Fire Inside the Bones

If you had asked me when I was very young what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd give you a blanket answer, told so often that the words mashed together into a cohesive, mushed up mouthful: "Amissionaryandateacher." Translation, for those who need it: A missionary... and a teacher.

Sometime later, I added: "Amissionaryandateacherwhowritesstuff," and "author" was added to my self-reflective future résumé.

I remember a tinge of envy surrounding my thinking when I'd hear my peers give a decisive answer to that same question, especially as I got older and confusion disordered my thinking as I tried to figure out what to do after high school. Fellow classmates applied and were accepted to schools where they took up decisive-sounding majors like: "Pre-Med, Nursing, Engineering, Elementary Education," etc. 

There was no neat, pre-packaged, erudite-sounding word for what I wanted to major in. I couldn't find a school that specialized in: "Spreading The Gospel In Any Place At Any Time While Also Teaching In Public Schools Or Maybe Christian Schools, Or Possibly Even Overseas, But Also Writing Books, Maybe Novels, Maybe Not, Maybe Devotionals Or Blogs Are Better, And Are You Even Meeting Your Full Potential By Doing Any Of This, And Maybe You'd Be Better Off Not Going To College And Just Going With The Flow, It'd Be Less Expensive For Sure, Because You, Dear Missionary Teacher Author, Do Not Get Paid Well For Any Of This..."

I didn't know what to do with the passion in my heart. I attended a Christian school in Asheville where I grew up, and in some ways, was surrounded by the choir -- kids who, like me, were raised in Christian homes, who had, like me, parents who hoped their children would come through a Christian education and would be shining testimonies for Jesus to the world. That was certainly the goal.

It took me a while to realize -- there was a mission field right there in that school. I remember one morning when I was in emotion-riddled peer-motivated seventh grade, I was sitting with a friend in the library before classes began. We had arrived quite early and were the only two students in the big room, though the librarian was quietly re-shelving books on the other side of the place. 

Instead of studying as we should have been, we were chatting about whatever it is preteen girls chat about (that part of my life is a painful blur; I didn't remember what preteen girls chatted about until recently when I realized my own daughters were preteen -- now one is a teen -- and I was reminded with startling clarity. Anyway). As we talked, it became increasingly obvious that my friend was being rather open and honest about some choices she was making, choices that took her down a dark road.

I don't consider myself all that perceptive or even very wise. I'm a muddler -- a great word that describes me most days. But that day, at that table, it was a though my friend and our conversation became a crystalized, clear bubble where I stood outside of it, looking in, and was able to see with precision and detail the big picture of what was happening to her. I saw her at the head of a path that was steep, treacherous, and she was preparing to walk down it, but she was looking back, her hand outstretched, pleading for help. 

That morning is one of the few times in my life that I remember dropping all reservation, all what-ifs, all bashful thoughts that said: Lord, she'll think I'm crazy.

Jeremiah 20:9 took hold of me: "But if I say, 'I will not mention His Word or speak anymore in His Name,' His Word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot."

And I poured out the cross. I poured out Jesus' love for her. I leaned my elbows on the table, the plastic edges of my good ol' '90's Trapper Keeper digging into my skin, and I looked her in the eyes and told her Jesus had called her by name. She was His. 

"He doesn't want me," she said.

Oh yes, He does! I showed her Isaiah 43:1: "I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine." I showed her Ephesians 2:10: "We are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." God had her potential all ready for her. He had it planned to the nth detail. He had it scripted out for her. All she had to do was step into it. It was there for the taking. 

Why? Because He loved her. Why else would He call her by name? Why else would He be calling to get her attention?

I knew God was leading me through this. I was well aware of how it would appear to anyone watching us. The librarian was behind us; I knew she was listening -- I have no idea what she was thinking -- but I knew God was the Director and I was the player on the stage, waiting for my notes. 

My friend stared at me. She probably thought I'd gone bonkers. I didn't care -- I needed to make her understand: God loved her. It was a message she had heard all her life. But it had never broken through.

When I finally shut up... the table between us was spread with the unhindered message of Jesus' love, unconditionally offered. There was no self-consciousness, a feeling almost completely foreign to me -- who overthought every action and word in seventh grade because What will people think? The librarian was standing at her desk, still, not moving, her head bowed. I'm sure she was praying.

My friend was crying. I was crying. She said: "I had no idea anyone cared so much what happened to me."

A neat little wrap-up to this story would be: We prayed together; she asked Jesus to forgive her, live in her heart... 

That didn't happen. I tried to bring it up, but I couldn't. Again, the Holy Spirit was leading the event. He was the one working on her heart, not me. And He reminded me that -- when she was ready -- He would take care of it. I'd done my part. It took me a few moments to realize this.

So I let it go. The bell was getting ready to ring, and we packed up and left. 

Reading this morning, I found the words that perfectly wrapped up what happened that day. I had a passion in my heart to tell the Good News (it's the Best News!). I delivered that message without skill or expertise. I was way too emotional and quite seventh-grader-ish in my approach. But the Lord used my imperfect words to make the message perfect in my friend's heart. I couldn't keep quiet about it, and I pushed aside the (incredibly strong) temptation to hide behind my carefully cultivated "shy and quiet" façade. 

"If we are out of our mind, it is for the sake of God; if we are in our right mind, it is for you. For Christ's love compels us, because we are convinced that One died for all" (2 Corinthians 5:13-15)...

Christ's love doesn't just suggest. It doesn't gently nudge. It doesn't say: "Hey, if you feel like it and circumstances are decent, and if nobody's watching you and thinking you're crazy or ridiculous, or a zealot..." 

I was called a "religious zealot" once not long ago. I know the intent behind the words wasn't to make me dance with joy, but I did. It reminded me of 2 Corinthians 4:7: "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us." My leaky, cracked edges were shining brightly with the brilliance of the Treasure I hold inside! I'm not what's shiny, flawless, or compelling -- that's all Jesus. It's all the Holy Spirit living in me. And He must shine through!

His love compels us to share the message of the cross, shut up like fire in our bones. 

The definition of "compel": "To force or oblige (someone) to do something." We are obliged. We are obligated. Because of His love, we must share it. We can't keep silent. We can't stay quiet about it. We can't let the poor librarian re-shelve her books in peace. That love is so good. It's so amazing! That fiery, beautiful, refining, holy message is so hot -- that keeping quiet damages us internally. We have to talk about it!

You know, I was going to get to Exodus 12 today. I really was; it's really good. It's all about the original Passover, and the hugely symbolic act of putting the blood of an innocent lamb on the doorposts -- a sign to the angel of death to pass over the house without taking the life of the firstborn of that house.

But I think I'll save it, because the message I need to put on the table is this: When you don't know what to say about this passion in your heart... don't worry, the Holy Spirit knows -- and He gives you the words (Luke 12:11-12). When you don't know how to help... don't worry, the Holy Spirit sorts out your priorities (Matthew 6:33-34). When you don't know the path to walk... don't worry, the Holy Spirit makes a straight road in front of you (Proverbs 3:5-6). 

Share your passion. Let that fire come out. For "our God is a consuming fire" (Hebrews 12:29).