How God Speaks and What He is Saying

I don’t know how God speaks to you. Maybe it is in an audible voice that sounds a lot like Morgan Freeman.  If that is how He does it, cool!  I am a little envious, maybe even jealous, because that is not how He speaks to me. I take consolation in the fact I do not think I am alone in this.

I hear God in a totally different way.  Often I hear God’s voice most clearly when something starts to pop up in multiple places.  The repetition causes me take notice and I begin to wonder if God is trying to tell me something.  I watch and listen.  I open my heart to what He may be trying to teach me.  If it shows up again, I start to believe He is speaking to me.  It is more of a process than a point in time. 

Sometimes, I wonder if my Heavenly Father doesn’t get frustrated with the fact He has to tell me something multiple times before I get it.  Mostly, however, I just consider His willingness to bring something up in several differ ways, in a short period of time, as an expression of His loving kindness. The reoccurrence of what I am seeing or hearing allows two things; it allows me to hear clearly, and it helps grow my confidence that God is involved in what I am discovering.  Both are essential if I am going to take what I am discerning and act upon it as an expression of God’s voice.

While it might be a lot quicker for God to speak out loud to me, how He has chosen to go about speaking to me is in fact, a good thing.  It forces me to be attentive, willing to wait and in constant dialogue with God about what I am hearing.  In the long run, I think this does more to develop intimacy with God than a regular audible voice simply telling me what I need to do next would be capable of doing.  This is a gift.

I share all this because the concept of “Yips” has been showing up in various places this week, and it makes me wonder what God might want to say.  Yips are involuntary muscle spasms which may cause an athlete to be unable to perform an action which they have previously been able to perform in their sleep.  Golfers, who have sunk short putts thousands of times, suddenly cannot sink one to save their life.  Second basemen, who have won Gold Gloves, suddenly cannot throw a ball and hit the side of a barn. 

While Yips manifest themselves physically, most people suspect the yips are related to stress and feelings of anxiety.  Maybe the pressure to perform builds up over time and one day shows up in the involuntary muscle spasms which prevent the person from continuing to perform what has previously been second nature.

Yips can affect athletes in every sport, and I have a sneaky suspicion it can spill over into other areas of our lives as well.  Can you think of any area where stress and anxiety causes people to freeze up and fail to execute something that seems so easy?

Twice this week I heard people describing the symptoms of Yips (even if they had no clue what they were describing had a name) and correlating it to the pressure of being watched, evaluated, and judged.  The anxiety and stress of the pressure to perform, or better yet the pressure to not mess up, prevented them from performing what they normally could do with great skill.  Needless to say, it is quite frustrating and can feel debilitating.

It made me wonder, in our highly competitive culture, where most everyone feels they do not quite measure up or find themselves somehow affected by the fear failure, what effect would being an encouragement to everyone you meet have?  In speaking words of belief and support to people, could you actually reduce their stress and anxiety enough to prevent the onset of  Yips?  Could an environment of blessings and acceptance release people from the psychological effects of fear and doubt, and allow them to step into the fullness of what they were created to accomplish? 

These are questions worth thinking about. More importantly, they are questions worth doing something about.

When I think I hear God speaking to me through circumstances, I always filter what I am hearing through what He has clearly spoken through His word.  In 1 Thessalonians 5:11 we are instructed to, “Encourage one another and build each other up.” Similar instructions are given elsewhere in Scripture as well (2 Cor. 13:11, Hebrews 3:13).  The intent is always the same; we are to encourage one another in order that we can empower one another to live the life we were intended to live.

What I have been hearing is consistent with what Scripture reveals about how we are to relate to one another, and the power our encouragement can have in the lives of others.  It is always a good thing when you go around saying, “God told me”.  It instills confidence in taking action on what you have heard.

This confidence has caused me to keep my eyes open for something else besides other evidences of God’s clear communication.  I have started looking for those who may be showing signs of anxiety and stress, and I have been asking God to give me words of encouragement which may help to alleviate some the pressure.  My hope would be that my words would be an invitation to walk in the freedom of a much easier yoke. I believe it could be powerful, mainly because I believe God has been speaking it, and He is never wrong.

 It is kind of exciting to tell you the truth.

If you are looking for a little excitement, maybe you could join me in looking for such opportunities and in speaking such words, and in the process we could help to prevent the Yips.  

Loss, Grief and Trumpet Shaped Flowers

Recently, I heard of the death of a friend from college. I had not spoken with her since 1986, so I was surprised how hard it hit me. I would have expected sadness to accompany the news, but I would not have imagined it stirring up the amount of grief I have felt. Honestly, I have been blindsided by it.

Given the intensity of what I have been feeling, I have been wondering if the news of this friend’s death is pressing on something deeper. Because of this, I have resisted the temptation to avoid the sadness and I have kept myself from numbing it. When the sadness comes, I have allowed myself to feel it, and be with God in it.  I have been asking Him to not only be with me, but help me see the deeper place this loss it is touching.

Several thoughts have surfaced. Last year alone, I lost my father, stepsister, and spiritual mentor. If you were to stretch time back a few more years, there are many more people our family has lost. Two hands would not be enough to count them all. Maybe, the news of this friend’s death is simply helping me embrace the reality of the many losses we have had. Even though I have sought to walk through each loss as it came, I cannot deny that as the losses have mounted up, grief seems to have multiplied. My reaction to this friend’s death invites me to acknowledge this reality.

I have also wondered if the fact that the news of my friend’s death has come in this particular season has anything to do with the intensity of how it has impacted me. We are all walking through a season of many losses. So much has been taken from us because of the pandemic that infects our world. We have been uprooted from our normal rhythms of life. Work has been disrupted, schools have been closed, and our places of community have been shut down. When we do leave our homes, we do not feel as safe as we once did. We know people who have fallen ill, and maybe some who have died. It has been a season of loss upon loss.

In the midst of it all, we are being asked to keep our distance from the very people, places and communities that help us to bear up in hard seasons like this one. The ballast stones which help to keep our ships upright in such storms are not easily accessible. We are being asked to socially distance at the very moment we need one another most.

Even so, we do our best to hold on to what we are able. One rhythm that helps me to endure is walking. Today, I was walking with a friend in the local nature center, talking about all these things, and sharing how odd it seems to feel so deeply at the loss of someone I have not seen in 34 years. It was helpful to speak these things out loud. I needed to put my thoughts and feelings into words.

Just about the time I had exhausted all my words, we came to a place where we had paused to take a photo earlier in the spring. At that time, there was a plant in that spot with large dark green leaves with veins running through them. It had trumpet shaped white flowers that were turned heavenward. The contrast of the deep green and white caught our eyes. We stopped to allow the beauty of it soak in. I wanted to remember it, so I snapped a photo.

Now, standing in that same place, with no more words to speak, we beheld the same plant. It had drastically changed. It now incarnated exactly what I have been feeling. The flowers were gone. The leaves had withered, died and blown away. All that was left were the shriveled, dried stems of a plant that was once full of life. It was barren and dead. I did not need any more words, because this image contained them all.

We paused for a few moments, not saying much except to acknowledge, given our conversation, how appropriate seeing this plant felt. In Spring, we admired its beauty, now we were pausing to behold its death. This moment seems more significant than the first, so I took another photo. I wanted to be able to see them side by side. I wanted to be able to hold both life and death together.

I did not tell my walking partner, but the reality is I know this plant, not just from earlier in the year, or the connection I felt to it today, as it mirrored what I have been feeling. I know this plant because I have walked this nature trail for many years, and I have noticed its beauty during many springs. While it appears dead right now. I already know, a time will come when I will once again marvel at its broad green leaves and trumpet shaped flowers. This death, this dormancy, will once again give birth to life.

This thought filled my mind as we continued to walk. It helped me to hold my grief. Death and loss are hard. But death is not the end. Resurrection follows death. I am as confident of this truth as I am of the fact that I will see that plant flower again next spring. I know it in my deep.

When there is a loss, I need to allow my heart to acknowledge and feel the pain brought about by life giving way to death. But I also need to open my heart to the reality that death will one day give way to life. I have to train my heart to hold both realities. I need to see both pictures clearly in mind. Doing so gives me the capacity to hope, even in the midst of the pain of loss. 

Holding on to such hope is the only way I know to keep walking forward.

Letters from the Past

The angst of being stuck at home during Covid has manifested itself in the desire to sift through every closet and box in the house, purging all that is not needed. Maybe, you have had the same impulse.

This weekend I turned my attention to a trunk that has been stored in the garage for the past 26 years. It contained the letters and keepsakes Tammie and I brought into our marriage. Before I opened it, I would have bet that most of what it contained belonged to Tammie.  I would have lost money. As I began to pull the papers and trinkets from the trunk, I was surprised to find two thirds of the contents were mine.

Most of what I had kept were cards and letters. Many of the letters were from my first few years of college. Since we did not have texting or instant messaging, if you wanted to communicate, and did not want to run up your long-distance phone bill, you wrote a letter. The beauty of words written on paper is that they can be saved and rediscovered. What I discovered in reading these letters was what a treasure they are.

In particular, the letters from a person named Ginny were quite impactful. While I was navigating my first year of college away from home, she encouraged my faith, gave me sage advice on how to succeed at school and coached me on integrating into a new community. Several of the insights she shared in her letters were so internalized that I have heard myself offer them to others over the years, never remembering where they came from. Now I have been reminded. They came from Ginny.

Ginny only sent me four letters and never signed her last name. She is something of a mystery woman. While I know how we were connected, because of the content of the letters, I am struggling to remember exactly who she was. I have reached out to others who might be able to identify her. As of yet, they have not been able to help.

What she shares lets me know she is older than me. Her letters were written in the voice of a big sister, looking out for her little brother, encouraging his life of faith and affirming who he is. They are empowering letters that helped me find my footing in a new place. Such is the power of the gift of time it takes to write a letter, and the thoughtfulness that goes into composing it.

Eventually, Tammie joined me and started digging through her part of the pile. As we sorted, we would read sections of the letters out loud to one another. We were delighted to discover that most of the cards and notes were a lot like Ginny’s. They were from friends who were encouraging our spiritual growth and affirming who they knew us to be. The letters reminded us how intentional those relationships were in encouraging our life of faith and faithfulness.

As we reflected with one another on the goodness contained on those aged pieces of paper, we thought about how fortunate we were to be surrounded by these people as we were transitioning into adulthood. We were part of a community that was serious about rooting our hearts in the love of Christ and spurring one another on towards love and good deeds. Our lives are different because of it. We can clearly see how God used these people, and their words, to help build a foundation that has sustained us.

These letters are a reminder of just how important the people you surround yourself are and how impactful their words can be. It also encourages me to be mindful of the power of my own presence and words. I want to be the kind of person these people were to us.

I hope that one day, someone would be digging through their mementos and would find a few letters and notes I have written to them. I desire that as they pulled them out of the envelope, they would discover again words affirming who they are, and encouraging their life of faith. It would be wonderful if they were able to recognize how God used those words to help them see themselves and Him more clearly. I pray that knowledge would have helped to build a foundation in their lives. I am confident this could happen.  I have the evidence in the letters I rediscovered on Saturday.

A Very Good Friday

Last night, our church, Long Beach Christian Fellowship, created a space which allowed us to walk in the story of Good Friday. It began at the meal, which Jesus deeply desired to share with his disciples and ended at the cross.

As part of the interactive experience, we were given a book which held the scriptures which told the story. It had large text and wide margins. We were also given a pen, and were encouraged to interact with the text by underlining, circling, drawing lines of connection, and writing our reflections and responses to what we were reading.

At one point in our journey, we were provided with colored pencils, markers and crayons and were invited to move beyond lines and circles and words, to capture what we were experiencing in the text in the form of art and symbols. If stain glass was designed to help an illiterate people to be able to internalize the written word of God, this exercise seemed to be an invitation for a literate people to take the written word of God and allow it to become living and active. It was a new way to interact with Scripture for me, and it was powerful.

When we had finished the journey from the table to the cross we went to dinner with our friends, who had accompanied us on this journey. After dinner, we headed back to our home, spending a couple of hours sharing our books and verbalizing how this experience with the scriptures had landed on our hearts. How beautiful it was to see both the unity of what God had been speaking to us, and also to have the experince of sharing of that reality be a place where God was continuing to speak.

If you could lay our books side by side, you would find we were all impacted by Jesus’ desire to share the meal with his disciples and the intimacy of that moment. We were all stirred by our own sin, and Jesus’ willingness to bear it, for our good and the fulfillment of the Lord’s good plan.

In my book words were circled like;

     We turned our back

     Did not care

     We left God

     Our rebellion

Besides these words were others that were circled and linked to them like;

     Our sorrows weighed him down

     He was pierced

     Crushed

     Beaten

     Whipped

     Oppressed

     Treated harshly

     Struck down

     Yet he never said a word

It is powerful to hold these words in connection to one another, to let the reality of how they are related to each other penetrate your mind and sink deeply into your soul. As you do, other words on the page begin to stand out, words like;

     So we could be whole

     And healed

     Counted as righteous

     Holy

     Loved

     by the Father

     As He loved the son

     Belong

     Filled with my joy

     Experience perfect unity

     Given glory

     Eternal life

These last words speak of our becoming because of Jesus’ willingness, even deep delight, to not only share a meal, but to take on our weakness, sorrows, and sins. What a beautiful reality to be given space to hold and absorb. What deep joy flows from it.

There was one phrase I circled, which left my heart sad, not one of them was lost, except the one headed for destruction. They are words of prophesy, foretelling Judas’ betrayal of Jesus. My heart grieves at this disciple of Christ, who could not lay down his own expectation for how things should play out and took matters into his own hands.

We don’t know whether he betrayed Jesus because of his disappointment that Christ was not bringing about the ending Judas desired, or as a way of forcing Jesus’ hand, hoping he would finally bring about the downfall of their Roman oppressors. What we do know is that Judas would come to regret his decision. He would return the blood money he had been given, and he would hang himself. He indeed was headed for destruction.

In the circling of these words my heart both was acknowledging the sadness of Judas’ journey, and the desire which stirs in me that somehow, some way, Judas would be rescued from his hardened heart and rash decision.

As I sit with this desire, as I ponder what gives birth to it, I have no other explanation than it is the desire of God. The same God who could see me before the foundations of the world, and knew I would go my own way. Who understood my lack of care, my turning of my back, and my rebellion were all signs that I too was headed for destruction. In a very real way, Judas and I are brothers.

God's response to this reality, born out of a love that I still cannot fully fathom, was to send His own son, whom He loved, to shoulder the weight of my hard heart and rash decisions. He would willingly be inflicted and punished for my sin and rebellion, so that I might be not only be rescued, but receive life and joy and sonship. Christ has become my brother. 

This was God's deep desire, his good plan, and the more the wonder of it all sinks into my soul, the more it becomes my desire. It's presence is a sign that the traces of the sacred are being written in my heart. 

Our Good Friday experience helped to etch it deeper still.

Defrosting Freezers

Eight thousand and four hundred days ago I found myself standing in a parking lot, chipping the ice out of a freezer, watching men I knew well step out of a church’s office and head off to lunch.  I was the handyman for that church, they were newly minted pastors.  I had taken the job because I was unemployed and I need to make some money so my family could celebrate Christmas. They were well on their way to fulfill their calling.

I had sensed a similar call on my life.  In fact, it was the only reason I even went to college.  For most of my young life, I had prepared to become an auto mechanic, hence my capacity to step into the role of handyman.  It was humbling to stand there defrosting that refrigerator while men who I had gone to college with were commencing their careers in ministry. While they were beginning an exciting season of growth, I felt stuck and forgotten. 

In frustration, I remember crying out to God and asking, “How long o Lord, will you leave me in this place.”  As clearly as I have ever heard Him, I heard God say, “If I want you to be a handyman for the rest of your life, you need to do it to honor and glorify me.”  It wasn’t the response I was longing to hear, but I heard it loud and clear.

With tears streaming down my face, and ice and water pooling at my feet, I could do nothing else but surrender. I told God I was willing to be a handyman for the rest of my life, if that is what He had for me.  As it turned out it wasn’t, but that is another story for another time.

Today, I found myself doing some contract work at a friend’s company.  It is relocating and they need some extra hands to help in moving and installing computers and servers.  I took the job because, things being what they are, I needed to make some money so my family could celebrate Christmas. 

While we were in the process of packing everything up, my friend noticed his mini refrigerator, which had been unplugged earlier in the day, was leaking water.   He asked me if I could do something about it.  It had already been wrapped in cellophane for the move.  We freed the refrigerator from its cocoon and I opened the door. What I found was a layer of ice covering the bottom of the freezer compartment.  It was melting, causing the leak, but it was still frozen solid enough for the ice to have a firm grip on bottom of the freezer.

I spent the next few minutes, kneeling in my friends office, using a pair of scissors to chip away the ice, hoping to clear it all before the mess got even worse.  I was so focused on what I was doing that I did not realize the déjà vu I had been drawn into. It escaped me until my friend made a comment something to the effect of, “I hope this doesn’t take you back to a bad place.”  When he said it, I knew exactly what he was referring to, and for a moment my mind and heart went back to that morning in the parking lot 8,400 days ago.

It was a bit surreal to recognize how similar the circumstances were that brought me to this moment and that I was engaged in the exact same task as I was then.  But that was quickly washed away by the reality that though the need and the joy were the same, my heart is totally different than it was back then. 

I was not kneeling there, crying out to God, “How long o Lord?”  I was not worried about God’s plans for my life, or what it would mean if I spent the rest of my life chipping out ice boxes and moving computers.  I was not jealous of the fact my friends company is expanding and he is moving into a bigger office, in a nicer location and in a day or two I will have completed the work he has for me.  Rather than feeling anxious, what I was feeling was just the opposite. I felt content.

I felt content because in this season, where I have found myself having to learn to trust God in new ways, I am discovering more fully that He is indeed trustworthy. 

Rather than crying out for God to orchestrate the circumstance of my life to make me feel secure, I am learning what it means to find the fullness of my security in Him. 

Instead of worrying about what my life will amount to, my heart has grown to embrace the prayer which affirms that “God has created me to do Him some definite service; He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another.  I have my mission—I never may know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next.”  My heart is content with being willing to wait to discover what He is doing.

Mostly, I felt content because my identity is in no way connected to the fact I find myself defrosting a freezer, moving computers, pastoring people, mentoring leaders, preaching sermons, providing direction, or any number of other things which fill my days.  If I have learned anything in those 8,400 days, especially in the last 1,000 or so, it is that my identity is centered on Christ.  It is what he says about me, not what I do, which defines me.  I could have told you this truth all those days ago. I knew it my mind, but now I know it in my deep, and that makes all the difference in the world. 

There is a freedom that is born in this deep knowing.  It is a freedom which allows one to stand and preach a sermon or kneel and chip ice, and find Christ is present in both.  It is a freedom born in the knowledge you are fully loved and can never be thrown away. It is a freedom that produces a boldness which allows you to move into any situation or circumstance knowing in that moment, it and you are necessary for God’s purposes. 

It is the freedom which allowed me to hear my friend’s comment and ponder it for a moment, and then realize how far my heart has come. I was able to see how unattached my heart has become to what I find myself doing, and how more fully attached it has become to the one I follow and trust.  My heart has learned to be expectant in each moment, realizing God knows what He is about. I will trust Him. All of this is freedom, but it is also peace, and joy, and contentment.  It is good.

Working for my friend was definitely a gift, not because of the fact it will provide the ability to celebrate Christmas, but because it allowed me to see, in a very tangible way, the traces of the sacred work God has been doing in transforming my heart. This was an unexpected gift. 

Holding on to Hope

The other night I found myself standing on the porch of a friend’s house, huddled with others in prayer.  Some of us had come because we want to serve and support in any way we can, others stood there because they were brave enough to let us know they needed help.  We prayed, we hoped, and we held one another.  The Amen was still hanging in the air when someone declared, “I hate cancer.”  In this, we were all one.

On the way over to this impromptu prayer meeting, my wife told me of a tragedy which had just taken place.  A woman who she mentors had texted Tammie to let her know that the woman’s dear friend had chosen to take her life.  Apparently, her friend had been taken over by despair. The woman was just coming to grips with what had happened, and the shock of the loss. My wife simply tried to hold her as she grieved.

This news came to my wife on a night when she had just sat with children whose parents had died in the past year. They were making memory candles to help them remember their parent as they move through the holidays.  As they created they also shared. It was heart wrenching to hear the children talk about how their parents had died, and to see the effect their death and absence is having on these dear ones. 

Earlier in the afternoon I found out that the mother of my second cousin, who was murdered this past July, appeared to have been kidnapped as she got out of her car at work that morning. At the time the police were still searching for her and for a suspect.  Thankfully, two days later they found her, unharmed.  She is now hidden away in a secret place until it all gets sorted out. 

These events are added to a growing list of people we know who are struggling with MS, ALS, and other chronic diseases I do not even have initials for.  Some I have watched for years walk with great dignity as they deal with the reality of their affliction.  Others are still in the early stages; learning what affects their aliment will have on their bodies’ long term.  It is a lot to process for them and their loved ones.   It is a lot to hold.

Addiction has also raised its ugly head; with more than a few families we know and love, being affected by someone who has fallen into its grips.  Addiction causes great emotional, relational, and physical destruction. The effects ripple through families and communities. It mares the soul, and is a difficult demon to exercise.  Not a week goes by that I do not sit with someone who is walking this path.

Add to all of this, the unspeakable violence which took place in Paris on Friday (at the time of this writing there are 127 dead, 300 hospitalized and 80 of them are in critical condition) and it all starts to feel like too much. To focus on any one of these events could be discouraging. To try and keep them all in view can be downright depressing. 

Do you ever feel like this, or is it only me?

Driving home from our friend’s house the other night I found myself asking, “How do you hold all of this and still hold on to hope.”  Maybe, it is a question you have come to at some point in your life.  Maybe, like me, it is one you are asking now.

What helps me hold on to hope is remembering the current circumstance, no matter how big it feels, is only a small part of a much bigger story.  When I focus only on the brokenness of the small part before me, I can feel despair, but when I widen my view, when I remember there is a much bigger story being written, I can  find hope in knowing the present circumstance is not the final word. It may be painful and difficult.  It may be filled with destruction, loss and death.  It may stun me and knock me down, but it does not determine how the bigger story will end. Knowing this, allows me to cling to hope despite the present circumstance.

What will determine the end is the fact is there is One who is good, loving, and trustworthy.   I am confident, even when what is taking place is not good, that He is at work for good.  He has the capacity to redeem all things, even those things which seem the most evil and destructive and hopeless.  Knowing this helps me to move from simply taking my focus off the present circumstances and widening my view, to being able to recognize His presence and work, even in the most difficult of circumstances. Seeing this reminds me we are not alone, even when it may feel like it. And knowing He is present gives me hope.

This kind of vision also opens me to see the person or people who are bearing the weight of the current circumstance differently.  I am able to see that their story is not limited by what is taking place.  They are not defined by it, nor are they trapped by it.  In fact, I am often able to see that just the opposite is true. Their present affliction, which seems to part of a diabolical plan to destroy, actually becomes the birth place of freedom and life. It is indeed possible for their troubles to not overwhelm them. In fact, it is possible for their affiliation to seemingly become light and momentary, and achieve for them an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  It is possible, even in the face of very difficult circumstance, to live in light of the bigger story.  When I witness people doing this, it inspires me and hope grows within me.

All of this opens me to the reality that love wins.  Not some general, nebulous force, which we call love, but the One who is love.  It is He who wins, it He who triumphs over sin and death, it is He who rescues and restores all things.  That is how the story will end. It will end with Him leading a train of people who have not been overwhelmed or destroyed by the smaller story, but who have been given life and freedom, and who have been made whole.  That will be some parade to watch and cheer. The thought of it washed my mind with hope.

Keeping these realities in view does not erase the hurt, loss and pain I am capable of feeling as I am confronted with the harsh reality of present circumstances, but it does allow me to hope.  And hope is a wonderful thing.  Hope strengthens and enables me to persevere.  It protects my heart from despair and opens me to unfailing love. It enables me to wait and trust, and it invites me to walk in light of the reality of the bigger story which contains not only hope, but a future.

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. - Romans 12:12

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. – Jeremiah 29:11

Tapping on the Wall

Not everyone who builds walls is a carpenter or a mason.  In fact, some of the strongest walls are built by those who have been wounded, hurt or have felt rejected.  The experience of it caused them, consciously or subconsciously, to begin erecting an invisible barrier between them and the rest of the world.  Brick by brick they construct this bulwark which they will rely upon to keep harm at a distance.

Maybe you know someone who has surrounded themselves with such a fortification.  If so, you also know that this defense, which has been designed to keep them safe, often becomes their own self imposed prison, cutting them off from the experience of being known and loved.  Though these are some of the deepest longings of the heart, the risk of pain is simply too great to consider deconstructing the walls they have built. The results of leaving these ramparts in place are feelings of isolation and loneliness, which are also tremendously painful.  This may lead them to build higher, stronger walls with which to protect them, trapping themselves inside.

If you know and love someone who has creates such edifices in their lives, chances are you have tried to tear their walls down.  More than likely you have discovered, the only one who has the capacity to deconstruct these kinds of barricades is the one who built them.  What do you do?

A few weeks ago I was pondering this question with some colleagues and an image came to mind which reminded me of a story.  The image was of a wall at the Hanoi Hilton.  Its official title was the Hỏa Lò Prison.  It housed prisoners of war held by the North Vietnamese.  There they tortured and interrogated captured servicemen, mostly American pilots shot down during bombing raids.  The goal was to break the will of the men so they could get them to sign statements which could use for propaganda purposes.  These were terrible walls to be trapped behind.

The physical torture could be madding.  So could the isolation.  They were imprisoned in a small room, maybe 6’ by 7’, with no windows. They scarcely saw the sun.  All this was intentional. As author John Borling, who was a prisoner of war in Hanoi, shares in his book, Taps on the Walls, “The enemy wanted them weak, despondent and totally cut off.”

To combat the isolation he men bean to devise ways of communicating with one another.  They would carve messages on the latrine walls, they would scratch words on objects they would leave behind for one another, and they developed a code which would allow them to tap messages to one another through the walls.  This tapping allowed them to maintain the chain of command, pass on information, encourage one another and pray for each other.  Maybe most importantly, it broke through the isolation and let the men know they were not alone.  The tapping shined light in a very dark place, and smuggled hope behind walls where it seemed impossible to find.  It was a lifeline which allowed them to endure until the walls finally fell in March of 1973 and they were released.

Thinking about these images and the story behind them, I could not help but wonder if the best thing we can offer to those we love who are trapped behind walls which were erected to protect, but which now isolate, is the kindness of tapping.  We may not be able to demolish the wall, but we can stand on the other side and faithfully tap messages of hope which allowed them to know they are not alone.  Messages which may enable the courage necessary to tear down their walls to well up inside of them.

There is great power, and healing in knowing someone is there, refusing to allow a stone barrier to separate them from you.  I have to imagine when a new prisoner first heard the tapping they were not sure what to make of it. They knew someone was there and they were trying to communicate, but they could not decipher the code.  Eventually, the random raps on the wall would begin to make sense and they would begin to decode words.  These words would turn into sentences, thoughts, encouragement, and hope.  How grateful they must have been that the person on the other side of the wall kept tapping long enough for them to come to that place.

I have to imagine the same is true for those who are trapped behind the invisible walls which cut them off from the capacity to be known and loved.  They may not understand the tapping when it is first heard, but given time they will begin to decode it.  They will recognize it as an invitation to hope, trust, and to take the risk of tearing down the walls which separate them from others.  When they decipher this, they will also discover hope.

Toward that end, I say, keep tapping.