Or the perfect spirals both of hurricanes and of seashells. Or the structured flight patterns of birds. Or the design of our elbows and fingers and toes. It’s everywhere if you look, if you only have eyes to see.
There is such intention.
Such craftsmanship.
Such incredible functionality.
Such beauty.
Such
proof.
Scientists wonder whether it’s all mere coincidence. I know better. You likely do too. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork,” the psalmist declared.
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Goodness is meant not to merely make us feel good but to point us to God.
That day at the leadership retreat, God busted through my crossed arms and “I’m good” scowl. And of all things, God used an essay. A simple, beautiful essay about the chaos of unexpected difficulties. While the story line of “Welcome to Holland” centers on finding out your child has special needs, the truths tucked inside apply to so many situations.
My friend Mica quoted it from memory, and it penetrated my carefully constructed walls of protection.
The story
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tells of planning a wonderful trip to Italy, buying the travel books and making the itinerary. But then you get off the plane and realize you’ve landed in Holland. Holland isn’t bad, but your friends are all having the Italian vacation you dreamed of, and you are here in Holland with no one and no plan.
And I wept because I had been in Holland alone and wanted to know why God seemed okay with it. Why would He abandon me to plans I
didn’t create and didn’t want without consulting me? Why had He let me slip into the dark crack beside the desk and left me there?
Saying it out loud showed me the hurt I didn’t even know I was feeling—and eased my pain.
Those things Paul said to think about—all things beautiful and excellent and just—they are what soften a doubting heart, what bring sanity to a chaotic mind map.
An entire weekend with some of my favorite people and a gifted counselor, all to draw us out, and God used an
essay
to unlock my tightly crossed arms.
Beauty is evidence of something beyond ourselves. Beauty is evidence of a world yet to come.
Beauty is evidence of a Creator who is loving and profoundly delightful.
Beauty floods in and interrupts when, instead of cynicism, we choose trust.
Breaking Down Our Walls
Michiel van Elk, a researcher at the University of Amsterdam, recently explained how he is using MRIs of the brain to show that feelings of awe shut down selfishness. When we are in awe of something, we become less self-centered, more others-centered, and more connected to others around us.
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We worship when we experience awe.
And cynicism and worship cannot coexist.
I think about how cynical I’d become, about how my arms-folded self
just
wasn’t
going to choose to trust. I didn’t
want
someone coming for me—which is, of course, the problem. Cynicism is especially powerful as a tool in Satan’s hands because when you and I are struck by it, we don’t see our need to be helped.
We think we’re just fine, thank you very much.
The truth? We desperately need Jesus.
Bruno Mars released a love song years ago that says, “I’d catch a grenade for ya…jump in front of a train for ya.”
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While it was a catchy tune, I don’t think Bruno would really do that for ya, you know?
But guess who would?
Guess who did?
Jesus, Son of God. He faced the greatest sacrifice to bust through our cool “I don’t need anybody” attitude, our intellect and shame and doubt. He entered our reality and arrested us with the story we longed to be true.
A few months ago, while I was speaking at an event, a bit of a crisis was unfolding back at home. My younger daughter, Caroline, had accidentally locked herself in the upstairs bathroom and couldn’t get out. Our house in Dallas is approximately a hundred years old, which means that the window frames have about eighteen coats of paint, the floors are not perfectly level, and the door handles are prone to just falling off. Which is what had happened on one side of the door for sweet Caroline, leaving her trapped in the bathroom.
Zac was with me at the event, frantically responding to text messages, first from Caroline and then from our son Conner, who was living a few miles away at college but had providentially happened to stop by the house to pick up a few things. It would be two hours after the exchange that I’d learn all that had gone down, and I laughed until I cried.
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Zac to all Allen kids but Caroline:
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Hey, you guys go rescue Caro who is locked in bathroom.
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Zac to Caroline:
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Conner to Zac:
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Zac to Conner:
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Conner to Zac:
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Conner, a few seconds later, to Zac:
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There is no other solution right now and I gotta go to school
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Conner, now on a mission, to Zac:
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Conner to Zac:
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[Sends a selfie, with him now wearing his high school football helmet and full pads and jersey.]
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Conner to Zac:
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Zac to Conner:
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Conner to Zac:
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I got my pads on dad can I just get her out this is not working
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Zac to Conner:
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Kate to Zac and Conner:
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Zac to all kids:
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Caroline just wait till mom is finished and I will call you
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Zac to Caroline:
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In the meantime just do what you always do in the bathroom. That ought to keep you busy for a couple of hours.
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In the selfie, Conner’s expression is one of outright determination, of commitment and concern, of “Caroline, I’m comin’ for you!”
And, friend, this is what I picture when I think of you out there fighting all kinds of darkness, spiraling out…
Jesus came for us—for you and me, with our arms crossed. Bitter, cranky, unsure, doubting, cynical, negative us.
I know I said the interrupting thought that shifts all the others is
I have a choice.
And there is one reason that is true. It’s because Jesus first chose us.
It’s because He busted down the door and rescued us in His beauty and kindness. He suited up and came for us. And that is why we aren’t cynical, expecting the worst.
Because we have been promised a forever better than we can imagine.