Love Letters on Hearts

in

roseheartshadow When it comes to love, I want something deeper than one overly commercialized, often horribly sentimentalized, shopping frenzy of a day. To compare Valentines Day to the depth of love that we all can receive through Jesus is like the difference between a gutter mud puddle and the deepest, clearest reaches of the sea. The love of which I speak is wonderfully illustrated in one of Paul’s Letters in the New Testament:

“ You are our letter, written in our hearts, known and read by all men; being manifested that you are a letter of Christ, cared for by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the Living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.” 2 Corinthians 3:2-3

This says to me that a real love-letter is always visible on our hearts in the ways that we love others with the love of Christ. A love message is not some sad poetry, written by a marketing department, on a card that will be most likely thrown away eventually.

A love letter written upon a heart stays and it can be counted upon to remain in the celebratory and the distressed times. It can be this indelible because every love of this kind has its source in the One who calls Himself Love. When we love our friends, neighbors, families, even a stranger, with the love letter from the heart we can abide because we love, in all conditions, energized and enlarged by the power of the Holy Spirit, and because of how Jesus came for us in the unfathomable choice to leave His Father to be known as One of us.

The calligraphy of this love comes not in ink, but by the Blood of Christ that was shed for us so that the Spirit of Jesus--the Living God, by His Resurrection--could make His abode in our hearts of love. This writing shines off of faces of encouragement, from hands of service, from eyes that really see, from truly listening (not rehearsing) ears, and by the Truth that astounds because it is not a thing, but a Person--sweet, caring Jesus.

The stationery for this love note is utterly rarefied. Its delivery is not upon the finest-milled paper, it’s not on a billboard, nor is it on a blackboard. Even if you hired a plane to write it upon the sky it could not come close to finding the preciousness of the material of the human heart!

In my marriage to Jim we are constantly writing notes to each other—on birthdays and Christmas especially. We have whole series of letters written (like a shared journal) when we have been going through times of transformation and transition, so that we can look back to these for lessons that we do not want to lose to memory. I greatly admire the form of a letter, especially a love letter.

But if all these messages do not emanate from the one that is rooted and written in Christ’s love upon our hearts, how can they have eternity’s enduring and mighty love as their heart’s theme? If Jim cannot trust in the letter upon my heart because of the care that he sees from me daily, how can he believe in the import of the writing? When Jim loves me in action on the tough days, it is like a brilliant P.S. to any of the written ones that I have ever received, and it says: “My heart, in Christ, is always for you!”

Even a text message on my phone from a friend is a beautiful reminder of her prayerful heart for me. When she shows up at the door, after a tangled traffic jam ride from work with chicken soup for my flu, I see the letter on her heart. And the care that she brought makes the soup greatly more healing, because I could read her godly heart in the delivery.

When the face of a friend says; “You are precious for just who you are, because of the amazing child of God way that He formed you, with all your contradictions and kindnesses, and mystery--across her lovely forehead I see the postmark reading: “A letter from Christ, from your loved-one’s heart.”

So on this February 14th I am sending you a single blood red rose that caught the sun’s light in such a way that it inscribed a heart upon its tender petals. The image speaks to me about the letters written upon the hearts of those who have loved me with Christ’s love--that they are an endlessly fascinating missive and one that I never want to stop reading, because it exceeds all of the great literature in the world. My heart is humbled today to pray that the Lord will make the letter on my heart unmistakably one of His own--overflowing with love that runs for us with the scent of the rose (just for us) all about Him.

 

Heaven's Dance

in

My beloved Aunt—Mary Cupp went home to be with the Lord today. By her dear example I want to exhort you with the truth that she made so real to anyone who knew her: That each one of us can touch the world in profound ways simply by being present and real with the love of the Spirit that flows through us. In a most singular way she showed me clearly what is meant in Matthew 6:5: “But when you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” Her good works seemed a secret especially to her because it was all from sheer joy and planning was not at all necessary to her to be a blessing. So many must be thanking her now for her care of them--those whom we never saw, and those to whom she won’t remember the act of kindness that was provided.

In the spirit of disclosure I will declare that:  Yes, it is true that on my first night on the planet she calmed my excessive case of baby-hiccups with her nurse’s skills by making a luxurious cradle out of a dresser drawer to relieve her nervous sister who was a first-time mother. And she was my Girl Scout Leader making the understory of the forest for me an exotic wonder forevermore because of her joy in it. She also taught me how to survive the long and cold wait for a Pennsylvanian Spring by starting a minor Winter jungle in the attic with seeds planted in egg shells all ready to go into the garden as hearty seedlings when the temperatures accommodated.

I never gained her intrepid desire to spin gardens all over the hillside with absolutely no forethought for the Poison Oak that she would have to bear for many weeks into the first bloom. She was a paper mache’ artist, and so we got to wear big funny masks in local parades and wander around intentionally bumping into each other. True, we often didn’t eat dinner until 9:00pm because we were having so much fun that she forgot to put the pot roast into the oven, but the timing was just right if your didn’t like the concoction anyway and claimed sleepiness. There was never a bird, squirrel, or deer that she didn’t want to feed as they came by the massive picture windows in the kitchen to look into the warm Cupp household from their freezing mountain home just up the hill. I learned the joy of reading from her and also how to ignore the clock when a book needed finishing. When we made homemade wild berry ice cream it was commonly accepted that the horse would come onto the back porch to get his portion from a big mixing bowl.

So much more I could tell you—about how laughter was such a big part of the punctuation of our exchanges, about how we always wore the same hats all summer and were mystified when we had permanent hat-head, or about how I won a Zinnia contest because she decided it would be best if we made the arrangement in a gravy-ladle, but I want you to know more about why she reveled in enriching the lives of children and those around her.

My Aunt Mary showed me what it meant to have a dedicated and joy-filled heart as a wife to her amazing husband, Kenny, who was her constant partner in the pursuit of the very same joys of transforming little hearts into big-hearted adults. As a mother to her children--Bill & Missy--she brought the same stunning brand of love I have described on the wings of music. Her singing voice was self-admittedly pretty awful—but this was never a hindrance to her singing heart as her children got to really gain the musical gifts that she didn’t have. If there was a child who needed a ride for some special training she was the happy chauffeur. As a head nurse in a nursing home the patients adored her so much that even the naturally gruff ones followed her around as she dispensed meds. Her humor, in a place that could be somber, made the patients know that she had hope for them and her delivery of a strong but witty statement could bring peaceful rest to the most feverish soul. Her wink was not flippant, but a seal that you could rely upon the very same optimism and resiliency to be yours by her belief in you.

As I think of her now in heaven it must be such a joy for her--as there each one knows uniquely that we are each a child of God. It is an understanding that was so developed for her already, even here in the land of the living. She must be leaping about with the fragrance of heavenly gardens abounding, knowing that no child there can ever be sick, that each one will look upon the other with the meek but fervent love of a child, and that nurses aren’t needed there, but a grand-hearted Aunt Mary can shout “Hallelujah! Here!” when the roll from the Book of Life is read with her most precious name in it. Eternal life with no more tears will be such wonderment for and with her.

So, dear Aunt Mary--no more nervous hiccups from this one. And when I can’t call you to hear your voice that knows just how to remind me about where to look for courage--to the Heavenly Father--I’ll hear your lullaby from the forest floor, from the gardens dancing on Holy Spirit winds, and from the echo of the many prayers that you have said over my life with your rarefied love. I would share hat-head with you any day, especially now with the royal child of God crown that you have received. How ready you must be to cast that before His throne from which all love is borne!

Love's Countenance

in

I do; I see faces around me all the time, and not just the lovely ones passing by who grant the gift of a smile. I am not embarrassed to say that I have seen faces in back-up truck lights, tree bark, pebbles on the shore, in the clouds, high-up in the towering sunflowers, on the design of building facades, on sidewalk utility covers, garage door handles, and in so many flower patches—especially the individual Bougainvillea blooms. And so from today’s image, please meet a recent comical visage encountered in one of my favorite neighborhoods. I call him Mr. Tubhead.

I make this disclosure because it seems to me to be a very foundational part of the wiring in our fearfully and wonderfully made neurological systems--to recognize the shape and structure of a face. Even my camera has been built with the technological parallel of the wonderful gift in its facial recognition feature.

If it weren’t for the first recognizable element in our babyhood--our Mother’s face--we could not have survived. She kept us so reassuringly close, as we took in the nourishment of life, that the glowing quality of the face of love is impressed upon our hearts for a lifetime. When the baby gains her clear vision, she is found constantly tracking with the mother’s voice and her beloved face. There is a numinous quality to that most important face that makes it nearly the religion of the tiny one. Without the caring and wisdom seen in those eyes, the pretty snuggly nose, and the mouth for kisses, sweet words, lullabies, and laughter there would be no significant reason, nor any possible way to grow.

The face as the vital standard for encouragement in our lives--it makes me clearly understand why I regularly find the celebrated features in places where they are not consciously meant to be.

And then there is that other thing, about the face, that also makes me so curious on my daily photography walks: It is about how rarely eye contact is made between passing strangers, but when it happens, and a smile is emblazoned in the connection, it is better than waiting on a hillside alone to greet the sunrise. It warms and makes the rest of the day golden--like a secret package of untold wealth that has passed between two strangers out of a lavishing that King Solomon would have coveted.

I believe that the smile is not something light and whimsical. I believe it is the strong foe of cynicism, a portal to broken heartedness, the opulence in the study of lighting, and the deep remembrance of parental love—placed there by the Heavenly Father Who holds our heart’s greatest longing.

A passage in Psalm 4:6 tells us how as His people we long for the face of the Lord, like a baby for the mother’s glance, and especially so in our times of brokenness: “Many are saying: ‘Who will show us any good? Lift up the light of Your countenance upon us, O Lord!”

The Lord’s face, lifted upon us, like the greatest light of all holds us closer than a nursing mother. The radiance of His love is the one embedded deepest in our hearts. Looking into His face we know that loving Him is not about the formalism of religion, but about relationship with the One Who always holds us the closest. He brings the wisdom, and the caring to save us in the only way possible—by the life, death, resurrection, ascension, and soon coming return of His dear Son, Jesus. Without it we could not grow; we are given eternal life by His perfect care.

I’ll continue to enjoy the faces that are all about in the gardens and the street side places, because it serves to remind me of the Face above all Faces, and how He has provided such sweet reflections of Himself in my loved-ones, and also in the strangers, who bring their brightness with them in their smiles and laughter. I’ll also know of the encouragements upon His lips for me at all times as we are assured of this in Romans 15:5, and also, I’ll hear the songs in the night that Job speaks of in his 35th Chapter. All mothers learn their lullabies from the Father who is above all.

Even though Mr. Tubhead is pretty funny, I am so blessed that the Lord placed a deep message to me in this image. The Lord brought me laughter over the spiky-haired redhead--like a mother does to her child with a toy. But most importantly, He gave me a lesson to watch longingly for His most beautiful Countenance. His light, shining from His face, will always show me what is good for my nourishment. And He leaves the toys out for the children's delight, as well

Unquenchable Love

in

There are so many stunning lines of passionate love poetry in the Song of Solomon that a study of this book can bring with it an overwhelming of the senses. When I read it, I’m carried away to a place that makes the Lord’s love for me so singular and so personal that I have to absorb it in small pieces like something so rich, and with such intensity of affection, that I don’t want to miss a line without lingering.  It is laden with the fragrance of romance; it describes the first-love wonder of the Lover for his Beloved; it tells of a first-love that is and remains--love.

There is nothing whimsical in the declaration. The promises are taken to the extreme lengths of surety. We can build our confidence on this fervency that nothing in the world delineates with such assurance, as evidenced by one of the phrases engrained upon beloved hearts that know of our Lover’s faithfulness:

“ Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned” (Song of Solomon 8:7, NIV Translation).

An elegantly beautiful house is situated right on the cliff above the Pacific’s song-filled waves in my picture. All of the wealth that stands before, and behind, and around it could be written as a check for the purchase of love, and it would be a document of derision. In a world where the use of the term “love” can be so cheapened by its transient and disposable aftermaths, this kind of a true valuation of love’s worth buoys the heart to stand richly covered in its treasures, that can only come from its Creator, the One who said in His Word: “This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins” (1 John 4:10, NIV). In all conditions, we cannot ever out-love God. When we are as far away from Him as is possible, He loves us with a note that no one else can sign, written in the most precious substance in the universe--the blood of His Son.

We know of the allure of visiting many waters--that our thirst can be slaked by the abundance available to us. We know of rivers too wild to be traveled. But as well as the Lord’s love is beyond valuation, it is also mighty to stay, at all times. It doesn’t get its fill and move on as the wrongly named loves around us have with their Hollywood plots of brevity. It can ride wild rivers to accompany the Beloved, and never leave due to a severity of circumstance. It abides even in life’s floods, and it completes the restructuring of our heart’s place after the devastation, because His presence is far more precious than any loss, or any number of losses, can be. His presence holds the losses in keeping to care for our wounds—seemingly too deep to be assuaged. He always wants to know us at the deepest places from which the water of life springs-up within us--it is always fresh to Him. We are endlessly worth the pursuit. And we also, find Him everywhere in our most elated peaks of joy and in our lowest and most terrible sorrows.

He keeps saying that we are beyond price to Him. Look to the palaces of the world; marvel over their opulence, and it is all an empty shell compared to the value of the love that the Lord bears for us. Try to fathom the worth of the deed that He carries to buy us back to His ample bosom of love, and numbers will fail in a formula. Look to many waters; watch the thundering rivers, and see that the One who Loves our souls has the voice of might that out-roars all of them in His shout to come for us, to rescue us, and to keep us as His Beloved far beyond any tally that could set a price on His own--the Beloved of the Lord.

Praise dances abound to the blessed choreography of the sea spray of the many waters of the Lord’s incalculable love-song for us!