he who has an ear, let him hear...

I read Revelation this morning, Chapters One and Two, while sitting in my car before church. It was actually just a “I have a few minutes before I want to head in so I’ll read a little bit…why not Revelation?” kind of thing. I read 2:12-17 a couple of times through (the message to the church of Pergamum) and was struck by the promise of the white stone with the new name written upon it. I pondered what my own new name could be, this name that no one knows but she who receives it. Then I went in.

Service was good, though I had to pull out my notes just now to remind myself what the sermon was about. (You could, I suppose, draw one of two conclusions from that statement. Either the sermon was slightly forgettable, or I have a progressively bad memory. I leave it up to you to decide.) A moment during one of the songs, however, is quite stuck in my head. We were singing “I Will Rise” and it seemed particularly poignant to me today. Struggling a bit this week with discouragement, anxiety, doubt, and failure, the hope-full verse that struck me was:

There's a day that's drawing near
When this darkness breaks to light
And the shadows disappear
And my faith shall be my eyes

Across the aisle from me was a gentleman, eyes closed, quietly singing along. He was seated, not in a comfy blue chair, but rather in a wheelchair…one designed for the long haul, by all appearances. And he was singing:

And I will rise when He calls my name
No more sorrow, no more pain
I will rise on eagles' wings
Before my God fall on my knees
And rise
I will rise

And I thought about how very dark this world can be, how many tears have been shed through the ages. How we are each afflicted with our own crippling disease, that can bind us and break us. How very much we need healing. How very much we need a Healer. And my heart cried “Come, Lord Jesus.”

…………………………………………………………………………………

In Small Church, Stephan started with a devotional. On Revelation 2:12-17. The Pergamum church was reminded that Jesus had a two-edged sword, and that He would come quickly to them wielding that sword if they did not repent. Stephan suggested that each edge of the sword (Word) served a purpose. One to cut, one to heal. He also spent a few minutes on the white stone, explaining that the Roman judicial system used a black stone to indicate guilt, a white stone to indicate innocence.

I’m not going to try too hard to bring this all together into one tidy little epiphany right now. It’s still churning (and burning) around. Maybe it’s connected, or maybe I’m so far behind in my lessons that God decided I needed to double up today. But I do know this:

We may be broken and weak, but Jesus heals.
We may be guilty as hell, but Jesus saves.
We may be drowning in the darkness, but the Dawn is drawing near.

Come, Lord Jesus.

fair to middling expectations

(Note to K&K – Yes, I’m stubborn and don’t respond well to anything remotely resembling pressure…so my initial reaction was to not post out of spite…and an intense desire to make my own decisions and take care of my own life, thank-you-very-much. But Ma says “Maybe you need to work on that…”)

My problem lately is this: I feel like I don’t have much to say. Especially when you all seem to expect some great and wise insight, or at least something mildly amusing. Expectations lead to Pressure to Live Up to Them. Pressure, for Shannon, usually leads to Shutting Down and/or Shutting Out. Or, in this case, Shutting Up. (Ok, so I’m not really blaming my lack of posting completely on you. I’m trying, though.)

I have been thinking about Expectations a bit, however. Mostly, of course, about my own expectations, and how others consistently fail to meet them. (Much easier, you know, and more comfortable, to think about that than the reverse.) It just seems like the past year has been extraordinarily full of disappointments and a shocking lack of follow-through from a number of people in my life. I’m not talking about someone just being late to appointments (though you know how I feel about punctuality). I’m talking about someone not showing up at all; no phone call, no explanation, no attempt at apology, nothing. (And more than one person has done this.) Making commitments and utterly, utterly failing to follow-through. Saying one thing, doing another. Not being the kind of friend I expect a brother or sister in Christ to be.

Are my expectations too high? Am I too quick to judge, to condemn? Do I place altogether too much importance on myself and how I think others should act? Am I inviting disappointment, even expecting it, then feeling justified for having known all along someone would fail me? Do I embrace the victim’s role, tragic and abused?

Should I give up on expecting anything from anyone?

And the worst part is the fallout. People usually know when they’ve disappointed you, even if you don’t say anything. They get uncomfortable. Awkward. Defensive. And then they hide. And being the Greatly Offended Party, I usually feel no desire to seek them out. It is, after all, their fault. And the awkwardness just grows, becoming nearly a living but deadly monster, suffocating the relationship. Some of my relationships have been thus wounded, I fear some mortally so.

Am I not at greater fault? Isn’t it the Lord’s expectation of me to build the fellowship, nurture and mend? To forgive? To attend to the plank, and all that? But even then, even doing those good things, do I not sometimes simply exchange my role from that of the Victim to that of the Martyr?

And do I not do unto others just what they have done unto me? And do I not do so unto the Lord, as well? If I feel I’ve disappointed Him, I get uncomfortable. Awkward. Defensive. And I hide.

Thank God for Grace. For being a God that seeks me out when I hide, and bids me to return and lift my face to the sun. And for being a Covenant God, One who never forgets to show up.

May we grow in His love, dear ones. For Him and for each other.


(But just so you know, I posted because I wanted to, not because you asked...)

still to be done

During worship this weekend, a photographic montage was shown while a recording of Chris Tomlin singing “God of This City” served as the musical score. The photos were mostly of our town, and Pastor David used it to confirm that his transition to our church is complete, that he is committed to praying for this community and that he knows greater things are still to be done…here. Funny how God can speak the same message to me through the same song…but expect me to hear something far removed from what David heard. 8,581 miles removed, to be specific.

Throughout the length of the song, as David preached, and after the benediction…my heart was pulled and the tears that slipped down were not for my own city, but rather for one I’ve never even walked the streets of. Phnom Penh. Desperate and beautiful Phnom Penh. Where the slums next door are barely concealed from the view of your luxury suite…but if you squint a little, you may be able to blur the image enough to forget what you’ve seen. Just don’t stand at the window too long.

Phnom Penh. Where you can wander the markets and surmise that the bird vendors, with their cages stuffed and noisy, are selling pets…despite the stall down the street with the skewered barbeque in similar shapes and sizes. You can believe the smiling young girls are only peddling flowers in the park, though they are, like the birds, also caged. And so many will suffer a parallel fate - skewered, devoured, and discarded.

Lord, will you remember Phnom Penh? Will I?



You're the God of this city
You're the King of these people
You're the Lord of this nation
You are

You're the light in this darkness
You're the hope to the hopeless
You're the peace to the restless
You are

There is no one like our God
There is no one like our God

For greater things
Have yet to come
And greater things
Are still to be done in this city

The Road of Lost Innocence

The True Story of a Cambodian Heroine

By Somaly Mam


This is one of the most truly awful portraits of mankind I have ever willingly subjected myself to. Somaly Mam was sold into sexual slavery as a child in Cambodia and this book is the story of her life. She is candid and brutal in her openness and entering her world left me broken and sick. But as a Mid-West twentysomething living a pretty charmed life, where my biggest concern is finding a rug to put in my family room…I need a little breaking now and then.

Somaly eventually climbed out of the hell of the brothel with the aid of a Frenchman, and has since dedicated her life to helping other young girls do the same. Her tale is wretched and inspiring, tragic and heroic. I hope you read it. And I hope it wrecks you the way it has me. So instead of talking about the book itself, I’d rather talk about the effects of reading it. (Ok, I guess I’m not a very disciplined reviewer.)

I had a general knowledge about the existence of the sex trade, and rampant human trafficking around the globe before reading this book. But like most injustice that takes place outside of my immediate family and friends…it’s so easy to acknowledge…maybe even cry a little over it…and then go back to rug shopping. Such has not been the case since reading Somaly’s book. I can’t get her out of my mind. I can’t stop thinking about her and the girls she’s helping. I can’t stop praying and asking God why He allows this to happen…and why Christians (myself included) are largely ignoring it. Are these not the orphans…the poor…the weak…that we’re (I’m) commanded to look after?

But the resounding thought that is most doggedly pursuing me is this: Somaly isn’t really out of slavery.

“I’ve tried a great many things. But the past is inscribed on my body now. When you see the marks on your skin, the scars of torture and cigarette burns, the shape of the chains on your ankles, you feel the past can never be wiped away.”

“I lived amid this stench for so long that I can’t bear it now. Even fifteen years later, I feel dirtied by it. So I wash myself like a madwoman, put cream on and cover myself in eau de toilette in order to mask the stench that pursues me. At home, I have a cupboard full of perfume. I spend money to blot out a smell that exists only in my imagination.”

“What’s the use of such an existence? Apart from crying, what does one do with it?...To say that the past is past, that you need to put it all behind you, is what I say all the time to the girls who come to the center with their unendurable suffering. I know how to say all this, but I also know that it’s useless and serves little purpose. Nothing can cauterize those old wounds.”

I realized that in the midst of reading about previously unimaginable suffering, I was still hoping for a happy ending. Hoping that Somaly would be healed. But every time I read the above, my heart breaks anew. She’s living closely with the horrors of her past, not able to escape from the filth, and haunted by evil still. “Nothing can cauterize those old wounds” she says. The thing is…she’s wrong.

Jesus can.

Does she know? Has she heard? Has anyone told her of the power in the blood of Christ? That He can wash her with it, and she can finally be clean? Has she met Gomer…the woman that chose to be a whore and her faithful husband Hosea…who brought her back home?

Does she know?

Does she know that Jesus hung around prostitutes? That He loved them? That He loves her? That He wants her to be His bride? That He desires to and is able to save her from her prison?

Who will tell her? Will I?

--------------------------------------------------------

As courageous and heroic as Somaly Mam has been, rescuing others from the pit she herself was once buried in…my heart cries out that it isn’t enough. Girls are being unleashed from the chains of the brothel only to find themselves fettered still…by shame, by fear. Somaly and her fellow workers do what they can to care for these girls, to teach them their value, to show them love. But man’s effort…man’s love…how futile it is without the power of Christ. Only His love can transform, only His love can heal. Only Christ.

But does she know?

Who will tell her? Will I?

Case Re-Opened

10¹. I sleep in this morning because I am on the 9-6 shift this week. I stroll into work at 8:50am and my back-up asks "What happened? No one knew where you were and everyone's freaking out!"

I am not on the 9-6 shift this week.


1. In case you're wondering where #8 and #9 went, I will explain. #8 is June's comment, though since refuted and dismissed. #9 happened last week. I told some people about it, I was going to post it, and then I forgot what it was. So maybe that's actually #10 and the #10 above is #11.

Good Grief

O, LORD, do not rebuke me in Your anger, nor chasten me in Your wrath.
Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am pining away; Heal me, O LORD, for my bones are dismayed.
And my soul is greatly dismayed; but You, O LORD – how long?
Return, O LORD, rescue my soul; save me because of Your lovingkindness.
For there is no mention of You in death; in Sheol who will give You thanks?
I am weary with my sighing; every night I make my bed swim, I dissolve my couch with my tears.
My eye has wasted away with grief; it has become old because of all my adversaries.
Depart from me, all you who do iniquity, for the LORD has heard the voice of my weeping.
The LORD has heard my supplication, the LORD receives my prayer.
All my enemies will be ashamed and greatly dismayed; they shall turn back, they will suddenly be ashamed.



The sixth psalm has been my comfort on a few separate occasions. Times when I’ve sunk low in loneliness and deep sorrow. Waiting until the still darkness of night creeps in…the secret hours…to sigh, and to grieve. Weeping over broken dreams. Broken hearts. Brokeness.

I find solace in knowing that King David wept. That he pined. That his very soul was wearied and dismayed. That he, too, cried out “O LORD, how long?” And that in his lament, he found a God who heard him, who received his prayers. A God that would rescue his soul.

We’ve been reading about the humanity of Jesus this past week in Book Club¹. What struck me as particularly important about acknowledging Jesus’ humanity is the same thing that causes David’s song to resonate. Like David, Jesus wept. He was lonely, weary, and laden with a sorrowful burden I could never carry. Does my own selfish grief build a wall between this perfect God-man and me….or will I look in the mirror and see not my face, but the tear-stained face of Jesus, suffering with me? Suffering for me. Suffering because of me.

…………

But the night has always faded with the coming dawn, and the light rushes in, dissolving the shadows. Each day brings the promise, the reality, of resurrection².

This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope. The LORD’S lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. -- Lamentations 3:21-23


1. Vintage Jesus: Timeless Answers to Timely Questions - Mark Driscoll & Gerry Breshears

2. For some far more interesting and beautiful reflections on resurrection, see Pete. Go read it. Now. Run.

How To of the Day: How to Cook a Snake

Thanks to my WikiHow gadget on my iGoogle page, I now know. This is the technologically savvy way of learning. The alternative method is to ask Jared.



I very nearly posted last month…honest. It was to be a tragic story of a girl who sacrificed her one real beauty in order to learn the intricacies of guitar playing so that she may share her glorious, albeit undiscovered, talents with the world. But then our supremely interesting heroine found a house, the guitar gathered dust, and the post grew cold. (On the sunny side, her nails are also growing! Of course, that means you’ll all miss out on her super-deep thoughts regarding the spiritual consequences of cutting one’s fingernails. Such is life.)

In addition to sucking up any possible free time that could be used for posting, this whole house buying process is having some noticeable effects on me. The first house I considered making an offer on cost me a night’s rest. The second house I considered (and am now purchasing) also stole away a few hours, even though I felt quite confident with the decision. But sleep deprivation is not that unusual given the circumstances. The unexpected effect is my loss of memory and/or normal brain function. It borders on amnesia. I present to you the following evidence:

1. 4th of July – I leave my pillow and a pair of jeans at The Flats…right after I chide myself for nearly forgetting my sunscreen. (A lot of good remembering the sunscreen did me the next day in Oscoda.)

2. Camping at Houghton Lake – I opened my travel toothbrush case and found it devoid of my travel toothbrush. I have no idea where it is. I had just used it the previous weekend…at the Flats. It is still missing.

3. REAL Leadership Meeting Discussion – Scheduled over a month ago for this week. Please read this reenactment of a conversation regarding this meeting (ok, technically not a reenactment, but I’m sure you can visualize):
Garrett: I talked to Jeff and he’s going to be late to the meeting.
Me: *blink*
…………(crickets)……………
Me: *blink* What meeting?
Garrett: (recovering quickly from the shock, celebrates with a gleeful, and somewhat disturbing, laugh…and a happy dance.)

4. Monday Night Book Club – I drive home and pull into my (Kels’) parking space. I reach to grab my book and my Bible. They are not on my passenger seat. They are at Garrett’s house.

5. Tuesday Night REAL Leadership Meeting – I drive home and pull into my (Kels’) parking space. I reach to grab my book bag. It is not on my passenger seat. It is at the Winter’s house.

6. Thursday Night Bible Study – A reunion with my book bag fails to produce my study notes for the Bible Study. They are not at the Winter’s. They are at home on my living room floor.

7. The above actions are neither normal nor acceptable. I am losing my mind.

Q.E.D.