Embracing the Leper

The policy of the visiting district is “No travel for sex offenders will be approved for recreational purposes.” Therefore, your travel request is denied.

As I sat staring at those words on my Blackberry, trying to comprehend the words on that tiny little screen, I could slowly feel my heart grow heavier in my chest. It didn’t make any sense. I had been told that there would be no problem. I had made plans…airline tickets had been purchased. I had a new set of custom made golf clubs in the trunk of my car. I had been going to the driving range to improve my game so that I wouldn’t be an embarrassment to the men I was going to be playing with. There HAD to be a mistake!!

But, it was no mistake. My request to travel to California on a short golf vacation with friends had been denied. Even my attempts to appeal the denial were turned down. There was nothing more for me to do than to let my friend Paul know what had happened so that he could find someone to take my place on short notice.

I’ve reflected on the words of that brief e-mail that I received from my probation officer a number of times over the past few days and I realize that the heaviness of my heart really doesn’t come from the fact that I don’t get to go on a golf trip. Not that I don’t love to golf… I do. And not that I wasn’t looking forward to this opportunity to travel with friends…because I was. The weight is my chest is caused by a much deeper realization. Two simple words in that e-mail that are completely life altering, because it places me in a class of people that are outcasts.

In Biblical times, there was another class of people that were outcasts from society. In fact, they were so unwanted, that if they came near people, they were required to call out, “Unclean! Unclean!” Members of mainstream society were forbidden to have contact with these people, and if one were so bold as to touch them, they too would find themselves cast out of the community. These people were “lepers” and their condition caused them to be isolated and separated from all of society.

It has taken millennia for leprosy to be more clearly understood and for treatment options to be developed. But even with a greater understanding of the disease, there is still a stigma that will always be attached to those who have the disease. And so it is for me, and literally thousands of others who carry the same “scarlet letters” – “S.O.”

But, I’m learning that the first place that the stigma has to stop is with me. I’ve had to forgive myself for the choices that I made. I’ve had to accept that my moral core is not the person who spent countless hours on the internet in places I didn’t belong. And I’ve had to accept that my future is not what I thought that it would be ten years ago.

There is a story in the Catholic Church of St. Francis of Assisi embracing a leper one day on the road.

He could ride on. There is no reason to stop. As he passes, he can throw down his last coin to the leper. His horse lifts one hoof and paws the dirt. It is time to go on, to go home. As Francesco drops his hand to the reins, his eyes fall upon his own expensive, well-fitting glove, and it dawns on him that this leper is not wearing gloves, which is odd; he and his kind are required to wear them when they leave their hospitals, just as they are required to wear and ring their bells to warn the unwary traveler of their approach. Again Francesco looks down upon the solitary figure of the leper, who has not moved a muscle. His hand is still wrapped around the cord of the bell, his head arrested at an angle. He is like a weather beaten statue, and Francesco has the sense the he has been standing there, in his path, forever.

The leper watches him with interest. His blasted face is bathed in sunlight; the black hole that was his eye has a steely sheen, and a few moist drops on his lips glitter like precious stones. He moves at last, releasing his bell cord and extending his hand slowly, palm up, before him.

This supplicating gesture releases Francesco, for it dictates the counter gesture, which he realizes he longs to make. Without hesitation, he strides across the distance separating him from his obligation, smiling all the while as if stepping out to greet an old and dear friend. He opens his purse, extracts the thin piece of silver inside it, and closes it up again. He is closer now than he has ever been to one of those unfortunate beings, and the old familiar reaction of disgust and nausea rises up, nearly choking him, but he battles it down. He can hear the rasp of the leper's diseased, difficult breath, rattling and wet. The war between Francesco's will and his reluctance overmasters him; he misses a step, recovers, then drops to one knee before the outstretched hand, which is hardly recognizable as a hand but is rather a lumpish, misshapen thing, the fingers so swollen and calloused that they are hardly differentiated, the flesh as hard as an animal's rough paw. Carefully, Francesco places his coin in the open palm, where it glitters, hot and white.

For a moment he tries to form some simple speech, some pleasantry that will restore him to the ordinary world, but even as he struggles, he understands that this world is gone from him now, that there is no turning back; it was only so much smoke, blinding and confusing him, but he has come through it somehow, he has found the source of it, and now, at last, he is standing in the fire. Tenderly he takes the leper's hand, tenderly he brings it to his lips. At once his mouth is flooded with an unearthly sweetness, which pours over his tongue, sweet and hot, burning his throat and bringing sudden tears to his eyes. These tears moisten the corrupted hand he presses to his mouth. His ears are filled with the sound of wind, and he can feel the wind chilling his face, a cold, harsh wind blowing toward him from the future, blowing away everything that has come before this moment, which he has longed for and dreaded, as if he thought he might not live through it. He reaches up, clinging to the leper's tunic, for the wind is so strong, so cold, he fears he cannot stand against it. Behind him, the horse lifts his head from his grazing and lets out a long, impatient whinny, but Francesco does not hear him. He is there in the road, rising to his feet, and the leper assists him, holding him by the shoulders. Then the two men clutch each other, their faces pressed close together, their arms entwined. The sun beats down, the air is hot and still, yet they appear to be caught in a whirlwind. Their clothes whip about, their hair stands on end; they hold on to each other for dear life.

From "Saint Francis Meets a Leper on the Road", by Valerie Martin

That moment transformed Francis’ (Francesco) life. His perception of who, and what a leper was had been changed forever. That’s where I am today. I’ve embraced the leper, for he is me. And I pray daily that our society will embrace “lepers” of every form in the same way. Fortunately for me, God has placed men and women around me who embrace me and love me for the man I am inside. Not the man with the scars of my own form of leprosy…but the man after God’s own heart that I was created to be.

Sculpture by Timothy Schmalz

Photo from Flickr

Coffee Time

I was jarred by the ringing of my cell phone as I sat watching the end of the golf tournament.

“Hi, it’s me...from group. Are you busy?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Do you want to meet for coffee or something?”

Before I answered, I sat there in stunned silence for a moment. This was a new experience for me. I’m not used to people calling me out of the blue on a Sunday afternoon to go have coffee. It’s not that I was too busy, nor did I have any place else that I needed to be anytime soon. It was just something new.

“Uhhmmm….sure. Where are you now?”

We set a place to meet at a Starbucks midway between where he was and I was and I cleaned up and got in the car for the short drive. As I drove, I wondered what he might want to see me about. He was definitely a man who was dealing with a lot of issues and I was glad that I had been able to help him over the past few weeks.

On Thursday night during our group, he mentioned to us that his unemployment had run out and that the trailer that he had been living in was no longer available. He was living in a “low rent” apartment until he was able to find a new place to live, but he did have a lead on a place. His car is in the shop and he isn’t sure when they will have it fixed for him and he can’t start his job at the golf course until he has transportation. The State was graciously providing him with $15 a month for food stamps, but that would hardly feed anyone for even a few days.

After group, I asked him if he could use a little help and after swallowing his pride, he accepted twenty dollars from me. As we walked down to our cars to leave, we visited for a moment about the lead he had a place to live and I offered to help him with his rent if it worked out and if his family wasn’t able to help him right now. He promised to call if he needed help. True to his word, he called on Friday and came by my work to pick up some money to pay for the initial rent on his room.

I heard from him again the next day. He was calling from a motel where he had found a bed for another night. His cell phone had been disconnected for non-payment and he had no money for food. A quick stop at the bank and I swung by his motel to drop the money off. As he opened the door to his tiny room, the odor of stale cigarette smoke was almost overwhelming. He offered me a cup of coffee, which I kindly refused. We shook hands and as he headed to his car (borrowed from his ex-wife) so he could go pay his cell phone bill, I walked back to my car and went about my day.

As I drove away, I reflected on how blessed I am. I could have found myself in the exact same place he was. Society isn’t kind to those who have served time in prison and in the current economy where jobs are difficult to find…they are even more difficult for a person with a record. But I am fortunate to have a strong support system of family and church which has provided me with a good job, a nice place to live and the love and support needed to make it during this valley of my life.

As we walked into the Starbucks on that Sunday afternoon, I bought us our drinks…a skinny mocha for him, a non-fat latte for me and we found a couple of comfortable chairs in the corner. There was a part of me that was wondering “what next”, but a bigger part of me that was just enjoying some company. For the next two hours, we simply visited. He talked about his family (one of 13 kids of an abusive, alcoholic father). He shared a story of reconciliation with his dad that occurred because of his arrest. We talked about the frustrations that we face as a result of our choices and the mutual commitment that we’re not going to let that lapse in judgment define our entire lives. He told me about the conversation he had with his dad that morning about “his friend” who is helping him right now to just survive and the advise that his dad gave him to accept the friendship. And I told him that he needed to consider me on the bottom of his “payback” list. His first concern when he started to get an income again was to pay off his treatment and make sure he has a roof over his head and food in the cupboard.

Before long, it was time to go; me to church and him to another appointment. I’ve never been one to just take the time to sit with a friend and simply visit. I’m not sure when he will call again, but I have a hunch that it will happen. And when it does, there will be no hesitation on my part. We’ll simply find a place, buy a cup of liquid caffeine, and spend however much time we have to enjoy the company of a friend.

Photo from Flickr

Nudges, Bridges and Miracles!

I was rounding the curve on one of the back roads on my way home from choir practice when I felt it. A slight nudge. A nearly audible sound…like there was a person next to me in the car. Or perhaps, a voice from the radio speakers that were playing softly in the car.

“You need to make sure Debbie and Geoff know. Frank may not have called them.”

It was that simple...that plain. Not grandiose words or a long, drawn out narrative. Just simple words telling me that I had a job to do.

Only hours before, my brother Frank had called to tell me that we would need to cancel our dinner engagement for Friday night. We had planned to get together so I could deliver some Christmas gifts and catch up some since we hadn’t visited for over a month. He went on to tell me that he needed to cancel because his wife Clare’s dad had died suddenly the day before and the funeral would be on Friday. I quickly extended my condolences and told him that is would be no problem to schedule for another time and asked how he and Clare were doing. He told me that he and Clare's dad had grown close over the past ten years, but he was doing OK. We visited for a few more minutes and I hung up.

At choir practice, the director opened with an invitation for prayer requests. I sat there quietly as member after member shared their requests to the group and the list grew.

“Please pray that I find my cat’s eye medicine. I just bought a new bottle yesterday for $85 and it has disappeared.”

“Peggy’s mother is in the hospital and it doesn’t look good. Let’s pray that God will give her a sense of peace about her mom.”

“Brent lost his job last week and we have a wedding coming up in a couple of months. Brent really needs a job.”

As I sat and listened to the other choir members naming their requests, I felt led to ask for prayer for Frank and Clare.

“My brother Frank’s wife Clare’s father died unexpectedly on Monday night”, I shared. “Could we pray that God would provide comfort and strength for them?”

It was added to the list and after a few more moments, we joined in prayer and lifted up all of the requests to God…agreeing that He would hear and meet our many needs. I had NO clue how God was going to answer my own request.

Our family structure has been fractured for years. In fact, I haven’t been in the same room with both of my brothers and my sister at the same time in over ten years. Actually, I have no idea the last time we were all together. But I do know that it has been the desire of my heart for over a year that we might all be together again. That there might be healing in this family of four. That whatever ever wounds are still open that have created a chasm too wide to bridge would finally find some healing.

And so, as I rounded those curves on a dark, rainy evening, I made a decision to be careless. Even as another silent voice screamed at me, “NO Mark!!! Stay out of this, it’s not your place to get involved!”, I pulled out my Blackberry and started to enter a short e-mail to Debbie and Geoff. Now I know that a convicted felon on probation probably shouldn’t take a chance by breaking the law and sending a text while driving my car, but the sense was so strong that I needed to be doing this. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the Blackberry as I crafted the message, glancing down when I dared to make sure that the information was correct and hit the send button.

What happened over the course of the next 48 hours can only be described as a miracle. After various e-mails and phone calls, Debbie and Geoff said that they planned to attend the funeral on Friday. I have to admit, I had a little bit of apprehension about what might happen. Although Frank knew that I would probably be there, I hadn’t told him that I had notified Debbie and Geoff about the funeral and he had no idea that they might be there. I knew that it was going to be a hard day for both Frank and Clare and I didn’t want to be the cause of any more heartache or distractions on the day they were burying a man they both loved.

“Could we pray that God would provide comfort and strength for them?”

As we arrived at the church and entered the sanctuary for the beginning of the service, an astonished Clare came over to greet us. It took only seconds to realize that we had all made the right decision to be there. The hard, clinging hug and the tears streaming down Clare’s cheeks were the first indication. The heartfelt words of appreciation that we were there came next. After a few moments of visiting, we took our seats and awaited the beginning of the service.

Moments later, the bagpipe played the haunting melody of “Amazing Grace” as the casket was wheeled in, attended by six men serving as pall bearers. I almost didn’t see him. Looking older than I had ever seen him, my brother Frank walked with one hand on the casket and his head down alongside the casket. In that moment, I knew that this man he called his “father-in-law” was indeed a special man in his life. Clare wasn’t the only one who had lost a father…Frank had as well.

We spent the next ninety minutes rising and sitting as the full Catholic mass worked its way to completion. Scriptures read of loss and love. Prayers recited for all those groups who this man had represented. A humorous eulogy that left me feeling as though I wished I had known this man. And then it was over. The family gathered and followed the coffin out as it was taken to the Cadillac hearse for his final trip to the cemetery.

As Debbie and Geoff, with his wife Lynn, and I waited for Frank and Clare to return, I wondered what the reaction would be when Frank and Geoff met. Theirs is the most tenuous relationship and up until now, any bridges laid down to restore it had not been crossed. Frank soon walked over and gave me a hug, thanking me for being there. He moved on to Debbie and embraced her as well. I couldn’t help but hold my breath as Geoff stepped slightly forward and Frank pulled him into his arms. I could be wrong, but it seemed that he held him for just a moment longer and perhaps a little tighter than he had Debbie or me.

We stood and visited for nearly an hour. I wished it could have been hours. The tears that would occasionally find themselves appearing in the eyes of my oldest brother may have only been tears of grief over the loss of his father-in-law. But I think they were more. I believe they were tears generated by a sense of love and appreciation for the four of us being there with him and Clare. Tears that come when our hearts are filled to overflowing with emotions that we can’t quite explain. Tears that I found myself fighting back as I watched a little bit of youth restored to the man who appeared so much older only hours before as he walked beside a casket.

“Could we pray that God would provide comfort and strength for them?”

My prayer from only two days earlier was indeed answered! I had seen God’s love provide strength and comfort for my brother and his wife. But I had seen more. I had seen God’s hand in helping to bring healing and restoration to a family that needs it by nudging each of us across a bridge not yet crossed. God is definitely still in the miracle business and he blessed me by being a part of one in my own life. I could have chosen not to ask for prayer. I could have listened to the ‘negative’ voice telling me to mind my own business. We all could have simply been “too busy” to take time to go to a funeral of a man we had never met. But God was working in the lives of a family that He loves and that He desires to see restored.

Bridge photo from Flickr

Family photo by Clare Lyons

Atop the Fifty Foot Platform

The image has stayed with me for the past week. Nick, perched on the platform fifty feet in the air. Watchful, expectant eyes looking up at him from the crowd below. Waiting. Anticipating. Wondering. Would this man with no arms and no legs actually dive into the small pool of water waiting for him below? The look on his face gives nothing away, but you have to wonder what thoughts must be flooding through his mind at that moment.

The past week has made me feel like the man on that perch. It started when I received an e-mail from my sister to watch a short video that she thought I might find motivating. Little did she realize at the time what the impact of watching a 20 minute video might have on my life. The man in the film was a man I had met in prison…Nick Vujicic. Born without any arms or legs, he spoke to the inmates at Taft Correctional Institution while I was there. He presented a message of hope to men who found themselves in a season of hopelessness.

When I sent my sister a message that I had met this man, she suggested I blog about that experience. As I wrote of that experience I had no idea what would transpire next. The morning after I published my blog, I received a comment from a writer who is assisting Nick in writing a book and he inquired about using my story. After thirty minutes on the phone with the author, I realized that Nick was having a greater impact on my life than I realized when I sat in a prison chapel for an hour and a half as he shared his story.

I am finding that Nick is weaving himself into my life at church as well. I’m currently part of a teaching team for our church choir Sunday school class and we are teaching from a book by Bruce Wilkinson titled, “You Were Born For This”. The book discusses how God purposes to use each of us to perform miracles during out walk on this earth. The title of the book struck me as I prepared my lesson this week as I thought about Nick. Could it be that he was born in his condition for a reason? As I briefly shared Nick’s story with my class, I could see a miracle occurring before my eyes as a sense of recognition to how each of us can be used by God registered in minds of each person in the room…me included.

And so now I find myself on that perch with Nick…looking down at that small pool fifty feet below me. Is it fear within me that is keeping there – unwilling to take the plunge? Is it lack of confidence? Is it the memory of time on the high board as a child…remembering the pain from a miscalculated dive that resulted in me landing flat on my back on the hard water below, and the embarrassment of rising to the surface of the water to the chuckles of others in the pool? Whatever the reason, I’ve found myself frozen on that platform for several years.

It has been my desire to write a book about the choices that I made that put me in prison for three years and how God has worked in my life as a result of that time in the wilderness. I know that I keep receiving nudges to move forward. Just this week, the leader of my men’s group sent me a short text asking “how goes the book?” He said he felt God laid it on his heart to ask me that question. An author, reading my last blog and wanting to include it as part of a bigger story…a coincidence? I don’t believe so. Another nudge perhaps?

Perhaps the nudges this time will lead me to leap into the unknown, willing to begin the journey of putting my story to paper. Like Nick…my story may also encourage others who have spent time wondering if their life had a purpose…if their circumstances are completely hopeless. Through Nick’s testimony and his courage to “take the leap”, I believe I’m ready.

Photos from Flickr

Hope from the Cocoon

Side show announcer:
“A perversion of nature, a man if you could even call him that, whom God Himself has turned his back upon…I give you – the limbless man!”

(And with that, the announcer draws back the curtain revealing a man with no arms and no legs.)

From the short film, “The Butterfly Circus”

It was April of 2007 and I was getting closer to my release date. I was working at the time in the “Wheels for the World” program – a part of the ministry of Joni Eareckson Tada. The prison didn’t often bring in speakers for the inmates, but since we were reconditioning wheelchairs for the disabled, our entire department was invited to see a guest that would be coming to T.C.I. We really didn’t know much about him…simply that we would be a “motivation”. As you can imagine, there was a certain amount of trepidation about how this person might be able to give hope to men who have been locked away from society, and their lives altered forever.

The presentation was scheduled in the chapel and the 40 of us from "Wheels" slowly walked across the yard and entered the main chapel room. The occupancy sign read “278”, but the room was nearly full and was set up to hold more than the maximum recommended. I found a seat about ¾ of the way back as more inmates continued to enter the room. Many of the men here would take any opportunity that they could to get out of their work assignment for a few hours or out of the housing units and today was no exception judging by the number who continued to file in. Soon, every seat was taken and inmates were lined along the walls, taking up every space available.

As the deputy warden moved to the front of the room, the group slowly quieted and turned their attention to the slender, black woman. She thanked the inmates for attending and informed us that we were about to meet a man who’s story should give each of us hope. While there wasn’t audible snickering, it was obvious that the majority of the men in the room weren’t buying into the warden’s pitch.

I noticed his eyes first. I knew that I’d seen them before, but it took me a moment to recognize him. He is portrayed as an angry man…perched on the stool with the gawkers and curiosity seekers snickering and laughing at his looks. But I knew I had seen those eyes before.

And then we saw him. He was wheeled in by a man we would discover later was his brother in a wheelchair. The man carefully unbuckled him and gently lifted him up onto a wooden table. He adjusted the lapel microphone and went back to his chair against the far wall. Left on the table was a man whose condition was difficult to describe…and a little disconcerting to look at. He was literally no more than a trunk with a head attached. No arms…no legs, only a small ‘flipper-looking" appendage on the lower left part of his torso.

“My name is Nick Vujicic”, he said as he introduced himself. “I’m 24 years old and I want to talk to you today about overcoming circumstances in your lives that may appear hopeless to you.” Needless to say, he had the attention of every inmate and institution employee in the room.

Mr. Mendez:
“But you, cursed from birth - a man, if you can call him that, whom God Himself turned his back upon…”

Will:
“Stop it! Why would you say that?”

Mr. Mendez (leaning down close to Will, looking into his eyes):
“Because you believe it.”

From “The Butterfly Circus”

For the next hour and half, Nick told us his story. Of the disappointment his parents bore when he was born…neither they nor the doctors aware of his disability until he was delivered. He spoke of the countless prayers he and his family prayed that by a miracle from God, his limbs would begin to grow. They never did. He spoke of his struggles to perform even the most mundane of tasks that we take for granted every day. And he told us how through time, he accepted his disability and instead of feeling sorry for himself, made a choice to use his story to give hope to the hopeless.

And then he entertained us and made us laugh with him in a place where laughter is a rare thing. He hopped backwards on the table until he was precariously situated on the edge…demonstrating a degree of balance I have never had. He would waver…appearing to get ready to fall off the table, bringing gasps from the room, and then smile as he righted himself and bounded back to the center of the table. He asked for a volunteer from the audience to “play catch” with. He would do the “throwing” while the inmate was expected to “catch”.

A plastic grapefruit sized ball was set on the table next to Nick and he lined up his single appendage (which closely resembled a dead, featherless chicken carcass) that extended from his left hip region. He would “bounce” the flipper on the table…the sound echoing around the room and then line-up the ball with the inmate who was to catch it. And then he would swing the little foot (or whatever you might choose to call it) and the ball went sailing right into the outstretched hands of the waiting inmate. A chorus of cheers and applause erupted from the men gathered as he smiled to the room and asked if we wanted to see it again. Of course, we all did and for a second time the ball went straight and true.

As the time for the presentation came to a close, Nick gave us an invitation. He told us that at every event where he speaks, he offers anyone who needs a little hope a hug. As I looked around the room, I thought it was going to be a pretty short receiving line for Nick today. After all, these were prison inmates! Men who would rather spend a month in the SHU than be “diss’ed” by another inmate. Men who had murdered…and robbed…and abused innocent people out of selfishness, anger and greed. Men who would never allow another man to see a tear grace his cheek.

But I found myself surprised on this day. One after another, men stood and formed a line. Nick’s brother and several of the corrections officers moved the table forward and Nick balanced himself near the front edge. As each man moved toward him, Nick pressed his neck against the neck and face of the inmate and his shoulders moved forward in as much of a hug as he could manage. Tears streaked the faces of the men as they walked away…seemingly unashamed to have hugged this man and received his love in return.

The crowd gathers around Will after he completes his amazing feat…diving from a 50 foot platform into a shallow pool of water below. Slowly, a young crippled boy on crutches with one leg moves forward to see him. Without saying a word, the young boy smiles sheepishly and moves forward and hugs Will. With a smile and a look of deep compassion in his eyes, Will presses his neck against the crippled boy as a tearful mother simply looks at them both, nodding her head in a grateful acknowledgement of what Will had just done for her son. All she could say was a simple “thank you.”

From “The Butterfly Circus”

As I walked away from the chapel that day, my heart echoed with the words of that mother. “Thank you.” Nick had shown each of us that there really is no obstacle too great that we can’t overcome it. Without question, Nick had done nothing wrong that warranted his being a “limbless” man nor had his parents. They weren’t being punished for some great sin in their life. Instead, God sent this young man with a heart as large as his body to those who were hopeless, and needed encouragement. To those who needed a visible representation that hope is available to anyone who is willing to seek it. To men who on the day realized that their lives could also emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon into a beautiful creation of God.

Photos from Bing

Narratives from "The Butterfly Circus"

Film avaliable at www.thedoorpost.com/hope/film/?film=4dd298f102c77b625cf37a9e7744ac68

An "Alphabet" of Christmas Gifts

Like most of us, I love Christmas! If anyone ever asks me what my favorite holiday is, that is always my response. The lights, the songs, the decorations, even the snow...they all combine to make me happy. Maybe it's the child in me...or maybe it's because I love to give gifts, but Christmas is simply a wonderful time of the year.

I was thinking the other day about the "first" Christmas...the day that a child was born in a humble manger in a podunk town in the Middle East. Essential in that first Christmas was the presence of gifts.

"They entered the house and saw the child with his mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh." (Mt 2:11 NLT)

This passage of Scripture made me reflect on four "key" gifts that are present in the story and an alphabetic relationship to four "other" incredible gifts that God has given the world.

The first gift in the story is actually a "Daughter" (D). While we don't know his name, we know that Mary had a father somewhere. God probably (without doubt, actually) could have brought Christ into the world completely supernaturally, but He chose to use a young women and I think there is great significance to that. God's first daughter was also a gift...to Adam. And down through the ages, fathers have consistently given their daughters as a gift to a young man in marriage. For centuries, a financial price was attached to the bride by the father, thus enhancing the value that he placed on her.

The second gift mentioned comes from one of the wise men..."Gold" (G). We all know that gold is considered to be one of the most valuable objects on earth…and to give it away is certainly a sacrifice. We don’t really know that much about the wise men of the Christmas story. In some translations they are called Magi…in others, Kings. Nevertheless, to give away this precious mineral would be a sacrifice – perhaps even to the point of having to go without.

“Frankincense” (F) was also offered as a gift to the small child…this King of Kings and Lord of Lords. This fragrant resin was used in ancient days for several purposes. It was dried and ground and used as incense by the priests in religious ceremonies. In addition, it had medicinal qualities and has been used to treat digestive ailments.

The final gift presented to the Christ child was “Myrrh” (M) and is actually related to Frankincense. The sap of this plant was infused into oil and was used as an embalming ointment in funerals and cremations. It is believed that the spices that were in the linen wrappings that Nicodemus used to bind Jesus for his burial contained Myrrh.

All of the gifts given to Jesus by the Magi are thought to have spiritual significance. The gold is said to represent virtue, or kingship on earth. Frankincense is a symbol of prayer and of priestship. And myrrh is a representation of death and suffering. However, the gifts have allowed me to extend the passage of scripture and focus on the initial “letter” of each word, and examine four other incredible gifts that God has given the world. As I reflected on these four letters, I was amazed at the correlation of the gifts in the Christmas story…and these gifts as I see them.

It all begins with the letter “D” and the daughter it represents. In my life, the “D” is my sister Debbie. Like many people, she had her “daughterhood” stolen from her. The man that she believed was her father for most of her life was not. The picture of her Heavenly Father that was portrayed to her as little girl was skewed. As a young woman in search of redemption and acceptance from her mother, she was given the message over and over that she was unworthy and that her life choices would prevent her from ever being loved and completely forgiven by God. In discovering who her biological father was, she discovered that she was unwanted.

But fortunately for my sister…and for all of us, we have a God who is so much bigger and better than the one she had learned about. Her willingness to examine her past, explore her wounds, forgive those who wronged her, and share her story with others (notably me) has moved her along the path to healing. It has also allowed me to get to know her and love her at a depth that I had never known before. Without question, God loves His children…all of them!

My little brother Geoff is the “G” in my life. The symbolism of gold makes me chuckle a little because as we were growing up, it seemed he was the “golden child”… the youngest, and the spoiled one. From my perspective at the time, it seemed he got everything he wanted. But unlike gold, he was tarnished like all of us. Growing up in the shadow of three older siblings is not easy and comparisons were easy to make…and difficult to live up to. But Geoff had, and still has, his unique gifts. He can solve problems, create things and bring a perspective to a situation that none of the rest of us can.

But the relationship of the letter “G” with Geoff and the gift of gold to the baby Jesus can also be drawn. When he and Lynn were called to create a ministry through a coffee shop more than five years ago, after prayer and meditation he moved ahead. Over the course of these past years, he has literally given all of his wealth to that ministry. Like the wise man in the Christmas story, his gift has been a sacrifice… but a sacrifice that brings glory to the God he loves.

“F” in my life is represented by my older brother Frank. Two years older than me, he is the one that I spent most of my life looking up to. We have much in common…from our physical appearance to the universities we graduated from. Identical high school football jersey numbers, weight classes wrestled and newspaper positions held mark other similarities. But as the oldest brother, there were certain “unspoken” expectations that he was burdened with that neither Geoff nor I bore. And as the oldest son…a father that he could never seem to please.

As I follow the gifts of the Magi and correlate them to the “alphabet” of my family, I find it no coincidence that Frank is a doctor. Like the gift of frankincense which was used as a healing agent, Frank has dedicated his life to bringing healing to others. And like the gift of the Magi represented by the letter “F”, he is a specialist in digestive medicine. But like the rest of us, he carries wounds and scars from a life lived in “the world”, but through prayer and commitment to God, he has found restoration and reconciliation that is found only in a relationship to his Heavenly Father.

That brings me to the letter “M”. There’s only one of us left…and that’s me, Mark. The middle child, I learned to survive by hiding. My hiding places were my books, or my fantasies or my accomplishments. But rarely did I allow anyone to see who I was or let them know what I might be thinking. Also the bearer of many scars, they too were well concealed from even a discerning eye and eventually even invisible in my own sight.

And there is only one gift left…myrrh. It is interesting that myrrh was used as an ointment when burying the dead. Because of choices that I’ve made in my life, I believed that my life was over…at least any ability to be productive in any way. However, that is part of the miracle of the Christmas story. Jesus came to give all of us (including me) life! It is no coincidence that one of His gifts on that December morning was myrrh. And it was no coincidence that His body was anointed with that precious spice when he was placed in the tomb. And it is no coincidence that my life is not over. His love can, and will, restore all things! It certainly has in my life.

My prayer during this Christmas season is that we all continue to turn to Him and recognize and accept the love that He offers us. Without Him, we are all lost in our wounds and our circumstances…and complete healing is forever out of our reach.

“And I will be your Father, and you will be my sons and daughters, says the Lord Almighty”
(2 Cor 6:19 NLT)

Merry Christmas
2009

Photos from Flickr

The Man in the Mirror

As I stood in front of the polished sheet of stainless steel that served as our mirror, an overwhelming urge to smash my fist into the image staring back at me rose from deep within me. I had seen that face thousands of times before...but today, I hated and despised it. It appeared horrendously ugly to me. Not only the image itself, but all that it represented. I just wanted it gone.

I was reminded of that memory over the weekend as I talked with my sister. She had come to visit and attend a Christmas musical performance at my church and extended her visit by a day so we could spend some time together. And as we always do...we talk.

I'm not certain what prompted the conversational track that we were on, but she made a comment that really caught me off guard. She told me that of all of us kids (there were four of us), that growing up I was the cutest. She went on to say that she has most of the family albums that contain the photographs of our youth and that she goes through them on a regular basis, and sees those images of our childhood looking back at her.

I was a bit shocked by her statement because all throughout my life (at least from around age 10 and beyond), I didn't like my appearance at all. I considered myself the least attractive by far in our family. My sister is a very pretty woman, and always has been. My older brother was well dressed and attractive as a boy with perfect features...bright eyes and curly brown hair. My little brother was the baby of the family...cute with expressive eyes and a button nose. I, on the hand, had big ears that were only magnified by buzz cuts that I regularly wore compliments of dad. Perhaps the constant teasing by my little brother about my ears also served as a powerful reminder of their size.

Even as an adult, there were reminders of the "auditory sails" that were mounted on either side of my head. The comment of "I see you got your ears lowered" meant something to me that others wouldn't consider. For me, it meant my huge ears were even more pronounced. When my niece was a little girl, I remember someone making the comment that she inherited "the Lyons' ears"...and I cringed inside because I heard "your uncle Mark's ears" and understood the burden and pain that it would cause her.

My wife and daughter unconsciously contributed to the pain as well. One evening when we were first married we watched an episode of "The Newlywed Game" and one of the contestants commented that one of his physical features was his "Dumbo ears" (only he pronounced it "Dooombo" which gave all of us a laugh). However, the "Dooombo ears" moniker was attached to me. And while I was able to laugh about it (after all, I was married to a beautiful woman who must have found me somewhat attractive), there was still a little stab of pain when I heard those words.

It wasn't until after I was arrested and had lost everything that I was finally able to see a "clear" reflection of who I was when I stood before a mirror. It was shortly before I was to go to prison and my wife was visiting me at the condo. I had been packing my belongings to put them in storage and was carefully placing all of my suits and dress shirts and ties into the storage boxes. I told her that I wasn't sure why I was packing them away because I didn't know if I would ever have the opportunity to wear them again when I got out. She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes and said, "you know Mark...you 'made' the clothes, they didn't make you."

As I looked back into the mirror, for the first time that I could remember, the reflection looking back wasn't an ugly man with big ears. In fact, I didn't even notice my ears. A lie that I had held on to from my youth was finally shattered. My perceptions of what made me ugly or attractive were gone in an instant. The "image" that I was created in by God had always been perfect in His eyes and I was now beginning to see beyond the flaws.

Relaxing my clenched fists, I reminded myself that the stainless steel image was not what God saw. Yes, I had made some terrible choices to be in federal prison. Yes, I had caused a great deal of pain and suffering to those that I loved...and those who loved me. And yes, the man in the reflection had aged dramatically in the past year...the stress and strain of life catching up with him. But, the man in the mirror was also a man who was healing. The ugliness wasn't from big ears, or a baby tooth that had never fallen out or the remnants of scars acquired in the process of growing up. The ugliness had been the reminder of the sin in my life...replaced now by the beauty of God within me.

Photo from Flickr