Vulnerability in a new season

I gave my first lecture at BSF this week. I keep tearing up when I think about it, and so here I am, awake on the couch in the middle of the night because apparently it is time to write down my thoughts.

I entered into a new season this year; when I spent January asking the Lord what to do next, He handed me some new, unexpected assignments and reordered my life so that I could do what He asked of me. My children went off to school, and I stepped into two main things: He gave me women to pray and intercede with weekly, and He called me to be a substitute teaching leader at BSF. The former is an answer to a deep longing of my heart, the latter is…well, I’m still wrapping my mind around it because it’s new and unexpected and feels almost comical a role to be placed in.

Let me explain, the women in BSF are the same women who helped “raise me up” like sweet spiritual mother voices when I taught the students there 4 years ago; they’re faithful and wise and precious; some have walked with Jesus longer than I’ve been alive. If you looked through resumes to pick the most qualified person to fill this role, I’d be at the bottom of the pile. But Jesus tends to pull from the bottom of the pile, so here I am…brand new and learning on the job. And they’re helping me…and really, it’s probably the most biblical display of womanhood that I’ve ever been a part of; seeking Jesus together as we walk in obedience to what He called us to do, learning what it means to depend on Him for all things.

There’s the snap shot of my new season, and in it, I gave my first lecture. And I want to tell you why I keep crying when I think about it.

People only see me as I am today; depending on how long we’ve walked together or how many cups of coffee we’ve shared, you may know more or less of the experiences that shaped me. Maybe you were there through my joys and my losses, or maybe you’ve heard me process them, or maybe you have no idea what mountains I’ve climbed, what rocky ground I’ve crawled across, what stones have been hurled at me. While some of those experiences equipped me for my current assignment, others add an extra layer of vulnerability to it.

When I was growing up, I learned 3 lessons (spoken or implied, they settled in deep and took residence in my thinking): 
1) I had nothing to bring to the Body of Christ because I was female.
2) If I did have the audacity to bring anything to the Body, it would inevitably cause harm.
3) No matter how valuable, no one would want what came from me.

Obviously these are not so much lessons as they are lies. But it took me well over 30 years to even believe I was worth the full value of a human, so they had no problem finding ground to grow in me. What is interesting, is they didn’t produce someone with “self-esteem” problems, so to speak. I actually like me; I enjoy being who I am, I make myself laugh, I like the way I see the world, I enjoy the things I write, I am genuinely content with my quirks and ok with acknowledging my weaknesses. Instead, I feel like I’ve spent a lot of my life hidden under years of paint and mud wearing a coat of lament that no one would be willing to take the time to search me out. 

But Jesus washed me, and dignified me, and told me the truth again and again…and for years, I’ve learned to walk obediently and without expectation.

But it’s the “without expectation” part that He’s been slowly dissolving…and I think that’s why I feel so vulnerable in this season. Because I can see His intention and it carries expectation…and that feels terrifying to me.
It feels risky.
It feels vulnerable.
It feels uncomfortable.
It feels like I’d much rather crawl back into the prayer closet because I know I’m safe there.

I know that the Lord moves when He has me speak in front of people. 
And to me, the weight of that is staggering.
Maybe after reading the lessons I learned above you can understand why.

I am a woman, but my hands are not empty.
I would rather never speak than cause another spiritual harm.
And I am who and what God made me and nothing more.

The thing is, when we hear people share their thoughts on scripture from the front, we only see what they offer to us…we don’t watch how that offering was gathered. So I can sit in front of a group to share, and they hear the carefully prepared words I wrote on a page…but they didn’t see how I found those words, they don’t know where I traveled to gather them, they didn’t watch me wrestle and dance with the Lord for understanding. They only see the offering. And that is ok, because that part was FOR them; but let us never look at the offering of another and overlook the fact that there was preparation, that we are looking at the fruit of another’s labor.

After my first Ephesians study several years ago (which was the first time I ever invited women to listen to my thoughts on scripture in the way that I am shaped to speak it), I had someone who hadn’t come ask me to give them what I had written. And I surprised myself by saying, “No.” To one woman I looked like a person casually talking about scripture in their living room, but I was actually a person shaking off 3 lessons I learned; speaking out loud to others in my living room felt like stepping out of the boat in the middle of a storm to walk on water. I felt such vulnerability that the Lord had gone before me and set several friends beside me to physically steady my steps.

The Lord gave me this dream at that time: http://bigandlittlewords.blogspot.com/2023/06/consumers-or-contributers.html
In this dream, I am the mother camel.

I have been thinking about that dream, about my vulnerability, and about the women God has set beside me in THIS season to steady my steps. And while I tear up for multiple reasons, that’s the main one. These faithful women heard my words, but they also see my person; they covered me in prayer, they encouraged me, they tended to my needs…and afterwards, they gathered me in. They make me feel safe, like they will keep me tucked under their wings while I gather strength in my legs. 

At the heart of it, expectation is brand new to me. It brings with it the vulnerability of being consumed; if not by others, than by self or by the enemy. And so my faith must grow and stretch as I cling to Jesus…but today I just wanted to write down that I am grateful for the women I serve alongside.

Fault and chastisement

I have spent my entire adult life battling health issues. Literally less than 2 months after my 18th birthday I got a diagnosis that seemed to determine the course of everything that followed; and when a doctor associated it with Celiac’s Disease (an autoimmune disorder that I believe was triggered in me after the death of my little brother when I was very young), I took the blame for the catastrophe that was my body. At every bump and pit along my health journey, I have looked backwards continually at my 18-year-old self and said, “It's your own fault.”

When my body fell apart at the failure of my thyroid, it was my own fault. When I lost my ability to speak after complications with surgery, it was my own fault. When I had to work extra hard for the smallest step forward or when my body fell 10 steps back, it was my own fault. When my body couldn't recover after giving birth...when I miscarried my babies...couldn't regulate my blood pressure...my fault, my fault, my fault. For years and years, I have owned my body's weakness and failures as the consequence of my ignorant teenage choices to not stay off gluten. "It's your own fault," my internal drill sergeant reminds me, "suck it up and accept your consequences. You gave up your chance at health when you were young, so stop complaining. You didn't respect it while you had it, you don't deserve it back. Stand up and keep moving forward."

In some weird way, this acceptance of blame has sort of wrangled my emotions as I have rollercoastered through the ups and downs, reminding me to keep standing instead of rolling over and giving up. It has forced me to find my contentment outside of my circumstances.

And that’s not all bad.

But it’s also not good. Yesterday my drill sergeant’s voice started to bother me, some part of me that the last 24 years hasn't hardened, some part that hasn’t been snuffed out by my body's failures suddenly stood up and pushed back.

“I don’t think that's true,” this unusual spark of resistance called out over the familiar wrestle to quench my sadness. "I don't think it’s my fault."

I tried. I tried to get better. I did everything I knew how to for years and years. I have worked hard for my wellbeing (physically, mentally, spiritually, and relationally), and while I have laid hold of much holistic healing, my physical body still languishes in the dirt. I’ve learned how to rewire my brain toward it over the years; I’ve found moments I have actively felt compassion for it, I’ve intentionally reconnected to it (overriding a trauma response of disassociating) in spite of the emotional turmoil I endure by allowing myself to remain in it, I’ve actively painted it with dignity and value and reminded myself of its goodness by design. And every time I think I’ve got to be done, that the bottom of this gangrenous wound has to be uncovered, I keep finding more.

So today I have been processing my internal resistance. I’ve considered the little voice that stood in the face of the commander and said, “It’s not my fault.”

What is the truth?

The truth is that I have never looked at another sick or suffering person and thought, “It’s your own fault. Suck it up.” I’ve never bypassed compassion and commanded someone to get in line under their responsibility for their own weakness. Why would I judge myself with such harshness when I have never thought so harshly about another?

The truth is that there is much in my life that has affected my body that I have not chosen.

The truth is that association and causation are not the same thing. I don’t know why my thyroid failed me when I was 18-years-old.

The truth is that even if I had messed up everything in my life in regards to my health, I still deserve the basic human compassion that shelters the path of suffering.

“What is the truth?” I asked the Lord.

And He said to me, “Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities; upon Him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with His wounds we are healed.” [Isaiah 53:4–5]

The word “chastisement” set itself on me, its definition laying out the reality of this lie’s root. To chastise means to censure severely, inflicting punishment on (as by whipping). A censure is a judgment involving condemnation. For 24 years I have carried the condemnation of my broken body; the sentence of a life in the dust has whipped me into line every time I have bucked beneath it. It has pressed upon my shoulders with such weight that I’ve given it permission to remain because I have owned it as a righteous judgment against me.

But He said to me, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” [Romans 8:1]

Break every chain, Lord. No more lies.

He has borne my grief and sorrow, He has been pierced and crushed and chastised and wounded for my peace and for my healing.

“It’s not my fault,” I said over and over again today. Practicing the truth so that the next time the lie falls from my mouth I can crush it before it lands. May the whip that has fallen so many times be absorbed by the One who lent me His body so that I can walk free.

The eager rose bush

I went out to look in my flower bed this afternoon, and found myself standing in front of my rose bush. I bought it this Spring at ALDI, a bare twig maybe 10” tall for $7 figuring that even if it flopped, it was worth the $7 risk because…what if it didn’t? And there in my flower bed stood the former twig. While it still had only 2 branches, it was now 3 1/2’ tall, boasting three 4” roses and 2 more in lesser states of bloom. It stretched itself toward the sky, straight upright, confident that it was capable of great beauty, and it opened up its blossoms into sweet aromatic pedals of many shades of pink, unaware that a single branch was not suppose to stand so tall nor hold so many roses.

Its two overflowing branches made me laugh as I thought, “I want the confidence of this rose bush.”

This rose bush apparently had not been informed that it had fallen into my uninformed hands; it was unhindered by its time of pruning, its season of waiting to find its garden, its time of not yet being planted in the right soil. In spite of its dormancy and its apparent dying, it was eager to flourish without hinderance the moment it touched the earth.

It seemed to call out to me, “Why wouldn’t I go all out? This is what I was made for!”

It didn’t know I would stand and admire its blooms, but it knew its blooms would hold all the beauty embedded in them by its Maker. It seemed to have the glorious understanding that to bud and to blossom and to burst into full bloom in the light of the sun was what it was made for….and so it threw its branches out into the open air and simply lived to the fullness of its potential for its age and stage of growth.

I want to be like the rose bush.

I was talking to the Lord this morning about my desire to learn how to dream by faith. I've learned in my 43 years that while I am a dreamer by nature—one who dreams big for the people in my life—I am crippled in my ability to dream for myself. Maybe it’s the remnants of disappointments of the past, or the lingering effects of being pressed down…maybe it’s the leftover shades of fear not yet washed from my nature… wherever it comes from, I find myself wishing to confront my limp.

While it is true that I sometimes do big (for me), uncomfortable things; I mostly just do them in obedience, expectation doesn’t usually have a seat at the table. I invite people to a Bible study without the expectation that anyone would come. I publish a book without the expectation that anyone would buy it. I write a blog without the expectation that anyone would read it. I share a testimony without the expectation that anyone would believe it. I sing a song without the expectation anyone (but my dad) would want to listen to my voice. And maybe it's not so bad a thing to be surprised from time to time if someone shows up or stops to listen or finds themself blessed, but I do think it is a strange position to be in to repeatedly reach out my hand assuming I will probably find only empty air and to have genuine peace at having reached out anyway.

I look around me and watch people in my life planning and dreaming with joyful expectancy; they start businesses, prayer movements and ministries that utilize their gifting and turn the fire that burns in their heart into a productive blaze. They sit behind tables filled with their creative endeavors and believe that someone would want one for their own. They walk into rooms and open their mouths with the expectation that someone will consider what comes out of them and choose to take part. And I watch them…marveling at what, to me, seems like magnificent boldness. Dreams and expectancy of possibility combining to gift the human soul.

Are you one of those people? A person who takes leaps of faith and builds with wild expectation? How did you become like the rose bush? Teach me your ways.

Biblical Women

I saw this post yesterday @sketchysermons, and it made me smile. I’ve been on an intentional journey since 2018 to gain an understanding of what “biblical womanhood” looks like; in part because I have been healing from the damage done to my femininity by my childhood church during critical ages of development, but also partly so that I can articulate to my children God’s view of women. In general the Church exalts the Marys of the Martha’s sister variety, quietly learning at the feet of Jesus, and the Ruths with their devoted, servant hearts. But scripture has a lot more to say about the women God made and chose to include on the pages of His holy book than this woefully limited (though lovely) box has room for. Personality and matters of the heart are two different things, and the exclusion of the former from discussions surrounding womanhood has been detrimental to the dignity of women in the body of Christ because many of us find ourselves disqualified before we’ve even set foot on the ground. This tiny sketch breaks down the sides of the box we’ve set up and forces us to reconsider its boundaries.

This sketch speaks of Jael, who was honored when she drove a tent peg through the skull of Sisera, the commander of a wicked king’s army, with such force that it plunged into the ground beneath it. There’s twice I can think of (1 Samuel 25 and 2 Samuel 20) where one single woman faced entire armies on full-force revenge missions and stopped them from causing mass destruction. The apostle Paul, who wrote a large portion of the new testament, honors the women who worked side-by-side with him in the spread of the gospel—supporting financially, laboring physically, and even, in the case of Phoebe, going on a dangerous mission to bring one of his letters into Rome where Nero was in the process of lighting believers on fire for entertainment purposes. The church needs to remember Jesus doesn’t just affirm Mary, He affirmed her sister Martha (John 11:5) whose bold personality may have made it hard for her to sit still, but it certainly brought with it a propensity to get things done. The Lord highlights a great variety of personalities and propensities including prophetesses, business women, teachers, former prostitutes, a deaconess and even a female apostle (Romans 16:7) highly respected among the disciples.

I’m still gathering my words, but I can say with full confidence that it is not scripture that minimizes or demeans women—the womanhood we see in the Bible is quite a beautiful, dynamic thing to observe—instead, it is human explanations, though often well-intentioned, that continue to do the greatest damage. So if you are on your own journey, I encourage you to set aside the teachings you’ve gathered, and do your own wrestling with God through the pages of the Bible, starting at chapter 1 of Genesis, with the understanding that a good God, who does good work, in love formed woman in His own image. And whether you are the type of woman God created to tend a home or to build a house, to mother a child or to disciple a neighbor, to gently hold the hand of the weak or to curl your fingers around a tent peg, you will find that Biblical Womanhood includes your personality type. And as for heart posture, Jesus will align and refine us with His Word by His Spirit as we abide in Him.

And that is all for now. But, if you see me with this sticker somewhere on my person, you will know why. :)

The days of waiting

Holy Week ponderings:

It’s a day of waiting.
It seems to be intentionally placed;
between the horrors of Friday and the wonders of Sunday.
A day to grieve and to remember and to ponder.
It’s like the Lord sat His followers down lest they fight or flee;
Peter gave us a glimpse onto both of these paths
with the swinging sword
and the rooster’s crow.
A sabbath.
Rest up, He seemed to insist,
the real work is coming.

It’s a day of waiting.
My mind keeps wandering to Mary Magdalene.
I sit beside her with her wringing, wondering hands;
hands that had been redeemed for anointing and for honoring.
Mary wanted to be with her Lord;
in His life she had been by His side,
close enough to wipe His feet with her tears
and close enough to hear the whisper of His thirst.
In His death she resisted still the separation.
But the sabbath forced her feet to stay
when apart from Him is not where she longed
to linger.

It’s a day of waiting.
They had a promise, you know.
He told them what would be:
Death by crucifixion
and three days later
risen to new life.
Peter wouldn’t accepted it;
he rebuked the truth
and waged war on hands that bound and led away his Lord
to fulfill His purpose.
But sometimes it’s the times of waiting after the horrors of Friday
that dig out of us the faith
to hope in the promise of Sunday.

These intentionally placed days of waiting…
may we not waste them.

The earth and me

God is faithful to minister to me—often in odd and unexpected places—which is where I found myself today as I read Genesis 7–9 and quietly cried beside my daughter doing her distance learning. It is in these chapters that we recount the story of Noah and the flood. As I read the repeated phrases about the waters upon the earth and Noah’s place inside the ark, I found myself resonating with the story in a deeply moving way.

But it was not Noah whose place I felt, it was the earth.

I know what it is to be the earth, bearing broken things and their painful effects instead of living in the beauty of its intentioned design to flourish. I know what it is to be derailed and seemingly destined for desolate places as the flow of disparaging things shape, twist and destroy what could be. I know what it is to feel the “waters prevail and increase” and beat upon me, slowly and effectively laying waste all that wishes to thrive and grow.

But here’s the thing about the earth in Noah’s story: There were things living on the earth and in it that needed to die so that it could flourish; there were toxic, vile things that had made themselves at home and day after day increased death instead of life. And while the waters prevailing and increasing and remaining were shape-shifting and jarring and startling and confusing, the waters served their purpose to bring about the goodness that God desired: A new beginning.

Throughout the entirety of this story, the earth was not without promise: It rode upon the tops of the waves in the ark that housed the man who had found favor with God.

Why were the waters unable to utterly destroy the earth? Chapter 7 ends with “everything on the dry land is whose nostrils was the breath of life died.” By means of the raging waters, every living thing was “blotted out.” But chapter 8 starts with “But God remembered Noah…” God saw the full effects of the waters, and at His command, He stopped their movement forward in an instant. There are 2 words used to describe the waters coming in chapter 7, they are Rabah and Gabar, which basically mean “many” and “mighty.” But there are 6 different words used to describe what happens when the Lord remembers Noah and acts: these words are complex and full. They begin in verse 1 of chapter 8 with “the waters subsided” [Shakak—to decrease, to tend downward, to render unable]; and end in verse 11 with “the water dried up” [Charab—to be laid to waste, to be made desolate].

So these words and this story moved me this morning. I love that the waters that destroyed so effectively were rendered desolate by the Lord; I have often used this word to describe how I feel in the wake of my health. I love that the waters lost their power to progress and cause further harm. I love that even the crushing weight of the waters from inside and outside of the earth had no power to stop it from producing new life after all seemed lost. I love that even though God didn’t instantaneously remove the water from the earth after it had killed the things that needed to die, eventually the waters were laid to waste and the earth was able to bring forth good growth in accordance with God’s intended design.

And these things comfort me. They comfort me because right now I feel like the earth…and all I see above me are muddy waters, and all I feel within me is the stench of death and the pain of dying things…and I don’t know yet where I am in the process of reaching my new beginning, but I will choose to remember the smell of Spring, where the snow melts and the damp, dead things that were beneath it reveal themselves, and in that odd aroma of what was, the promise of what will be fills my mind with the hope of green grass, waving trees filled with leaves, and the vibrant colors of flowers taking over the now barren landscape.

Because here are some things that I know that I know:
God remembers His people.
God remembers His promises.
And God is always able to bring forth new life…even when we feel like the earth buried beneath endless waters.

Prolonged waiting

This morning my mind found its way to this poem I wrote way back in the day. It starts, "i know that You have not forgotten me..." and it speaks to the pain of a prolonged season of waiting.

How I long to wait well--exuding rock-solid faith--but I languish and waiver and cling. I lament that I don't display steadiness, I so often just display desperation; hands that threaten to let go, a heart that fights panic, feet that want to run to other means.

But today I thought that maybe faith isn't most clearly displayed through ROCK...maybe it's understood best through REMAINING; through fighting the urge to run, pushing back the doubts that threaten to derail, refusing the striving that seeks to usurp. 

 

Maybe faith is displayed most clearly by the revealing of rock; mined through the force of dislodging the unsteady pieces of self that hide and hinder.

Maybe faith is displayed most clearly when the crucible of life serves its painful, perfect purpose.

And for that, I am grateful. Because I may not yet be rock-solid, but my faith is in the One who is.

The lower shelf

I’m in the process of going through a “forgiveness journey,” venturing through the book Forgiving What You Can’t Forget by Lysa Terkheurst; it’s been an interesting trek as it has unveiled aspects of my life that have really caused me to limp in areas where I should stride.

The week I am in currently is looking into events or lessons that impacted my life in profound ways (for better or for worse). I find myself considering some things I picked up along the way and how they have affected my gate.

Over the last several years I have been gathering words to help me heal from the warped view I received of my femininity and worth; I was not certain I had dignity and struggled to maintain my humanity in the face of the objectification that stripped me of personhood. I grew up believing I was a second class human, destined for the cast offs of life, always just out of reach of what I truly wanted. And I adapted—human beings are incredible in their ability to adapt—I trained myself that though I was free to dream without limits, I was to stretch no higher than the lower shelf and to be content with what I found there.

This translates in some interesting ways as an adult in the Body of Christ. Do you want to know how I answered the question, “How have these events or perceptions affected what you believe about God?”? I wrote, “His best love and blessing are for others, and I am just grateful for the crumbs of grace. My hand doesn’t reach high enough.” I find that over the years I have battled these words, “It can cause me to stop seeking the desires laid on my heart because surely I’ve received all He’s willing to give someone like me.”

I walk out my faith in this tension: I KNOW the Lord’s generous, lavish love—it has landed upon me with such gentleness and such force that it was shaped me forever—and yet I never stop marveling at it. I am a book filled with innumerable testimonies that witness of God’s outlandish heart for me…and the reason I probably remember each of these markings so vividly is because they still surprise me every time.

I wrote this down in my journal as I process that, imagery to my place:

I see myself as a little girl
looking longingly at the festivities
of a party…
while clutching my invitation
in my grateful hand.
Longing to belong.
I’ve entered through the gate,
eager to celebrate,
but unable to shake
the outside from within.
Courage and faith
moved my feet to come,
but it is only the certainty of love
that will embolden me
to enter in.

I know there are no second tier citizens in the kingdom of God; He doesn’t set aside a group of people who He withholds His greatest blessings from; He doesn’t mark some of us as acceptable, but not accepted; He doesn’t plant the longing for all into the hearts of those intended only for some.

Ephesians 1:3–10 says “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with EVERY spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as HE CHOSE US in Him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before Him. IN LOVE He predestined us for adoption to Himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of His will, to the praise of His glorious grace, with which He has blessed us in the Beloved. In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, ACCORDING TO THE RICHES of His grace, which He LAVISHED upon us, in ALL wisdom and insight making known to us the mystery of His will, according to His purpose, which He set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in Him, things in heaven and things on earth.”

In Christ, I get EVERY blessing because IN LOVE He chose to LAVISH the RICHES of His grace on me. This is the truth. It’s the truth the overshadows the lies to which I have adapted. It’s the truth that speaks the better word than the voices that set me up to settle for the dust. It’s the truth that lifts my eyes to the heights and gives me the courage to stretch out my hand. I may have approached Jesus’ feet to wrap my desperate fingers around the crumbs of grace that fell from His table, but He didn’t leave me there; His hand reached down to pull me up and He gave me a chair so that I could partake of the fullness of His feast.

So today I look upon my mud-smattered image and praise the Lord that no matter how much dirt has gathered and hidden my perception of place in this life, I hold within my hand the blood-bought, Spirit-sealed invitation to enter in and partake with all believers of the greatness of His lavish love and glorious grace.

Shallow love

“Our problem is not our difference of opinions. It’s the shallowness of our love.” Francis Chan

I read those words today (and listened to the corresponding interview), and I have to say, my heart is weightily moved. Francis wasn’t looking around at culture and making an observation on the overarching secular scene; he was referring to the Church—evangelical Christians, people claiming the name of Christ and walking in ways that oppose His name. It makes me want to cry. Sincerely, I fight back tears as I write this.

How is it that we who claim to know what it is to be loved by the One True Living God—the God Who poured Himself out to redeem us even as we rebelled and turned our backs—how is it that our love lacks such depth? How is it that lives that claim to be touched and transformed by perfect love struggle and fail to show even the smallest portion of love to even our spiritual family? Shallow love. How can lives that have been touched by the deepest wells of love come up so utterly dry?

It’s Good Friday, nearing the end of this Holy Week; and I think the reason that this quote bowled my heart over in the way it did is because I find myself looking at a situation that is not only contradictory to reason, but troubling in its repercussions.

This day we look in our minds eye at our Savior hanging upon a cross: Innocent blood pours out of His rent body, flowing out of gaping wounds and around piercing nails; His holy, royal head hangs down upon his heavy, human chest; pressed into his smattered hair sits a crude crown of thorns—a far cry from the diadems of beauty that were made to adorn Him; His arms splay as His throat produces one last raspy sigh, “It is finished.”

Jesus was not murdered. Jesus laid down His life.

For Love’s sake.

“While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” He didn’t do it because we were worthy, well-deserving, lovely and lovable. He didn’t even do it because we asked. He did it because He is love and because He set His heart upon humanity—ugly, broken, sinful, wicked, wandering, rebellious, lost human beings.

We must not overlook this loving God. We must not forget this act of love we claim to have received, nor the heart of the One who acted on our behalf because a life lived in the wonder of this love will not remain shallow. It will not remain shallow because it has been saturated with love from the deepest of wells in the purest of ways; a love so real and so lovely that life springs up from the smallest drop and beauty emerges at the slightest touch.

So this good Friday, in this painful lament, I exhort you, brothers and sisters in Christ: Look upon the One whom we have pierced. Let His sacrifice rend your heart; if it has not ripped you open in sorrowful repentance then you have not lingered at the foot of the cross long enough to consider the deity of this Son of Man. Let our love for one another—the agape that is suppose to reveal Jesus to a longing world—begin in the utter humility of beholding God Himself die in our stead. Humility will not leave us in the shallowness of love; it is humility that leads us into the depths and propels us into the heights.

What a Savior. May we be a people whose love reflects His.

The Chasm and the Blood of Peace

I was in prayer the other night for our country, and my heart was drawn to the painful present overview of the response to the pandemic. As I prayed, I watched the land be split in two and the space grow between the 2 pieces of ground until a vast, bottomless chasm was left. In prayer, I saw on one side of the expanse the “haves”…the rich, the powerful, adults. And on the other, the “have nots”…the poor, the weak, children. As I watched the divide grow between the people, I looked at what was tearing them apart and separating them in such a grotesque way. Huge principalities of “fear,” “greed,” “pride” and “hatred” propelled the sides outward, and a call echoed throughout the divide, “Every man for himself!”

And as I looked upon the devastation of the “have nots” with even less, and the “haves” who had gathered more, I sat and wept before the Lord.

Eventually, I quietly, humbly asked Him, “What can heal such a divide?”

And He said, “The blood is the bridge.”
And He brought to mind this verse:

Colossians 1:19-20 (21-23)
“For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through Him to reconcile to Himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of His cross.”

There are ones who can bridge the divide…who can walk across the chasm as if on solid ground. They are the ones redeemed by the blood of Jesus.

Why the redeemed?
Two reasons:
1) They are at peace with the LORD.

I told Nathan the other day that the least appreciated piece of the armor of God we have received in Ephesians 6 are the shoes of readiness. They way I understand these shoes is different than I’ve ever heard anyone explain them, so I will try to articulate how I see them. Ephesians 6:15 says, “and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace.” The readiness given by the gospel of peace: What is this peace the gospel has given us? It has justified us before our righteous Judge; it has given us peace with the Father, through the work of Jesus so we can enter into the very presence of God, just as Adam and Eve did before the fall in the Garden of Eden. Because of the blood of Jesus, we are at peace with our Maker. Do you know how powerful a position that is? I hope you do. It’s like the apostle Paul is wrestling with in Philippians 1 where he’s setting life and death before him and stating simply, hey, both have their benefits for me, where God takes me doesn’t matter because for me, “To live is Christ, to die is gain.” When we are at peace the the Lord, the demands of life, the opinions of people, and the dividing factors of fear, greed, pride and hatred lose their power over us. By the grace of God, we redeemed sinners carry with us the call to die to self and live out the love of Jesus in the world around us…come what may. Romans 16:20 says, “The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet.” OUR feet.

Which leads us nicely into the second reason:

2) The redeemed carry with them the power of the blood to make whole.

Remember in Luke 4 when Jesus stood in the synagogue and read from the scroll of Isaiah (chapter 61), He read verses 1-2a and stopped abruptly with the declaration that Him standing there that very moment was a fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy.

It’s one of everyone’s favorite verses to quote, but they stop too soon. So Isaiah 61:1-4 says:
The Spirit of the Lord God is upon Me,
    because the Lord has anointed Me
to bring good news to the poor;
    He has sent Me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
    and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor, 

This is where Jesus stopped…declaring this portion was fulfilled in Him.

    and the day of vengeance of our God;
    to comfort all who mourn;
to grant to those who mourn in Zion—
    to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
    the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;
that they may be called oaks of righteousness,
    the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.

If you have been redeemed and raised up by the finished work of Jesus—brought from death to life—He has planted you as an oak of righteousness for His glory….and He has done it with PURPOSE!

We find that purpose in verse 4:

They shall build up the ancient ruins;
    they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
    the devastations of many generations.

At this moment, we stand in verse 4. Right now, through the Church AT THIS TIME, this verse is to be fulfilled.

We are to BUILD and RAISE UP and REPAIR. Looking out over this chasm, it is not the result of just the Pandemic…it is the result of ancient ruins and generations of devastation. We look upon the culmination of years of ruin and devastation; wickedness has taken it’s filthy hands and ripped apart the fabric of society and civility and dignity, it has celebrated the violence and violation of humanity because we are marked by the image of God, whom it detests.

The redeemed must rebuild upon the divide, because we carry the healing properties of the blood of Christ upon the white robes that cover our sin scarred bodies. Every place our feet tread should leave the mark of hope…the promise of possibility because we are the ones who KNOW the power of the blood…we’ve received the good news, our broken hearts have been bound up, we’ve been freed from the captivity of our side and released from our prison chains, we’ve been comforted, we’ve seen the Lord bring beauty from ashes, and praise from our fainting spirits…and we’ve known the utter glory and wonder of being made righteous by God Himself poured out for us.

And so, He says, Build up…raise up…repair. Because contrary to the call echoing across this charm of “every man for himself,” we do not seek self, we seek the eternal good of those around us, no matter which side of the divide they stand upon. We don’t have to bow to fear because He is with us; we don’t have to be consumed by greed when the One who provides for us has called us to pour ourselves out; we can humbly bear up under the disapproval of others because we’re at peace with the One who sees us clearly; we don’t have permission to hate because we are called to love with the greater love of Jesus that we have mercifully received.

The blood is the bridge. And if you are covered in the blood, you carry the materials for the bridge. So RISE UP, Church! Rise up and stand in the power of the God of Peace who will crush Satan under your feet.

A "Hallelujah" in Every Season

This morning I brought the Lord a “Hallelujah.”

I was thinking about a song I wrote a few years ago about how we bring to the Lord the fullness of this word—“Hallelujah”—in the different seasons of our life, and how it is drawn from different places within us, how it resonates with different nuances of whatever has flavored our moment, and that its honest tones relay a multitude of words that come up lacking beside it.

So this morning, as this song rolled through my mind, testifying of the complexities of the seasons I have walked through before and how this “Hallelujah” has reverberated from my heart in them, I gathered all the pieces of my current moment…the failures, the triumphs, the pains, the confusions, the impatience, the joy, the thanksgiving…and with no need to sort through it, I bound them up in this honest, simple word of praise—chock full of desire and understanding and complicated floundering—and directed it upwards to my Lord with an undivided heart.

And this beautiful God of mine received it, with all it held and all it lacked. I offered Him the honest praise from my current season, and He received it…just as it was. I wish I could explain to you what happens to my heart when I find myself accepted, again and again and again. And I also hope that I will never stop marveling at the Lord’s willingness to hold within His spotless hands a blemished lamb, who with honest, pleading wanting has simply turned its eyes toward Him.

Hallelujah.

The greater pain.

I spent a couple of hours weeping today...hour drives to and from allow time for that. I’ve been confronted with some deep wounds this season and am reminding myself continually that the Lord’s intention of revealing is always to bring healing. So I brace myself; letting the waves of pain crash over me instead of bolting away in fear.


Throughout my entire childhood, I was hurt by men claiming to bear the name of Jesus but displaying none of His goodness, and I am afraid that I blocked out things then that I don’t want to see today. These men have left marks across the core of my womanhood in such a way that as I stand back to look at them with new eyes, I see that there are parts of me that are truly mangled. I feel raw and vulnerable, and I ache in such a way that sometimes I feel like my shoulders are physically pulled down and inward.


It’s a different pain...a greater pain...than the pain inflicted on me by men outside of the Body of Christ. That pain is far more bearable than this, because this pain is twisted in such a way that the men who wielded their weapons wore masks labeled “God” so as to create confusion about who was causing my pain. And the hammers used to pound me down did not just land upon my body or my soul but also upon my spirit.


In my mind, I look upon a little girl alone in a desert. So small and so confused about her worth, her position and her pain. Silent tears slide down her face, over lips pressed together, no longer willing to cry out. Barren landscapes on every side show there is no escape, no end in sight. She stands still, facing the first colors of a sunrise, daring to hope that light is coming.


And one of the reasons I wept is because of those rays beginning to peek over the horizon. God is so gentle and wonderfully kind; in this season of revealed wounds, He has surrounded me with good, godly men to take part in healing the pieces of me that have been broken by their own. And I am grateful for this, because I have known wholeness to melt away the pain of what has been twisted simply by being present. And sometimes when past pain feels so physical, visible strength and presence make for the best environment to not just heal, but to cause the redeemed heart to flourish.


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"The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble bind on strength." 1 Samuel 2:4

Living in the Light

I have been thinking lately about how I often write about the church I was raised in on this blog; I do not use glowing terms when I reference it. The things I write about on here are mostly about spiritual things and the journey I’m walking with the Lord, and much of the refining work God has to do in me requires me to examine the messiness and uproot the deep lies or untwist the messages I retained about who He is and who I am. I share them because I’m unwilling to hide when freedom is found in the light. I also share them because many of my extended family are still in the cult that the church of my youth broke off of or have left and are carry wounds because of all the broken things they’ve gone through and I want them to know who God really is. And I share them because maybe...maybe someone will read what I write and they will believe the hope and healing and affection of God for them.

But sometimes I wonder if my words hurt the hearts of the people who taught me there or brought me there. And that makes me sad because when I think of them...ALL of them...I feel no resentment or anger or fear or ill-will. I choose to believe that they did the best they could with what they had, and as strange as that may appear to you reading this, that was enough to soften my heart many years ago. Also, if you’re reading this and you ARE still angry, resentful, hurt, fearful or any other painful emotion not listed here...I don’t blame you. Those are absolutely justifiable, understandable feelings to have--you were harmed and that has never been acceptable. The people who harmed you are accountable to God for what they have done, whether you forgive them or not. Also, I am so sorry for your wounds (I seriously have tears running down my face as I just wrote that because I've seen some of them).

I had a good childhood, I really did. I grew up on a farm and played outside for hours with my brothers. Yes, we had a lot of rules and things weren’t always glorious, but I had a family who loved me, parents who encouraged me, a mom who listened to me, and a dad who taught me how to do things like fix my car. I had every physical need provided for, built sweet relationships with my siblings, and I even had some opportunities to do things I enjoyed (like sing in the choir and public speaking). Some nuggets I still carry with me: “Embrace your weirdness” (i.e. You don’t have to follow the crowd). “Know what you believe and why you believe it” (i.e. Think for yourself). “You are capable. Anything my boys can do, my girls can do” (i.e. Here’s a power tool, enjoy).

And there is one vivid thing that I took with me from the church I was raise in that I am very grateful for and I want to share it with you. I was taught to revere God. God was presented to me as a holy, majestic, perfect, mighty Being who was SO far above me that I couldn’t even grasp the wonder of who He was because the plane that He resided upon was far too great to bear the likes of a sinner like me, that this God was just in His wrath toward me and I should do nothing but tremble before Him.

That’s what I remember being told about God (in harsher terms, and for the record, that is a VERY lopsided view of God). But honestly, that was a great gift. 

Because it is true that God is holy, majestic, perfect, mighty, just and angry at sin...

and when THAT God bends down and whispers His affection to you in the darkest pit of your life....when THAT God cups your face in His hands and lifts your head and pulls you close...when THAT God sits beside you while you sort through the harm you’ve done to others and the harm you’ve done to yourself and the harm done to you without even once cringing at your ugliness...when THAT God pours out Himself to heal your wounds and bring beauty from your ashes...when THAT God says to you, “You are Mine and I am yours”...

then you will never be the same.

"Death and life are in the power of the tongue..."

I’ve been processing through my insecurity with the Lord; it’s been a somewhat ugly journey so far...but sanctifying as I am intentionally leaving no stone I come upon unturned.

I came to the realization yesterday that I find myself facing a deep juxtaposition in regards to my voice. In one hand I see the opportunity to bring life and in the other, the fear of bringing death. When I hold these together, I become painfully paralyzed.

If you know me well or have heard my story, you’ve possibly heard testimony of my physical voice’s disappearance and return and what God did in the space between. I am very much indebted to the Lord to even have the ability TO speak. Since that point in my life, I have often held up my voice in wonder to the Lord asking, “You gave it back to me, how do You wish to use it?”

In one hand I hold a deep desire to be heard: I long for opportunities to testify and to teach; to encourage and to exhort; to bless and to prophecy; to proclaim Truth and freedom; and to impact the world for the glory of the Lord and for His kingdom.

And in the other, I hold a great fear of my voice: I am terrified that I will unintentionally deceive someone or discourage a fainting soul; I am petrified of misrepresenting and dishonoring the name of Jesus; I am afraid that I will say something that leads someone astray or that my opinions would speak louder than the Truth; I find the idea of my voice adding to the destruction of another’s soul utterly unbearable.

Because “death and life are in the power of the tongue,” (Proverbs 18:21a) and I know what death from the tongue feels like--both to receive and to give. As I look over my past, both the desire and the fear are no surprise.

I didn’t really get a voice growing up; I’m female, in the context of the church I was raised in, that meant I was born into a position of silence. I also was a pretty strong people-pleaser, so I mostly quietly stayed within the bounds I was given. I was told what to think, what to wear, what to do and what not to do. My voice was usually downed out or cut off.

And I was told a lot of things in the name of Jesus: I was fed twisted theology under the guise of truth and beat into compliance to the rules of men with pieces of God’s word. I was manipulated with fear, and presented an image of the Lord that was so lopsided it is a wonder I ever learned to trust Him. My honest questions were met with condemnation and I was deceived by the ones who claimed all others would deceive me. And until I became a believer in Jesus, I used my tongue in the ways I had learned; controlling my environment and the people around me with my words and manipulative tactics (in case you were wondering, yes, my first journey of repentance when I became a believer was a long and painful one).

But I am not who I was, I am redeemed by the pure blood of Jesus and there are 14 years of sanctification and learning behind me. I am sitting now praying that the Lord would help me discern between healthy fear and unhealthy fear. Because the former will secure me humbly at the feet of the Lord, intentionally submitting all I say to Him, while the latter will paralyze and silence me, rendering me ineffective for the Kingdom. I must learn to speak in my new life with confidence, secure in the Lord’s hands. I must not doubt that the One who calls me to stand and speak will protect my voice and respond to the deep desire of my heart to honor Him and not myself. Because He’s a good Father and He does not send us out to succeed or fail on our own; He empowers, equips and upholds us in the work He has for us to do.

I need to trust Him, friends. I need to wrap myself in the security of my identity in Him and not waver. And sometimes that's a hard thing to do because I must look my fear directly in the eye and remain there until it flees amid the assurance and presence of His unfailing love for me. 

So that is where I find myself in this journey; bowed down at the Mercy Seat with my fear laid out before me.

Insecurity and Impending Freedom

I’ve been feeling really insecure lately. This is unusual for me; I have found that if I know where and how I stand before the Lord, the things around me that could have the capacity to make me feel insecure lose their power to press me down. So I have been eager to identify the source of my faltering and to reposition myself on the Rock that doesn’t waver when I do.

I started reading a book the other day about freedom in Christ, and felt the urge to stop and share with you my insecurity. It’s something I have struggled with off and on for years, and perhaps now--if I will let Him--God wants to uproot the lies that feed it once and for all.

I am a very intense person; I feel things deeply, I process things deeply, I articulate things deeply (and oddly...sometimes everything comes out in the form of poetry because, let's be honest, I’m sort of weird), and I have no qualms about sharing openly all the things I am walking through AS I am walking through them whether they are good, bad or terribly ugly. For better or for worse, that is how I am built. Correction: All but the last one fall into the category of "how I’m built," the last one showed up after I started following Jesus.

My biggest insecurity is that I overwhelm people...like an unwelcome hurricane crashing into a coffee drinker while they are relaxing on their peaceful patio, or a massive gust of wind rushing on an unsuspecting picnicker just wanting to take in some fresh air. As I just wrote them, I notice that these analogies both produce the same result: Their nature and presence push away the things they meet.

So when I go through seasons of being bombarded by this insecurity, I find that I shut up, and I shrink down, and I withhold my thoughts and myself because of my assumptions of how I will be received.

I think somewhere at the core of my fear is the familiar pain of being alone. I grew up alone; the environment I was raised in was super exclusive, I was very cut off from people and developed an identity of being a misfit in the world around me. No place to belong, no people to belong with. When I discovered fellowship in the Body of Christ, I delighted in it like no one else I have ever met...I grabbed ahold of it SO hard that the lies that could have kept me from it didn’t stand a chance at holding me back. And when I learned how to build friendships in my mid 20s, I relished the privilege of walking through life with others; shoulder-to-shoulder, learning from each other, helping each other, weathering life in the intimacy of the highs and lows we encountered. I love people; I love getting to know who they are and how they are built and what makes them tick. I love watching them change and grow and remain. I love discovering their unique quirks and getting to understand them. I love learning from them and getting to glean from their presence and purpose in the world. I love connecting to and with people from any age or walk or place.

All that to say, I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to return to the loneliness of my past. I don’t want to miss out on the people around me (because let’s be honest, people are the most important thing in this world). And so, when my insecurity rears its ugly head, it holds a lot of power over me because it calls out to me that the cost of my voice and my presence and my nature is too much...it will simply push away the opportunity for relationship or fellowship. And I find myself back in the familiar (yet painfully uncomfortable place) of being an observer of life, not a participant.

So there it is. I haven’t processed and prayed my way out of this and into freedom yet, but step one is to bring it into the light, right? I hope I will get to share with you the end of this journey, not just the beginning. :)

The Angels Response

The girls and I have been going through a scripture reading plan this advent season called God With Us. We’ve looked at things like the promise of His coming and reason for His coming; this last section leading up to Christmas Day is surrounding the response to His coming. We’ve looked at Mary’s response (“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior...” Luke 1:46–47) and at the shepherds’ response (“And they went with haste and found the baby...they made known the saying that had been told them concerning the child...the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God...” Luke 2:8–20).

Today we looked at the angels’ response. I don’t think I have ever really sat down and considered specifically how the angels responded to God coming to earth and becoming human. What a striking meditation, and I wanted to share with you some of my thoughts.

The angels had a very unique perspective: They knew the glory of God; they had seen Him face-to-face and actively live to work out His will--They knew His holiness, His power, His beauty, His wrath, His love, His worth...His undeniable deity. And they also knew humanity’s lack of all of the above; they saw our rebellion against God, our hatred for His ways, our denial of His being. They saw the vastness of the gap between God and man.

And then they watched as the One True Living God stepped across this vast chasm and became a man to save us.

And for the first time, He was "made a little lower than the heavenly beings." (Psalm 8:5)
 
It says at the proclamation of His birth in Luke 2:13, “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God...” And today as I considered this unique view they held I wondered if perhaps their understanding of the utter depth of the love and meekness and wonder of God opened up to them in an astounding way; if perhaps they had awaited with utter curiosity and awe to see what the fulfilling of this promise they had had the privilege of delivering to Mary would look like; and if perhaps before the songs of praise rang out, there was a gasp.

I bet the worship burst out of them with greater force than it does in Psalm 29:9.

I can think of no greater messengers to bring the good news to humanity.

Perfect Love Casts Out Fear: Part 3

I have found that pregnancy after a miscarriage has some unexpected twists; for example, my heart cringes every time this child is referred to as Baby #4. It took me a month longer to realize that I was pregnant with this child than with the others; it never dawned on me because I’ve been praying for another baby for two years and my body had failed in many ways that made it impossible. When I found out I was pregnant, I freaked out. Not because I wasn’t overjoyed (I was and AM), but because after I lost my last baby, I distinctly declared this statement as true about myself, “A baby put in this body will die.” My pregnancy with Evelyn scared me; it was a day-to-day assessment to determine if it was more dangerous for me to remain pregnant or to deliver a premature child into the world. And when she was finally born, the tiniest thing I’d ever held, I wept with relief that she was ok in spite of the fact that my blood pressure was slowly killing the placenta that was suppose to be sustaining and nurturing her.

I don’t think it was unreasonable to freak out. I have been waiting for 2 years for the Lord to heal my body, and I had assumed He would heal it before He put a baby in it. But He didn’t...so the same body that put Evelyn’s life in the balance and was unable to carry Theo, that body now houses a new child.

So I went and stood before the Lord and I told Him all my fears. I praised Him because I was excited, and I wondered at His curious ways, and I told Him I was confused and afraid and I didn’t know what to do about my medication or my emotions. And He listened.

He didn’t tell me what to do, or why He did things the way He did, or when He was going to heal my body...nor did He rebuke my fear. Instead He told me two things: He told me WHO He is and He gave me a hope to hang onto. He said something along these lines (this I will paraphrase), “I am the Creator and Sustainer of Life. This child’s wellbeing does not depend on your body’s performance, it depends entirely on Me.” And He also said (and this is not a paraphrase), “This child is for your joy, not your sorrow.”

And that has proven to be enough.

All the fears I walked into this pregnancy with flee before this truth--God is the creator and sustainer of life--and this promise--this child is for my joy, not my sorrow. The fear that my body could not sustain this baby fled at His words to me; the fear that my body had failed again when I started bleeding at 9 weeks--and again at 17 weeks--fled when I reminded myself of this truth and promise; the fear of heartbreaking disappointment fled with this permission to be excited; the fear that should have swelled up in me when my doctor listed off all the dangerous things she was anticipating could happen during this pregnancy could not take root in my mind; the fears that should understandably roll through my mind cannot gain momentum...and the whole things leaves me marveling at the work God has done in me over this season I am leaving. He has opened up new depth and understanding of His perfect love for me, and the result is shown in the fruit my life now bears: I have been fearless in this pregnancy. And any of you who know me well know this is no small miraculous work of God.

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1 John 4:10,16,18,19
In this is love, not that we have loved God but that He loved us and sent His son to be the propitiation for our sins...So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him...There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear...We love because He first loved us.

Perfect Love Casts Out Fear: Part 2

1 John 4:10,16,18,19
In this is love, not that we have loved God but that He loved us and sent His son to be the propitiation for our sins...So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him...There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear...We love because He first loved us.

“To know and to believe the love that God has for us.”
This phrase struck me pretty hard when I read it today. I had ventured into 1 John 4 to see the passage that contained the phrase, “Perfect love casts out fear,” and found this sentence to be vitally descriptive of how I was brought to the place where I allowed Perfect Love to cast out my fear.

It is one thing to know the love of God...it is another thing all-together to BELIEVE that love for ourselves. I can pray 10,000 prayers for any person with utter confidence of the Lord’s heart for them (no matter where they stand or what they have/haven’t done), I can believe with full assurance for others with ease (no matter the impossibility of the situation). But the Lord brought to my attention a good 8 years ago my hesitation to trust His heart for me.

I’ve been on a strange healing journey over the last 2 years...arguably, it probably started with this moment with the Lord eight years ago: I was reading in John 5 the story of the man at the Pool of Bethesda. I had read it many times before, I had marveled at the interaction the Lord had with him: He had been sick for 38 years, and Jesus walked up to him and asked him, “Do you want to be healed?” Before this time, I had always thought, “What a weird question; OF COURSE he wants to be healed.” But the man doesn’t say, “Yes.” Instead he tells Jesus why it isn’t possible. As I read this story on this particular day, I felt like Jesus stood in front of me, looked me in the eye and said, “Do you want to be healed?”

And I did not say, “Yes.” Even though I wanted to be healed, I hesitated. And as I considered why this was, I had to own up to this fact: While I did not doubt God’s ability to heal me, I doubted His heart for me. An ugly reality I had to face. And folks, I am clearly not a fast learner...it took me SIX years to trust the Lord enough to ask Him to heal me.

I was considering how I got there. What brought me to a place where I knew AND believed the love God has for me? While there are probably a zillion factors that play into this, I am going to tell you what happened to me in this season I am leaving.

My brother Noah died in August of 2012. It was a startling and costly blow to my family and my heart. It cast me into a valley that I trudged through for two long years; many days were spent simply curled up in a heap of sorrow because I had no strength to stand. From the moment of the phone call, I wrapped my arms around the Lord and dug my fingers into His sides; clinging lest I lose my grip on the One thing that I was certain of.

Grief is a complicated beast: You can’t speed it up or slow it down, it just comes as it will and you deal with the waves as they crash into you, wading through the aftermath of your losses. But the Lord was with me, and His gentleness surprised me and overwhelmed me as I encountered it again and again. Because that grip I had when I was thrust onto the path of grief, the embrace that allowed me to feel secure with the Lord, it failed; my fingers were not strong enough and my arms atrophied.

But in a place of utter weakness, where I had nothing within myself to keep me, no strength to hold myself up; no zeal to remain...in THAT place I was kept, I was upheld, I was encompassed in the holistic embrace of the Lord. He was so gentle in my failings, utterly compassionate in the place I lay; He did not condemn me that I had nothing to offer Him, no courage to reach out. Instead, He seized the opportunity of my stillness and chose to display His love for me in a way that I had never known. I simply received it; unmerited, indescribable, surprising and precise affection. And it changed me forever.

And while I am sure it was not the only thing that swayed me in the direction of trust, it is the most vibrant one I see as I ponder my season, and I am overwhelmingly thankful.

“To know and to believe the love that God has for us.” There is such security there. I wish I had the words to tell you.

Perfect Love Casts Out Fear: Part 1

Changes of seasons lead me to places of introspection; of consideration of the season that is passing to understand what I bring with me into the one I will enter. I really do believe that some of the sweetest times I have with the Lord are as seasons close--no matter how sweet or how bitter--because inevitably when I look, I see His hand, His wisdom, His kindness, His love, His care for me; I see the ways He has honed and shaped and sifted and faithfully worked so meticulously to sanctify and grow me; I see what He has done. And all of this pondering inevitably leads me to sit down and write...the completion of understanding and the springboard to testifying.

So here I am. Sitting in front of a keyboard finally, prepared to put into words why this phrase sums up the last 4 years: “Perfect love casts out fear.”

The Lord brought me a mentor and she has been a great gift to me. One of the things that stands out to me in our conversations is that as she sees me from the outside, she points out things I can’t see...to her, it is vibrantly miraculous when and where I stand without fear.

I was raised in fear; it was pounded into me from the pulpit, it was used to manipulate and control me. I was an easy target, as I wore my emotions on my sleeve and my little heart desired to please. To find and to feed my fears wasn’t difficult, it resulted in me seeking to regain control: Before I knew Jesus, one of the few things I found was able to subdue my fears was to control my environment and do things on your own terms. Fear caused me to control and to distrust.

Then I met Jesus, and I found verses in scripture that told me things like, “Cast my fears upon the Lord for He cares for you,” and “I sought the Lord, and he answered me and delivered me from all my fears.” And my life changed. I gave up my need to control my fears and simply threw them at the cross.

And then I walked with Jesus for years, and I found verses in scripture that told me more things like, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me,” and “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?...Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war arise against me, yet I will be confident.” And my life changed again. I found that I didn’t need to pick of my fears to cast them, that instead they simply dispelled in the presence of the Lord.

And then I kept walking with Jesus for more years; I walked with Him through season after season; through the losses, the joys, the failures, the triumphs, the pains, the afflictions, the trials, the glories of my life. Day in and day out, He has been with me in my moments and He showed me verses in scripture that said things like, “The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent,” “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness,” and “I will protect him, because he knows My name.” And my life changed again. I found that there is peace that transcends life’s circumstances, peace that does not give way to the things that should cause me to fear because it stems from a source that is unchanging and unhindered and unswayed by the enormity of my need, the limitations I hold and weaknesses I carry. I have found myself in such a place of security in the hands of the Lord that fear doesn’t arise where it has a thousand times before even if there are a thousand very real reasons to. And though I have always said that I am fearful by nature, I find myself now trying to wrap my mind around the fact that the Lord can change a person’s nature.

I keep finding myself wondering, “Where is my fear?”
I am standing on unfamiliar ground, marveling at what has happened to my heart.
I do not know where my fear has gone, but I DO know that it is the perfect love of the Lord that has cast it out.

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1 John 4:10,16,18,19
"In this is love, not that we have loved God but that He loved us and sent His son to be the propitiation for our sins...So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him...There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear...We love because He first loved us."

fearfully and wonderfully made

Psalm 139:14a “I praise You for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

I’ve heard a lot of thoughts on what this verse means--though considerably less on the “fearful” than on the “wonderful.” I think the explanation that has stood out to me the most was one I heard during a podcast by Ravi Zacharias on a fairly unrelated topic; he gave equal attention to both of these words and his explanation was profoundly simple. When I heard it, I tucked it away in my "box of pearls." Ravi explained this verse something like this: We are fearfully and wonderfully made; the care and complexities of a body’s ability and design to function is utterly filled with wonder...and yet, the reality that the smallest of organisms, unseen by the human eye, can take it out makes it equally fearful.

If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you’ve most likely heard me talk about Psalm 139; it is the first passage of scripture that I memorized by choice after becoming a believer. Over the last 12 years the Lord has brought me back to it at deep, identity-shifting times; it is as though I am tethered by its stability and no matter where life moves me, I cannot go beyond its reach. The Lord brought me to this passage the other day, and it has had a profound impact on my heart. I am going to attempt to tell you about it.

I have found myself in a pivotal place because I have a question. The way I answer this weighty question has the power to determine my future perception of my life and whether I will walk in it as a whole person or a divided person. It is deeply important that I take the time to answer the question that the Lord has graciously bought completely into the light (I know I have bumped into it before) and to the forefront of my mind:

Of what value is my body?

We are, when whole and undivided, at peace in body, soul and spirit. I have never doubted the Lord’s care for nor the importance of the soul or the spirit, but when it comes to the body, I have wrestled continually with questions of the Lord's care for and the value of my body. I do believe that scripture would say that, “Yes, He does care about the physical body.” However, it is more important that the soul and spirit are healthy than that the body is. So while I have answered portions of my quandary, I am still left with this question that I have to resolve because if I do not, I will continue to walk through this life as a divided person, unable to usher others into wholeness, because I have been unable to reconcile my body with myself.

So a couple of days ago I brought this question before my Creator. I sat down with Him and His word and asked Him to show me one way or another: Does MY physical body have any value?

You might think this is a silly question (I probably ask a lot of those), but as someone who has spent her entire adult life battling chronic health issues and discovered that her coping mechanism is to completely dissociate with her physical body, as someone who grew up being told and shown that this body was just a shell carrying us from this life to another, as someone who learned to see the beauty in humans that has nothing to do with their outward appearance while being shaped by the lives of her handicap brothers, this question would more fittingly be described as tragically honest because I just turned 35-years-old last week and I hate my body--it has failed me 10,000 times, it has wreaked more havoc on me than any other thing, at times it has felt like pure torture to be connected to it. And that breaks my heart, because it is 1/3 of myself, and I have basically been in a civil war for years and the casualties have added up.

I opened my bible to Genesis, and began at the creation of man. I heard the purposeful decision in the Lord’s voice as I read “Let Us make man in Our image, after Our likeness.” (Gen 1:26–28) I wondered at Yahweh’s hands personally forming the first human out of the dust and imagined what it must have looked like when He breathed His own breath into this creation so that it shared in His life for the first time. (Gen 2:7) I found purpose for this creation of body being “formed” and “made” in the book of Isaiah: To bring glory to the Lord (43:7), to declare praise (43:21) and to be His servant (49:5). And then the Lord brought Psalm 139:13–16 to mind, and when I read the words of verse 14, tears filled my eyes and I knew, “There it is.” These 10 words hold within themselves the answer to whether my broken body has value and purpose: It is not just in the perfection of a body adhering to its design to function that displays the mighty work of the Lord, mercifully it is also in the body’s utter frailty and fallibility that the might and wonder of the Lord is seen.

It is only in the fearful wonder of the careful Designer’s mighty and meek hands that I will find the ability to reconcile my whole person.

And the fact that the answer to my question is “yes” and that this is accompanied with the promise that the pursuit for wholeness will end in victory, I find myself repositioned onto a path of hope and peace.