.

And I don’t take such a gift for granted.

It may seem rather macabre to say so, but when I was approaching thirty-nine last summer, I kept thinking of people who reached that age but made it no further. I didn’t set out to make a list or anything. They just kept coming to mind.

• Dietrich Bonhoeffer: he was executed a couple of months after his 39th birthday.
• Flannery O’Connor: after years of living with the illness, she eventually succumbed to the terminal effects of lupus.
• George Herbert: thirty-nine years was nothing to scoff at in 1633. But he missed his 40th by just one month.

Of course, I’ve personally known people who didn’t reach forty. But (and I’m very grateful to acknowledge this) their deaths didn’t weigh heavily on my mind in the midst of turning thirty-nine. Neither did Herbert’s, O’Connor’s, or Bonhoeffer’s. I wasn’t fearful or premonitory. It was simply a matter of being aware. If I made it to forty–which I very much hoped to do–I knew it would be no arbitrary thing. It would be gift. And only gift.

So when Jesus said, “You have forty years,” he knew what those words would mean to me.  And that he was the only One who could make them true.

…

Years and years ago–when I was in my late twenties–someone who loves me very much looked a bit askance at how I was living my days and said, “Alissa, I’m just afraid you’re wasting the best years of your life.”

In that moment–and in those days–grace abounded to and from me in such a way that I was able to acknowledge this loved one’s concern (and not take offense) without giving way to such thinking myself. In the quietness of my own heart, my spirit testified, “I’m not wasting my life. I’m SPENDING my life. I’m spending it on and with the person who matters most to me: Jesus. And HE’s the One who determines how I spend my days.” 

That sense of conviction and confidence was a beautiful gift given to me by the Spirit. And it was no shallow thing. Those words were not born of wishing or whimsy. Their meaning was rooted in substance and spiritual grit.

And Jesus confirmed that conviction by steadfastly and unmistakably shedding his approval on me and how I passed the time that was slowly making up more and more years of my life. He wasn’t anxious or impatient or reluctant or dismissive with me. Rather,… he seemed pleased. Understanding. Delighted. And–it’s important to note–unabashed and unapologetic.

Just as he received the woman who knelt at his feet and bathed him in expensive perfume, he welcomed and accepted the pouring out of my days. He absorbed into himself the precious passing of time–my times. And in the presence of those gathered, he protected, acknowledged, honored, and affirmed me.

If anyone (and by “anyone” I mean the enemy of my soul) tried to accuse me–just as Judas and others did to the woman that day–by saying that my days, my talents, my intelligence, my efforts, my youth, my times were being wasted, Jesus quickly came to my defense.

“Let her alone,” he once said on that woman’s behalf.

Many, many times he has said the same for me.

…

It’s a bit of a wonder to identify–even imaginatively–with the woman in the midst of her profound and intimate encounter with Jesus.

But during the last several weeks, as I’ve pondered Jesus’ birthday message to me and tried to take it to heart, I’ve found myself strongly identifying with another person and his  experience in the story.

Jesus.

Jesus was the recipient of an extravagant gift that–once given–could never be taken back. Nor exchanged. Nor recycled. Nor put to any other use. Once it was used, it was done. Once it was given, it was gone.

I think the gift of time works much the same way. For better or for worse.

It is unique and limited and beyond price. And the more we’re given, the more we realize its incredible worth,… as well as its seemingly short supply.

And it sometimes happens that, as more and more of the precious, irreplaceable resource is poured out, the peripheral voices of indignation and accusation grow louder and louder. The enemy of our souls whispers and murmurs and seeks to stir alarm and discontent over how Jesus is spending our days.

He certainly tried that with me, in the waning months of my thirties:

Alissa! Stupid, foolish girl! How has He let you live your life this way? Years spent doing… what exactly?? Look at yourself! Look at your LIFE. You had everything going for you. So much promise and potential. The family you were born into, your upbringing,… they were extraordinary. You had access to resources and opportunities–a first-rate education. You’re smart. Talented. Even attractive. You could have done anything, gone anywhere. And look what’s happened to you. Look how He’s wasted all of this time–YOUR time. He’s poured it out like dishwater. You’re never going to get these years back. And you have nothing to show for them. If He wasn’t going to give you EVERYthing couldn’t He have at least given you SOMEthing? A profession? A marriage? Motherhood? Travel?  A home? A savings account? Anything?? Alissa, face the facts: your life is being wasted. Tossed away. And it’s His fault.

The enemy is a liar. But he’s good at it.

Although these attacks were crude and clumsy and desperate, they were also cunning and calculated,… and they often tempted me to desperation, as well.

But they were hardly unique to me. And they weren’t even subtle. As my friend Michelle said, with a dismissive flick of her hand and shake of her head, “Same old tricks.”

And all the while, as the enemy mocked and taunted and accused, Jesus kept pouring the gift of life and time and his presence over me, unintimidated and undeterred. Gradually, over the long course of his steadfast ministrations, his anointing oil brought not only fresh fragrance to my days, but healing as well.

…

When the naysaying disciples began to grow indignant and disapproving, Jesus did more than tell them to hush up. He did more than champion and affirm and extol the woman who loved him so much and so well. In that quiet and complex moment, he modeled for us–for me–what it means to accept a gift purely and rightly given–even when the implications of it are costly and, to say the least, uncomfortable.

But Jesus said to them, “Why do you trouble the woman? For she has done a beautiful thing to me… In pouring this ointment on my body, she has done it to prepare me for burial… Wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.*

Jesus accepted, honored, and delighted in the moment and its meaning, in the gift and its giver. And he invites–and expects–me to do the same. To take into myself what he has poured out. To recognize its beauty and acknowledge its significance. To disdain the enemy’s murmurs of disapproval and accusation. And to proclaim to myself and to my world what he has done–in memory and wonder of him.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m going to continue with the series My 30’s. Because those years were his extravagance towards me. Because the road out is still the road back. And because this is one small offering–years and years in the making–I am made and meant to make.

My heart bursts its banks,
    spilling beauty and goodness.
I pour it out in a poem to the king,
    shaping the river into words.**

 

Thank you for reading.

 

* from Matthew 26:10-13, ESV
** Psalm 45:1, The Message

 

he tangata! he tangata! he tangata!

5th in this summer’s series: My 30’s

…

Here’s a paragraph from a book I reread this winter. It has stayed with me for months, and  just this morning I repeated its final words to the mirror as I washed my face clean:

“Next to the door was a beautifully framed plaque hung at eye level with a saying in Maori, the language of the indigenous people of New Zealand. The first time Katie saw the words He aha te mea nui? He tangata! He tangata! He tangata!, she asked Julia what they meant. Julia told her it was an ancient riddle of the indigenous people of New Zealand. The first line was a question: ‘What is the greatest thing?’ The second line was the answer: ‘It is people! It is people! It is people!'”*

Ain’t that the truth.

…

As I reflect on it, it is simple and clear to see that one of the greatest gifts given to me in my 30’s is… you guessed it… people.

God has never skimped with me regarding my traveling companions, but life throughout most of my 20’s was rather quiet. And my relationships–though rich and deep and more than sufficient–were carefully curated. The Spirit was very intentional in deciding not only how I spent my days, but with whom I spent them, as well.

Then, on the brink of thirty, my social realm swiftly expanded and began to fill up with the most beautiful variety of individuals. As God opened for me one door after another, I was delighted to discover the presence of so many soon-to-be friends, acquaintances, confidantes, and encouragers waiting for me on the other side.

When it comes to knowing, loving, and being loved by REALLY GOOD PEOPLE, my 30’s has been a time when my cup has truly runneth over.

If you’re reading this and you know me personally–I’m talking about YOU.

…

I live with my brother Nathan in a house that he owns and I do not. But he graciously allows me to take up more than my fair share of kitchen cupboard space, keep our parents’ baby grand piano on the smallish winterized back porch, and gradually add more and more bits of green to all of our common living areas (including an enormous ficus tree I recently inherited from a dear departed friend).

And when I have ideas for how best to make use of this space (that he owns and I do not), he lets me have my way with those, too. In fact, he often does everything he can to help turn my sometimes vague aspirations into working realities.

Such was the case last summer.

My brothers and I are our parents’ children–which means we all love hospitality and hosting. In fact, when my friend Susan first heard about Nathan’s and my plans for the summer of 2019, she texted, “That’s so SHABAZ!”

I took it as a compliment.

Here’s the text invitation that went out last June to a long list of friends–many of whom Nathan and I didn’t even know ten years previous:

If it sounds like this was a great idea,… it was.

And it was totally God-given. God-initiated, God-ordained, God-supplied, and God-blessed.

I had mused on the idea for a couple of summers, but when May 2019 rolled around, I was compelled to make it happen. The Spirit whispered to me, “You may do this or you may not. Either way, this summer will pass, and this time will be over. It’s your choice. But I want you to do this.”

That was enough for me. There’s no wind at your back like the breath of the Holy Spirit. And He gave me everything I needed to bring it all together.

Nathan made a makeshift table for people to gather around. Our neighbors Diane and Orlando let us poach their lawn furniture each week to provide extra seating. Ricky and Mary Katherine–though far away in Texas–sent us Edison lights to make our lovely backyard even more welcoming and magical. And although my own financial situation was quite lean, I had [God-granted] access to more than enough funds for food, drinks, and all the miscellaneous items necessary for even the simplest of get-togethers (including jump ropes and sidewalk chalk for the kiddos).

All we needed to make it complete was the most important thing: people!

I did my best to entice them our way. Each week I sent out a reminder text. And–if I may say so myself–they were, on the whole, ADORABLE.

I’m quite proud of those texts, so I’m not going to spare you a sampling.

Kickin’ things off:

(That one was sent with falling confetti.)

(It was very hot that night. And we served popsicles.)

(We had watermelon. Clearly.)

(The happy and charming stick figures speak for themselves, I think.)

(My punny wit.)

(Vincent van Gogh may be flattered, but there are still traces of blue chalk on our sidewalk.)

The texts worked their magic–or, more accurately, the Spirit wove His purposes–and the people came.

I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a taste of Heaven on Earth. A bit of Kingdom come to 29th Street.

…

I’m ten days shy of forty years old. And I’m just wise enough to know the answer to the riddle, “What is the greatest thing?”

It is people! It is people! It is people!

It is people.

 

*from The Katie Weldon Series: On a Whim, by Robin Jones Gunn, 2008, pg. 255

three’s company

4th in this summer’s series: My 30’s

…

Everybody, this is Ricky.

Ricky

Please give him a warm welcome; he’s an important person here at A February Day.

Ricky showed up in my life almost four years ago. And his God-ordained arrival on the scene was the answer to A LOT of people’s prayers. He’d been anticipated for such a long time. And–as far as I’m concerned–his presence has made life in my late 30’s richer, sweeter, kinder, and… just a whole lot better.

Who is this Ricky, you ask?

Who’s this glasses-wearing, beard-sporting, French fry-loving, RV-living guy who has suddenly landed front-and-center in Alissa’s latest blog post??

Well, folks. Here it is.

Ricky… is Mary Katherine’s husband.

Cape May Court House, New Jersey, May 27, 2018

For those of you who are new to this blog–and my life–you can read all about my dear friend Mary Katherine here, here, here, here, and here.

For those of you who are longtime readers–and friends–of mine, I have good news:

MARY KATHERINE GOT MARRIED!!

TO RICKY!!

Not quite new news, to be sure. But still very good and exciting news. And definitely deserving of an ALL CAPS announcement.

…

Mary Katherine and I have been good, good friends since we first bonded over late-nite chats in the floor lounge outside our freshman dorm rooms at college. The conversation started then, and it’s been going strong ever since. We know each other’s lives and stories and families and wide variety of friends. We have a verbal shorthand built up over years of daily phone calls–and yet we still manage to talk for hours at a time. We are very similar to one another–except in the ways we are somewhat different. And our lives–thru no overly intentional efforts of our own–have always been kept strangely in sync. As though the One who guides our days has also taken particular care to keep Mary Katherine and me in close and companionable step with one another.

Sometime in our late 20’s we finally realized… this is a covenant friendship. This is David-and-Jonathan kind of stuff.

And it all could have gone to pot with just one vow of “I do” to a guy who didn’t quite get… whatever this Alissa-and-Mary-Katherine-thing is.

Thankfully, Ricky does get it. (We’re 1 for 1.)

I flew out to Texas for their engagement party in December of 2017. The next morning after church Ricky asked me to sit with him in the front pew and we had an impromptu heart-to-heart conversation.

It was a precious and private moment, and my heart still warms at the memory.

Among other things Ricky communicated how much he valued my friendship with Mary Katherine and that he was committed to protecting and supporting it throughout the years to come.

He has proved–over and over again–to be a man of his word.

For instance(s):

1. Ricky and Mary Katherine’s honeymoon was a weeks-long road trip along New England’s coast and up into Canada. Many weeks. Like, four weeks. And, frankly, it was unlikely–and, I believe, unnecessary–for Mary Katherine and me to go a whole month without talking to each other.

We made it four days.

They got married on Sunday; we talked on Thursday.

To be clear, I did not call her. She was on her honeymoon. I got it. She’d just vowed to forsake all others, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I knew Mary Katherine would call when the time was right.

Well, the time was right when they pulled into Jamestown, RI., and their Airbnb host rather adamantly offered to give them a tour of the island. Mary Katherine was less than keen on the idea, so Ricky stepped in and took one for the team. “Why don’t I take the tour and you can call Alissa?”

Jamestown is less than ten square miles in size. Yet the tour lasted more than two hours.

God bless Ricky.

2. Just a few months after they got married Mary Katherine made plans to visit me here in Michigan. (Ricky is always included in any and every invitation–but he has that helpful sixth sense that tells him some getaways are for girls only.) When Mary Katherine floated the idea to her new husband, she allotted four days for the trip.

“Don’t you want to stay longer than that?” he asked, concernedly. “I mean, you have to factor in almost a full day of travel both there and back. And you want to be relaxed while you’re there–have time to settle in. I think you should take a week.”

When she called to tell me she was coming in for a whole week, I exclaimed, “You married the right man, Mary Katherine! We picked a WINNER!!”

Incidentally, that was the trip that started an endearing little back-and-forth Ricky and I have.

Each night Mary Katherine would call him to say good-night after she and I had closed out the day. If that meant she called him at 3:30 in the morning (which it often did)–so be it. One night her phone call waked Ricky from a dead sleep, but he wanted to hear the daily update, so he listened in a kind of hazy stupor. At the end he signed off with a sleepy but tender message for me:

“And please be sure to give Alissa all the lovelies.”

All the lovelies: Hello. How are you? I hope you’re doing okay. I care about you. I’m so glad you and my wife love each other so much. I don’t resent the time and energy your covenant friendship consumes. I want good things for you. I’m so glad we’re friends, too.

Those are the lovelies. In a nutshell. He sends them to me via Mary Katherine with every (daily) phone call. And I send my own lovelies right back to him.

My lovelies: Hey! Thank you for sharing your wife with me and letting us talk on the phone for such a long time. And thank you for praying for me. And thank you for loving Mary Katherine so well and for just being a REALLY. GOOD. GUY. Also, I hope you’re having a good day.

…

Everyone who knows Mary Katherine–including those who know her only by reputation–knows Ricky hit the jackpot in getting her as his wife. No question.

But the glorious truth for Mary Katherine–and for all of us who love her so very dearly–is that she hit the jackpot, as well. Ricky’s a great guy. He’s patient and steadfast and loyal. He’s incredibly capable in all practical matters. He loves Jesus and listens for the voice of the Spirit. He’s kind. He’s so kind. He’s a verbal processor who knows how to ask questions and listen well. He’s an Enneagram 9. (As is Mary Katherine; as am I.) He’s an extrovert. He knows how to make others feel welcome and valued in his presence. And he takes really good care of the people in his world: his mom, his brother and niece, his neighbors, his in-laws, his wife,… and her friends.

Mary Katherine falling in love, getting married, and building a home and life with a man could have marked the end of whatever Alissa-and-Mary-Katherine had been up until that point. And perhaps it would have seemed natural–and inevitable–for it to be so.

But it isn’t so.

As in Mary Katherine’s life, Ricky’s presence in mine is gain. Pure gain.

Thanks to who he is. And thanks to the One we all serve.

The Keeper of covenants.

May 2018

he gives rest to those he loves*

3rd in this summer’s series: My 30’s

…

At the end of 2018 I was precisely where I hoped I would never be again.

I don’t know if that sentence is grammatically correct, but it’s the simplest way to say it.

After four years of pleasant part-time employment (three years at my friend’s charming boutique and one year on staff at my beloved church), God offered me a sabbatical in the summer of 2018.

“A sabbatical?” I thought. “I’ve been employed for only four of the last fifteen years–and both of those jobs were, like, twenty-five hours a week. And they weren’t even concurrent! Why in the world do I need a sabbath from work? Besides, can I even afford to take a sabbatical?”

All good points and questions. And ones that would surely run thru people’s minds when I told them of my summer plans. But when the God who guides your days tells you “This is what’s best,” you go along with it.

So, I took a sabbatical.

At the very outset of Day 1, I felt a sense of… relief, I think. A lifting of some kind of pressure. As though I had suddenly arrived at a place of respite after a long but steadfast journey.

And that’s when it started to click for me.

This sabbatical was not given as an antidote to four years of part-time work, regular paychecks, and the blessing of a flexible routine that brought structure and purpose, productivity and people into my days.

It was given for all the years that preceded them. More than a decade’s worth of days which–except to those perceiving things according to the Spirit–appeared formless and void. Days that lacked clear purpose and set plans, granted me only limited and selective access to people, and almost never provided financial resources that did more than meet my most basic or immediate needs.

…

Describing my initial eleven years of post-college adulthood has always been a difficult task–even (or especially) in the midst of living them. There’s no elevator speech that encapsulates the essence of both the rigorous realities and the extravagant blessings of those years.

But recent global events may be of help here.

Imagine eleven years of #StaySafeStayHome. Eleven years of Coronavirus quarantine. Eleven years of expecting and anticipating the Stay At Home Order will be lifted sometime next week, next month, by the end of summer, before the new year, etc. No job to go to, no money to make or spend, curbed activities, limited space in which to roam, one day leading seamlessly into the next without routines or responsibilities to mark the differences between Tuesday and Saturday,…

You get the picture. You’ve lived it. And, for many years, so have I.

Of course, it wasn’t a virus or government leaders or even concern for my own welfare that kept me still and silent and in semi-solitude for all those years. And it wasn’t laziness or fear or lack of initiative, imagination, or potential. It wasn’t a dried up job market, and it wasn’t mental or emotional ill-health.

It was God. He kept me there. In a quarantine, of sorts.

And He kept me there. He kept me clothed and fed and sheltered… and loved. In myriad and miraculous ways. It’s not necessary–nor possible–to tell of all the ways He cared for and covered me; it’s enough to acknowledge that it was so.

During those years a life that was often difficult and perplexing and boring to live also became good and normal and praiseworthy and blessed. I valued the life I was living, and I value it still.

And when–on Day 1 of Summer Sabbatical 2018–it settled on me that this was a rest given in recognition of all the years that had come before, I was gratified. This sabbatical was a validation of the long string of days I chose to live in surrendered response to Him: it was also His acknowledgement that it was often very hard work to do so. (What a kind and gracious God He is!)

…

It was a lovely sabbatical. A true gift.

But a shadow of a thought entered my mind even before May led into June, and it resurfaced as a dread certainty as summer turned to fall and fall gave way to winter.

Because the Spirit gave me no direction for what would happen after the summer, I was a little worried that Sabbatical 2018 was something of a trick. A ploy. To move me from employment back to unemployment, from steady paychecks to timely provision, from bustling activity to quiet stillness, and from having some kind of plan to having no kind of plan.

And–excepting the sinister connotation behind the words “trick” and “ploy”–that’s exactly what happened.

(Note: That’s the second time in three posts I’ve written “that’s exactly what happened.” Let’s start keeping count–just for the fun of it.)

As much as I cherished the goodness and rightness and sweetness and extraordinary-ness of those eleven years of… whatever they were… I did not want to return to them.

But–and this is so true that I almost weep as I write it–nor did I want to waste time living any life but the one I was meant to live.

And only God knew what that life would be. Only He could lead me into it.

…

I closed out 2018 at my parents’ place in Florida. I was soul-weary. Lonely and dissatisfied with the present, vulnerable and without vision for the future. Being at home with my parents–eating meals my mother cooked for me and feasting on words of love and affirmation from my dad–was the perfect refuge. A true sabbatical of soul.

And in that place of being covered and cared for, Jesus–once again–called me by name and made me his own.

He made a couple of things clear to me:

1. Those first eleven years of adulthood were not a mistake. They were not arbitrary. They were not lived only for the purpose of waiting for something else to happen. They were chosen for me. Specifically ordained. Those years–and my life during them–were just as they were meant to be. And this truth was confirmed by the fact that the Spirit was leading me into that style of life once again. Only this time I knew in advance that it was very much on purpose.

Because I had other options. There were jobs I could have taken, places I could have gone. If I was determined to make a life for myself, I could have done so.

But Psalm 127 says, “If God doesn’t build the house, the builders only build shacks.” And if it wasn’t time to move into the house He was building for me, I knew I’d rather live in a tent of His providing than a shack of my own making.

Which leads to the other thing Jesus made clear to me:

2. “You’re not responsible to provide for yourself,” he stated. “That’s MY responsibility.”

He didn’t mean I wasn’t meant to work or pay bills or make commitments or fulfill obligations. But He knew I knew the nature of His calling on my life (and thus, on my days), and it was to Him and His calling alone that I was bound. Life with Him–and on His terms–was my sole responsibility. He would take care of the rest.

The ways in which He did (and does) so–and of my participation with Him–may be the stuff of future posts. But this is enough for today.

Except to share just one more thing: a token He gave to me as a seal of His promise, a tangible reminder of His commitment, and a symbol of my status as His beloved.

It’s a ring.

I wear it on the third finger of my left hand–where a bride and wife wears her rings.

I don’t wear my ring–which is simple and unique and just my size–as a placeholder or a substitution for another ring I may someday wear. I wear it as an acknowledgement to Him, a signal to myself, and a testimony to others that,

This life I live in the body I live by faith in the Son of God,
who loved me and gave Himself up for me.
(Galatians 2:20b)

I wear it every day. In surrender, in gratitude, and in hope for the future.

But, mostly, I wear it in faith for what is–and what will be–true today.

Just today.

* from Psalm 127:2

take my voice and let me sing*

2nd in this summer’s series: My 30’s

…

The first clue that I had something of a singing voice came to me out on the playground during recess in the middle of fourth grade. A small group of girls was gathered against the brick wall of Jonas Salk Elementary School and belting out whatever songs they could remember from the recently released Disney animated feature film The Little Mermaid.

At some point one of the girls pointed to me, turned to the others, and said, “She sounds just like Ariel!”

(I didn’t, but I thought, “I do?!”)

Another girl looked at me and said, “Sing ‘ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah,… you know, like Ariel does.”

So I stood there and sang “ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah” like Ariel did and watched my classmates stare at me with their mouths open and then excitedly exclaim, “You sound JUST like her!”

That was news to me.

(NOTE: Even in the midst of that totally new experience, I remember being struck by how supportive and kind those girls were being–seemingly so happy to discover this buried talent within me. Their words and countenances didn’t portray the least bit of jealousy or cattiness. I’ve always marveled at–and been grateful for–the purity of that moment.)

Over the next several years I continued to take my weekly piano lessons, but that was the extent of my musical interests. (Unless you count lip-syncing to Barbra Streisand’s album Back to Broadway while standing in front of my bedroom mirror with a can of hairspray.)

Occasionally, a man or woman sitting in the pew in front of me on a Sunday morning would turn around to greet me and say, “You have a beautiful voice!” I would thank him or her and smile. But–strangely–no matter how many times someone commented on it, I remained oblivious to the sound of my voice. I just didn’t hear what they heard.

But when the opportunity came at the end of my freshman year to audition for an elite singing ensemble at my high school, I was compelled to give it a shot. More than that, in fact; I really wanted to make it.

Which worried my parents a bit. I didn’t know it at the time, but they said to themselves, “Alissa really seems to want this, but we’re afraid she’s going to be disappointed. We just don’t know if she has the voice for a group like this.”

But–being the supportive parents they have always been–they offered to help me rehearse the evening before my audition. I sang a few bars of My Country, ‘Tis of Thee before they looked at each other, looked at me, and asked, “Where did THAT voice come from?!”

I made the ensemble.

Now my voice was on people’s radars–including my own–and, at fifteen, I started to discern and determine where and when it should be applied. I sang in the ensemble and various school choirs for the next three years. (Which provided all of the technical vocal training I’ve ever received.) I had a couple of leading roles in the Fall musicals. (An audience member once noted, “They never give you the pretty parts, do they?” No. No, they don’t.) And I continued to belt out those Broadway ballads with Barbra in the privacy of my own room.

But further than that I would not go.

Once he knew I had a voice, my father–God bless him–would constantly urge me to use it. Hiding one’s light under a bushel has no place in my dad’s theology–nor in his personality. And he was proud of my talent. Undoubtedly, God had given it to me for a reason. Why not sing solos in church?

My friend Raquel agreed. Half-teasing, half-kicking-me-in-the-backside-to-get-me-moving, she would often say, “You know, if you don’t use the talent God gives you, He will take it away.”

I remained unmoved.

For two reasons, I think:

1. Even though I believed my parents and choir directors and friends when they commented on my voice, I still didn’t hear what they heard. And what I did hear I didn’t particularly like. My voice sounded a little too formal to my ears. Too much vibrato, maybe? Too high-pitched? I didn’t know exactly what it was, but something seemed off. I just didn’t think I sounded like… me. It was fine for me to sing with the ensemble (with occasional solos, even). Or as a character in South Pacific or Bye Bye Birdie (in one of the non-pretty parts). But, with only a couple of exceptions, I had few opportunities and very little desire to sing as “myself” in public.

But, far more importantly,…

2. I didn’t have anything to say. There was no message burning like a fire in my belly. And I absolutely refused to climb onto a church platform–or any other kind of stage–and sing a song with nothing more to offer than the sound of my own voice. If that meant I never sang before an audience bigger than my family or for any reason other than private worship or my own edification, then so be it.

And so it was.

Until my thirtieth year.

Just a few months after my twenty-ninth birthday, the Spirit instructed me with a clear and gentle whisper.

“It’s time to take your voice off the shelf,” He said.

I knew what voice He was talking about, but the rest of it was a mystery to me.

I looked into taking private singing lessons at Hope College. But I had neither the funds nor the inclination to subject my voice to the rigors of formal training. Nor did such rigors seem necessary. I was approaching thirty, and Broadway wasn’t calling my name.

Then, just before Christmas, I volunteered at a children’s event at the large church I had recently begun to attend. I was partnered with Marie (pronounced Mary), and she was decked out as a heralding angel–complete with fairy wings, a halo, a massive wig, and LOTS of glitter. Her angel get-up was fitting… because she became my messenger.

Marie was a longtime member of the church’s choir, and once she detected from my various questions that I may be interested in joining, she warmly urged me to attend the regular Wednesday night practices in the new year.

Because Marie was so kind and the Spirit was so clear, I did just that. I joined the choir.

It was a small step. But a significant one. Because it put me–and my voice–on the path for which the Spirit had been preparing me since that memorable recess on the playground at Jonas Salk Elementary.

The manifold ways the Spirit has applied my voice throughout this past decade will, I presume, be mentioned in upcoming posts. But there are two things to note before I make any record of specific occasions and seasons of opportunity.

1. I’m currently reading the book of Acts, and I’m covering a lot of ground with Paul as he travels from one place to another. As I’ve been reflecting on how God has used my voice over the last several years, I can’t help but liken my singing talent to Paul’s Roman citizenship. In one account (or predicament) after another, Paul’s status as a Roman citizen is leveraged to get Paul to the people and places God intends for him to go. Many times over it gives him passage, opportunity, and an audience. I gratefully acknowledge that my voice–ordered by the Spirit–has done the same for me. It has brought me to the people and places God purposed for me.

2. I sang my first true solo in church when I was thirty years old. And it was just right. I had a message, and it burned in me like fire. Just minutes before the service began, I stole away to quiet myself and pray for the Spirit’s anointing. He blessed me, and into the silence of that sacred moment He said, “I have set my anointing on you. And I will not take it away.”

He has kept His word. In church services and hymn sings, at weddings and Christmas concerts, in nursing homes and hospital rooms, beside deathbeds and at funerals, He has called forth the voice He gave me–and always under the anointing of His presence and His power.

 

* from the hymn TAKE MY LIFE AND LET IT BE