The welcome behind the veil

My daughter is getting married, and she wants to wear a veil. In front of her face.

She knows that veils aren’t that common nowadays. It’s probably because at some point people thought that since their faces wouldn’t show up in the photographs, the pictures wouldn’t be good, so it wouldn’t be worth it.

But the symbolism of the veil hiding the bride’s face, the veil that the groom has to turn back in order to kiss her . . . that symbolism is rich with meaning.

He can now, as her husband, enter a place where he was never allowed before. Now things are different. Now he is welcome. And her eyes will say to him, “Come.”

I remember with crystal clarity a day twenty-one years ago, when this same daughter was two. We sat snuggled together in the big green armchair while I told her Bible stories. I was talking about a different veil. I pointed to the picture of the shocked priest, watching the veil of the temple being ripped from top to bottom.

Tears came to my eyes as I explained the symbolism of the tearing of the veil and what that meant Jesus had done for us on the cross: that now we can enter a place, in the presence of God, where we were never allowed before.

Little Katy stared up at me with her solemn eyes. She didn’t understand, but that was okay. I understood it better than ever.

This morning our pastor will be preaching about the rending of the temple veil, the shockingly beautiful symbolism springing out of and accomplished by the sacrificial death of Jesus Christ on the cross.

This is the picture of our bold and joyful entrance into the very presence of God, a place we were never allowed before.

Everything is different. Now we are welcome into His very presence.

Now He says to us, “Come.”





Writing about triumph like Charles Dickens

Charles Dickens loved England. Because of this love, he felt a deep sense of urgency to help his homeland change in important ways. He wanted people to care about the poor, to care about orphans, and to arise from their complacency.

While his contemporary George Mueller worked for change by trusting God and starting an orphanage, Charles Dickens worked for change by writing books. Continue reading “Writing about triumph like Charles Dickens”

Lessons from Teaching English as a Second Language

Teaching English as a Second Language has taught me something about English: There are loads of rules. People from other countries who just have to learn the rules and then all the rules about the rules (meta-rules?) can feel utterly overwhelmed with the complexity of the language we speak naturally. They can even become resentful. They could wish that English were their first language, but of course that cannot be.

But if you grew up in a home where English is spoken all the time, and spoken correctly, then it will seem natural, and the rules will come easily. In fact, you’ll be able to intuit rules you’ve never even heard. “Oh yes, I see. I thought so.” Continue reading “Lessons from Teaching English as a Second Language”

A Tribute to Dr. John Dreisbach, 1922-2009

Dr. John Dreisbach was one of the “old school” missionaries, who spent his life serving as a career missionary doctor and evangelist in various places around the world. When he died, I was working on a children’s book about his adventures in western Africa. Perhaps the book will never be finished, but as a tribute, I am posting here the first chapter.

The Mantle

“Don’t know what to say, Mrs. Dreisbach. Sure am sorry.” Mr. Johnson stood at the kitchen table with his hat in his hand. “Don’t seem like enough to say that.” Continue reading “A Tribute to Dr. John Dreisbach, 1922-2009”

Reflections on my 52nd birthday: the opening of the eyes

In honor of my fifty-second birthday season this past week, I re-read some old journals (always an instructive venture). I went back to 2003, as far back as they go on my current computer.

I found the entire year, with the rare exception of an occasional glimmer of peace, to be filled with anxiety, teeth-gritting, knots in the stomach, frustrations, barely-contained impatience. I was worried and stressed about money (not enough), stuff (too much), scheduling (too much to do), homeschooling (too Continue reading “Reflections on my 52nd birthday: the opening of the eyes”

reading Tozer’s The Pursuit of God

This summer I’ve been studying Tozer’s The Pursuit of God with my two daughters, ages 22 and 16. Every Thursday we go someplace, a restaurant or a park, and talk about the next chapter.

And I’m reminded of what this book meant to me when I read it for the first time, only a few years ago.

All those years as a Christian, I knew about this book. But as much as I was seeking the Lord and trying to point other people to Him, for some reason I was never drawn to The Pursuit of God. It was one summer, after crying out with Moses for the Lord to show me His glory, that I was re-introduced to Tozer.

But now, my heart was ready, because of some intense work the Lord had been doing in my soul. I call it “plowing.” Continue reading “reading Tozer’s The Pursuit of God”

“He must increase, but I must decrease”


John the BaptistJohn the Baptist made this famous statement not just as a word of resignation to the inevitable.

He uttered it not as a purposeful display of humility.

Rather, he proclaimed these words as a joyful declaration.

In fact, in the verse just before that one he explained himself: “I am the friend of the Bridegroom. My job is to prepare the bride for His coming. Then, when I hear the Bridegroom’s voice calling for the bride that I have brought, I rejoice at that sound, because He is the one who is supposed to claim the bride. This is how my joy is made full: by His ascending and my receding.”

John had been crying, “Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!” But now he had turned his own ear to another voice, a voice that made him catch his breath and strain to listen.

What was the sound of the voice John heard? That new voice cried, “Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!”

Why, those were the same words John himself had been crying for months. He could have thought with indignation, “Why is He preaching the same thing? Why are they turning to Him instead of following me?”

But no, the sound of Jesus Christ crying out those unoriginal words was like heaven’s music to John. His heart leaped up with joy at the sound of those words. He has come!

John saw that some faces were still turned to himself. “Behold, the Lamb of God!” he cried. Look at Him! The sight of Jesus gave a joy that took his breath away.

John knew that he had a certain mission (which had been given to him from heaven, vs 27) as a harbinger, an introducer, a preceder. It was this sense of purpose—to point others to Christ—that gives his famous statement the context it needs, a context of appropriate humility and a joyous acknowledgement of a glorious reality. The reality that the One he pointed to was worthy, worthy, worthy of all glory and honor and praise.

Contrast this with the reaction of the Pharisees.

“What will we do?” they said, “For this man does many miracles. If we leave him alone like this, all men will believe on him, and the Romans will take away our position and our nation.”

Their position, which should have been to point people to the Messiah, but which had become to point people to themselves, had become all-important to them. They could hear, they could see, nothing, no one, beyond themselves.

“He’s increasing, and we’re decreasing, and we don’t like it!”

Compare this to me about ten or fifteen years ago, when I challenged my friend about her assumed salvation (because she had written a date in the back of her Bible when she prayed a prayer, and she referred to that for her assurance). The Lord used me to point her to Jesus Christ alone, and she was eventually truly saved, as was her husband. Then they were baptized together. We went to the baptism, and I, expecting to hear myself referred to in her testimony, was prepared to act appropriately humble. When she gave her testimony and pointed only to the Lord, I almost indignantly thought to myself, “She didn’t say anything about ME.” My own imagined importance had rivaled in my mind the priority, the ascendancy of my Lord.

Later I understood that receiving that glory before men would have been my reward, my only reward. (Even though none of the people in her church knew who I was, I would have felt that secret satisfaction.) If I want “my Father, who sees in secret,” to reward me with His far greater, more lasting and satisfying reward of Himself, my giving to Him would be with ears and eyes listening, looking for His glory alone.

I long to be like John the Baptist. “Look, look to Jesus only! Are you looking at me? No! See Him! Do you see how glorious He is? Look again! Can you hear His beautiful voice? Doesn’t it fill you with joy? Rejoice with joy beyond expression! Jesus is here! I am nothing! He is everything!”

This is not a statement of requisite, purposeful, dutiful humility. It is an outpouring of ecstatic emotion, a heart leaping up at the sound and sight of One who takes the breath away.