Worthy Sacrifice

One of the toughest things about grief is that it is a narcissistic experience. It consumes you with you. I find this to be a most exhausting experience. If I don’t remain conscious of others in pain, I will think, "I alone am abandoned in my suffering." In fact I am not alone—even if my grief is unique by the standards of others. Even if your experience terrifies others as they look at you as Eliphaz the Temanite must have looked a Job, you are not alone.

Grief gives you few options. The pain of it makes you think of little else but your hurt. In the midst of this pain and consuming focus there is, however, a hopeful option. We can offer our grief and suffering to the Lord as a sacrifice. Psalm 51:17 says: "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise" (NIV).

As an act of worship, intelligent and thoughtful, we offer back to Him that which consumes us as a sacrifice of praise. This is not appeasement of deity; it is, however, a releasing of control and surrender to His utter goodness. Which you may doubt more at this moment than ever. Our reason to give it to Him is that He alone can transform it for His glory. 1Cor. 7:17 reminds us: "Only, as the Lord has assigned to each one, as God has called each, in this manner let him walk. And thus I direct in all the churches" (NAS). We actually have a stewardship of our suffering. We are responsible to use it for a platform or a dark backdrop that reveals His glorious grace. People watch at the moments of our extreme suffering like at no other time. The world asks a collective question that seldom passes their lips but never leaves their thinking: "Is Jesus real?"

Yes He is real! He is real in my life, my joy and in my heartache. He may not be the god I want, but He is the God who is. I surrender to Him and trust, and in this He is glorified. David's words haunt me: “For I will not offer burnt offerings to the LORD my God which cost me nothing” (2 Samuel 24:24).

Ed Litton

Adventures in Loneliness

You've got to be kidding? Loneliness an adventure? If you’re willing to consider the ridiculous, hear me out. You get the sense that God knows it’s not good for man to be alone, yet loneliness is one powerful tool He uses to grace our lives. I’m not a fan of loneliness, and I don’t sing its praises—especially its darker and more foreboding moments. However, there’s a perspective on loneliness that has helped me of late.

The missionary Jim Elliot saw a parallel between the difficult work of the gospel he faced and the search for gold in the Yukon a hundred years earlier. In his journal he recorded a poem by Robert Service called "The Law of the Yukon."

"Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane,
Strong for the red-rage of battle, sane for I harry them sore.
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core...
And I wait for the men who will win me - and I will not be won in a day,
And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle and suave and mild,
But by men with the hearts of Vikings and the simple faith of a child,
Desperate, strong, and resistless, unthrottled by fear and defeat,
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat."

The Yukon gold searchers knew the gold was hidden in "them thar hills." They knew that finding it would take more than mere curiosity, it would take men of amazing wills and strong hearts. So it is with the gold hidden in loneliness. Some are lonely in a crowd, lonely in a marriage with a partner softly snoring next to them, and some are lonely even as the world seems to spin in orbit around their bright personality. Loneliness is not just a problem for the single in life, it is a part of the whole human condition. Face it, we have been fighting loneliness ever since the Fall.

How we face it is the more important issue. We can either fold in defeat under its boarish crushing or we can see it as an opportunity to do deep and difficult work, all the while trusting that God hides his most valuable gold deep in the fields of hardship. Elizabeth Elliot said that loneliness is having what you don't want or wanting what you don't have. We cry, "God if you loved me you would fix this!" No, that is precisely why He refuses to fix this. He wants us to purchase the field of our loneliness with our trusting tears, for in it hides the secret treasure of gold. Those who find it will one day see it tested by the fire of God's own holiness and will glory in its resplendent beauty. They will see their reflection in it and be glad they did not quit trusting the faithfulness of God too soon.

It’s worth the price of loneliness to purchase this field. Lean into the plow, embrace the reins, and tell your weary, doubting mind to be silent before your God in the battle of loneliness. If I know Christ as an intimate friend rather than a religious icon, how can I declare that I am ever alone? He is my ever present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1). How can I be so faithless as to fold under the pressure of my want or pain? The pain of wanting another's arms to surround or a smile to brighten my weary life is great. The hope of another companion is too powerful and terrifying to consider beyond a passing thought. In this present I have Him. He is faithful and true, and I feel the pain of loneliness lighten when I see the adventure my God designs even in this. He never leads us to uncharted places without a grander design. We are His Yukon explorers paving a way of hope for others who will inevitably and surely follow.

I want to be for Him one of those men with a heart like a Viking and faith like a child. Desperate, strong and learning even from my defeat. I want to bring him gifts of gold to lay at his nail-pierced feet. What a Savior! What a worthy awesome Savior! Worthy of my suffering faith and helpless heart forced to bend at his feet and shout to Him, Glory and Praise!

The Adventure Continues!
Ed Litton

Homesick

In my strange and mysterious journey of grief I’ve stumbled into something, an odd and most unwelcome emotion, hard to cope with and even more difficult to understand. I can only describe this feeling as homesickness. I’ve shared this before but it feels like I did as a boy when I was spending the night at a friend’s home and it began to get dark. I wanted to be near my home; I was anxious to be with the people I loved and who loved me.
The crazy thing is that the feeling now comes in familiar places—places I love to visit, places in which I live—which makes this emotion most perplexing, because home was always the solution to my homesickness. At these dark moments there truly seems to be no cure. That is when despair settles in for the night.
The saying goes, "Home is where the heart is." So what does that say about where my heart is? My heart is gone and I cannot get it back. Everything in my life seems odd and strange. I’m sure I face this feeling of homesickness because my heart is wounded and disoriented. It doesn’t know where true north is. It doesn’t know where home is.
Loneliness is a form of dying. We’re dying to old comforts, and even familiar places are strange without the one our hearts loved and learned to depend on. My homesickness is for a person who made my heart at ease regardless of where we were. Now, no matter where I am, that ease is missing.
I think this isn’t a sign of sickness but rather of health. It’s painful but it’s also reality, and facing reality is healthy. Loneliness is one form of dying that we all must face at some point in our lives. I’m trying hard to face my loneliness in a way that honors God and makes the most of my condition. I want badly to bemoan my condition, but that doesn’t seem to make much difference or glorify God. I can at least rejoice that God isn’t wasting my homesickness but is using it to fertilize the garden of my life. It’s in this painful emotional state that God's Spirit works for my good and His glory to mix all things together for good. This I trust.
In God's economy the seed dies and starts a new beginning of life, growth and hope. Whether it’s the making of a flower or the human soul, God does not and will not waste our sorrow, grief and loneliness. Our losses are God's way of accomplishing the gains. I’m still homesick, but not without hope. My heart has to learn to find its rest in the Lord alone, and in Him I find my hope, my peace. I wish for someone I could know in the most intimate way, but even if that never happens again, He is enough. Jesus is enough.

Ed Litton

The Yoke

The only time Jesus ever describes himself is in Matthew 11:29-30: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
When you are grieving, you expect to be given a stretcher. I mean, you’re hurting like someone who needs intensive care. But a yoke is what the Lord gave me. I thought it was very strange gift indeed. I mean, a yoke is an instrument of labor. Hard labor. Tiresome, hot and miserable labor under the sun. It is also a symbol of obligation and subjection. My grief is like that—a great burden.
Bearing that burden, I must go on with work, cooking, cleaning, lessons, appointments and calendars. Some dwarves whistle while they work; I grieve. That is not to suggest that every moment is painful, not at all. Being busy does beat antidepressants, and it can be a helpful way of working out your grief. I also get to work with some of the most wonderful, balanced and happy Christians in the world.
Let me tell you about this yoke though. It’s not at all what I expected. It lightens my burdens because Jesus bears the hardest parts. He allows just enough pressure to make me stronger but never lets me be crushed. The yoke he gives fits. It appears to be designed for me. Amazingly, it has no splinters or rough spots. It is easy. The Greek word for "easy" means to make useful or comfortable.
I admit I’m having a hard time loving the yoke. At times I resent it. Then again, it's not the yoke I’m supposed to love. I love Jesus. The yoke draws me to Him. When I’m in his yoke I can almost feel His heart beating. Let me tell you, his heart is greater than I ever imagined or preached. His heart is awesome! His love is overwhelming to me. From this unique "up close" vantage point, I notice something else. His scars. These were also custom made for me.
I’m amazed that I live most days utterly distant and ignorant of Him. This yoke takes me places I would not choose to visit, much less live. This yoke is His yoke. Anyone who takes it up finds that it makes him or her more like Jesus—gentle and humble of heart.

Ed Litton

God is Our Salvation

There are things that grieving people experience that others can never imagine. Secondary losses, for example, remind you of the primary loss every day. I have asthma. It's not much of a problem until allergy season comes around. I have episodes where I wake up from a deep sleep, standing beside my bed, unable to breath. Breathing has become a major addiction in my life, so you can imagine the panic I feel when I can't. Over the years I’ve learned to regulate the allergies so they don’t lead to an attack, but at times they get out of control. For a few brief moments I’m terrified. After one of those episodes going back to sleep can be even more foreboding.

During our twenty five years of marriage, Tammy had learned to calm me and lovingly coach me to my inhaler. But the night she died, as the kids and I were getting ready for bed, a terrible thought made me afraid to go to sleep. What if I had an asthma attack? Tammy wouldn’t be there to help, and the kids might be worried. So I coached them in what to do. Thankfully, for the last eight months I haven’t had a single event.

Sunday night, after an exhausting day, I went to bed. Sleep came fast, even though it’s the season when everything blooms in Mobile. At one thirty in the morning I had an attack. I turned on the bathroom light. I panicked, wheezing and gasping for breath. My sense of aloneness gripped me in a fear like I have never before experienced. I was searching for my medicine when I felt a gentle hand on my back, rubbing in the calmest and most comforting way. My twenty-one-year-old son Joshua was standing there. "Dad, it’s going to be OK" He kept repeating those comforting words.

When my pulse settled down and my breathing smoothed out, I sat on my bed and began to weep. He held me. I was overwhelmed with a darkness that I cannot describe. Then I realized that God sent Joshua to my aid. He normally sleeps upstairs, but tonight he was on call for work and came home just in time to hear me fumbling around. I am grateful once again for God's provision for my every fear. Last Sunday night reminds me that God is sovereign and nothing can separate me from His love and provision.

I am also very proud of a brave and tenderhearted son named Joshua. His name even comforted me that night. Joshua in Hebrew means “God is our salvation.” Jesus’ name derives from it. Jesus truly is my salvation.

Ed Litton

The Rolling Pin is Mightier than the Sword

Before Jesus came to the Litton house—we learned to speak of those days as B.C. (Before Christ)—my father was a hard fighting, hard drinking sailor. One day Dad came home under the influence of strong spirits and found my mother rolling out biscuit dough for supper. Dad yanked open the door of our short refrigerator and reached over it to grab yet another longneck beer. He popped the top off and took a deep swallow. My mother, frustrated by his drinking, suggested he go light on the booze. In a rare and very stupid moment, my father backhanded my mom. He then staggered into the bedroom and fell into their bed. Within moments she could hear him snoring. The sting of this slap could not compare to the devastation her woman's heart felt. I mean, she was cooking the sorry cuss's biscuits and he hit her.

My mother is not only a fantastic cook, she is an amazing seamstress. She quickly pulled the sheet tight around my dad and stitched it into a human cocoon. He looked like Lazarus lying in his tomb. Then she went into the kitchen and found her rolling pin. I don't remember the exact words she used, but they were something poetic, along the lines of, "You sorry S.O.B., you may have just gotten a sandwich out of me but I am about to get a meal out of you!" Then the beating began. Shouting, cussing and pleading, he was helpless to defend himself, bound up in that sewn sheet. Dad passed out only to come to from time to time with a terrible headache. He later said that when he woke up he wasn’t sure if he’d died and gone to hell.

The next day my father reported back to his ship and promptly checked himself into sickbay. Upon seeing this bruised and battered chief boatswains mate, the doctor said, "Litton, what in the world happened to you?"

"Oh, doc, I got in a fight last night with a bunch of Marines."

Diagnosed with a very bad hangover, and a well deserved domestic butt kicking, my dad learned a lesson. Southern women may be sweet and they may be great cooks, but they are resourceful when it comes to abuse. A stitch in time and a rolling pin can do more damage than the United States Marines.

In the remaining years my father gained a new respect for my mom and never mistreated her again. After Jesus came into the Litton house, He routed the demons and healed a host of painful memories. Today my mother still cooks for my dad, and we still laugh when we tell that story. I was a little boy that hot summer night in a Navy housing project, but I’m glad Jesus came and never left the Litton house.

Ed Litton
(My parents 50th Wedding Anniversary. A living miracle!)

Welcome to Bountiful

A few years ago Tammy and I were spending a couple of days in New York City. We loved to walk in Manhattan. We spent the better part of the day walking to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and on our way back to our hotel we went past the Trump Tower. We went inside and approached the uniformed doorman. In typical Southern style I asked, "Sir, where is your restroom?" His answer was sharp and snappy. "My restroom is in Queens but you'll need to get a cab to get there." I said, "I bet that wasn't the first time you've been asked that question, was it?"

What was I thinking? I should have expected that kind of response in New York. There would be something wrong if a doorman in New York upon hearing a dumb question in a Southern drawl didn’t answer in this manner. But it made me think about the uniqueness of the environs I inhabit. It made me wonder what my neighborhood is like to strangers and visitors and walkers who need a restroom. Well, that led to another thought.

Do you remember the Walgreens ad campaign of a couple of years ago? The one that shows an idealized community where everything goes right and nothing ever goes wrong. The place is called "Perfect." A voice then reminds you that real life is not perfect, and that is why you need a Walgreens nearby. I don't know that I would want to live in a place called "Perfect." Beyond the reality that hits when I move in and "Perfect" ceases to be just that, there is no place this side of the New Jerusalem that is or can be perfect. Most people accept this truism, but we still long for a place that is near perfect.

This side of heaven, I think I would prefer a place called "Bountiful." Bountiful is a place God desires us to live our lives. Bountiful is a place where God's grace matches and exceeds life's dilemmas. The Apostle Paul talks of it in Second Corinthians. "And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work." Bountiful is God's answer to a sinful fallen existence where pain, heartache, suffering and hard things abound. For all too many people, "Bountiful" is as far-fetched as Walgreens’ "Perfect." In fact it is very close to a corner near you.

In Bountiful, God's grace meets you where you are and lifts you to where you need to be. Grace abounds for the failures of life. Grace rules relationships and grace supplies our needs. God provides for those who trust in him with all of their heart. Lest you begin to see the place Bountiful as some resort, let me remind you that it is a place of the harshest reality. Grace comes bountifully to those whose diagnosis is bad, whose child has Downs Syndrome, whose love of a life just walked out, and those touched by death's icy fingers. Bountiful is not what you would expect; it has a high crime rate, bad traffic, lousy attitudes and very poor service.

So why should I want to be there? It is God's way. He planted you in a less than perfect world to be the object of His grace and love. In order to do what He desires most, communicate his love to hurting humanity. Bountiful is not for the faint of heart. It is for the brokenhearted. You see God has planned a place called Perfect, but it is still under construction, nearing completion but undone at this hour. Bountiful is God's answer for an otherwise bare existence. The New York doorman was not a guy with a bad attitude; he was a reminder to me that God's grace is bountiful, and a good laugh at your own expense is worth the price of admission.

Come see me sometime, down the street, past the signpost that reads, "Welcome to Bountiful!"

Ed Litton

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES

When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea.
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest when they shine;
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light
Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep
Familiar watch o'er men,
When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep -
Sweet spirit, meet me then!
There is an hour when holy dreams
Through slumber fairest glide;
And in the mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldest be by my side.

My thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam;
I can but know thee as my star,
My angel and my dream;
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea.

Edward Bulwer Lytton
1803-1873

The Millstone Incident

My Dad grew up in the Great Depression. I grew up reliving the Great Depression through my father's amazing storytelling ability. His vivid descriptions filled my hungry mind with color and depth and just enough facts to make me feel as if I was actually there.

My father was one of ten children, each struggling and starving in their own way. As one of the youngest and shortest of ten children my father grew up street wise, scrappy and hungry. Adventure was always the quickest way to distract him from his busy mind and hungry stomach.

One spring day my father, affectionately known as "Shorty," was traipsing through a wooded hillside that overlooked the rusting coal mining town of Coburn, Virginia. You don't get the nickname "Shorty" for being the biggest kid in the pack, so you have to be quick to action in order to keep from being lost and left behind. With his older brother PeeWee and his buddy Don Evans in tow, their adventure took them to the top of the hill so they could overlook the town. Almost to the crest of the hill, they saw it. They must have been up this hill a thousand times, but for some reason they’d never seen it—an enormous millstone, standing upright and just waiting for them to find it.

The three boys saw opportunity. A few ideas bounced among them as they surveyed the two tons of rock shaped for milling grain into flour. The grist mill that had once surrounded the grinding stone was long gone, leaving the stone standing silent and alone. Not being versed in weights and measurements, it never dawned on the three boys that this thing was heavy. Really heavy. So they took a rope from my grandmother's clothesline and secured the millstone. The plan was to knock away the stump that held the stone and let the mighty rock gently roll down the hill so they could salvage it and make a killing off its sale.

PeeWee took an ax in hand and barked out the question, “Ready?” Shorty and Don held the rope tightly, bracing for the slow descent down the hill. PeeWee sliced the dead stump with a whack, and the millstone moved for the first time in decades. It moved slowly at first, then when the rope snapped, it freely rolled down the hill. With the boys in chase, the millstone began chewing up trees and spitting them out both sides. Nothing could stop it. It smashed a fence as the boys ran helplessly along dodging limbs and falling trees. It kept rolling downhill, picking up speed and moving right toward a house.

At the foot of the great hill was a shack owned by a strange woman named Jane Hicks. The boys watched in disbelief as the stone rolled straight toward her house. Living next door to Jane was the Adkins family. Baldy Adkins was another friend of my father. When I asked my dad why anyone would name a kid "Baldy," he assured me that he was not prematurely bald and this was his nickname, he said the Adkins family was so poor they shaved their kids’ heads to keep from having to pay for haircuts—and that it also helped keep the lice population down. Baldy's mom was hanging clothes in the backyard when she heard the commotion coming down the hill. Jane was in her kitchen when Mrs. Adkins yelled, "Jane, get out of that house, all hell is breaking loose!" Jane dove from the porch seconds before the millstone slammed into the house and split it in two.

No one saw the Litton brothers or Don Evans for over a week. They just melted into the mountains until the heat was off. Upon their arrival back in civilization, they were just in time to watch a man with a team of horses pulling the millstone down the street to salvage. It would be years before the statute of limitations expired on the fear of these three young men. Thankfully for them, everyone found a huge distraction when Pearl Harbor was attacked. Within a few short years the three boys would be off at war and the world would never be the same.

The best part of this story is the part I did not tell you. You see, Jane Hicks made moonshine in that little shack at the bottom of the hill. My dad said that on Saturday night after she had finished brewing and taste testing her product, Jane was riding high. Alcohol can do strange things to people. Jane would climb the hill behind her house above the town and scream like a panther. Funny thing, after the Millstone Incident, no one ever recalled hearing the panther again. What the Federal Revenuers could not do, three hapless and hungry boys with wide eyes and big dreams did. I don't know if Jane was saved that spring day, but I know that whatever happened to her, the panther never screamed again and no one ever purchased old Jane Hicks’s brew. The Lord sure does move in mysterious ways.

Storm Chaser

Many Christians have what we call a life-verse. It is a passage of scripture, a chapter, or some may even have an entire book that connects with their lives. It sums up their world view or it is a promise to which they claim and cling. My life-verse is the forty-sixth chapter of Psalms. It begins, "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble." Martin Luther declared that this entire chapter was the biblical basis for his hymn "A Mighty Fortress." That is why Tammy and I had this hymn played at our wedding and we opened her funeral with it. One day it will be played again at my funeral. Our God is a mighty fortress. My heart is lifted today to praise Him and lift Him higher. I want others to see how great is our God.

I am amazed by people who chase storms. I watch National Geographic as well as Discovery channel whenever they highlight storm chasers. I wonder what kind of fools get so close to the great tornados that sweep the great plains of this country. I want to make an observation. We spend a great amount of time running from trouble. We avoid them, pray to be spared from them, brace ourselves when we see them coming. Jesus did not do that. Jesus deliberately goes to wherever people are caught in life's swirling, tossing trouble. He really does draw near to those who are being crushed and broken.

In Mark chapter five, Jesus is getting out of a boat that landed on the far side of the Sea of Tiberius, Jesus saw a storm of trouble coming his way—a poor man who had been possessed and tormented by demons for some time. With a simple word, the demons were forced to relocate. Imagine the drama. Pigs squealing, people cursing, the wind sweeping the hillside, the terror of the dark spiritual world exposed: all make for a scene which makes the hair on your neck stand at attention. A man drops to the ground as if dead, when in fact he’s never been more alive. He is now free, seated at the feet of Jesus like a child full of amazement, endearing love, and wonder that will not allow him to take his wide eyes off of Jesus. Jesus’ disciples can’t take their wide eyes off the man. Their minds race as they try to figure out how they’re going to describe the scene to their wives when they get home.

As Jesus leaves the region, this man pleads to go with him. Jesus refuses, sending the man home back to his family as a "show and tell" project for God's power. The scripture says: "So the man went away and began to tell in the Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him. And all the people were amazed." Today, I am amazed by this man's story. I’m amazed at a Savior who chases storms because he knows there are people in the vortex, people he alone can save. He is the Savior who is our refuge, one who saves and helps in our present trouble. He is my refuge and strength. I praise Him in my home and the surrounding cities because he alone sets me free. He alone is my comfort and help.

Last week I took Tyler to Union University for the second time. We moved him into a new apartment. We purchased new clothes, sheets, linens and junk food. It was not as emotionally difficult to take my son the second time, until we said goodbye. My tears flowed and we embraced again in prayer. I got in my truck, and every square inch of the interior reeked with loneliness. I didn’t want to be in that cab alone. This time I knew what to do. I prayed, "Lord, you are my very present help in times of trouble, I am not alone, you are here with me and you are my ‘enough.’ I trust you to go with me all the way home. I don't know where the feeling went, but it was gone. I didn’t hear squealing in the distance but I felt like a man sitting at the feet of Jesus in awe.

Thank You Lord Jesus for being a storm chaser for me!

Ed Litton

The Mix

Life on earth is a mixture. We may want it to be purely one thing or another, but in fact it’s a combination of bad, sometimes desperate things and good, even silver linings. There are hues and shadows as well as rich colors. This isn’t a statement of moral relativism. It’s just reality. This mixture is the product of our fall. When we, the human race, chose to sin we chose to suffer, and in that suffering God's grace was ready to bring hope, comfort and healing. Grace anticipates a mix. Every dark cloud has a ray of hope and every bright day has a threat on the horizon.

Before we despair, we need to remember that God's grace is in the mixture and God does the mixing. We deserve all darkness. Hell is described as a place of "utter darkness" and that is what I deserve. But the grace of God brings hope and healing, transforming what we deserve into what we can never deserve.

Sitting with a friend in the fight of his life against a powerful cancer, I marvel at the grace of God sustaining him and giving him profound perspective. He cannot explain it, nor can I, but he is grateful for the insights God is giving to him, and even though he would rather not have the threat of death hanging over him, he would not trade it for the grace he finds from God.
Two women with the same name, Mary of Magdalena and another who was known as "the other Mary," made their way to the tomb where Jesus' body was lying. They courageously took on the task of cleaning up the mess others made and tying the loose ends surrounding the horrifying death they could not look upon nor turn their eyes from. Light was breaking in the east, but they knew that the darkness best set the mood of their hearts. Sorrow wore on them like thick uncomfortable wool. The steps they took were slow and painful. They moved forward out of love for the man who died.

Several confusing things suddenly happened. A violent earthquake shook, a brilliant angelic visitor appeared, slamming the guards surrounding the tomb of Jesus on the ground. The two Marys were overwhelmed, which explains the angel’s words: "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here, he is risen, just as he said."
When the two Marys left to tell the others, the Bible simply says in Matthew 28:8: "So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples."

Did you see the mix? Afraid yet filled with joy? Get used to glorious experiences mixed in the less than wonderful realities. Joy in the midst of fear. Love in the midst of heartache. Peace in the midst of the storm. These are but the fringes of God's power, but do not deny this is God's power. Thank God that a day is coming when there will be no more mixture. Today I rejoice in the mix. I expect it now, even look for it, less grudgingly than before, actually, because I know He is in the mix.
Ed Litton

Pictures from Union

My sons Josh and Tyler caught my bug for ascetics, film and television.  I love photography and film so that has been a great way for us to work on projects together over the years.  Last Wednesday Josh and I drove to Jackson, Tennessee to be with Tyler. 




Josh went in an official capacity as a photo journalist for Fox News channel 10 in Mobile.















I went in my official capacity of concerned father. 

These are a couplel of my pictures to help you see how utterly devastating this storm was at Union.  I post these also to remind you to pray for the rebuilding of a great school.  

Ed Litton

My Latest Storm Story

Sometimes when it rains it pours, and sometimes the wind blows. My son Tyler is a freshman at Union University in Jackson, Tennessee. Over a week ago I went through the painful process of helping him move into his dorm. Both Tammy and I were dreading this experience; I was now dreading it alone. Armed with the truth that hard things are just a part of my life, I proceeded intrepidly as the day drew near. My emotions were out of my control. Tears sat on the edge of every word. I hugged Tyler as we said goodbye. I prayed over him and blessed him with the blessing of the father. I knew this moment was significant as he transitioned from dependance upon me as his source of protection to God the father. "Lord, help Tyler accept that as a man, you are his only real source of life and strength. I release him to you and your sovereign care."

There is something about being a father that I cherish and that honestly I find it difficult to surrender. It is the call of God upon my life to provide for and protect my children. It has become my instinct and my passion. The emotions I felt at releasing Tyler are not new; I have felt them at a similar moment in Joshua's life. I traced the various colored wires of this tangled emotion to a source. I felt as if I was abandoning my boy. No wonder I was having an emotional meltdown. The truth is I was not abandoning but rather attending to an important transition in a man's life. A transition from one earthly father to greater trust in his heavenly father.

One week later to the day of this right of passage, I found myself once again in the position of feeling helpless and calling upon my Lord, fearing yet more loss. Union University was hit by an unseasonal category four tornado in the early evening. The epicenter was at the dorms, where Tyler lives. You can imagine my concern, but remember I left him in the hands of a greater father.

Today I stood in the midst of the rubble gasping to believe what my eyes were seeing. The chilling cold wind punctuates this hour with another reminder of nature's groaning and life's brevity since the fall of man.

Tyler is doing well physically, a little brushed emotionally, but in general he is doing fine. Tyler was reading Proverbs sixteen on his bed in his dorm when he heard a loud distant sound. He told me that the first thought was something his mother told him often during our many Mobile storm stories. "When we are under a tornado watch, and you hear a loud noise, put on your shoes, get a flashlight and move into an inside room of the house." With her words replaying through his mind, Tyler obeyed his mother's wise counsel.

Today, Josh and I have traveled to Jackson to be with Tyler. As we take measure of the massive destruction on the campus of Union University we are stunned. How can so many students escape death in the midst of widespread destruction? The only answer is a powerful sovereign Daddy who uses good and godly mothers who teach little boys to be men. I am proud of Tyler. I am very thankful for a godly woman named Tammy who loved her children enough to prepare them to be good men. I am grateful for our sovereign father who is worthy of our praise regardless of the outcome.

Ed Litton

Crushed

The modern age has left us with more than rusting massive heaps of machinery now sitting silent behind old buildings infested with green jagged weeds. It has left us with huge misguided ideas, just as silent and rusted, sitting behind the warehouses of our thinking. We assume great leaders, much like the products of those machines, are formed by assembly lines of schools, seminaries and an occasional mentor, who will fine tune and cast us into a bin for packaging and delivery. In fact, God has a very different way of creating the people he uses. He enrolls his choicest servants in a course of highly customized study, advanced lessons in crushing pain.

"When God wants to do an impossible task, He takes an impossible person and crushes him." - Alan Redpath

If you think about it, you could legitimately conclude that no one in Scripture who was greatly used of God avoided this crushing education. Paul learned through brokenness that God's grace is sufficient. Job learned the great gain of great loss. Moses learned and relearned his need for constant dependence upon the Lord. Joseph learned that great dreams can endure crushing realities. Then there is David.

Brokenness is God's way. Talent, youth, vigor and ability are the raw materials that infuse our desire to be great leaders. The problem is that those raw materials can’t function in the way we need or the way God desires. David, with warm anointing oil dripping down his young back had all the raw material to be king. Yet God knew that another arrogant, insecure king, dependant upon his own ability, would not do. So he enrolled David in an extended course in crushing experiences.

Very few enroll voluntarily in God's school. Fewer graduate. It’s a small school that can’t field a sports team, and there are no pep rallies. There’s no time or desire for such trivial pursuits. The classes are highly customized. For David there were classes entitled "How to Avoid Being Impaled by a Spear;" "Madness: How to Work for a Mentally Deranged Boss;" "Modern Cave Dwelling;" War on Multiple Fronts;" "Leading a Rabble to Victory." There were also some very personal and painful lessons, like "Married to an Impossible Person" and "How to Love and Lose a Best Friend."

David had to learn to be attacked and never throw a spear back. In fact, what he was learning was how to trust and depend on the Lord as his only source. No wonder the Psalms, David's private collection of poetry and song, is dominated by songs complaining, weeping over the pain of his lessons. Yet David finds the Lord in the fog of his suffering. He never seems to completely lose his focus upon the Lord. So he graduates with the honor of being known as "a man after God's own heart." He was crushed and broken, and the world was filled with the fragrant aroma of God's grace in and through his life.

We find another successful graduate from this school, where few enroll but many are welcome, lying in a bed of affliction. Broken and crushed while these words streamed from her pen:

One by one He took them from me,
All the things I valued most,
Until I was empty-handed;
Every glittering toy was lost.

And I walked earth's highways, grieving.
In my rags and poverty.
Till I heard His voice inviting,
"Lift your empty hands to Me!"

So I held my hands toward heaven,
And He filled them with a store
Of His own transcendent riches,
Till they could contain no more.

And at last I comprehended
With my stupid mind and dull,
That God COULD not pour His riches
Into hands already full!

-Martha Snell Nicholson

I have no idea what impossible thing God has planned for me, but I am quite sure I am an impossible person. I long for my crushing to be used for His glory. With my stupid and dull mind I also comprehend that only He can pour His riches into and through my open hands.

Ed Litton

Broken

Searching in my computer, I stumbled upon a picture of me preaching with the choir and orchestra behind me in a wash of blue. It was then I saw her face. The moment is frozen in time. Tammy was sitting in the orchestra listening to me. I am amazed by how the mind works and how quickly it can race through your life, dropping forgotten snapshots to ponder.

In our life, I was the out front guy. I have always been comfortable in front of people, the more the better. I love preaching God's Word. Tammy loved her life behind the scene. She had all the talent to stand in the light, but she just lacked the need to be there.

She was my most excellent partner in ministry. She was proud of me. That may sound arrogant, but it isn't. I know she was very proud of me because she told me so often. She knew I needed to hear it from someone I respected and who had my best interests at heart. People are kind to me about my preaching, but I learned to wait for her words. No one has been able to encourage me quite the same since. She earned that respect by having to clean my proverbial plow on one or two occasions. I longed to please her and could not endure ever being an embarrassment to her.

I thank God for a woman. What a wonderful creation of our awesome God. She is so utterly other than man. She captivates us, transforming awkward men into poets as profound as Shelley and Keats. She can drive us to be more than our lazy or fearful hearts would ever attempt. The heart of a man will likely die in unproductive manhood without her, unnourished.

When Tammy and I met, God had already begun His new work in my heart. She was His gift to electrify the process. I had dropped out of the university and was prohibited from coming back until I could manage to bring my grades up in a junior college. Yet her love, her faith in me, her powerful encouraging ways made me want to be better for her, me and the Lord. I was broken on the rocks of her femininity and I delight in the brokenness. Today some call me Dr. Ed Litton. That could never have happened were it not for a brilliant woman named Tammy. I can still feel the warm glow of her. I am gladly a broken man.

Ed Litton

Jacob's Mourning

The human heart has great capacity. Like a mighty cargo ship it can carry a massive load of bitter cargo or it can carry a great load of love.

Eleven brothers were so full of envy, jealousy and hatred for their younger but more beloved brother Joseph that their ship sat low below the waterline. A world of frustration and hate culminated in an unthinkable act of murderous intent.

In Genesis chapter 37 we have the shocking details of the crime against this young man. Reuben, one of Joseph's older brothers, kept the rest from shedding his blood, but the optional plan was equally as sinister. They sold Joseph as a slave to Midianite merchants. These merciless traders in human flesh must have resembled aliens from the bar scene in the movie “Star Wars”. To them Joseph the young, handsome dreamer was little more than fresh meat, deeply discounted.

The plot thickens with details added into the mixture. There must have been a perverse sense of pleasure in the brothers’ hearts as they imagined what they would tell their father, Jacob. Their words were few; all they needed to do was hand the torn robe, golden strands caked with goat blood, to the old man. His vivid and guilt-laced imagination did the rest. The brothers’ cruelty snaps shut like a lock as they watch a man break before their eyes. They have dropped truth into a pit that day--kicking, screaming, and crying for mercy. Once you've done the unthinkable, it’s easy to do it again.

Now here’s what arrested my attention today. Genesis 37:34-35 says, "Then Jacob tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and mourned for his son many days. All his sons and daughters came to comfort him, but he refused to be comforted. ‘No,’ he said, ‘in mourning will I go down to the grave to my son.’ So his father wept for him."

Grief is always a unique reaction to the pain of loss. No two people will react exactly alike at shocking, tragic news. Jacob refused to be comforted. Instead he declared something that he fully intended to live out until he died. I understand Jacob’s reaction more now than ever, and it makes me concerned about the declarations I have made. Have I left room for God to take my heart in a different direction? Have I allowed my grief to become the defining moment of my life?

With Bible in hand I find myself wanting to comfort Jacob. I want to yell so he can hear me through the ages--you don't have to sorrow like you do. You see, I read the book and I know your son lives. He’s in another place, doing other things. He’ll be alright by the time this story ends, and actually he’ll be better than alright; he will rule and reign. Jacob, you don't have to surrender to grief, though I sure understand why you do.

We humans are limited in our ability to bring comfort. There is, however, another source of comfort, and it is God. He alone knows where our loved ones reside. He’s not the Midianite traders who carried them away, but He is sovereign over all. My beloved one, currently separated from me, is in another place, going another way, and will one day rule and reign. I don’t understand God's ways, but I can nonetheless accept His comfort. I can choose to accept His promise that we will meet again, and the reunion will be more spectacular than that of Joseph, his brothers and his grieving father, Jacob. After all he went through, can you imagine how it felt to hear the words from his son’s lips, "Joseph lives!"

I mourn, but with hope.
Ed Litton

Less Than Perfect Circumstances

It’s tempting to let painful circumstances in life prevent certain spiritual activities. For example, we may feel unworthy to enter into worship when we are hurting or grieving. We may feel strong feelings that cause us to think of ourselves as disqualified to meet with the Lord. Yet it’s interesting that two of the most profound worship experiences recorded in Scripture took place in painful and grievous circumstances.

Isaiah discovered in the year his dear friend King Uzziah died that he saw the Lord in all of His glory. (Isaiah 6) The Apostle John, while exiled and under great persecution, was lifted up into God's throne room and saw the one who is worthy of worship. (Revelation 5) Both of these life altering worship experiences took place in less than perfect circumstances to say the least. In fact, they were two very painful circumstances.

There’s something about being human that makes worship the last thought when grief and sorrow invade our lives, though it’s often the first thing God uses to set the stage for His greatest revelations. When I’m not in pain, I’m far more likely to allow my heart to wander off into unworthy pursuits. My sorrow drives me to seek Him and to long for Him.

In our less than perfect lives, in order to have a heart of understanding, we must see the Lord high and lifted up. He is lord. He is worthy. He is holy. He is in control. When I enter into worship, my perspective changes. I see clearer what matters and what doesn't. I feel his love and I’m reassured of his understanding.

I want to encourage the hurting person to look to the Lord in worship. He is worthy of our worship, but in worship we find hope, healing and joy again. We find relief from our suffering and strength for another day. 2 Corinthians 4:18 says, "So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal" (NIV).

Ed Litton

Clarity

Suffering brings clarity. This isn’t automatic, but it’s possible. Suffering causes us to focus like few other things in life can. Jesus said in Matthew 13:15, "For this people’s heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts and turn, and I would heal them" (NIV). I’m amazed how easily my eyes form spiritual cataracts, and how I close my eyes to certain obvious things.

Pain has a way of calling every nerve to stand at attention. I’m not here glorifying pain or desiring more, but I have to admit it makes me aware of how truly alive I am. I hunger for clarity in my spiritual life. I want to see the Lord as Abraham and Moses did--like a friend, face to face. I don't want to lose this ability to see what so often I have missed. I resist the inevitable return to spiritual dullness.

This side of eternity, there will always be things won’t be able to see, things beyond our finite ability to understand. I Corinthians 2:9 says, “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him” (NIV). Yet there is so much that the Lord wants us to see, hear and experience of His sustaining grace and love. A friend once asked me if it’s possible to have this kind of clarity without having this kind of suffering. I don’t know how it could be possible for me. I can be a dull, irascible, and self-centered sort. My imagination easily declares war on windmills and journeys down unworthy paths.

Of the Lord's Twelve, I guess I most identify with Simon Peter. I’m standing in a boat with others, darkness surrounds us, waves frighten us. Then we see something that makes the hair on our necks stand. Our nervous systems are on full alert. It is Jesus, walking on the storm tossed seas of our lives. What we’re experiencing is impossible but nonetheless real. I ask the Lord to allow me to come to Him. He smiles and nods his approval of my request. I step out of the boat, causing even more fear in my companions who are rocked by my recklessness. I walk on water. Step by step, the impossible becomes possible. Then my eyes are distracted by the sheer impossibility of faith. As I sink, fear rises; I cry, He hears and rescues. Oh me of little faith.

Suffering brings clarity. It also needs clarity. I can’t assume, I will not assume that this suffering is the worst, and once I am over it, I can rest assured I will not have to suffer like this again. I have no guarantees that there won’t be more or greater loss. Although I cannot imagine a greater loss, I must remember how dull I can be. Nonetheless, He comes on storm tossed waves, in the midst of great fear, to dull and distracted people like me and Peter and bids us to do the impossible and come to Him.

Lord, I come.
Ed Litton

Giving Words to Grief

”Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up o’er the wrought heart and bids it break.” - Macbeth

Grief visited me in a torrent on Christmas. I was expecting difficulty, but I received an emotional mugging. I felt as if grief dragged me down into a pit that can only be named despair. I struggled with it and felt as helpless as a fish out of water, lying in a puddle of my tears. My feelings were far more profoundly sad than those that visited me at the funeral. I was frankly surprised at the sound of my heart cracking again.

I fear Macbeth's words are true; if I do not express my grief in this manner, my heart will break never to be whole again. The word I offer to describe this emotion is "cheated." I feel cheated out of the love of my life. I feel cheated out of the joys of life that I have had, especially at this blessed season. I just simply miss my love. This may be as close to anger as I have experienced so far.

There is also a prolonged sense of foreboding that lies near the border of panic. It’s not unlike the feelings of flight I had as a child, spending the night with my cousin. We would play all day, our minds adrift in some fantasy, but at sunset something would come over me. The only way I could describe it was "homesickness." My aunt would push back my sweaty hair and feel my forehead for a temperature, but there never was one. I felt sick all over, and I wanted to be elsewhere. The place I was staying was safe, good, clean and welcoming, and my aunt’s food was always great, but I just wanted to be home. I feel like such a stranger here without Tammy. I feel odd in almost every circumstance of my familiar life.

I was reminded by a friend who has traveled this road to ask God to reveal what He is doing. So I asked the Lord to show me what He is doing that I may not care to see or want to find comforting. Revelation Chapter 19 describes Jesus returning on a majestic white horse. His name is said to be "Faithful and True." He is most certainly that. In a quiet place I find Him faithful and patient with my whirlwind of bitter emotions. He is true to never leave me or forsake me. I have always believed that God speaks, even if I do not have a clue what His words mean. He speaks, even though His words can be like explaining quantum physics to a three month old child.

When God answers my questions, He doesn’t always offer definitions. He speaks through a remembered verse. He speaks through simple phrases or thoughts I know didn’t originate with my mind. He speaks with love and understanding. He has spoken in firm and frightening clarity, but this time He answered me by sitting with me and letting me know He was there. He brushed away my grief and covered my sulking frame in His peace. He eased the pain of my soul. He did what answers could not, God came near.

Then I remembered, that is what my faithful and true God does. He comes near. I know now how people are dragged into the dungeon of despair. I know why anger and hurt can so easily rule our lives. I know better how to fight back when grief wants to mug me and drag me away. I know I still have a choice. Grief may well have the power to do all I’ve described and more, but it cannot lock me in a prison of despair. I alone hold that key. God made it so. I have been given the keys that lock or unlock my own prison cell. I have the power to choose. Thank God there is still in me something that yearns to be free.

Thank you, Faithful and True!

Ed Litton

The Dangers of Grief

The dangers of grief are many. You may not think of grief as being dangerous but it most certainly is. Charles Darwin reminds me of the dangers of grief gone wrong. The fact that Darwin rejected Christianity is commonly known, but what is not so well known is why he did. The painful death of his young daughter Annie may have been the culprit. According to biographers Adrian Desmond and James Moore in their book Darwin: The Life of a Tormented Evolutionist, "Annie's cruel death destroyed Charles's tatters of belief in a moral, just universe. Later he would say that this period chimed the final death-knell for his Christianity."

Arguably, the most destructive philosophy in modern history took shape in the heart of a hurting and grieving man. Darwin's grief would not be satisfied with platitudes, nor should it have been. Yet something turned in him with which I think I can sympathize. A deep sense of injustice often stalks the grieving. Yet if you listen to those who are most virulent in their attack on faith and in particular the Christian faith, you will hear something like this: "How can a good God, or how can an all powerful God, allow such innocent people to suffer?" The implication is that either God is not powerful or maybe He is not so good, if He exists at all.

I admit that I have often been put in a defensive posture upon hearing such statements. When I read of Charles Darwin's loss my heart sympathized with him. For the first time in all the years I have known of this man and frankly despised his destructive invention of an explanation of our existence without God, I felt compassion for him. Then I felt sadness because of one man’s struggle with grief that turned to anger. I have no way of knowing if Darwin was visibly angry, but his theory of evolution is very angry. It concludes that there must not be a God, or he cannot be loving, or he must not have enough power to stop the pervasive nature of death, so what good is he? Darwin then proceeded to write not so much an origin of the species but an explanation of life without God.

This concept has taken hold of modern mankind, and with it some truly devastating result have followed. Millions have died because of Darwin's idea that only the fit survive. In countries that choose to live out Darwin's conclusion and establish atheism, the numbers are staggering. In excess of 50 million have been tortured and killed by the "fittest" who had their hands on the controls. Religious people have also taken lives in their very real and depraved grasp for power, yet even the Inquisition would be hard pressed to match the 20th Century’s record of death. Others took these concepts to justify their illogical conclusions and gassed Jews, exterminated their opposition, destroyed the weak and infirmed, in the gruesome acts of living out the survival of the fittest.

The thought that haunts me is that this all happened because a man grieved, and his grief turned to anger, and his anger turned to unbelief, and that turned to hopelessness. We get to choose what we do with our grief. It feels like grief sits in the driver’s seat of our lives, and for a while it may; but in fact we get to choose what we focus upon, what conclusions we draw, and where our anger takes us.

Does God have a good answer for grief's nagging questions? I believe God's answer came, but in a surprising form. He sent his one and only Son, and he gave him a unique name. "The word became flesh and dwelled among us..." (John 1:14 NIV). God's answer was the Word becoming flesh and giving us Himself, not a glib answer to satisfy our intellect but to satisfy the problem of death, suffering and evil. Our God got close, so close that he could hurt and bleed. He refused to remain distant. Thomas, the disciple of Jesus, suffering great grief, declared that he would not believe unless he could see and touch the scars of Jesus, then found himself invited by Jesus to feel his wounds, touch his scars and believe.

Stop. What kind of God has scars? Only a God who is willing to get close enough to hurting people that they could hurt him. These are the scars of crucifixion, another depraved human invention. Why was he crucified? For you and me. He came near because that is the only way to help hurting people.

The question of suffering is hard, profound and consequential. Struggle with it carefully. Struggle with it valiantly, but ask the God of grace to help your anger; hurt and let your suffering rest at the nail-scarred feet of Jesus. Grief is dangerous, but equal to the danger is the possibility of knowing the God who created, sustains and loves you. The only wise God who came near and suffered with great purpose, to end deaths power once and for all.

Struggle well!
Ed Litton