Fierce Beauty (19 page)

In such a moment we become just like Moses standing on the edge of the Red Sea waving a stick. God parted an entire sea because Moses wielded a stick over it! But it wasn’t the stick that parted the sea. Moses expected, he believed, that his King was going to act. And, boy,
did
He.

God will use whatever you give. He is God. He doesn’t require our
gifts, talents, and abilities. He requires our hearts. For it is from a heart that
wants
to serve Him that He splits oceans. Someone far wiser than I once said, “God does not call the equipped—He equips those He calls.” Trust me, our King does not need what we value in our worldly way of thinking. He has no use for our physical beauty, knowledge, strength, power, position, skills, or money. Yet He can—and does—use all those things when they are offered to Him with a willing and sincere heart.

No matter what God calls us to do, fear should have no place in our lives. We can relax in the fact that our King’s call on each of our lives will never lead us beyond His ability to provide for us. It is our King alone who makes
whatever
we hold in our hands a force to be used for His purpose and glory. But that force can be applied only when we
give it to Him
.

Moses gave God a stick (Exodus 14:15–31), Gideon gave Him clay jars and torches (Judges 7), David gave a sling (1 Samuel 17), a widow gave two mites (Luke 21:1–4), a boy gave his sack lunch (John 6:1–13), and Paul gave his imprisonment (Acts 28:30–31).

What has God already equipped
you
with to give back to Him?

We may never see the purpose of our gifts. But the Lord sees all time, all history, all at once. He views the entire panorama. We see only a tiny picture full of puzzle pieces. Within that picture each of us represents a single puzzle piece. And one thing about puzzles is that they usually come with “inny” and “outy” pieces. This makes me visualize introverts and extroverts, leaders and followers. Another fact I’ve realized is that it’s impossible—the picture absolutely cannot work—if any two pieces are the
same
. Friend, it is our uniqueness that allows us to fit together to make a clear picture.

We were created to interlock with those God has called around us. Only when our true focus is on our King can we join together in perfect unity, thus creating a flawless image. And when this image is viewed from a distance, it will reflect the attributes of our Lord.

This analogy also extends to music. No one would want to listen to
a symphony where all the instruments were the same and each played exactly the same note over and over. It is the harmonious blending of scores of instruments playing their unique tones—together—that makes the music beautiful. We shouldn’t judge, despair, or measure our differences. We should
celebrate
them.

We each have our own gifts, our own tones, our own shapes, our own voices to be offered up to our King. All of us can present something that He can transform for His glory. It doesn’t matter how old or how young we are. It makes no difference if we are broken or weak. Even for those whose lives are severely restricted, nothing in this world can take away their ability to pray. As long as our hearts continue to beat, we have
something
we can give.

Whether our gift be as small as a handful of flowers, a phone call, a hug, an e-mail, a plate of cookies, a card, a handshake, a letter, a kiss, a wink—or even something as simple as a smile—God will use whatever we give.

We cannot begin to guess what He’s going to do with our gifts—and we will never find out until we choose to give them.

Friend, our King is calling you to give Him something to be used for His glory. Today, what might be
your
smile?

It was July, and my friend Joan and I were on a small boat. We had just left a scenic harbor located on the tip of the Homer Spit in Alaska. Taxiing out into the paradise of Kachemak Bay, I was entranced by the enormous beauty that soared around us. The bay was nearly encircled by the snowy white crown of the Kenai mountain range that towered above us. While we were humming across the water, the din of the boat’s outboard motor overtook our conversation. The happy drone provided an unexpected opportunity to reflect on many things … especially how much I cherished this woman.

Our powerful friendship had been forged more than twenty years earlier, primarily in the Cascade mountains and on the ski tracks of Mount Bachelor. During my fledgling pursuit of a new sport, it was Joan who imparted to me a unique love of Nordic skiing. She chose to look past my initial ineptitude and focus instead on my desire. By doing so, she fueled my passion to develop as a skate skier.

Joan was a multi-Olympian in biathlon. It was from her warehouse of equipment that she pulled out my first set of skis and poles, gear that I cherish to this day. In return I gave her as honest a friendship as I could muster and what I hoped would be a reflection of Jesus Christ.

Over the years our friendship grew deep and profound roots. Traveling from race to race across the United States, I wrote to her. Traveling from country to country around the world, she wrote back. As often as
we were able, we trained together—she being the teacher, I the student.

In part because of her tutelage, I earned a position on the Central Oregon Community College ski team, then nationally acclaimed. Though small, this team was fierce. We dominated all other Northwest teams and went on to compete in the U.S. Collegiate Ski and Snowboard Association National Championships. Pitted against nearly one hundred other nationally ranked Nordic teams, our men’s squad earned gold, and our women’s team earned bronze.

After graduating from college, I felt I was just beginning to fully grasp my love for skate skiing and decided to follow Joan’s lead into the world of biathlon. During this time, while skating in late December, our training took us into the wilderness around a high, frozen lake. After we circumvented its crunchy edge, our conversation turned toward faith. It was here, while coming around the north end of Todd Lake, that she heard the loving voice of Jesus calling her name. Kneeling side by side on our skis, with her hand in mine, we prayed.

Through tears of release, Joan surrendered her heart to the King of kings.

Because of that decision, our friendship deepened to a level far beyond what we’d known before. Bound by our Lord, we prayed for each other daily. Even when separated by travels, distance, or time zones, our hearts were linked. On many occasions I was jarred awake in the early morning hours by an urgent need to pray for Joan. Later I would learn that at nearly the same time, she was in peril and narrowly escaped. Our long-distance prayers for each other gave us a connection that challenged logic.

Yet in the years that followed, our beautiful friendship gradually began to fade. Fed by a constant breeze of pride, our unique camaraderie started to tatter like a flag left to flutter in the weather too long. Perceived offense by perceived offense, poor decision by poor decision, a barrier grew between us.

Looking back, I’m filled with immense sorrow over the realization
that I could have torn down that wall at any time. I could have asked for her forgiveness and confessed my faults and failings. I could have taken responsibility for my part in this breakdown.

I could have, but I didn’t. I failed her. More important, I failed Jesus Christ.

I didn’t take the lead in our friendship by courageously stepping forward and fighting for the truth. Instead, I chose the path of a justified coward; I simply stepped backward and avoided it. I let every excuse bend my judgment away from what I didn’t want to deal with.

Yet, what was real burned deep in my chest. Truth is a light that no dark action or word can extinguish. Therefore, I couldn’t find honest rest. There was nowhere in my soul I could hide my self-righteousness, pride, arrogance, and unforgiveness. No amount of waiting, ignoring, justifying, evading, or burying could hide this festering rot inside my heart.

There was only one cure. I needed to repent before my King, and then I needed to genuinely seek Joan’s forgiveness and genuinely give her mine. I was accountable to make right my failings in this fractured friendship. Because I knew this was true, I alone was responsible to step toward this end.

It wasn’t until my precious grandmother passed away that I found the impetus to act. While sorting through her keepsakes, I discovered a bundle of saved letters. Held together by a worn rubber band was a collection of cards that Joan had written her over the years.

After my parents’ death, it was my grandmother who, even while grieving the loss of her daughter, courageously stepped forward and made a home for her three orphaned granddaughters. I lived in her home a year longer than that of my parents. Even though Joan and I were estranged, she continued to write supportive letters to my Mimi. The letters came after my grandfather had passed away and my tiny grandma was living alone. I held in my hand a gift of pure kindness, given to my Mimi when she needed it most. Joan hadn’t waited for my approval. She chose instead simply to do what was right.

Kneeling among my grandmother’s things, I couldn’t hold back the flood of tears. Worlds collided as I crumpled to the floor. I grieved the loss of my beloved grandmother, one of the greatest pillars of love, support, and kindness I had ever known. Tears also fell for the loss of one of the greatest friendships I had ever known.

Truth landed on my heart with all the subtlety of an anvil dropping out of the sky. My grandmother was gone … Joan was not.

God is so good. His mercy and redemption are not prisoners of time. I sent Joan, my once-treasured friend, a simple letter—and so forgiveness began.

Joan’s willingness to move beyond the past and her tremendous example of friendship, combined with God’s great love, led both of us to choose to disassemble the wall between us. This beautiful, redemptive feat was achieved entirely through correspondence.

To my deep joy, for every letter I sent Joan, she returned the kindness—times five! Fifteen years later, after what the enemy had assumed was a fatal blow to our alliance, I now sat looking at this remarkable friend in our small water taxi as we traversed paradise itself. She was no longer a world-class athlete. She had traded that title for the deeper calling of being a world-class wife and mother of three incredible kids.

The silent years had added their touches. We were each a bit heavier and a tad more gray. Lines we’d earned from years of smiling framed our faces. And thankfully, by God’s grace, we were
much
wiser.

Sitting near the railing directly behind her, I watched as she draped her arm over the side of the boat and let the seawater bounce off her palm. She turned to look at me and flashed an impish grin. I shook my head and held my hands up in a silent
Can you believe this?
gesture. She laughed and nodded in agreement.

In that moment I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful and profound vision of forgiveness. But as I was soon to find out, God’s imagination is
far
greater than mine.

After motoring deep into Halibut Cove, Joan and I reached our
destination—a beautiful camp of small cabins that hovered over the bay. With our packs slung over our shoulders, we made our way up to bunks reserved for us. In the land of the midnight sun, we lay sprawled on our beds, talking, crying, and laughing until deep into the purple twilight. Finally, at 2 a.m., we extinguished our kerosene lantern and tried to get some rest before our glacier exploration the following dawn.

Early the next morning, under a low, gray sky, we joined a team of four other people and started to hike. Our group was led by a remarkable guide, a man of great faith and the father of five small boys.

We traveled up through an incredibly dense forest that lined the steep southwestern foothills that jutted above the bay. After hiking over a small coastal ridge, we dropped into the massive flood plain that streamed out below the Grewingk Glacier. This glacier is one of nine that drain the great Harding Icefield. At roughly a thousand square miles, the ice field is the largest of its type located entirely within the United States. The slow retreat of Grewingk Glacier left behind a vast trough, gouged out between flanking four-thousand-foot sheer ridges, giving dramatic evidence of the colossal power of moving ice.

Spectacular beauty rose to soaring heights all around us as we traversed the smooth-stoned delta. Following a serpentine trail, we moved through a thick tangle of stunted alder. After another mile we finally emerged from the bush onto a giant shoreline. Walking away from the thicket in speechless awe, our party arrived on the edge of an enormous body of water. Created by the scouring of the glacier, the lake is roughly a mile wide and several miles in length. Our guide shared that it has been measured to depths of over twelve hundred feet, further proof of the mighty force of ice on the move.

From our vantage point the lake appeared to be shaped in a vast dogleg that was pinched in the middle by a smooth ridge of granite. This feature temporarily blocked our view of the glacier’s titanic face. The water was milky gray from glacial “flour”—rock so finely pulverized that, when mixed with liquid, it lightens in color, sometimes even turning
white. We were informed that the water temperature was only slightly above freezing. A great flotilla of beautiful icebergs gave evidence of this truth.