Refugees, Terrorists, and Hypocrites.

REFUGEE

They’d heard the whispers of genocide from the lips of the angel as he woke them from a deep sleep.  How frantically would you pack if your baby had a price on His head?  How many minutes would it take you to grab your child and run?

I wonder how much money they had on hand.  I wonder how many of their belongings fit on the back of the donkey.  I wonder if they got to kiss their parents goodbye?  I wonder if they stepped out the door, clinging to this God-child, and paused under the doorframe, unsure of where to go.

I wonder if Mary cried as she looked back at the room where her Son had crawled, slept, laughed, and played; if she grieved the home where Jesus had taken His first steps or she had first shared a bed with her husband.

As they stepped out into the lonely stillness of that night, the God of the Universe became a refugee.

And I wonder.

If I had been an Egyptian woman, watching these desert-dirty refugees stumble into my town, what would I have done?  Would I have drawn the curtains in naivety and fear, or would I have fed the mother of God?  Would I have muttered something about how it’s “such a shame,” or would I have offered my bed to the parents of the Messiah?  Would I have tossed a self-ameliorating $20 at the small family, or would I have emptied myself at the feet of God?

What would I give Him now?  What do I believe He is worth?

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
-Matthew 25:40

TERRORIST

He imprisoned them.  He killed them.  He hunted them.  They knew his name, tracked his movements, and went into hiding when they knew he was coming to town.  There’s no downplaying his violence; Saul was proud of his “zealousness” about slaughtering the Christians.

Until he encountered the face of the gentle, terrifying Jesus and was undone.  Until the Spirit touched his hands, and he penned the very Words of God.

How quickly we forget that one the world’s greatest exegetes was once a violent extremist.

And I wonder.

If I had been Ananias, when God instructed me to welcome this murdering terrorist, would I have listened?  And if I had gone to see this infamous man, would I have carried a gun?  Would I have wanted to kill him?  Would I have been able to look past my fear and hatred of the evil this man perpetrated?  And when God told me that He was obsessed, in love, passionate about this murderer’s soul, would I have been too?  Or would I return evil with evil, violence with violence, and aggression with fear?

Would I have wished him dead, or redeemed?

“Don’t let evil conquer you, but conquer evil by doing good.”
-Romans 12:21

HYPOCRITE.

Sadly, this one doesn’t come from the pages of the Book.  It’s not about someone who lived centuries ago, halfway around the world.  It’s so much closer to home.  My home.

I see the grieving relatives on the news, holding candles and standing on the Parisian streets.  I see exploding buildings and men in masks and the faces of wailing mothers who might be me.  I imagine myself getting the call, weeping in the streets, pleading with God.  And so I close my doors tight, throw a little money out to soothe my conscience, and whisper prayers from the safety of my locked bedroom.

Fear and self-preservation may be powerful friends, but they shame me.  They shame me as I sit at the feet of the very One who bled out His life for me, in total defiance of safety and self-preservation.  How can I ignore His plea to “feed my sheep” when He had just offered His own body as bread?  How do I cling to my horror when He whispers that His perfect love casts out fear?

There are no easy answers.  There are no perfect politics.  But there is a God who looks us in the eye, pries our fingers from our false security, and invites us to dangerous love.

“If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen.”
-1 John 4:20

The Emergency Root Canal

“That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

Yep.  Said that today.

Which is a little bit crazy because I’m the mama of three small boys and a 50 pound puppy; a mama who doesn’t flinch when she finds poop under the couch cushion, pee on the windows, or puke in her hair.

But today, as the dentist pointed at the X-ray images, I was completely grossed out.  I gaped slack-jawed at the screen (and that wasn’t just because I was doped up on numbing meds).

Dumbfounded, I kept murmuring, “How is that possible?  It didn’t even hurt…”

I had scheduled a dentist appointment because I’m told that’s one of those things that grown-ups are supposed to do.  “But I wasn’t in any pain!” I kept insisting.

The patient (though understandably patronizing) dentist informed me that these things happen when you haven’t been to the dentist in over a decade.  Fair point.  But I have kids who live with me 24/7, a self-expanding pile of laundry, and a difficult time finding 5 minutes to shower.  Who could make time for the dentist?

But there was no denying what he said.  There I sat, staring at the picture of my tooth that looked completely normal from the outside but was totally rotten on the inside.

As the drill whirred and those nasty “spray-blocking-sunglasses” slid down my nose, two things kept running through my mind.

The first was the time CJ Cregg on The West Wing had an emergency root canal and kept slurring “woot canaw” and “bwiefing.”  And then I thought that if CJ Cregg and I were in the same boat, I must be winning at life.  Just a little bit.

The second was that this stupid tooth was totally a metaphor for my life.

My mind flashed back to the time last month when my temples pounded and my head constricted and I walked headlong into an all-out panic attack.  It caught me completely off guard.  Things looked great from the outside.  I was being productive, homeschool was clicking, relationships were humming, and my house was sparkling.

But on a warm Sunday afternoon, my body and mind suddenly rebelled.

As the worst of the attack subsided, I pulled out my journal and found a quiet place.  Those disruptions to everyday life – whether they are as obvious as panic attacks or as subtle as snapping at our children – are signs that something has gone wrong.  It’s the metaphoric “decay” on the outside of the tooth, you know?

So I grabbed onto Jesus’ hand, opened up my heart, and took a look around.  While things looked like they were humming along nicely on the outside of my life, the inside  painted quite a different picture.

I saw a mother who was growing resentment towards the seemingly constant needs of her precious children.

A woman so driven by guilt that she would kill herself to keep everyone happy with her.

A fearful girl who defined the purpose of her existence by her own success.

Slack-jawed and gaping, I was shocked that all that mess had grown inside me while I was completely unaware.  “I didn’t even know.  It didn’t even hurt…” I murmured, over and over.

And He whispered, “I know.  I knew.”  And He poured Himself over the exposed wounds of my heart.

He sang songs of delight over the fearful girl until she knew that He was her purpose.

He bled on my guilt and my failures, and begged me not to try to pay a debt that was no longer owed.

He filled my empty cup, removed my resentments, and told me to “go and drink the sin of self-sufficiency no more.”

So I guess I’m just saying that no matter how perfect things look, don’t wait ten years between dental exams.

And no matter how deeply rooted the decay is,  don’t be afraid to take the hand of Jesus and open your heart to Him.

Because no one wants an emergency root canal.

Ho Ho Ho.

 

With the Thanksgiving dishes packed carefully away and the bite of promised snow in the air, it took my children exactly two minutes to start nudging us toward the shelf of Christmas decorations in the garage.

So with an eye roll and a round of cheers from the troops, we let the decorating madness descend.  We hauled the boxes off the shelf, yanked mountains of bubble wrap off the manger, and waded through heaps of tangled Christmas lights.

Because I’m a bit of a dork, I had planned this whole thing out to be some magical night of Christmas spirit.  I poured some cocoa, dimmed the lights, and tuned in to a random Amazon Prime Christmas music station.

Then an ornament shattered, the bulbs on the tree gave out, the dog charged at the bins of decorations, and the boys turned the wreaths into shields and the candy canes into swords.

Magical.

Not to help matters, I swear someone was secretly cranking up the background music.  Because as “We Need A Little Christmas” droned on, I was sure that the speed and intensity just built as the words plodded on…

“Haul out the holly;
Put up the tree before my spirit falls again.
Fill up the stocking,
I may be rushing things, but deck the halls again now.
For we need a little Christmas
Right this very minute…”

Aaaaand, pop.  In a moment of maternal maturity and total sanity, I ripped the cord right out of the wall, yelled that “abominable snowman is not a good game,” and locked myself in the bathroom.

Winning.

I would love to blame it on the eggnog, but the reality is that the Christmas season puts me on edge sometimes.  Where’s all that promised hope and joy and peace?   Because all I see is an over-booked calendar, an over-taxed bank account, and an expectation of perfection.

So on Sunday, I curled up in front of our half-lit Christmas tree.

I busted out Judith Shulevitz’s brilliant book The Sabbath World, hungry to read about rest.  And she told a story that fascinated me.

In 1973, two social scientists conducted a little experiment on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary.  They rounded up a group of eager seminarians and divided them into two groups.  One group was told they would have to deliver a short message on the story of the Good Samaritan. You know the one, right?  Where the wounded man was overlooked by the priest and the holy man, but was cared for by his racial enemy (whom Jesus then told us to emulate)?  The other group was told they would be delivering a message on job prospects for post-seminary students.

Both groups were told to report to another building.  The researchers told some students to hurry on over, as they were already running late.  They told other students that they were right on time but should probably go directly there.  And they told the third group that they could head over but that there was no rush.

Then the real experiment began.  En route to the building was a man, hunched over in the doorway, hacking and coughing.  So here they are, people trained in the gospel, walking past a wounded man.  And do you know what the researchers found?

Thinking about the Good Samaritan didn’t make people more likely to stop.  Personality types didn’t make people more likely to stop.  The only factor that played a role in whether or not someone was willing to help a stranger was if they thought they had the time.

The majority of the rushed students later reported that in their haste, they didn’t even notice the man.

 

And I wonder if I would have noticed; and if I did, whether I would have stopped.

Would I be too rushed, a blur of Christmas parties and shopping trips and light stringing?

Would I be too spent, an empty bank account drained in giving people gifts they don’t really want or need?

Would I be too tired, an exhausted woman counting the days until the holidays are over?

Would I be too busy to listen to the One whose birth I’m celebrating?

So as I sat down my book, I snuggled deeper into the blankets, grabbed my phone, and started canceling plans.  And He whispered an invitation.

An invitation to breathe deep, let the madness stop, and rest.

An invitation to celebrate the truth that Christmas is about what I have, not what I lack; about Who He is, not what I do.

An invitation to notice the pain and heartbreak and needs of the people around me; and to offer out of my excess, not out of my lack.

So I’m switching songs.  No more hauling out the holly.  No more “right this very minute” demands.  Instead, I think I’ll settle for that thrill of hope…

“Oh Holy Night
The stars are brightly shining.
It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
‘Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…”

 

 

BE

I collect books I never read.

They’re beautiful, second-hand things with dog-eared pages and broken spines; bent under the weight of someone else’s hand.  I pile them high; stacks on my nightstand, stacks on my mantle, stacks on my kitchen cabinets.

I look at them and I love them, knowing they’ll be offered up on the altar of my self-imposed busyness.

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I collect experiences I never live.

My camera shutter snaps as I angle for the perfect light.  My pen scrawls shorthand notes as I strive to paint a picture of how it felt to be in this place.  At this moment.

I photograph these events and I journal them, capturing remembrances of experiences I forgot to experience.

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I collect a faith I never practice.

Don’t get me wrong.  I consume information in a quest for deeper truth.  I serve in the community and church and home.  I strive and obey and learn how to pray.

I practice spiritual self-control, preferring its ill-fated predictability to the wildness of Holy Ghost control.

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Books I don’t read.  Experiences I don’t live.  Faith I don’t practice.

Collection replaces consummation.

And I’m left hungry for more.

I’m going to stop buying books so that I might read.

I’m going to stop taking pictures so that I might see.

I’m going to stop controlling so that I might live.

So help me God.

Not Cool, Robert Frost

Five hours into a 55 hour road trip, I sat gazing out the window at budding fields and expansive sky.  The yellow lines in the road clacked rhythmically by and the babies’ heads bobbed wearily in the backseat.  Thoughtlessly, I stretched my legs and reached for my Lego “Legends of Chima” composition book.  The appointed trip-stenographer, I jotted down silly notes about what would be a nearly two-week road trip through the wilds of upstate New York.  “Mama’s been fed her Starbucks and is much more pleasant” or “Micah keeps ‘honking’ at every passing semi.”

I hadn’t planned on writing a poem.  Sitting there with my silly thoughts and sleeping kids, I planned to be frivolous and perhaps take a little nap.  Instead, as He does, Jesus tapped me on the shoulder and brought me face to face with my sin.  An ugly one. And, heartbreakingly, a familiar one.

Sometimes, repentance is uphill trek: the slow, intentional stepping toward awareness and change.  And sometimes, repentance is like a freight train: waiting between the lines in a Lego notebook to knock you flat on your back.

I don’t usually write poetry; if I’m being completely honest, I’m not 100% sure what “poetry” is.  Unless you’re reading Dr. Seuss, rhyming seems to be on the outs.  And the poems I’m drawn to could easily be described as poetry-wolves in short-prose clothing.

But nevertheless, there was the lump and the sense of wrong.  And as Robert Frost predicted, I bled homesickness onto the page:

a lazy heart and a wandering eye
a prodigal lover, a scandalous bride
with one hand in theirs and one in Your side
wash me, my Savior, or else I die

I pour the cup and I spit out the bread
renouncing the child-like vows I have said
ignoring the words that are written in red
for this, You have died.  for this, You have bled

are You enough for this perpetual stain
will You bind me with your unbreakable chain
come lift this fool heart out of my shame
embrace me as Your Beloved again

Because somedays, repentance should rhyme.

Happy New Year from the Cashman Family

They shouldn’t allow perfectionists on Shutterfly. I was reminded of this post today as I attempted yet another family album.

Shorthanding Sanity

Happy New Year. Can you believe it? I’ve finally started a family blog. (***gasps of shock and wild applause may be inserted here***)

It’s 2014 and our resolutions are rolling in. We can’t help it – we’re goal setters around here. So much so that every New Years Eve, Chris and I ditch the parties, booze, and confetti in favor of settling in on the couch with our cocoa, spreadsheets, and laptops. Yep. We spend the evening reviewing and setting goals. Sound like death? Maybe. But we dork out about it in a serious way. (Dork being the unashamedly operative word).

Of my 2013 resolutions, there was one that I snuck in just under the wire. Armed with coupon codes, uploaded photos, and an enormous sense of pride for actually completing one of the 256 pins on my “just do it” Pinterest board, I made a family year book. I’ll…

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To My Mothers

It’s the Monday after the Sunday.  The cards have been given, the carnations have been displayed, and the fridge is now cluttered with stick figure families.  Once again, Mother’s Day has come and gone, leaving Hallmark-clad countertops in its wake.

On that drizzly Sunday morning, I embraced the holiday by celebrating the women on my “mommy list.”  I thought of my grandmothers: the Norwegian teenager, two babies on her hips, who exuded a fiery strength that belied her 90-pound frame; and the tender Southerner who defined her life by service and smiles, parenting her siblings long before childbirth made her a mother.  And I thought of my own mother: the traveling teacher, who made the world my home, who taught me to feel and think and pray and hang up my bath towels while they were still wet, for heavens sake.

With prayer-calloused knees and ten extra pounds on my hips, I have joined their ranks.  Humbled, honored, and a little bit terrified.

All of my life, these have been the women on my “mother’s day” list.  They are the mothers who came before me.

But this year, I realized it was time to add a new category to my “mother’s day list.”  Not only do I celebrate the mothers who came before me, but I celebrate the mothers who have come alongside me.

These are the mothers who have chosen to be part of my story.  Through the years, our babies have shared bowls full of puffs, screamed in each other’s faces, and crawled obliviously over unsuspecting infants.  And through it all – the thick and the thin – these mothers have stayed.  Despite the distractions and the awkwardness, they stayed.  Despite my insecurities and perfectionistic pretenses, they stayed.  When I’m at my best, they unabashedly marvel at my spotless kitchen, praise the content of my blog, and clap the loudest at my children’s recitals.  When I’m at my worst, they step over the toddler pee stains on the floor, put on a movie for my neglected kids, and pour me a glass of wine.

These women are the mercy of God to me.

But it hasn’t always been this way for me.  For far too long, I believed the lie that I was “just one of those women who gets along better with men.”  And if I’m being completely honest, I took a sort of pride in that, as if to say that I was somehow “above” all the relational drama that come with female friendships.

Because relationships are hard, aren’t they?  We bring all of our baggage and insecurities and sin to the table every time we pour a cup of coffee.  And if it wasn’t already hard enough to be honest, we have children.  Add to that proverbial luggage a big bag of mommy guilt, comparisons, vaccination debates, Ferber methods, schooling options, ill-fitting yoga pants, and exhaustion.  If we aren’t careful, our motherhood – which could be a beautifully unifying factor – drives us farther and farther apart.

But sometimes we find a friend who stays.  One who drops her defenses and sees through ours.  One who celebrates you at your best and loves you at your worst..  One who will let her soul be knit to yours.

I’ve always loved that phrase.  That’s the hopeless romantic in me speaking, I guess.  But ever since I stumbled across those words in the narrative of Jonathan and David, they’ve lingered with me.  God says that the souls of these two men – men who should have hated each other – were knit together.  David, the newly appointed king, and Jonathan, the heir apparent.  In one of the humblest displays of friendship ever, Jonathan gives David his royal robes (which were a sign of his kingship) and his sword (which was his only defense).  Then he stands in front of his friend, rights sacrificed and defenses down, and vows, “We are family now.”

Because when you love like that, you give up what’s best for you to do what’s best for your friend.

When you love like that, you lay your defenses down, even if you risk getting hurt.

When you love like that, you drop everything to come and pray over a sick child’s bed.

When you love like that, you show up with home cooked meals and handwritten notes.

And when you love like that, your souls are knit together.

So Happy Mother’s Day to the mothers who have come before me and to the mothers who have come alongside me.

You are my family.

Look Up

On Friday morning, I braved the cobwebbed corners of my closet and chased dust bunnies away from my overnight bag.  The Jumping Tandem writer’s conference was starting in just a few short hours, and I hadn’t even thought about packing.  A low-maintenance gal, I only needed the basics.

French press?  Check.

Mint green and coral nail polish?  Check and check.

Seventeen books I knew I’d never find the time to read?  Check, check, check, check, check…

With essentials like those, who needs body wash and hair dryers?  Not me, my friends.  Not me.

As I’d been preparing for the conference, I obsessively analyzed the schedule, planning my sessions and filling my free time.  40 hours to myself?  Yeah, I was going to seize every one of them.  Of all the sessions and keynote speakers and activities that were planned, one thing especially captured my attention.  The night hike.

Not too many hours later, my freshly painted coral toes and I stood at the edge of the woods.  The musk of the drenched earth remained, but the clouds had parted, leaving room for the full moon to light the branches and clearings ahead.  As our expectant group of hikers gathered at the trailhead, our guide asked for silence.  She encouraged us to to use our senses to be aware of the world around us; and, more importantly, to be aware of the One Who was with us.

And just like that, I knew the night hike would be my favorite activity.  Granted, as a textbook introvert, I usually get pretty excited when someone uses the word silence.  But there, at the edge of the wild, I was freshly aware of my deep need for peace.  No text alerts.  No demands for a snack.  No radio playing in the background.  Just profound stillness.  Ruth Haley Barton writes that we are starved for quiet, to hear the sound of sheer silence that is the presence of God himself.  And there in my muddied boots, my hungry soul agreed.  That night, I roamed the woods seeking the still small voice of my Beloved.

The first part of the hike was utterly surreal.  Tree-rooted paths, steep descents, choruses of frogs, moonlit clearings.  As I do, I wept the whole way.  Because there is something in the wildness of an untamed, silent path that makes the presence of God palpable.  

As we neared “phase two” of our hike, the guide explained the upcoming trail.

“That last part of our hike was ‘tough.’  It’s dark so you may not have been able to see the path, the tree roots might have tripped you, the noises in the woods might have startled you.  But this next area coming up is the ‘kept’ section of the trail.  It’s been mowed and tamed down.  You’ll find that it’s much easier to walk through than the woods were.  As you go, ask God about this space.  What are the times in your life where the walking is easy and the path is smooth?”

(https://www.etsy.com/listing/107860072/landscape-photography-woodland?ref=market)

The moonlight was so bright that I could see all the way across the clearing.  Several small cottages dotted the landscape and the path was indeed steady and easy.  The noises of the woods died down, my steps fell in a smooth rhythm, and a soft breeze brushed across the field.  And I was utterly bored.

John Eldredge says, “Adventure, with all its requisite danger and wildness, is a deeply spiritual longing written into the soul of man.”  And for all its ease and beauty, the field wasn’t adventurous or challenging or awakening.  It was monotonous.

Most days, I’m more aware of the monotony of my world than the adventure of it.  Like clockwork, I make breakfast, clothe children, taxi the troops to and from school.  I fill the grocery cart, set the thermostat, check chores and events off our family calendar.  I reply to emails, load the laundry, weed the garden until all the wild and frayed edges of my existence have been neatly and compliantly tucked into place.  Then I sit back at the end of the day and wonder why I’m profoundly bored.

As I trudged the easy path, I started complaining (isn’t it funny how those two things go hand in hand?).  I asked God why He created me for adventure but brought me into monotony.  Why give me this intense ache for wildness only to ask me to walk in the mundane?

And in the stillness, He answered.  Not with words or verses or lessons but with moonlight.  Full and luminescent, the moon had dominated the landscape of our hike.  In the woods, I had been constantly aware of it forcing its way through the tree limbs and providing a wild glow.  But when we reached the fields, it became easier to look around rather than to look up.  I thought about the field and the path and the boredom.  But I forgot the moon.

As we rounded the corner and began our ascent into the forest again, one woman stayed behind.  As the noises of the frogs and the birds resumed their chorus, they were joined by a small wooden flute.  She stood at the top of the hill and her flute sang in a warbling, haunting tune.

….be Thou my vision O Lord of my heart…

And He whispered softly in my ear.

Perhaps the problem isn’t my season but my sight.

Perhaps wildness isn’t a place but a Person.

Perhaps all I have to do is remember to look up.

Easter Sunday: He Is Risen

1. READ.  We Americans read fast.  Skim.  Gather info.  Move on.  This reading is the opposite of that.  Read the passage s l o w l y.  In your mind, take a second or two on each word, being aware of what stands out to you.
2. PONDER.  Another word for this step is meditate.  Take the word or phrase that stood out to you, and spend quiet moments thinking about it.   Stay here for a while, just contemplating the words.
3. PRAY.  Discuss your word/phrase with God.  Ask Him what it means, where He wants you to apply it.  Let the Scripture affect you.
4. CONTEMPLATE.  Simply rest quietly in the presence of God.

Practice these four steps each day as we consider the final week of Jesus

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John 20:1-23

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Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. 2 So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” 3 So Peter went out with the other disciple, and they were going toward the tomb. 4 Both of them were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. 5 And stooping to look in, he saw the linen cloths lying there, but he did not go in. 6 Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen cloths lying there, 7 and the face cloth, which had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen cloths but folded up in a place by itself. 8 Then the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; 9 for as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead. 10 Then the disciples went back to their homes.

Jesus Appears to Mary Magdalene

11 But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb, and as she wept she stooped to look into the tomb. 12 And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had

lain, one at the head and one at the feet. 13 They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” 14 Having said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing, but she did not know that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” 16 Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and said to him in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means Teacher). 17 Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” 18 Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”—and that he had said these things to her.

HE HAS RISEN!

Saturday of Holy Week: Jesus Is Buried

1. READ.  We Americans read fast.  Skim.  Gather info.  Move on.  This reading is the opposite of that.  Read the passage s l o w l y.  In your mind, take a second or two on each word, being aware of what stands out to you.
2. PONDER.  Another word for this step is meditate.  Take the word or phrase that stood out to you, and spend quiet moments thinking about it.   Stay here for a while, just contemplating the words.
3. PRAY.  Discuss your word/phrase with God.  Ask Him what it means, where He wants you to apply it.  Let the Scripture affect you.
4. CONTEMPLATE.  Simply rest quietly in the presence of God.

Practice these four steps each day as we consider the final week of Jesus

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LUKE 23: 50-56; MATTHEW 27: 62-66

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LUKE:

Now there was a man named Joseph, from the Jewish town of Arimathea. He was a member of the council, a good and righteous man, 51 who had not consented to their decision and action; and he was looking for the kingdom of God. 52 This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. 53 Then he took it down and wrapped it in a linen shroud and laid him in a tomb cut in stone, where no one had ever yet been laid. 54 It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning. 55 The women who had come with him from Galilee followed and saw the tomb and how his body was laid. 56 Then they returned and prepared spices and ointments.

On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

MATTHEW: 

The Guard at the Tomb

62 The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate 63 and said, “Sir, we remember how that impostor said, while he was still alive, ‘After three days I will rise.’ 64 Therefore order the tomb to be made secure until the third day, lest his disciples go and steal him away and tell the people, ‘He has risen from the dead,’ and the last fraud will be worse than the first.” 65 Pilate said to them, “You have a guard of soldiers. Go, make it as secure as you can.” 66 So they went and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone and setting a guard.