Lessons from Hope Spoken: 13 things

It's been two weeks since Hope Spoken and on social media, it's clear the messages all of us took away are still percolating in hearts. I was just looking through my notes from the weekend. Not notes I took during the weekend, but ones I scribbled down in an attempt to catch some of the overflow of my brimming heart on the plane home Sunday night.

In the terminal, I felt the swelling of words and feelings about the weekend but my laptop was tucked safely in my checked luggage and I had no journal or notepad. I tried to purchase some form of paper in three gifts shops and when that failed, I asked one cashier if she had a printer from which I could have a couple sheets. No printer either. But a kind man with a briefcase, waiting to pay for a bag of chips, overheard my request and offered to tear a few pages of the yellow lined variety out of his Steno pad for me.

I started hastily spilling out my thoughts as soon as I was seated on the plane. It was a late flight, one of the hazards of living in a state to where few people want to fly, and when the cabin lights were shut off, my seat neighbor, an executive from the U.K. who related his decade long dream to ski in Montana, pressed the button on the ceiling to turn my light on for me.

I scribbled and scribbled until my British friend raised his eyebrows and made a comment on how unusual it was to see someone writing with a pen and paper these days. It's exactly why my handwriting is so messy; I'm horribly out of practice. Writing with a pen and paper for me feels like trying to fill a gas tank with an eyedropper. But my choices were to write, or risk losing much of the memories and emotions from the weekend.

And since it's the 13th (or was last night when I wrote this), I thought I'd share 13 observations collected from those notes that sort of sum up the weekend in my memory.

1. There is a difference between deeply admiring people with faith and actually having it yourself. I don't just want to spectate a life of faith in others. I want to learn from them and grow in faith myself. 

2. There is always someone from whom you can learn, and always someone you are able to teach. God often gives us roles to be a teacher and a student at the same time. I think that's cool.

3. Having close friends with whom you can share your faith (living in community) is not an optional part of the Christian life, and I think we sometimes treat it that way. The functions and benefits of Godly friendship are countless and crucial and so worth the investment. So many times, I've found that God chooses to speak first through those individuals.  

4. Acidy, caffeinated drinks are a bad choice before public speaking. Unless you want to feel even more nauseous and jittery than you already do.

5. Just because you're not a speaker doesn't mean God won't call you to speak.

6. Just because you're not a speaker doesn't mean God can't or won't powerfully use your story when you speak it. The power of it, once you speak it, is relative to and assigned by Him, not you.

7. In order to share your story, you need to understand first that you have one.

8. After you understand you have one, you need to re-understand that actually, it's God's story, not yours.

9. Third, sharing your story requires discerning of when to share it and to whom. It is not meant for all times and for all people, but it is absolutely needed for some time and for someone.

10. Leading/shepherding a small group of women was not as hard as I expected. I suspect love is the only fuel needed.

11. Shame and condemnation from the enemy is a huge and very real problem among women, one that we don't like to talk about. I wrote lots about that in my last post.

12. People behind blogs and social media accounts are people in need of compassion and grace. They (we) are full of troubles, full of need, full of life, struggle, sin, shame, confusion, passion, worship, sincerity, friendship, love, generosity, brokenness, bravery, and absolute beauty.

13. It would have been a disaster for me if God had not shown up and put His words in my mouth and His spirit in my heart both behind that podium and the rest of the weekend.

I prayed and prayed for #13 to take place, for God to show up for me and speak through me at Hope Spoken. I knew a lot of other people who were praying the same. God answered those prayers with a resounding Yes. He said, "I'm not going to leave you hanging when you step behind that podium. I will not leave your side."

I wonder how my every day would be different if I depended on Him that much for my daily life. If I never once slipped into the "I got this," mode. If I never once presumed I knew what to say already.

All these lessons, all these truths that rose to the surface over the course of that weekend are things I want to hold close. Particularly #13. Because I know what a disaster day feels like. I know I can become one in 5 seconds if I am not rooted and grounded, and understanding how utterly dependent on God I am. Every hour I need Him.

I'm looking forward to this holy week of resting in His promises; He has forgiven my disasters, broken the chains of my shame, and redeemed my seasons of faithlessness . And I will be celebrating that those acts came at very high cost.

Mercifully, one I didn't have to pay.  

Lessons from Hope Spoken: We all hide

There has never been a single human alive who has not tried to hide. 

Adam and Eve were first. Their enemy lied to them and led them into sin. And as he planned from the start, he seized the moment they fell, quickly pounded them with shame, and pushed them out of the open spaces in the garden they had enjoyed with God and back into the darkness of the bushes. They felt exposed and ashamed. Their relationship with the Holy One suffered it's first break.

At Hope Spoken a couple weekends ago, I was reminded of this: we all try to hide. We all feel bludgeoned by shame and regress into hiding so that others won't see.

But this miraculous thing happened within our small group time. Between Friday night and Sunday morning, our circle of 10 strangers moved together into the open spaces to enjoy God. It was as if we held hands (though we never actually did) and walked into the light as one, praying, sharing, and breathing in grace all around. It takes my breath away to think about the work God did.

Real healing and trust and faith grew there, in that circle. I witnessed it. Women reminded women that they were loved and forgiven and accepted and beautiful. Real and crippling fears began to crack and crumble a bit. Lies began to be chopped down by the ax of Christ-centered fellowship. And one person's courage encouraged the next to muster the same. Oh, how I underestimate the power of Jesus working in a small group of His people, even if all have only a mustard seed of faith to offer. Friends, it's no small thing.

As I reflect now on that sacred time, I can think about certain people who held back for a while, not ready to come out. Most people would have thought, "Oh that person is just shy, or not comfortable sharing with a group." But I wonder now, were they just shy, or were they bound up with lies? Were they so bludgeoned by shame that their faith-legs couldn't walk them into the light of the open spaces? Were they possibly even living in this state of defeat all the time?

I've been in those bushes before. You have too. We both know what it feels like and looks like to be defeated and distant from God and the truth. We both know how sin ravages our hearts and hurls rocks into the windows of our souls, breaking relationships, pushing us into hiding, leaving us feeling exposed.

The worst part is the lies. They don't ever seem to relent, when we hang out in the bushes. I had two women tell me that they had severely accusatory "thoughts" before signing up for Hope Spoken. They heard these kinds of things:

You don't deserve to go to that.
What do YOU have to offer anyone?
Who do you think you are?
Why would you want to do something so stupid?
No one will understand you.

And then others shared these kinds of things:

You can't actually tell anyone that.
You are a lost cause.
You such a hypocrite.
You don't deserve forgiveness. 
It's just too much.
And you call yourself a Christian? You even serve at church?
What a fake.

Relentless. Lies. It angered me with a righteous anger when I heard these things, firstly because I knew God's girls - the daughters of the King of Kings - were being assaulted. I wonder how many women chose NOT to push through the lies; how many women never signed up and stayed home? And secondly, I realized that the enemy lies to us ALL. It is not just a select few who really screw up. It is every single one of us, because we are all human. We all make mistakes, and we are all threatening to the cause of the enemy. He will do whatever he can to keep us in the dark, away from God and others. Whatever he can.

I'm not just sharing this in analysis of Hope Spoken. I'm hoping you can internalize this for yourself as well. We are all being lied to, we are all being shamed into the dark corners, away from God, away from others. And everyone thinks she is the only one.

Bringing all that out into the open spaces, the light of truth, is the first step in breaking the power of lies over us. I've lived this supernatural equation more than once. Choose one friend. Join a small group through your church. Confide in your husband. Pick an open space where you know truth and safety will find you. And speak it.

The women in my small group were so exceptionally brave. I'm in awe of their courage. And friends, breaking the power of shame and lies in our life takes courage. And then it takes Jesus. He does all the rest. We simply have to trust Him to cover us with His blood, His forgiveness, His grace, and His perfect robe of righteousness as we bolt out of the bushes and into the open spaces where He stands waiting.

And oh, let's be praying for our sisters, in the name of Jesus, that the mouths of the liars would be stopped, and that the enemy would be conquered in the lives of God's daughters, one day at a time.


For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
Ephesians 6:12 (read this whole passage, it's so good)

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light
Ephesians 5:8

(a great list of 25 more verses on light and darkness can be found here.)

Lessons from Hope Spoken: I don't have enough

 

 

Before Hope Spoken last weekend, I had never read the blog Flower Patch Farmgirl. Shannan Martin writes over there. I had always heard of her 'around town'; I knew her blog was popular and I guessed she was a lovely person, as are so many bloggers in the community. But since I'd probably be unable to cover all the good blogs in my lifetime, Shannan's was one I simply never got around to reading. So when I personally met her last Friday morning at Casey's house for the speaker luncheon, I was intrigued by her and wanted to know more.

When I hear "flower patch" and "farm girl," I imagine a girl who lives on a farm and skips down dirt roads with daisies in her hair, carrying a basket of berries. But despite her love for gingham, Shannan was so different from the Dorothy in Kansas character I expected. First of all, she lives in the city. She is quite tall and poised, with a lower-pitched voice like mine and a calm sincerity when she asks you questions. She's intelligent, and the type of woman you know is not just a bright person, but who is layered with fortitude of character. She's worked in politics and has a passion for loving the unloved in society. But she is also so humble that she'll plainly tell you her life has been a work wrought by God through years of struggle.

I attended her break-out session and she spoke of daring love, costly love, and allowing God to make you small. Trading your own sense of importance for His. Downsizing not only in material goods, but in position as well.

And in one of the most profound moments of the weekend for me, she redefined the story of Jesus feeding the 4,000. She brought up something that I've never considered, though I am so familiar with the story it threatens to feel stale. Jesus had a problem: 4,000 men (if you accounted for women and children, the number might be as high as 10,000) had been listening to Him preach for three days. They were very hungry and more than likely, He surmises, couldn't make the long walk home without fainting. You know the rest. Jesus takes a few loaves from the disciples and miraculously multiplies the small amount of food they have in order to generously feed the entire crowd with baskets to spare.

But God spoke to me when Shannan pointed this out: Jesus could have turned all the stones into bread to feed the people. He could have rained bread down from heaven. He could have done whatever sort of miracle He wanted to feed the people. But instead, He chose to ask the disciples, "How much do you have?"

I realize in the past I've assumed it was as if Jesus was at a loss in this scene. Like, He had to ask these guys for help.  I forget that He is Lord Almighty. I start to think Jesus is just like me, trying to problem-solve by phoning a friend. But no. He knows what He is doing; He is not caught off guard by the deficits. And He is making a choice to involve us in His miracles. He knows the disciples don't have enough, but He wants their offering anyway. He will make it enough, but they have to offer first.

Friends, this is a profound lesson. Jesus and I often sit staring together at a problem. Let's say it's a problem in a friendship or with my husband or in our finances. Jesus could rain down bread. Of course He could. And sometimes, He does.

But much more often, He turns to me and says, "How much do you have?" I say, "Well, that's obvious, Jesus. I don't have enough for this. Not even close." He knows I don't have enough. He knows I may look at him with raised eyebrows. He knows that my heart sustains seeds of doubt. The question is whether or not I will take my chunk of bread, my measly offering worth next to nothing, and hand it to Him anyway.

The question is whether or not I have faith that He will make it enough.

I believed Him this past weekend. I spoke, and offered Jesus my measly chunk of bread by sharing my story in a break-out session. I'm certain He multiplied its value and spread it around and made it enough. But I question myself in parenting and in relationships and in so many other areas. I often question whether I have something to offer Jesus at all.

Friends, it's such good news. He knows you don't have much to offer. And that's the point. If you could feed 10,000 people yourself, you wouldn't need a Savior and He wouldn't get the glory. So He's given you a measly chunk of something that seems to be worth next to nothing. Yes, you need more. It's laughable how much more you need to solve the problems around you. But you do have something to offer. And He's asking you for it.

Today.


{to read the Bible story yourself, it is recorded twice, both in Mark 8:1-9 and Matthew 15:32-39.}

Why you may need to stop working for God

I can't get this conversation out of my head. It's from Matthew, chapter 16 and my Bible study touched on it a couple weeks ago. Here's my paraphrase.

Jesus: Who do people say I am?
Peter (still Simon at this point): Well, some people say John the Baptist, some say Elijah, some say a prophet...
Jesus: Actually, what I'm more interested in is who YOU say that I am.
Peter: You are the Messiah, the son of the living God.
Jesus: Yep, and you're blessed to know this. God in heaven is the one who has revealed this to you. And now, I'm renaming you Peter which means 'rock'. I'm going to use you to build my church and you'll have great power to release my will on this earth.

There is a specific order here that I keep pondering. Look at these four steps:

1. Jesus presses Peter for a choice.
2. Peter correctly identifies Jesus.
3. Jesus redefines who Peter is (literally renaming him).
4. Jesus gives him a mission and purpose.

Here's what I'm learning, a confirmation of something said at church a few weeks ago:

God will never tell you what to do before He tells you who you are.

If you let it sink it, it's a radical statement. It rubs against our very performance-oriented natures. Our instinct is to see our religion, our righteousness as defined by doing, effort, productivity. We are great at working for God, secretly believing we are earning something from Him. That's just what makes sense to us. We believe that the Bible is a book of rules and our biggest job is to follow them.

And even more, we are so quick to ask Him to give us a mission and a purpose before we have ever listened to Him tell us who we are. I have prayed countless times for Him to increase my ministry or bless my mothering or use me in "divine appointments" regularly. But I don't think I've ever once prayed for Him to tell me who I am. I don't remember the last time I asked God to show me what He sees in me, to root my identity more deeply in Him and His view of me.

I guess it's because I think I know who I am already. I'm not aware of how badly I need Jesus to redefine me. The attitude reminds me of my children, how they feel quite certain they are already complete. I know in my brain that I'm not complete. Yet I am never aware of struggling with identity.

Peter doesn't ask either. Jesus just gives, because He sees his need to be redefined. He sees the lies to which we grip that mar our identities. He sees exactly how to prune our false beliefs about ourselves. I would bet a dollar that Peter felt weak, ineffective, and insubstantial, and so Jesus calls him ROCK, a name to shock awake and demolish the misconceptions Peter held inside.  

I think, too, of the woman caught in adultery (from John 8). She is literally dragged through the streets and no doubt called horrible names by the community and her accusers. Whore. Slut. Witch. Temptress. I'm sure the culture back then had a whole host of curse words to describe a woman such as she. But Jesus, this unexpected Savior, follows the same pattern as with Peter: redefinition followed by instruction.

He asks her where her accusers are (after He convicts them of their own sin and causes them to leave), and says, "Aren't any of them going to condemn you?" When she says, "No, Lord," he replies, "And neither do I. Go and sin no more."

While she is probably covered in more lewd names than actual clothing, Jesus breaks in and does not even address her bad choices until He makes it clear how He sees her. In so many words, He calls her Accepted. Forgiven. Loved. And only then does he address her behavior.

So why do we expect Jesus to call us out as soon as we make a mistake? Why do we think He is primarily concerned with our behavior modification? Perhaps because WE are primarily concerned with it. And we so miss the point.

Jesus seems to care much more about whether our identities are grounded in Him. If they're not, He goes there first, way before He gives us a mission or tells us to go to work for him.

It seems to me that fear and anxiety are excellent indicators of a shaky identity. We absolutely cannot be strong in identity and be gripped with fear and anxiety at the same time. That's why I John 4:18 says, "Perfect love casts out all fear." When we understand our incredible value to God and know His love, that kind of fear will not hang around. It can't.

Where is your identity right now? Wait, you probably don't know. I don't, really, either. But I do try to listen and be aware of the signs that I'm not grounded in Him.

If you struggle with fear and anxiety regularly, then you may need to stop trying to perform for God and start listening instead. He will not give you a job to do or a behavior to correct until He tells you who you are, and until you are settled in being redefined by your Creator. Friends, it is not the other way around; we do not have to shape up or work harder before Jesus claims us as His and sees our worth. That you grasp your own inherent worth is so much more precious to God than your labor or your efforts to prove something to Him.

Real, Christ-centered identity is found in the undoing. The stopping. The listening. No one can rename us but Jesus. And somehow, that new name He gives - the one that shocks awake the lies - washes away every other name we've ever been given.  

Agents of change

After the new year rolled over, I was feeling pretty sure that I was the manager of change in my life. Every January, it's as if I have a clipboard displaying a list of all means of self-improvement, and I put checkmarks by the ones to which I will agree. Eat fewer cookies? Check. Read my Bible more? Definitely. Drink green smoothies? Pass. Some things, sure, I'll change them. Some things I pass up. But regardless, I am doing it. January tricks me into thinking I am the arbiter of who I am becoming.

But you know that I don't really believe that, if you've been around here a while. In my head, I know God can and will assign agents of change in my life that can be surprising, annoying, inconvenient, and even painful.

I think of things like unplanned pregnancies, "spirited" children who threaten to break us, sudden loss, relationship crises, major moves to places like Montana, and I am jolted back to understanding that God's the boss of change. Of heart-shaping. Of making the seas of life rock so that our faith anchor is grounded more firmly than ever. My brain knows this. But so easily, I get preoccupied with my own plans.

Well, remember how in my last post, I said I wanted to begin waking up early to read my Bible daily? I was going to manage this bit of change by setting my phone alarm 30 minutes earlier. I was to start Monday morning of last week.

Well, two days earlier, we got a new puppy. Sometimes I call her Pup-a-lup, but her name is Fielder. I was not connecting any dots between wanting to read my Bible more and getting a puppy. Why would I? In fact, it was not until Monday morning at 5 a.m., when Fielder was crying and I was up 90 minutes before my phone alarm was to go off, that I realized God had His own agent of change for me. And it was a furry one; far more effective and non-negotiable than a phone alarm. Today she woke up at 4:40 a.m. God and I may want the same thing for me; but we may not go about changing me in the same way.

My first instinct is to resist and complain and regret that I signed up for ANY bit of change, be it the Bible reading or the dog acquisition. Isn't that so human? To fight any and all change, to try to remove oneself from new responsibility and unwanted imposition?

But as silly and small a thing as a puppy is, what if God chose that puppy for this place in time for my heart (and those in my home) to create something new there? Something necessary and long-awaited. Patience? Self-discipline? Gentleness? Flexibility? Does it even matter? Sometimes just the fact that we are to practice flexing and serving when and where God gives opportunity is enough of a lesson. It is not even about waking up early or taking her out 50 times a day.

I think the bottom line, the rich fruit pressing its way through any agent of change, is submission.

God wants to be quite sure that no matter what, we're following Him. We're catching what He throws, even if it looks like something we do not want to hold.

It is not for the faint of heart; if I say "Yes, Lord, I'll fully submit to you," we both know that means we are submitting to every agent of change that could come our way. My worst fears flip through my mind and I question whether I really want to sign up for true discipleship. That's what it is, you know. A disciple of Christ is willing to go wherever Jesus leads. A disciple relinquishes all rights to manage change in her life and trusts God to change her when and how He chooses.

 

Most of all, His rate of change for our hearts is perfect and loving. On the spectrum of change, most people agree that zero change is bad. We are not supposed to stagnate, to stay so comfortable that nothing ever changes. And if someone does desire that way of life, most of us agree that those people are unhealthy and probably live fear-based lives. On the other end of the spectrum, people who cannot seem to escape the tide of constant change can also be unhealthy. Not being able to keep a job, keep kids in the same school for more than a few months at a time, or maintain relationships could be evidence of a destructive lack of stability.

So there is a precious middle ground, a zone of ultimate growth where the rate of change in our lives is neither too slow nor too fast. I don't know where that is for myself. God is the only one who knows what I can handle. When he pushes me up out of my comfort zone, that means I'm ready to move. I may not want to (I probably don't), but I'm equipped and capable through the power of the Holy Spirit, probably far more than I realize. And when the Lord slows me down, bringing me into a restful season, He knows I need that too. He is perhaps refueling me for what He sees coming next. Only God can pace the growth in my heart so that I am neither stagnating nor overwhelmed.

The puppy is a minor example of an agent of change. She really just reminded me that I love to be in charge of what changes me. And often, I am not. Many friends of mine are facing formidable agents of change that have brought much pain and confusion into their lives. I've been there too, and I'm sure I will be again someday. If you're in such a season now, or if you're realizing some discomfort may very well be a divine appointment for changing your heart, submission is the only path through it. I won't say "out of it," because some challenges are long term. But embracing God's sovereignty and trusting His goodness every day or every hour or every minute is the greatest heart-salve.

He only changes us because He loves us so much. In His perfect wisdom, He knows when we're ready to grow up, to be pruned, and to die to our old ways. Let's not just allow God to change us, but let's invite Him to.

As long as it's after 5 a.m.

Just kidding.

Not really.  

One reason I shut God out

 

I am so uneasy when there is unresolved conflict in my life.

It nags at me all day long. I know some people can compartmentalize more effectively. But I can't. When I am at odds with someone else, I am never free from discomfort. It is an itch that won't go away.

That's how I awoke this morning, itchy, emotionally. And on day 3 of my new commitment, I prayed for God to speak to me as I opened His word at 6 a.m. Let me back up and be a bit more honest: I didn't want to ask God for anything, really, because in truth, I was afraid of hearing instructions regarding the conflict that I may not want to carry out. I wasn't ready to be told what to do. However, I knew I needed something. So I threw up a general "Help. Intervene. Do something." sort of prayer. But instead of a light beaming down from heaven onto my Bible, I struggled to keep my eyes open. I think I reread the same paragraph in Hebrews six times, trying to wrap my mind around it before my brain was fully awake. And then everyone else woke up.

Soon after, the conflict in all its misery nagged at me throughout pancake making and children wrangling. Pandora hummed in the background - a Christian station - and half-caring, I wondered why I was hearing the same song twice in a matter of twenty minutes. But it caught my ear because it was one of my favorites, though this morning, I couldn't connect with the lyrics.

In my morning haze, I watched my daughter walk to the bus stop with a neighbor. I took the dog outside. I drove my son to school. All the while, I acted as if I left God closed up in the Bible, like a bookmark, stuck there until the next time I opened it. But He was quite awake, and working. Even in the haze. Even with me.

As I drove home after drop-off, I felt burdened, but the solitude allowed me to process how I felt. And one thought came to mind. I felt named, and not in a good way. The Holy Spirit whispered to me to dig down. Get it out. The nagging emotion bubbled to the surface:

I am named Rejection.
I am named Injury.
I am named Loneliness.
I am named Fear.

It was strange. All these names were jumping out at me, like stickers being slapped onto my chest. Names that defined me and demanded my attention and made me teary.

But wait, what? Distantly, on the car radio, there is was again. That song. Now I was hearing it for the third time in an hour! I turned it up to try to listen, knowing that three times is no coincidence.

You are more, You are more
Than my words will ever say
You are Lord, You are Lord
All creation will proclaim
You are here, You are here
In Your presence I'm made whole
You are God, You are God
Of all else I'm letting go

 

(the chorus)

 

Oh, I'm running to Your arms
I'm running to Your arms
The riches of Your love
Will always be enough
Nothing compares to Your embrace
Light of the world forever reign

 

(And then the part that gets me every time. The part Jesus knows is one of my favorite parts of all songs of all time. The part I've sung-prayed in my heart of hearts over and over again...)

 

My heart will sing
no other Name
but Jesus, Jesus

 

My heart will sing
no other Name
but Jesus, Jesus.

 

My heart will sing
no other Name
but Jesus, Jesus...

 

I could end the post right here because the reminders were all I needed.

 

I remembered He is God. I let go of the rest. I stopped resisting, I went running to His arms, and I ripped off all the other names on the way. Because my heart will sing no other name but Jesus. He is the only one who gets to name me.

 

Jesus. I am named by Jesus. He names me Beloved. And Bride. And Daughter. And Beautiful. And a thousand other names full of endearment and honor. 

 

I don't know when the conflict will be resolved. But I guess that wasn't the point. I guess God's biggest priority was getting me into His arms, not fixing everything.

 

One Sunday, our pastor said something I felt was unforgettable. He said that God will never tell us what to do before He tells us who we are. I had forgotten that, and I tried to shut Him out because I wasn't ready to be told what to do. But of course God knew that; He knew I wasn't in a place to be ordered around. He just wanted to remind me who I was, which is exactly what I needed most.

 

I needed a clear identity before I needed clear direction. And what's amazing is that once we know who we are, it becomes clear what we need to do. There is no ordering around or God tapping at the rules with a pointy stick. When my identity is clear, my path is instantly illuminated.

 

And what about you, dear friend? Is your heart burdened by any other names that have been slapped on you this week? Or can you say with confidence that your heart sings no other name? If you are wondering what to do in a certain problem, maybe try asking the Lord to remind you who you are first.

 

I'm praying for us tonight. May the Lord help us shed all other names but His.


{song above is Forever Reign, by Hillsong}

An invitation and my RSVP

Today I felt convicted.

I can hear fifty different challenges to do this or that in the Christian life and 49 of them won't mean a thing to me. I hear 49 of them and say an easy, "No, that's not for me, not right now." But today, I heard the one. The one invitation out of 50 that pricked at my spirit; it was something I'd heard in a sermon on the radio. As I listened, I thought, "Wait, is this for me? I think so..?"

And then twenty minutes later, as I sat in Bible Study, I heard the same thing being suggested by a person in the room. Two hits in an hour. Same challenge. Same nudge in my spirit to just say Yes.

I hesitate to even tell you what the thing is, because I don't want you to be distracted by the thing. It's far from the point of my thoughts here. But I felt convicted about not reading God's word often enough, not craving it and loving it like I want to. And so the challenge was to get up 30 minutes earlier every day and BEFORE you touch ANYTHING else - coffee, your phone, toothpaste - before any other thing, you read God's word. Period. 30 minutes, for 30 days.

And I want to do it. Well, actually, I don't want to. Who wants to do that, really? But I want a change in my heart more than I want to sleep longer. I want to lean into Jesus more than I want to be comfortable. I want to want to listen to His words more than I want anything else, but I don't. Yet.

It's altogether simple and incredibly difficult at the same time because this challenge requires one thing, the "d" word: discipline.

I cringe at the word. There is nothing on earth pleasantly associated with that word. No one likes either to be disciplined by someone else, nor do they like to discipline themselves. Our nature instead lunges at what feels good, is partial to whims, laziness, and compulsion. Oh, and sleep, when it's dark outside. And guess what? In Montana, it's dark until a ridiculously late hour of the morning. When I wake up, it's a black as midnight outside. Frankly, that bugs me.

What's even dumber is that I would never EVER buy into the idea that I could be a good parent without disciplining my kids. When I stand in the shoes of a parent, it is so crazy obvious to me that a healthy person needs discipline. But when I stand in the shoes of the child that I am in my own heart, the immaturity digging it's heels in here and there, I fold my arms and complain like a toddler who pushes her peas around on the plate.

I will lovingly, patiently, and carefully discipline my own children in every area of life (on most days, let's be real), but I am so very babyish about disciplining my own self. As I sat in Bible Study, pondering this today, I got increasingly annoyed at this contrasting truth. I am nearly 40 years old, and still haven't mastered self-discipline. Not even remotely. That bugs me too.

But I'm thankful my true Love cares about me too much to leave me where I am. He is always the one beckoning me, charming me to His side. What a privilege we have that we can be in a living, dynamic relationship with the God of the universe and the God who knows my every thought, follows my every breath.

I will put forth my best effort to jump into this new routine for one reason only: when He calls, I know He only has my best in mind. And I suspect He is not bidding me to work, but to romance. He is not drawing me to lessons and rules, but to intimacy and to refresh the desperate parts of my heart I don't even see. I am already feeling a bit romanced, actually, like the greatest guy ever just stuck a slip of paper with his phone number under my windshield wiper and it is up to me to dial.

RSVP'ing to a better life than the one I had yesterday?

Yes is my reply.

Have a great weekend, friends.

A beginning and a word for 2014

Last year, do you remember what my word for the year was? Oh. My. Gosh. Can you just please go read my post I wrote on New Years Day of 2013 so I'm not the only one freaking out about it? It was so prophetic, became so real and so powerful along the way. In fact, because of that, on our trip to CA, on New Years Day of this year, I took my family back to the exact spot where I took the picture in that post through which God showed me the word. In my heart, it was a memorial visit, an anniversary I quietly celebrated with bowed-down gratitude in my heart for all that transpired this last year.

If there was ever a year God brought to life a single word, then 2013 was it. To think that He gave me this word before any of the year had unfolded, before we knew we were going to move to Montana, before any of the crazy and difficult things 2013 would bring...to think that He knew every moment in advance and promised me Himself...it leaves me speechless. He said, "Leslie. Before 2013 begins, know in your heart of hearts that no matter what happens, we will be together."

It was as simple as that. And as those 365 days unfolded in entirely complex ways, His message remained simple. We're together in this. Every step. Wow. He knew exactly what I needed.

This year, I wondered if He would give me a word at all, or if He did, if it would lead me into an equally powerful year of Him proving day after day to be what I needed.

I prayed. And I got the sense that 'listen' was my answer. Not listen right this minute. But listen, in all the things. I got the sense that 'listen' was a diving board, a place from which to launch the whole year.

Right now, I feel pretty cluttered; I always feel like that after Christmas. The house is cluttered with new things, my head is cluttered with revitalized goals, my body is cluttered with the ridiculous number of cookies I ate during the holidays, and my heart feels a little lost, neglected. In fact, my Bible is actually, physically lost. Sort of symbolic, isn't it? Tonight I began to ask myself, "Where exactly do I start? How do I start improving my marriage this year? Where do I start teaching my kids new things about the Lord? When do I start moving forward on book writing and eating healthier? And where is my Bible??"

"That's where you start, my darling," He says. Tune in to your husband. Tune in to me for direction on time management. Tune in to the questions your children are asking about life and the world around them. Tune in; listen first.

I feel like I hear from God fairly regularly. I stop to really listen to Him speak to me maybe once or twice a month. We have a pretty good thing going, but on the other hand, I feel pretty lazy in my walk right now. Is it crazy that I want to change that and hear from Him every day? And is it crazy to imagine I could somehow supernaturally acquire the discipline and the time management to tune into Him daily, quiet and listening for His guidance on relationships and my jobs and my ministry? I don't think so, and I want it. I want to try living a year that isn't fueled by doing.

Listening is undoing. It's stopping. It's waiting.

It's self-control and submission and believing each minute that I am not in charge, nor do I know what is happening.

The more I think about it, the more I love this challenge because I suspect making a habit of listening will mean deconstructing many things about the way I work. I have no idea what needs to be rearranged in my heart; but God does, and if He sees fit to shake things up, then I know it's for my own good. I know He loves me too much to leave me the way I am.

Somehow the word 'listen' helps me clear the clutter from my path and see the road. 'Listen' is a road sign pointing me to the things the Lord knows I really want and need. He is telling me where to start.

I'm going to try to listen.

And because I have an 8-year old boy, I hear Yoda in my head: "Do....or do not. There is no try." Right. I will listen. Thanks for setting me straight, Yoda.

(See? I'm already listening.)

On contentment (and the changing weather)

 

The rooftops today look like ridged waffles sprinkled with powdered sugar and my phone says it is 36 degrees. Our wiener dog walks in hurried circles when he needs to go outside. Two nights ago, as I picked up a little friend while her dad played in a hockey tournament, the icy wind introduced my body to a new level of cold. Today my phone also tells me that back in my California town, it is sunny, with a high of 80.

It was about a year ago that my husband started talking about leaving his job. I wasn't at all scared for what the future would hold. But we had no idea God had such a dramatic change in mind for our family as moving to Montana. When it grew increasingly clear that He was communicating to both my husband and I that this was "it," Montana was where we were supposed to go, we started to share the news with others.

I thought it was so strange how we would tell others what God had put on our hearts, and many times the response would be something like, "But it's so cold there!" When I weighed the matter in my own two hands, God's call was in one, and The Weather was in another. Again, I found it so strange. Did some people really believe that those two things were close contenders for making the decision to move? This was the point at which I started thinking a lot about weather and the effect it has on us.

Certainly some people have had terrifying or tragic experiences related to weather. Bad car accidents. Being stranded. Things like that. I've never had any of those, so I can't speak to how that may affect a person's decision making based on the outdoor conditions. But most people, I think, myself included, just want to feel comfortable. And cozy. We are comfort addicts, really. That's why we have such a problem with the cold (or the heat, whichever you detest more). We even call all sorts of weather "bad."

But after living in Montana for six months now, and after experiencing more days of cold and snow than I ever have in my prior 37 years combined, I'm learning that there really is no such thing as bad weather. It's all just weather. We call it bad only because it interferes with our agendas. I wonder if God thinks there is any weather that is bad.

Aside from tsunamis, tornados, and destructive natural disasters, I'm deciding that no weather is bad. I mean, if it were the olden days and I could stay indoors by a fire, teaching my own children and making all my own food from scratch, it wouldn't be a problem. But because we have to get to school and go to dance lessons and swing by Target and pick up a Starbucks coffee, any sort of hindrance to our agendas seems bad. Well, I'm becoming less and less a fan of that egocentric attitude in myself.

I have had at least three people ask me if I hate the snow yet. I'm serious. It's clear that some have very impassioned feelings about winter and all that it brings. And that particular question makes me want to dig my heels in and be as far away from hating it as possible. Creation reveals the creativity of my Maker. And I don't want to have a grumbling or complaining spirit about His appointed changes to the scenery. If I did, I feel I'd be shutting my eyes and ears to something He is trying to say.

A wise friend back in California once told me that they used to live in the northern part of the country, where the weather was very different from that of Orange County. She said when they moved down south to our town, they were baffled by the busyness and the unrelenting pressure to be productive every day of the week, every week of the year, simply due to the warm climate. If one COULD be outdoors working on the yard, playing tennis, making money, or teaching your kid a new sport, then one should be. She noticed something I never had: that the lack of change in seasons yielded a culture that didn't know how to rest.

Winter reminds us that nature pulls in, draw together, and rests. Fall is the counselor telling us to calm down, extinguish the activity of the summer, and begin to store up resources for a season of pruning and deepening roots and staying closer to those we love.

Maturity means we too change with the seasons, not fighting to maintain comfort and sameness, not feeling entitled to year round productivity, but listening to God's signals, submitting to His rhythm. And His rhythm is never the same for too long. He is so gracious to show us what we need.

For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.
Romans 1:20

As the seasons change around your home, listen to what God may be saying through creation. And if you live in a place where the seasons don't really change, like I did most of my life, then God is speaking through creation there too. All around us, everywhere, He has something to reveal about Himself.

Right now, I'm reading a book called Calm My Anxious Heart because I told a friend I would read it with her. I don't feel I particularly struggle with anxiety. But there is always room to grow in the area of contentment. The author speaks of an overseas missionary of over 50 years whom she knew, and who had five secrets of contentment. They are so practical, I wanted to share them. I will certainly be applying these this winter.

1. Never allow yourself to complain about anything, not even the weather.
2. Never picture yourself in any other circumstances or someplace else.
3. Never compare your lot with another's.
4. Never allow yourself to wish this or that had been otherwise.
5. Never dwell on tomorrow - remember that is God's, not ours.

Imagine if we could all do this perfectly. I think of the verse that says "Godliness with contentment is great gain (I Tim 6:6)," and I want both of those things. Godliness and contentment.

Much, much more than I want it to be 75 degrees every day.

Freedom and how cars here stay filthy

I come from a land of clean cars. And not simply clean. We're talking polished, perfect. Pretty much every other car in south Orange County is sparkling and shiny and imported.

My dad is one such fan of the flawless, speck-free, black sports car. Growing up, I observed him not only washing his cars every few days, but also using a long-armed duster to daily fluff off any dust that would dare enter the garage and land on a hood.

When we moved here to Montana in April, within a matter of days, I noticed how completely filthy all the cars were. It was still snowing, but infrequently then, which left a layer of slush on the roads, mixed with mud from the thawing earth. And I saw something which I had never seen before. This magical road mixture leaves an awe-inspiring display of frozen mud stalactites along the entire bottom perimeter of every car. In addition, literally within days, my car had a layer of frozen grime all over the surface that I have never experienced. After grocery shopping, I shivered to have to shut the trunk and touch the surface of my filthy car. It was gross.

My first thought was, "Wow, we'll have to get our cars washed a lot." But I was baffled by the lack of car washes here - in fact, I've yet to see a full service one. My second thought was, "Well, wait. The weather doesn't seem to let up long enough to make getting a car wash worth it."

My third thought was exhilarating. "Maybe no one washes their cars all winter. Maybe I can stop having to keep my car clean altogether..." All signs pointed to freedom.

Freedom from having to keep my car sparkling and shiny was a totally new concept. I mean, I've never been great at it to begin with, but I always felt I should be better. I knew I could have been better, and felt pretty regular guilt that I wasn't. But now, it's literally impossible to keep a shiny, clean car. And that freedom feels pretty sweet.

You knew I was going somewhere with this, didn't you? Well, today in church, something synced. The pastor was talking about Luke 5, Jesus in the boat telling Peter, "Throw out your nets." And Peter, a professional fisherman, balks a little at Jesus. He's failed all night long, and is sure the idea of another cast is pointless. Yet he does it, and of course, when they pull them up, the nets are so full, they begin to break from the weight of the fish. Peter's response is what is interesting. He's not grateful or overjoyed. He's so deeply ashamed that he tells Jesus to get away from him because he is just a hot mess.

Peter thought that if Jesus left him alone, He'd have time to clean up. Wash off the grime of his sin. Present himself shiny to Jesus later. Peter really, really wanted to scrub his own slate clean before being with his Lord. I totally get that.

I'm not talking outer appearance. I don't usually struggle with wanting to keep up a good image of myself to others. I struggle more with trying to be my own savior and compulsively tidying my heart before I stand before Jesus. It's all fueled by shame. That's just my bent. If you've been around here long enough, you know that already. I feel like I have to talk myself up with truth and wipe the tears away, sometimes, before I can get to business with the Father. I get so ashamed of my mess. I really want to be shiny and polished first.

Rather, I wanted to be, past tense. God has grown me a lot in this area. I've written about it quite a bit too. I even have a tag on the right called "shame is my game," because it has been, for a long time. And so grace as a remedy has been a continual and hard-wrought lesson, no, theme, in my recent years.

Last week, the temps dropped low enough to sprinkle the mountain tops with snow. I took the picture above trying to capture it. Today, sitting in church, I realized that as I will grow accustomed to rolling a filthy car for the next 8 months or so, I have already grown much more accustomed to rolling a sinful heart without the compulsion to polish up before I come to Him. This is the freedom in which I've been living for a short while now: to come to Jesus in my times with him and say, "Lord, wow, I'm a hot mess right now!" not buckled over in shame as in the past, but with self-acceptance in my heart, remembering the power of grace, and with a hopeful expectation that He will receive me with loving, open arms. I'm so very confident in this now that shame has less room to push me around.

Condemnation's underlying tool is fear, of course. Our hearts need love so very badly that we tremble and quickly embrace the fear that we may not get it. We may not be worthy. We may have missed the mark too many times. We may be unlovable and end up abandoned.

But for me, getting out of the grip of shame and condemnation has been like strengthening a weak muscle. With practice, the muscle gets stronger. Walk out of the grip of shame over and over, and soon it's power over you is broken. Any power shame does have over me is only what I've willingly given it anyway.

And after thirty-plus years of walking with Him, maybe all this means I've finally understood the gospel. It's the simplest thing of all, and I've read it a zillion times: "While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." (Rom 5:8) Not after Sunday when we cleaned our slates for the week, not because we were disciplined in brushing off all the sin dust every day. He didn't die for us once we proved ourselves worthy by trying hard to clean up our acts. Jesus died for us while we were filthy and had no hope of ever getting clean.

The weather in this world is just too harsh, too dirty to make my clean-up act worth it. Your storms and my storms are too constant. The minute I come up for air from one trial, another one starts, and Lord knows I NEVER deal with them perfectly. I wrestle and battle and only sometimes get it right. I am totally waving the white flag of trying to keep my spirit clean and tidy on my own. Jesus is enough. His life, His death, and His resurrection is more than enough. He washes me with grace. So very much grace, which is the antidote to shame. 

To believe in that grace, to expect it, to walk under it's banner while covered in grime that makes you shiver, well that's freedom.

Just think. All winter long, my filthy car will be a beautiful reminder of the gospel.

Storytelling and sparrows

 

Our Saturday morning was messy, in all the ways it could be. By 10 a.m., I wanted to go back to bed and start over. But knowing we had an engagement at 11 pushed me up out of my pajamas and into three outfits before I decided on one for the cloudy day outdoors. Yet even the indoors was cloudy; nothing was horrible and nothing was great. Everybody and everything was merely fine, and grey.

It was cloudy in my head too; I noticed God's promises seemed far off and fuzzy. I didn't have my usual joy and wondered if spiritual lions were on the prowl.

But the day went on, as it does, uncaring that I wish it would just stop for a while and let me get my footing. It was the down escalator and I was the little girl who wasn't quite sure when to step on.

At our engagement, I smiled and tried my hardest to be sociable and interested. But really I felt awkward and out of place. I'm getting used to feeling unknown since our move, but that doesn't make it any less difficult. After talking to my closest friend for 90 minutes the other night, it struck me how refreshing it was to converse with someone who really knew me. I had forgotten what a luxury that is. Deep and long-term friendship is such a gift.

So as we drove home, I felt a little relieved to be back in my own car with my family. We chatted about unmemorable things. Just before our driveway, I noticed a group of tiny sparrows zipping quickly in disorganized loops around our next door neighbor's house. They were scatter-brained and silly and strikingly small. But something went wrong. In the blink of an eye, I watched one swoop over to our house and smack hard into the window nearest our front door. The sparrow dropped like a rock to the wooden seat of our bench a few feet below.

At the same moment, we pulled into our driveway. I made an urgent, wordless sound, flung the car door open and ran to the tiny bird. His chest was rapidly heaving, though he lay on the wood otherwise motionless. His tiny head was dipping between the slats and he had no strength to lift it. All the reasonable thoughts went through my head: birds have diseases, they carry sickness, he'll fly away when he's able....but I couldn't walk away. He was so helpless and perhaps near death.

When I ever so gingerly scooped him into my palm, I noticed that if I were to close my fingers, he'd be almost totally hidden. I was a little breathless; I had never held a tiny bird in my hand before. I wanted to think he was beautiful, but he was so ordinary with all plain brown feathers. What struck me, however, was that though he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes open or his head held straight up. It was like he was falling asleep. I tried to calm him down with quiet and kind whispers. I guess I believed he might just trust me, that I wasn't trying to hurt him, that he needn't be afraid.

When I lowered him down over the forgiving grass in case he tried to move and fell, the scene went vivid in my heart. I know too much about sparrows and the Bible and God for it not to, I guess. Or He was just speaking so loudly and clearly. It was suddenly the most obvious thing in the whole world that I was the sparrow. I even scoffed a little inside, like when you've heard the same unfunny joke repeated five times by your preschooler. I tried to brush away the ridiculously obvious metaphor. But it's clung to me all day.

We are all the sparrows. We get knocked down and fuzzy-headed. We'd rather just go back to bed, shut our eyes. But Jesus scoops us up, holds us gently in His palm. So patient. Whispering kindness.

I would have sat there all day on the front lawn, holding my little sparrow until he either recovered or died. I would have put all else aside for the helpless thing. It reminds me that no one outlasts Jesus' patience. It's really unbelievable when I consider how patient He is. He knows how much sickness we carry, how much disease is in our hearts. It doesn't stop Him from wrapping us in His safe and capable hands. His compassion is too great for me to understand. His kindness doesn't ever end. And we are such ordinary, unlovely creatures, so strikingly small.

But His eye is on the sparrow. Every single one. Especially the knocked out ones who can't even find the strength to raise their heads.

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows.
Luke 12:6-7

Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
Matthew 6:25-27

Five or ten minutes passed, and my sparrow slowly improved. First, he managed to open his round black eyes and keep them open. Next he held his head up again, and eventually turned it, looked into my eyes and didn't seem afraid. I was surprised that he didn't struggle or panic when he started to come to. He was content to rest inside my fingers that wrapped him snugly. The kids got him a shallow plate with a bit of water on it, and when I felt sure he was stronger, I set him down onto it. He tested his wings, tentatively fluttering. And in another blink, he flew away in low scooping arcs between the two houses across the street.

What a blessing it was to have this little friend interrupt my day. It was sort of surreal, particularly because of the metaphor perfectly unfolding in living color before my eyes. And it was sort of strange to remember that God is at work telling beautiful stories through surprising characters. I mean, the sparrow rested in my hand, regained his strength, and did what he was designed to do as soon as I released him. He flew.

I was not so clouded yesterday to miss the meaning of this short story in which the Lord involved me. When my chest is rapidly heaving, when I can hardly get enough air and can't lift my head, I have only to remember that I'm in my Lord's gentle palm. He is in no hurry for me to get up and heal and take flight again. He waits, His eye never leaving me. The one difference is that as He stares at me, He notices all the ways I'm lovely, He feels proud of His creation and knows I am in no way ordinary. He whispers value and love and purpose back into my deflated spirit.

And when I'm stronger, He opens His fingers and silently frees me to do exactly what I was designed to do.

For when God is hard to hear

Today God and I had a date, and I felt a little stood up.

I was to start to work on something and I needed His guidance. I needed to know where to begin. 

But though I was trying to listen, I struggled to hear Him, and the more I struggled, the more anxiety I felt about not hearing. It built, over an hour of me questioning myself and Him and flipping through my Bible to find that nothing was speaking. I wasn't hearing anything but the horribly loud tractors outside my window, building a new house. But no clear guidance came, and I finally noticed that I felt nervous and afraid.

It's interesting the way I can behave totally contrary to what I know to be true sometimes.

I was totally behaving as if God's plans are hard to find out. As if He has buried his will for me somewhere in the sand along a beach and the burden is on me to find this buried treasure without a map. If that were true about God, then my fear and anxiety would be appropriate. What if I don't find it? What if I miss my opportunities? What if I invest my time and energy into something that is not what He wants? If God were sneaky and withholding and secretive, well I better worry. (Isn't it easy to behave as if He is? As if He wants us to sweat something out of Him?)

But He's not secretive and withholding. He's loving and faithful every minute of every day. His character is the exact opposite of withholding. He's generous beyond description. He's giddy with delight when His kids come asking for direction. Would He ever deny me the guidance I need? Never. That kind of denial is not only against what the Bible says, but it's also against what I have actually experienced. I can personally testify to His faithfulness. That's what I believe. He is faithful to lead me when and where He wants me to go. His yoke is easy, His burden is light. His guidance is clear.

The only time His guidance is NOT clear is when He is not yet ready to give it, and when I behave like an impatient child. How fear-ravaged our hearts can become when we are not willing to wait, be still, and surrender our agendas.

I teach my kids that God always answers us one of three ways: Yes, No, or Wait. And the 'wait' answer is a stretching one, painful like holding a yoga pose that pulls against your will to relax and find a more comfortable position.

But since I answer to God and not the other way around, I'll hold the stretch, thought it stings.

Lord, my times are in your hands. I'm ready and waiting. When you call, I'll move.

Let that be our prayer today.

Meteor showers and perspective

credit

Being a night owl comes in handy in only a few circumstances a year: New Year's Eve, late night completion of school projects, and meteor showers.

If you haven't heard, this weekend is when the earth passes through some debris from an old comet, and here's my mostly ignorant grasp of what is happening: as these floating rocks pass through our atmosphere, they burn up and look like shooting stars. That's what we call a meteor shower. And I was more than up for lying on the grass in the backyard at midnight to watch it last night.

We gently dragged the kids out of bed, wrapped them in robes, and huddled them out to the expanse of blankets and sleeping bags my husband and I had laid down on the lawn. Then we all lied on our backs in a tight row like sardines because the breeze was chilly. We faced up at the blackness, and waited. 

But first let me remind you. We now live in Montana, the "Big Sky" state, where I swear the sky is a whole lot bigger than I've ever seen it anywhere. At night, it's also darker than I am used to, coming from the city. Back in Orange County, home to 2 million other folks, the stars, if you can see any, are sparse and they hang flat against a hazy background. It's like a theater set, like a two-dimensional space painted grey and poked with lights in an unnaturally even scatter.

But here in Montana, the black is blacker and the stars are all sizes and vary in brightness. In certain directions, you can see no light BUT the stars. And there is an incredible depth to the sky; some stars are clearly closer than others, big and crisp, while others are fuzzy and tiny and numerous. One gets the real sense that the sky must go on forever, not just side to side, but straight out and away. It's dizzying, actually, when you try to squint your eyes and see as far and as deep as you can see into space.

My husband said, "Oh! I just saw one," when he spotted the first meteor burning up and making a quick thread of light in the blackness. And then my son saw a different one. We called out in rotation for a while like this, each of us scanning the sky for a fraction-of-a-second rush of light. But none of us ever saw the other person's. The sky was so big, and the meteors were so quick. Finally in frustration, my daughter called out, "I wish I could look everywhere at once!"

It was then that I began to take notice of how small a space upon which I could truly focus at any one time. Who knows how many meteors I missed all around me, while I stared at one narrow circle at a time.

At then I thought of God, who knows all the stars by name. Who hung them all carefully in place, and who is able to look everywhere at once. What is overwhelming and dizzying to me is simple and clear and easy to manage for Him.

My vision is so small. Way, way smaller than I even understand. When I say I have an "eternal perspective" on life, on my marriage and my kids and my purpose for being here, I truly am no where near having God's perspective on it all. How could I? I simply have a hazy understanding that there is more going on than meets the eye.

And some of us don't even have that. Some of us think that two-dimensional flat looking stars are all that's out there. What you see is what you get. I'll believe it when I see it. These kinds of sayings come from two-dimensional living, an inability, or perhaps an unwillingness, to look deeper into a situation and wonder - just simply wonder - if there is any other reason things are the way they are.

Let's challenge ourselves this week in this one thing: to look deeper, out and away from ourselves. To squint the eyes of our hearts and peer into the unknown of what God may see that we cannot. And when we see that there's more - way more - than meets the eye, may we TRUST Him.

The Namer of the stars can look everywhere at once. He knows what He's doing. And just because you turned your head for a second and missed them, it doesn't mean there aren't incredible wonders taking place all around you.

He alone stretches out the heavens

    and treads on the waves of the sea.
He is the Maker of the Bear and Orion,
    the Pleiades and the constellations of the south.
He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed,
    miracles that cannot be counted.

 

Job 9:8-10

Lies on the Battlefield

A few days ago, I stood at the stove, my thoughts swirling as I scrambled eggs. How would I explain what the tiny green specks were to the kids? They would certainly ask, and flick at them with their forks. But I like chives in my eggs. And it's a rare day I have a half-box in the fridge leftover from last night's enchiladas.

I kept stirring. I was holding a lot together. And when I say 'a lot,' I mean more than I can actually hold together. More accurately, I was being held together. And I knew it. Lately I'd felt generous doses of grace poured out in my daily life. Despite how difficult things were, I'd been lifted up, my feet set upon a rock. Know what I mean? I'd been miraculously able to stay filled and faithful in a hard season where it made no sense to have peace, and by virtue of nothing I'd done.

But as I scrambled the eggs and searched for an appeasing explanation for the chives, I heard the lies. To be fair, I didn't realize right away what they were. Even though the slinking negativity came from nowhere as I cooked, one always thinks the lies of the enemy are one's own thoughts. That's why they're so effective.

"You're just pretending. What a joke. You're efforts don't mean anything. Your words are worthless. Just pretending. In reality, you're crumbling. You're falling apart..."

For a split second, I thought, "Oh my gosh, I am crumbling...I can't hold it together..." But thank the Lord, His spirit is living and active and protective of His children, because quickly, a "Wait...no," welled up in me. "No....that's not true," my heart protested, though feebly at first.

Discernment means carefully weighing something against what is known to be true and right by what the Bible says. And in that moment, I weighed the lies, not knowing yet that they were lies. First, I sensed that claiming ownership of those thoughts, even for a second, felt like being pushed into a dark room. It felt gripping and hopeless and terrifying. Just entertaining the thoughts briefly made my spirit feel like it was sinking. But when I weighed the opposite, felt out the resistant viewpoint, it felt freeing and brave. It felt like clouds parting. And it was clear to me, then, what was happening.

Battle. Good old spiritual battle. I was a target in an open field and I had a choice to make. Either I let the lethal arrows of deception hit me and take me down, or I defend myself.

"I'm not pretending," I thought, with a swelling defiance. "I'm certainly not falling apart. God sees me! (The truth gathered momentum.) He's set my feet on a rock. He's defined my worth. He knows what He's doing. There's a BIG difference between pretending and waiting in faith, believing in God's promises despite the darkness."

That was all it took. I owned the truth, instead of the lies. And suddenly the lies seemed as material as a puff of smoke. The battle scene turned back into my kitchen, breakfast commenced, and my kids ate the chives.

I thought later about Ephesians 6 where Paul talks about the armor of God. The kids and I recalled the pieces of armor, one at a time, in the car on the way to the park. In a new way, I understood why the shield is our faith. It's the first line of a warrior's defense. A shield is the first thing an arrow will hit, if you have one.

Look at the language in God's word:

In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one.

Ephesians 6:16

Faith is a shield. Believing God is who He says He is, and will do what He says He will do is my biggest and first defense when I am spiritually attacked. My vicious enemy shot flaming darts at me while I innocently scrambled eggs. This time, thankfully, he failed to take me down.

But he is not stupid. He was preying on some very personal and real desires I have. And his goal was to burn down my identity. Burn down my hope. Burn down my beliefs. He knows how much I want to be seen, and for my words and actions to be significant to my loved ones. He knows that He can easily plant seeds of fear in me about falling apart and failing. He knows that all of us long to have great worth, though we secretly wonder if we have any at all.

All of his lies depend on fear. Lies work because we are tricked into being afraid.

But love is the antidote. It's the opposite of fear, you know. I have faith in what God says about He and I, and He says we're in this radical love affair where no eye has seen and no ear has heard about all the good things He has in store for me. He says He has big plans for me, for my family, and for my life in Montana, of all places. He says that He will cause even the bad stuff of life to work out for my benefit.

And that's the truth. That's reality. That's who I am.

I am loved.

Here's the question of the day, for me, pretty much every day. When God's answer to my prayers is, "Wait," do I put on a smile and secretly freak out inside, or do I let Him lift me up out of my fears to a place of safety and peace? Do I fight back when the arrows come, and cling to His promises, even though I'm in a tunnel with no sign of light at the end?

The first option does, in fact, lead to the fall-apart scenario. I've totally tried it. But the second, I've tried that too. God has trained me, through long seasons of trials, to let Him rescue me. To trust Him. To stop the fears and the thought circles and the preoccupation. And to hold up my shield of faith.

There's only one good reason to switch from Plan A to Plan B. One powerful belief separates the two: He loves me. That's all.

And He loves you. Like crazy.

Friend. Whatever battlefield you're on right now, I'm praying you'll pick up your shield.

Growth by subtraction

Since we moved, I've been working hard at building.

I've been building a functioning living space for us in our home, a new community of friends, a new routine, a new circuit of resources....grocery stores, restaurants, dry cleaners....building a new life for my kids and my family.

I guess it's human nature to see growth as dependent upon our building. We see growth as upward only. Brick upon brick.

Even in my faith, I start to see growth as simply a process of adding. Character AND serving AND ministry AND godly motherhood and so on are all bricks I keep layering to build an elaborate structure that maybe impresses God a little bit. Maybe I believe that.

I mean, I don't believe that, in my mind. I know that nothing I can do - good or bad - can ever cause Him to love me any more or any less that He already does and always has. I know that's what the Bible says. But in my effort to serve Him and respond to His love in obedience, I can get ahead of myself. I can let the high school overachiever in me loose and try hard to assemble this impressive building. I may even start to believe I am the one holding it together, with my mortar of trying.

God thinks it cute, I guess, like I think my son's latest Lego creation is. Almost daily, my 8 year old constructs something of which he is very proud: a fragile structure with childish engineering that usually crumbles within minutes. It's adorable. And I pretty much do the same thing to God.

But lately I'm realizing I have it all backwards.

(God's ways are usually like that: completely counter-intuitive, counter-culture, wholly counter to my human logic.)

The best kind of growth happens by His disassembling. By His breaking, pruning, cutting off. It's growth by subtraction.

How He comes up with these ideas, I do not know. It sounds crazy. It is crazy. But if Jesus is our ultimate example, we can see it is true. Jesus, of course, didn't need to "grow" but God needed to break Him since He was going to be punished in our stead.

There are a handful of ideas in the Bible that have regularly haunted me. Notions like when Jesus says, "If you want to follow me, take up your cross." "Lay down your life." "To live is Christ and to die is gain." There is a motif of suffering for the believer in the gospel of Jesus. If you really read it - really take it seriously - we cannot get away from the fact that within the process of growth, suffering and death are essentials. And Jesus modeled it. Fun times.

Growth by subtraction. Stuff in me needs to be killed. Lots of stuff.

I've always cringed when I've heard others say, "I want to marry someone that doesn't want me to change." And "I'm not going to change for anyone." Which is the same as saying, "Take it or leave it, I am who I am." Like Popeye. These statements could not be more against what the Bible says our attitude should be. I should eagerly want to change! If my husband doesn't think I need some serious changing, then either there is something horribly wrong with his judgment (like a starry-eyed cartoon character that swoons, "You're just purrrrrrfect!"), or He just doesn't know me at all. (Neither are true; I assure you, my husband is well aware of how much I need to grow.)

I desperately want to be more Christ-like, and feel I'm still so far off. It will take a lifetime for me to inch towards sincere, consistent godliness. There is nothing in my heart I want to cling to so tightly that God cannot have, if He asks for it. (Well, there probably are things that I just don't know about yet.)

Whereas growth by addition, me stacking a bunch of great things into my life, leads to pride, growth by subtraction leads to humility. It is humbling to suffer, to let go, to surrender my heart yet again into the hands of the Author of this story.

It's humbling to bow my head in prayer and say nothing. To allow Him to give and to take away, without complaint. To trust that He knows what He's doing, and that His plans are good, when they really don't seem good at all.

 

The bottom line is that Jesus loves me too much to let me stay the way I am. And growth by subtraction is anywhere from uncomfortable to straight painful.

I know this is an abstract post. But I'm hoping you're following me. I think you know what I mean. Oswald Chambers can put into words the essence of truth so well. Of being pruned by God, He writes, "It is better to enter into life maimed and lovely in God's sight than to be lovely in man's sight and lame in God's."

It's so tempting to try to look lovely for the world. I'm sure I do it more than I realize. Who really says, "Hooray, God! Start breaking me down and making me suffer so I can get rid of all these sinful attitudes, worldly desires, selfish thoughts, and fleshly habits!" No one. We all fight growth through suffering. We all try to keep it together; we frantically manicure our pride.

Look at the value we put on these statements: She really has it all together. She seems good at everything. She has such a huge ministry. I can't believe she can handle all that so well! She looks amazing in every picture. Her kids always look so cute. She has incredible taste and such a beautiful home. She and her husband seem to have the best marriage.

Now think about these phrases: I am such a mess. I can't handle my kids. I am hurting. No one really sees me. If only they knew what I looked like on the inside. I'm broken. I'm needy. I'm not sure how God can solve all these problems. I sure can't.

Which set of phrases do you strive for? Me too. Which set of phrases do you actually relate with most? Me too. In this world, being humble and messy is very unpopular. In God's world, it's exactly where He wants us to live.

 

The older I get, the more I notice that I have not yet come close to attaining the posture of Jesus towards suffering. I'm not in the same zip code as He is when it comes to humility. I say, "Not my will, Lord, but yours," but then sometimes I really prefer my will.

I want to be more like Jesus, I do. And at the same time, I'm afraid of the cost. Because I've read the Bible, and the cost is my life: all my ideas, all my wishes, all my rights, and all of the still-wrong beliefs I hold so dear.

But all He asks for is my surrender right now, just in this moment, in my immediate issues. He doesn't require I grow up into perfect in one day. He is patient and kind to me.

And that kindness is all I need to say "Okay, Lord. I'm yours.


{If you have a quiet moment, think about how you may be suffering in this season. Is God trying to work in that place? What can you perhaps surrender? Where can you say, "Okay, Lord. I'm yours."}