Today {it happened on a sunday} Day 31

What I believe today, and where my journey has brought me (so far):

1. Embrace Difficulty  I've learned that it is not in good times that I grow.  Not that I don't enjoy and welcome the periods when my life is peaceful, when there is plenty, when I am well-loved by those around me.  But I have come to recognize that difficulty and heartache are the necessary ingredients to change, and out of every hard stage, I have emerged stronger, braver, and more capable of loving others.

2. Live in Community  I wanted so badly to be an island, to accomplish everything on my own, to go through life hidden and unseen.  You guys, that is a horrible way to live.  My journey has brought me into the lives of so many amazing people, and it has shown me how important living in community is.  Of course it is hard at times.  Absolutely I have been hurt, and I'm sure I've done some hurting.  We aren't perfect, none of us.  But we need each other.

3. Be Open  I loved my walls that I put up.  I thought they protected me, kept me safe from harm.  And maybe they did, for a while.  But they also hurt me.  They kept me from truth, from love, from freedom.  Don't live inside the walls.  Live in openness to all that this messy, beautiful, challenging life has to offer.  Never stop learning.  Never stop trying new things.  Never give up.

4. Practice Honesty  My first experiments with lying centered around keeping painful secrets and trying to be someone I wasn't.  But deceit soon became a part of who I was.  Being honest and telling the truth are still difficult for me.  It's scary to offer myself up without half-truths and manipulations.  I couldn't be open, living in community, and embracing difficulty if I continued to be dishonest.

Thanks for joining me this month!  I hope everyone reading has had the opportunity to reflect on their own journey of faith and gained a better understanding of the people and circumstances that have contributed to who they are today.

Soul {it happened on a sunday} day 30

We spent yesterday at a funeral.  It was the first one we took our children in six years, since they spend the first five minutes of their great-grandpa's service screaming and pounding on a window and I excused myself and took them on a walk through the woods behind the church.  To be fair, they were ages 3 and not quite 1 (and the youngest not yet born), so thinking they would be able to sit through a Catholic funeral service might have been naive of us.  But the memory of that day, and my missed opportunity to mourn the passing of my husband's grandfather, and my inability to be there with him during an emotional day, was heavy on my mind.

I spent the past week talking to the boys about death, a concept that they don't entirely grasp yet.  I explained that death is something that makes us sad, because we will miss the person who has gone.  I explained that real life is not like video games, that people don't regenerate (or respawn).  We get one chance at the life we're given.  And I explained that I believe we each have a soul connected to our bodies in life, and that death is the departure of the soul.

I have attended, maybe not a lot, but certainly enough, funerals and calling hours in my life, and the existence of the soul is more evident to me in its absence.  I have looked upon the bodies of family and loved ones, and the strange stillness, the complete absence of them makes it an uncomfortable experience.  Whatever made that person laugh or cry or want to dance is gone; the love that they showed me, that I was able to return, has left.

And what more than these issues of life or death is at the crux of faith, of the major belief systems of our world?  None of us has first-hand experience, concrete evidence of what happens to that soul after it departs.  We are left to imagine, to wonder, to seek out the spiritual when the physical world has failed us.  For me, this is where I lean heavily on the writer of Hebrews, who states in chapter 11, verse 1, "To have faith is to be sure of the things we hope for, to be certain of the things we cannot see."

My beliefs about life after death, about the existence and nature of heaven and hell, have undergone many iterations, as I'm sure you can deduce from this series.  This is where I stand today, being certain of my hopes that the promises from the end of Revelation are true, and that one day God will bring all of His people together in a new city, where all the former things have passed away.  I long for God to dwell in my midst, to wipe every tear from my eyes, to bring about a place where there is no more death or sorrow or pain.  I cannot see a spiritual plane where men and women come together and worship God for all eternity, but I believe it is there, and I believe some day I will get to live among them.  I believe I will see familiar faces, though they may be altered from how I remember them, clothed in the fullness of who God made them to be.  I believe we won't struggle to understand each other any longer, that the defining characteristic of eternity will be unity in thought and purpose.

It also seems clear from my study of the Bible that some people won't be there, that some will miss out on this experience.  All I can say about that, is how glad I am that I don't serve in the role of judge.  I trust God to know the hearts of all mankind, to know our thoughts as well as our deeds, and to correctly designate the eternal resting place of every soul.  This certainly complicates things here, and we argue with each other and label religious ideas as "hate" or intolerance.  I agree that this is harsh, but I also know that if I claim to believe some parts of the Bible, then I need to own a belief in the whole book.  The promises of God are amazing and sometimes exceedingly generous.  So are God's warnings.

The most closely held belief I have, in regards to the soul, is that God desires an abundant life for every person.  I believe that abundance begins here and now and only grows in the world beyond what we can see.  I have experienced fullness in this life, as a mother, as a wife, as a friend.  I see God's goodness on display in a funeral service with 30 people gathered to celebrate 90 years of life, for the way we care for each other in our grief and continue the love and tenderness practiced by our parents and grandparents.  I feel that abundance in the laughter that accompanies the sharing of stories, the common memories, and the closely protected treasures of family.  With the awareness of life and death so timely, I continue to hope that when my life has reached its conclusion, there will be something worth celebrating by those I leave behind.

Mind {it happened on a sunday} day 29

"Summing it all up, friends, I'd say you'll do best by filling your

minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable,

authentic, compelling, gracious--

the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly;

things to praise, not to curse."  Philippians 4:8

In my youth, I sought to fill my mind with knowledge.  I wanted to read everything, see everything, experience everything.  I thought this would complete me, that somehow information could protect me and elevate me.  I didn't want to be weak, or afraid, or unaware.  When my dad banned "Sweet Valley High" books from our house (because of "mature" content), my sister and I got them from the library and hid them in our closets to sneak out at night.  When some kids from my youth group gathered to watch "Reservoir Dogs," I joined them and forced myself to watch the bloody final scene.  I didn't want anyone to put limits on what I could put into my brain.

Maybe it was a result of the depression I experienced in college, or perhaps it had something to do with my real commitment to God a few years later, but in my adult years, I have cared far more about filtering what goes in.  I confidently state that I don't enjoy scary movies, so now I don't watch them.  I look away if a scene gets too bloody; I always skip the first five minutes of "The Blind Side."  I stopped reading "Sweet Valley High" and Danielle Steel a long time ago, deciding that I didn't need to confuse myself about what love and relationships are actually supposed to be like.

I seek out information that will help me be a better wife and mother and friend, and I look for what is true and worthy of my attention in a world that never stops screaming at me to LOOK.  And I'll be the first to admit that it's hard to know when to listen and when to turn away.  The area of life where this might be the most difficult and confusing right now is online.  There are hoaxes and satirical news sites, and sometimes it takes a minute to realize when something is false.

That's why we need to take a minute.

I got really frustrated a week or two ago, when a bunch of my Facebook friends kept sharing and reposting the same status about how they had spoken to a lawyer and were stating as a legally binding contract that Facebook didn't have permission to charge them for use.  Come on.  Snopes.com exists for this very reason, to debunk myths and falsehoods that are spread online.  So why did none of these friends look there before sharing?  A local non-profit shared a "news story" a few years ago that 7 people had died on the first day that Colorado legalized marijuana.  I clicked on the link, incredulous, since I've never before heard of a single person dying from pot, much less seven.  The website contained titles of other stories, like that Sarah Palin had accidentally flown to South Korea instead of South Africa for Nelson Mandela's funeral.  Come on.  That's obviously a joke, which should bring the veracity of any other stories into question.

Then there are the sites that don't make me roll my eyes, but actually feel concerned for my friends. There are websites that are full of horrifying headlines, predicting economic collapse and poison in your water and identity thieves sitting in your driveway jumping on your unsecured wifi.  I followed a link posted by a friend to an article whose facts were dubious, and I could feel my heart rate elevate just scrolling through list of other stories.  If people are looking at garbage like that every day, they are bound to feel afraid and in danger all the time.  I want better for my friends.  I want better for myself.

Which is why I copied the verse from Philippians onto a card and carried it around with me for a few years, then taped it to a cupboard in my kitchen so I could see it regularly.  I need a reminder to look away from the terrible lies of this world, permission to discern the information I'm consuming, a sign that truth is real and there is a source that never lies.  God serves that role for me.  In the Biblical book of James, we are warned not to be people who are tossed around like a ship in the ocean, for such people who cannot make up their minds will receive nothing from God.  In the first century, readers of this book would have been duped by differing religious practices and false stories.  Today, we are just as likely to be tossed around by internet hoaxes and malicious content.

So let us guard our minds, and focus on God.  Let us ignore the click-bait articles and divisive headlines in favor of eternal truth.  Let us focus on one another, on building each other up, rather than spreading false rumors and scaring each other.  Let us each be our best selves in person and online, rather than the worst.

Body {it happened on a sunday} day 28

Effortless

After I popped out a couple of kids and turned 30, I was faced with a slowing metabolism.  (I know some of my friends will read this and make some sound of audible derision.  I am still blessed by a better metabolism than I deserve.)  For the first time in my life, I have had to actually take care of my body, to think about what I'm putting into it and how that affects what I'm getting out of it.  As a child, and even a teenager, I didn't need to prepare to run in gym class or put my legs behind my head.  I was always skinny, always ate things I liked, always had energy for the activities I wanted to be part of.  Ah, the blissful ignorance of youth.

Now, I have to work at it.  I have to force myself to eat salads and drink water if I want to keep fitting in my clothes.  I have to start running weeks before a race in order to finish in the top third.  I have to sweat to Jillian Michaels if I want to keep carrying my growing children.  And there's a strange payoff that happens as a result of all this effort to take care of my body:  I love it.  I never once looked in a mirror as a teenager and liked what I saw.  I always felt as though I was lacking.  Now, 30 pounds heavier and 5 times stronger, I like my body.  I feel proud of what I can do with it.  I feel good when I run long distances.  I'm glad to be able to keep up with my kids.

That's why it makes sense to me that Paul says, in 1 Corinthians 12, that the church is one BODY.  "God has placed each part in the body just as he wanted it to be.  If all the parts were the same, how could there be a body?  As it is, there are many parts.  But there is only one body."  I am a part of the body.  When I was young, I took that for granted.  I assumed all the people who loved me and took care of me would always be there.  I looked down on people who acted or spoke or believed differently than me.  I assumed there was only one right way to be a Christian.  I felt entitled to that community, though I did nothing to make it better.  I wasn't taking my place in the body.

Now I'm an adult.  I'm learning how to take care of my physical body as I'm also learning to love and care for the spiritual body of which I am a part.  I can still remember, when I had returned to church and began spending time with the youth group, how one of the other adults just rubbed me the wrong way.  I rolled my eyes when she spoke.  I mentally contradicted her.  Initially, I assumed that I was doing something right, and that she was getting it all wrong.  Most of this revolved around me feeling young and relevant, and her, with her ever-present knitting needles and glasses on the end of her nose, seeming old and out of touch.  But then I really saw her, because I saw how the students responded to her.  They loved her.  They liked what she brought to the group.  And they liked me too, so I began to see that her presence didn't diminish mine.  Instead, we expanded each other, the way a hand needs an arm or a foot needs a leg.  They look different from each other, they do different things, but they work together to get it done.  We need them both.

With this shattering realization came a whole second look at the people around me.  I didn't need to feel inferior because someone else was really good at organizing trips or liked teaching preschoolers. I didn't need to feel superior because some people weren't great at talking to strangers or remembering chunks of Scripture.  I could see more clearly my part of a greater whole, and how much better it was for each of us to do the work before us, together, than for each of us to try to do everything alone.

Working for it

I'm still learning how to take care of my body.  I make mistakes, like thinking that blueberry muffins are healthy (because...fruit!).  I make the wrong choice, like drinking that half gallon of Pepsi today instead of water (because...sugar!).  I do what feels comfortable instead of what I know is right, like sitting on the couch and binge watching "Orange is the New Black" rather than training for an upcoming race (because...Crazy Eyes!  Pennsatucky!  Big Boo!  Sofia!  Taystee!  Lorna!  Wow, I love, like, every character on that show).

The same goes with my spiritual body.  I know I'm not getting it right every time.  I know I've made mistakes in the past.  I know I've chosen comfort over what is right.  But I keep coming back to Paul's words, "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it.  If one part is honored, every part shares in its joy."  Our body is suffering right now.  It is hurting, because there are hurt people in our churches, and there are hurt people no longer coming to our churches.  This body isn't just the one building where I attend every other Sunday, or a single denomination, this body is the CHURCH, every single person on the face of the planet who believes in Jesus who is living and who has ever lived.

That's.  My.  Body.

That's who I need to care about.  That's who I need to work with.  That's where I need to get in my place and do my part.  Let's recommit to each other like it's New Year's Day, and this is the year we get in shape.  Let's reach for the water bottle and ride our bikes to work and skip that second dessert by seeing the good in each other, seeing the purpose and necessity in a body with many diverse parts, giving each other permission to use our eyes to see and our ears to hear and our hands to hold.  Let's stop insisting that everyone be a foot or an elbow, or thinking that just because we've never seen the lungs before, that they must not be part of the body.

God has placed each part in the body just as he wanted it to be.  So let's get that body race-ready.

Run your race

Identity {it happened on a sunday} day 27

Something that amazes me about God, when I spent some time studying the Old Testament a few years ago, is how he would speak to people, or appear in a burning bush, and the first thing they wanted to know is Who are you?  And God would respond "I AM."  No qualifications, no adjectives, no titles.  Just those two simple words to encompass the sovereignty, omnipotence, and eternal nature of God.

When I am asked to introduce myself, an avalanche of words pop into my brain.  I am...mother.  Wife.  Daughter.  Sister.  Friend.  I am...writer.  Woman.  American.  I am...candy addict.  Lover of sleep.  Voracious reader.  Procrastinator.  How is it that I need so many words to describe my own limited nature, and God encapsulates His in two?

Fifteen years ago, there were other words that could describe me, words that were said to my face.  I was not a good person.  The word we tossed around at church to describe someone who stopped going was "heathen."  Another that comes to mind is "lost."  And I've continued to carry those words, long after they ceased to be true.

It was a Sunday not too long ago, gathered with my Village, that someone offered me another perspective.  It was Sarah who pointed out that I've changed from the person I once was; in fact, God promises His people again and again in the Bible that He will transform them, make them new.  And I had to re-evaluate my identity in light of this revelation.  This series, in fact, has helped me see things more clearly.

I am...loved.

I am...creative.

I am...a leader.  

I am...a student. 

I am...no longer ashamed.

I am...a voice for the voiceless.

Perhaps most important, in the words of Jonathan and Melissa Helser, "I'm no longer a slave to fear.  I am a Child of God."  There is freedom in correctly identifying who I am, whose I am, what my purpose is.  This is what I wish for each of you reading these words.  That your identity would be rooted in the truth, that you would see yourself clearly, that you would no longer feel enslaved, but free.

Gathering Women {it happened on a sunday} day 26

I grew up in the Christian culture of conservative evangelicals.  My parents' bookshelves still bear the evidence of their heroes:  Chuck Colson and James Dobson and Francis Shaeffer and Dennis Rainey. We listened to tapes of Amy Grant and Sandy Patti and Michael W. Smith.  We subscribed to magazines published by Focus on the Family and my dad was a Promise Keeper.  In high school, I read "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" and listened to Rebecca St. James and regularly wondered What Jesus Would Do.  When I walked away from church, I left all of that cultural baggage behind too.

I resisted for a while, once I was back in church, the pull of all that extra stuff.  I still listened to the Beastie Boys and 50 Cent (funny to think that once those were my favorite musicians!), although I was starting to enjoy the David Crowder Band and Leeland, too.  I joined a group of friends from church to go see The Passion of the Christ and The Nativity Story, but I'd also seen 300 and The Davinci Code.  I rolled my eyes at the "outrage" over silly conflicts between Christians and the rest of the world (and there have been quite a few), like saying "Merry Christmas" vs "Happy Holidays" or which presidential candidate was most likely to win the White House for Jesus.  It made me wary to get too deep in the Christian culture, and it didn't seem essential to my relationship with God.

I met Glennon on a Sunday. She's amazing.

I'm pretty sure it was Mandy who got me reading blogs, beginning with Lisa Jo Baker, whose words were so encouraging to this stressed out mama.  Then I found Glennon Doyle Melton and Jen Hatmaker, and finally there were people talking about life and Jesus and taking action that actually made sense to me.  I became a nerd about sermon podcasts, listening to at least three different churches each week as I did laundry and went for runs around my neighborhood.  I found voices that made me excited to be a Christian, messages about how I could grow in my faith, diverse examples of how to live a life devoted to God.

One day, I pulled up Jen Hatmaker's blog to find a recent entry about something called the IF Gathering.  There wasn't much information about what it was, just a kind of a dreamy vision of gathering women to unite for God's purpose in their lives.  I didn't need details; I was hooked from the first word.  But I knew that I would never be able to go, I couldn't possibly leave my children for a couple of days or afford a plane ticket to Austin.  There were only 1200 tickets available, and I wouldn't be able to get one.  Then she added...we are throwing open the doors to IF : Austin via webcast to anyone, everyone, everywhere for IF : Local.   Registration to the webcast is unlimited. Gather with your friends, neighbors, church, or others in your community and join us virtually.  My excitement exploded.  I could do THAT.  I could leave my family and drive down the street and sit in a room with people I knew and hear all the amazing speakers and stories of IF, then drive back home and sleep in my own bed!

I immediately thought of two of the most amazing, get it done women at my church:  Mandy and Suzi.  I sent them information about IF, asking if they could possibly do it at our location.  Their responses were positive; IF sounded great, what a cool thing, it would be awesome to do it!  But their responses were also negative; both of them were quite busy already with ministries of their own, and adding one more thing just wasn't going to happen.  Suzi called me with this to say:  if I wanted to attend an IF Local at our church, then I needed to be the one to pull it off.  She said the space was mine, any questions she could answer she would, and then left it up to me to decide what to do.  Her words terrified me, but this is how badly I wanted to go to IF...since no one else in our area was doing it, I said yes.

Suzi's other piece of advice was not to try to do it all myself.  She suggested three other women at our church who might be willing to help, women I had admired from my seat, but never actually talked to.  It happened on a Sunday that I pulled up my big girl pants and approached them one by one, telling them about IF and asking if they'd join me.  My team consisted of Rhonda, Jen, and Ryanne.  None of us knew what to expect, but each of us was excited to experience IF for ourselves.

There wasn't much to do until the weekend of the livestream, just registering our location and responding to emails from women who wanted to come.  Jen handled the food, Rhonda printed out conversation cards, and Ryanne invited her Bible study group to come.  Suzi and her sister-in-law Nicole helped set up tables and chairs, and our friend Jeff showed up at the last minute to solve some technical problems with the computer.

I waited at the church alone, praying to God to help me.  I went back and forth between wanting to fill our room and hoping no one came and expected anything from me.  But come they did, about 35 women over the course of two days, and we sang and listened and prayed together as we watched IF.  In my preparations, a vague idea was percolating that perhaps I could save up and afford to go to Austin the following year, assuming they decided to do it again.  When our weekend was over, I felt a certainty that I wasn't going to Austin, because I wanted to be there again.  In my church, with my people, finding God in Northeast Ohio, because it turns out that he's everywhere.

In the summer, Jennie Allen sent out her mandate, telling us to gather our teams and begin to dream and plan for another IF.  I was joined by new faces, women I wasn't quite so afraid to talk with, women who didn't see themselves as leaders, just as I had been the year before.  It was exciting to come alongside them and say, "We are doing this together."  IF has helped me to feel like I am part of a global sisterhood, reminded me that I am a beloved child of God, and given me a glimpse of the Kingdom of heaven.

The Worst Thing That Happened to You {it happened on a sunday} Day 25

Camp Ligonier 2006

Eleven years ago, a friend invited/tricked me into meeting with a group of 6th grade girls to be a sort of mentor-group leader at our church.  If any of my girls are reading this, I hope you won't feel hurt or betrayed to learn that I was not looking to volunteer with our youth group; instead, you all charmed me and made me want to stick around for a few years to see what we could learn from each other.  It was the first time anyone had given me the title of "leader", and I believed it to be an erroneous word to describe me at the time.

But we kept showing up for each other, on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, and those girls were so excited about life and loved to be silly and were willing to have hard conversations and encourage each other.  I remember someone saying at the time that the worst thing to happen to a person is usually the very thing that God uses to bring people together, that in our hurt and weakness, we allow others to see behind our perfect masks and we find common ground and real connection.  I thought that God must be using my own awkward middle school memories to create a tenderness in my heart for these girls.  I could still remember how hard it all was, trying to figure out what a good friend was, and if you had any, unsure if it mattered more to dress like everyone else or be yourself.  (Who am I kidding...it was middle school, obviously conformity was the goal of us all.)

I got pregnant and gave birth the year the girls were in 7th grade, and continued to be their leader as much as I could with a baby hanging off my boobs, but once they passed on to high school, our time together ended.  I had another baby that next year and didn't take on a new group of girls, overwhelmed as I was with the two little boys at home.  Thanks to social media, however, I've been able to stay in touch with them as they've grown from high school students to young women.  Today, they are college graduates, mothers, writers, world travelers, artists, missionaries, teachers.  They are beautiful and silly and big-hearted and adventurous and creative.

Which is why it hurt so much to learn that some of them are also survivors of sexual assault.

Oh, my girls.  I wish we were still meeting in the church attic or riding around in my SUV.  I wish I could hold your hands and pass you tissues as you find your way through this next part.  When the counselors and therapists tell you it's not your fault, but you can't seem to silence that question in your mind that wonders if maybe it actually is.  When you replay the events, trying to put them in some sort of order, trying to make sense of it all, yet there are still missing pieces.  When you know that this has changed you, but you aren't sure if you should call yourself a virgin or a slut.  When the days or weeks or years go by, and still you have said nothing, told no one.

I would tell you that you are not alone.  That the worst thing to happen to you is also the worst thing to happen to me.

I was young when it happened, so young I didn't know what to call it.  So young I thought I could pretend it away, act as though I was unchanged.  So young that I spent most of my life afraid of men, terrified that one of them would hurt me again.

I spent two decades feeling like a victim, unable to move past it and unable to completely forget it.  But that all changed one Sunday morning when I heard the voice of God.  The earth didn't tremble, there was no burning bush.  Instead, as I prayed in church, a soft voice told me to lay down my burden.  "Your heart is too precious to carry this any longer.  It's time to give it to me."  I resisted for a moment.  No, I thought, this thing is too terrible, I couldn't possibly put it on anyone else.  The voice persisted, and finally I relinquished.  The aching tightness in the center of my chest evaporated, an ache that I had seemed to always have.  I sat back in the pew and wondered, What just happened?

I heard the voice again the next day as I showered.  Yes, you can have a conversation with God in the shower or the sanctuary.  He told me it was time to tell, to speak the truth out loud.  I told him no, absolutely not.  I could breathe deeply for the first time I could remember, I had surrendered my secret.  I didn't need to do anymore.  "It's time to tell."  He wasn't giving up.  So I asked, Who should I tell?  Do I have to talk about it fifty different times to fifty different people and relive it over and over?  So he suggested I write it out.  Still scary, but I agreed.  I posted it on my blog on a Monday afternoon and hit Publish and within minutes my friends' responses came pouring in.  It was an avalanche of love and support and encouragement, and it made me feel brave.

So girls, I would give you the same advice.  You cannot keep carrying the burden of what he did to you, what he took from you.  Your hearts are too precious.  You were meant to live bold and wonderful lives, to be free from shame and fear.  And you have to use your voices.  You have to speak his name and tell someone what he did.  Even if it never goes to trial.  Even if he never gets arrested.  Even if you never see him again.  Your voice will reclaim your dignity.  Your voice will shine light into the darkness.  Your voice will start saying "I'm a survivor, not a victim."  Your voice will bring together the people who will surround you with love.

Do it for freedom.  Do it for healing.  Do it today.

Bible Scholar {it happened on a sunday} day 24

Table of Contents from
my first Bible

I have always loved books.  That shouldn't be surprising, because someone who voluntarily blogs for six years to a minimal audience is clearly in love with the written word.  Like with all lifelong passions, I can remember when I first began to read.  I was around the age of 5, laying in bed, reading the Bible.  Specifically, the Gospel of Luke.  Shocking, isn't it, that the same person who wanted to take me to church when I was about an hour old, noticed I could read and stuck a Bible under my nose.  I think it began as my dad's goal, but became my own, to read the entire Bible by the time I graduated high school.  I spent summers skimming lists of names in Numbers and 1 and 2 Chronicles.  I giggled at the description of a woman's body in Song of Solomon.  I zipped through the 3 page epistles of the New Testament, and sighed at the never-ending book of Psalms.  I checked off the books in my Table of Contents, saving Revelation for my 18th birthday.

Just in case you're worried I missed out on my childhood, I also found Judy Blume and Anne of Green Gables and The Babysitter's Club, then later, John Irving and John Steinbeck and Zora Neale Hurston.  Unlike the fiction books I devoured, the Bible always felt stiff, boring, like an obligation.  War and Peace was more exciting, although it also had too many names to keep straight.  But once I finished the freaky book of Revelation and each book had been checked off, I wondered what I was supposed to do.

In case you missed it, go back to Week 2, when my life kind of fell apart, and you'll understand the state I was in at the age of 19 when I turned to the Bible for help.  I found a "Read the Bible in a Year" tool, and set about poring through the Scriptures of my childhood, wanting illumination, answers, anything to help me keep going.  I didn't find it.  So when I was 20, I just decided to stop trying to get anything out of the Bible, and set it aside.

Image from my Young
Discover's Bible

Even when I returned to church a few years later, the Bible was the one thing I just couldn't seem to embrace.  Other people had apparently been able to dive into it and make some sense, and I was appreciative for anyone willing to do this hard work and share the results with the rest of us.  When the winds changed direction, and I found myself in a new church, with a new group of people encouraging me and a new sense of freedom to just be myself, I could admit that I just didn't find any use for the Bible.

It happened on a Sunday morning, after a weekend away with some women from church, that we sat together in a living room and talked about what we wanted for our lives.  Some wanted more patience for children, for spouses, or more courage to be bold.  I didn't know what I wanted, but when someone else said they wanted to study the Bible regularly, I rolled my eyes and thought it was a pointless desire.  And yet, somehow, when an email went around the group suggesting a book to begin reading (1 John) and a daily study method in the tradition of Lectio Divina, I thought, why not? and started reading the Bible every day.

Something amazing happened.  I just kept reading.  For three straight years, I did not lose interest or want to bang my head against a wall when faced with an open Bible.  It was like the book suddenly came alive for me, and I was able to understand it for the first time.  I saw connections I'd never known about, I remembered what I'd read, I saw parallels from Biblical times that were still applicable today.

I loved reading my Bible so much, that I was uncharacteristically interested when a friend told me about a group called BSF (www.bsfinternational.org), women who gathered once a week to discuss Scriptures and listen to a lecture, then took home a guide to encourage reading each day until the next meeting.  I dragged two children to a church on a rainy Wednesday morning to sign up, and though I was dubious about the ladies I'd be spending time with each week, the lure for me was a chance to spend even more time in the Bible.

When I try to lay in the yard and read a book...

BSF has fed my soul and given me even more insight into the nature of God and His purposes throughout history.  But even more than that, BSF has challenged me in really good ways.  I sat down with my first group and was immediately disappointed to meet the group leader, Betty, who was 80 years old.  I have a bit of a prejudice against the elderly that I am trying to get better at, but in general, I just don't like being around old people.  It's horrible but it's true.  Give me a traumatized preschooler or a snarky 8th grader any day.  Over the course of several weeks, however, Betty won me over.  I saw her gentleness and her leadership, things I hadn't noticed while I was fixated on her white hair and fears of driving after dark.  I also grew to admire her courage, that she had volunteered to lead a group for the very first time after 8 decades of life, and it inspired me to think that I can still try new things no matter how old I get.

I like to joke that the Bible is a mysterious and complicated book, that the third time reading it is the charm, when you finally start doing what it says.  But I know that's really only true for me.  I'm so thankful to my dad for encouraging me to read it so many years ago, and to all the people since who have helped me stick with it.

Friend-tor {it happened on a sunday} day 23

Friend + Mentor = Friend-tor

We walked into the church on a Sunday morning, determined that it would be our new home.  We had three young children in tow, none of whom would sit quietly or allow us to pass unnoticed.  In front was a familiar face, Jason, the middle school pastor whose teaching we had enjoyed so much in the past.  There were some new faces as well.  We especially had to laugh when Corey got up to speak, now an adult, since we had known him back when he was just a punk teenager at our old church.

Winston and James in 2011

Our kids presented the biggest challenge to the search for a new church.  We had one on the autism spectrum, one who craved routine, and one who was brand new to the world.  The church had about 6-10 kids who regularly attended, and all of them went to one class after the music was over.  I spent a few Sundays playing with my kids in the back of the sanctuary, trying to hear the sermon while tickling and cuddling my wild boys.  Then I decided to try taking James back to the children's class.  I was so nervous back then about leaving him with someone new, worried that people would mistreat him or take advantage of him, and he'd have no way to tell me.  (He had only recently added a new word, "bubbles", bringing his total verbal vocabulary up to 6.)

That Sunday, I met Carol.  She was a recently retired kindergarten teacher who took one look at my precious son and said, "We can do this!"  I sat with James as she did circle time songs with the group, and when he discovered a train set under a table, she waved him on to play to his heart's delight.  Later, when the rest of the class had joined James with the trains or were playing blocks in another part of the room, Carol sat with me and asked me questions.  Not like an interrogation, but like she just wanted to get to know me better and hear about my son.  She said she'd had students like him in the past, and everything she said sounded so positive and hopeful, that I began to breathe.  Although I continued coming to the class for several weeks, eventually Carol earned my trust and I was able to join my husband in the service.

Around this same time, two moms had taken over another room, liberally calling it "the toddler room", but secretly I wondered if they weren't just looking for a place to let their own toddlers play while they got to talk to each other and sit in rocking chairs.  I began taking Winston to play in the toddler room, and this was the first time I saw her.

Joe leading kids in a huddle on a Sunday

Just a few days later, I was seated in foster parent training and we had to pair up for an activity.  (Social workers love group activities almost as much as they love funky jewelry and cardigan sweaters.)  I turned around in my chair to see the same woman from church sitting behind me.  My first impression of her husband was that he was grumpy and antisocial.  It is hilarious now to think that I ever thought of Joe in this way, Joe who would lead our children on bunny hunts and shot me with a Nerf gun and danced to "Let It Go" at the last Family Village.  But that night, Joe sat hunched in his chair, with a ski cap on his head and a cup of coffee in his hand and barely said a word.  First impressions are not always accurate.

My first impression of Mandy was probably closer to what I would come to know as true.  After establishing our church connection, she chatted away about family and kids and life and invited me to come over to her house.  I did my usual, "Yes, absolutely," even going so far as to take her number and pretend like I would ever actually use it.  We didn't do play dates.  I'd come to realize that most people couldn't seem to deal with my son, with his tendency to burrow under a blanket or turn on all the light switches or climb into their bathtubs fully clothed and turn on the water.  After a few awkward attempts to socialize with other moms and kids, I had given up and instead we spent all of our days at home, at the library, or at the park, where I had to watch and make sure other kids wouldn't tackle my son or yell at him when he didn't respond to them.  (This is not an exaggeration.  This kind of thing happened more than once.  Parents, teach your kids not to freak out on a child who doesn't use expressive language.)

This is what walked into Family Village.
They loved us anyway.

I figured I could avoid Mandy enough at church for her to forget the offer, but she stubbornly kept inviting me to things.  Eventually, we gave in and agreed to come to the new Village she and her husband were starting.  This was our church's equivalent to "small groups" or "life groups" or "missional communities"...choose your own prevailing evangelical speak.  We showed up, and we loved it.  We loved it so much that we kept coming back, that I finally took Mandy up on her repeated invitations to come over and play, to get together in the evenings and talk about God and life.

It is five years later, and Mandy has done more for me than any other single person in my life, with perhaps the exception of my dad and Jesus, to help me grow my faith and discover my path.  She has given me time and advice and hard conversations and encouragement and honesty.  She has witnessed the full depth of me, my defensiveness and awkwardness and stubbornness and avoidance, and she has walked with me to the other side, where I can be vulnerable and real and open to change.  I didn't realize that someone only a few years older than me could be my mentor.

I'm thankful for everything I've received from her in the past five years.  Most of all, I'm thankful that she doesn't let me try to live life alone.  I don't even want to think about who I might be today or where I might be in my journey if we hadn't crossed paths that Sunday morning so many years ago, and I hope we continue to be friends for many more to come.

***Mandy, I don't think there are any pictures of the two of us together.  Probably because we are the least likely people to suggest a selfie.  Let's fix that.

Finding My Voice {it happened on a sunday} Day 22

For most of my life, I have alternated between two extremes:  either I say the first thing to pop into my head, or I say nothing at all.  The reason behind it was as simple as it was heartbreaking.  I didn't think anyone was listening to me.

I've said horrible, thoughtless things.  I've gossiped and lied.  I've been loud and obnoxious.  None of it mattered, right?  I've kept silent through some pretty bad stuff.  I've been a locked vault of all my secrets.  What good would talking about it have done?  If you think no one will listen, if you think no one can help you, if you think that your voice isn't heard and doesn't matter, then this becomes your standard operating procedure.

There is nothing quite like motherhood to dispel the belief that no one was listening to me.  All day long, I was with my babies, who grew into toddlers, who grew into preschoolers, who grew into boys.  Once each of them began to speak, it startled me how often I heard my words coming out of their mouths.  It's simple stuff, like how my oldest apologizes by saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" in rapid succession.  Or when the middle child would discover a missing toy and exclaim, "Oh! There it is!"  Or when the youngest began starting all sentences with a tongue click and "Sooo..."

Not only do my children listen to me, but they adore me.  They think I'm a nurse, a teacher, a sorcerer, and world class chef.  They are always shocked and a little appalled when reality messes with their preconceived ideas of my capabilities.  (They once asked me if I could make it snow so they could go sled riding.  My response?  "It's July!  Oh, and I don't control the weather.")

This is real love, the kind I have experienced with a handful of people in almost 35 years of life.  Love makes you brave.  Love says, "You can do anything!"  Love pays attention.  Love is generous and faithful.  It's the way my father makes me feel.  It's the way my husband makes me feel.  It's the way my sons make me feel.  And it's the way God makes me feel.

When things began to shake up in my life (again!), God brought someone new into my life, someone who not only listened, but helped me find my voice.

The Door Will Open {it happened on a sunday} day 21

As my 20's came to a close, so much in my life had changed.  I became a wife and mother, got to lead a group of amazing girls through middle school, and had a group of friends I loved.  All of it was tied up in my church.  Which is why it was so difficult to come to a point when leaving that church seemed like the only possible choice.

There were a lot of factors in the decision.  I lost some respect for the pastor, who only a few years before had been so inspiring in his messages.  My husband and I were giving ourselves to the middle school students and felt a great camaraderie with the other adults volunteering, and we didn't want to lose that.  People had made accommodations for us so our son would be able to attend classes with his peers in the preschool program.  And the church was familiar.  We knew lots of people, we were comfortable.

A decision was made, an issue of policy that goes on all the time behind the scenes in organizations, and it was one we couldn't support.  We were surprised and hurt by the people involved and the ultimate outcome.  Finally, after weeks of confusion and disappointment, Chris and I looked at each other and said, "We can't keep coming to this church."

We had a new baby and took some time to just deal with the chaos at home.  It happened on a Sunday morning that fall, that I woke up, took a shower and got dressed, and told my husband that I was going to church.  Not the one we had just decided to leave, but a different one.  I didn't even know which one, but I'd scoped out what was near our house and wanted to try some.  He sighed, then said, "Okay," took a shower himself and helped me load up the kids.

This was a significant turning point for a few reasons.  When I was a teenager, I gave up on church because I lost my faith.  Now I realized that I had only lost faith in a few specific people, not the entire institution, certainly not in God.  So I looked for a new church.  Also, the reason I was in church in my 20's was because my husband got me there.  Now we are in our 30's, and we are in church because I got him there.  I can think of no better reason to get married, no better expression of our love for each other than this.

We also made some mistakes.  We didn't tell anyone what we had decided, that we were leaving for good.  We just slipped out and disappeared.  I wish I'd been able to have conversations, to voice my concerns before throwing in the towel.  Because, secondly, we thought we could find a perfect church, full of perfect people, where we wouldn't be disappointed anymore, where the decisions of a few people wouldn't hurt us or anyone else that we cared about.  I realize now that that desire is pure fantasy.  There is no perfect place on this earth.  There are no people who will always do the right thing and never mess up.  If any of that were real, then God wouldn't have invented grace, and asked us repeatedly to show it to each other.

Leaving our church made me realize that I was no longer journeying alone.  My decisions and my feelings and my relationship with God affect other people.  Though my husband and I see things differently sometimes, though our beliefs differ in some respects, God is one thing we have in common.  As my children get older, I want to share with them what I believe.  I want so badly for them to experience what I have experienced, the love and acceptance and joy that I have found in God.  I had to make room for these other people.

So, at the ripe old age of 30, it was time for my faith to grow up.

Knock {it happened on a sunday} Day 20

I didn't grow up thinking I would become a mother.  When I babysat other people's children, they mostly irritated me, and even at the time, I didn't think I did a very good job taking care of them.  It seemed that my particular skills and talents would be better used in the company of adults, probably doing something serious and important.  This is how I was going to change the world.

Instead, if you've been following along all month, you know that it was me who changed.  Love came into my life and into my heart and all my priorities were flipped on their heads.  When I had been married for about a year and a half, I was evaluating my life and itching for something new.  My plan was to look for a new job, something that was perhaps more challenging with higher pay.  God's plan was to grow a new life inside my body.

I was pregnant, and didn't even know it, when I took off for Adventure Camp with my middle school students from church.  We zip-lined, jumped out of trees, went white water rafting, and rode mountain bikes.  I came home exhausted, and the feeling didn't go away for several months.  I had lots to think about as my belly grew bigger, as a baby squirmed around inside my body and made me nauseous, then insatiably hungry.  A choice presented itself, a choice I'd never imagined making:  should I keep working, or should I become a stay-at-home mom?

I knew only two women who stayed home with their babies: my aunt, whose youngest was in middle school, and my friend Jackie, who had just given birth to her second child.  Their lives looked nice to me, the time they spent with their kids, the sweatpants and jeans they got to wear every day, the schedule they set for themselves.  After talking it over with my husband, and just a few weeks before my kiddo was born, I made the decision that I wouldn't return to work after my maternity leave was over.

Now, for anyone reading this and considering a similar change, I would recommend preparing much longer to live off one income.  I would tell you that it's hard to go from being employed full-time, receiving paychecks and evaluations and helpful feedback from your bosses, to sitting in your living room with a crying baby while your breasts leak milk and your husband is gone most of the day.  We could have planned better for me leaving work, but I don't regret it.  Letting someone else feed and cuddle my son while I dealt with irate customers and malfunctioning equipment didn't sound very appealing.

The love that had taken hold of my heart exploded when I first held my infant son in my arms.  I wanted to give him every good thing I knew of:  love, gentleness, acceptance, attention, stability.  I fed him and rocked him and took him for walks.  I was overjoyed by all his accomplishments, as he learned to walk and feed himself and throw a ball.  I loved watching him experience things for the first time, like fireworks, being licked by a dog, rain and snow and sunshine.  I loved so much about being his mom that I went to my husband when James was 18 months old and I said, "Let's do it again."  Nine months later, we welcomed another baby boy to our family, and my heart wanted to burst from the excess of love.  I delighted in watching Winston sleep and coo and try to imitate his big brother.

There was so much going on, balancing two children at different stages of life and trying to continue helping out with the church youth group, and keeping the house clean and laundry going, all while my husband worked full-time and finished his college degree, that maybe I wasn't as attentive as I should have been.  Or maybe I wouldn't have figured anything out on my own, since I hadn't spent much time paying attention to children.  Either way, I thought things were going well.  But something kept happening.  Friends, strangers, even the boys' pediatrician, thought something wasn't quite right with my oldest.  He was approaching his third birthday, and while he was active and happy and finally seeming to accept that the baby wasn't going anywhere, he didn't say much.  In fact, he had a vocabulary of five words which I can still remember.  Mama, Nana, boom, dog, and broom.  Every time someone pointed this out to me, I would frown, check my handy parenting books, which said children developed at different paces, and boys often developed physically before developing verbally, and I would shrug it off.  I also hated that these people were often comparing James to another child they knew.  My son was perfect, just the way he was, and I wouldn't trade him for anyone else, even if that kid could tell me when he was hungry or say something funny that I could post on Facebook later.


Chris and I talked about it, and we decided to watch our son a little closer.  The parenting books said vocabulary would grow between ages 2 and 3, and so if we noticed him talking more as the year went on, we would continue as we were.  Then six months went by, and James was still only saying the same five words.  Mama, Nana, boom, dog, and broom.  I was watching his younger brother too, and there were things he did as an infant that were radically different from what James had done, things that fit more with the "typical development" lists in my parenting books.  So we called in the experts, and James was tested by childhood specialists, occupational and speech therapists, a psychologist from the school district, an audiologist from the county, a pediatric neurologist at our local children's hospital.  As we passed from one expert to the next, it became apparent that there was something wrong, and my identity as a mother took a serious hit.

Finally he was diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, just weeks before his third birthday.  The doctor prescribed a course of action, including early intervention preschool and speech therapy, as well as blood and behavioral tests.  I told him, "Thank you very much for your opinion, but there is nothing wrong with my son."  And, though we followed his recommendation about school and speech therapy, I felt like we'd already put James through enough poking and prodding, and we canceled the doctor's tests.  I spent the next year (well, really I've spent every year) watching my son, waiting for him to blossom and talk and dismiss my worries.  I wanted so badly to see something that would erase the autism diagnosis, that would enable my son to grow into the man I thought he might be, a leader, a world changer, a commanding presence.  I prayed over him at night, asking God to please help him speak, to make him well, to give my son a good future.

It happened on a Sunday morning, in the midst of my discouragement and secret pain (because, of course, very few people knew even an inkling of what was happening with our son, and no one knew the extent of my concerns and my heartache, except perhaps my husband), that we went to pick James up from his Sunday school class.  He was only 3, a preschooler, and he hated any sort of arts and crafts, so they were always handing us blank coloring sheets or projects that the adult helper had clearly done for him.  This day, buried in the pile of papers and googly eyes and colorful announcements, I found a pink construction paper heart.  It was simple, something made by Cindy, the head of the nursery classes, and it bore a little white sticker in the middle.  Six words were typed on it, and it read:  

God has a plan for James.

I stared at that pink heart on the way home, and kept looking at it as it was left on the kitchen table with the mail and grocery store fliers.  Probably this was a craft that Cindy made for all the kids that weekend.  Probably there was no hidden motive or deep meaning to it, but as I've said before, I get to ascribe purpose to what happens in my life, and what illuminates the way for me.  So I took that little paper heart and I stuck it to my fridge, so I could look at it every day and be reminded of what I believe to be true.  God has a plan for James.  Just as God has a plan for me, for Winston, for my husband, for my neighbor, for the homeless drug addict passed out in a bus station and the refugee fleeing a war zone.  No one is a mistake.  No one's life should be wasted.

There was still much to do, to process the grief I felt at losing the child I thought I had, learning how to best parent a child with special needs, and to regain my confidence as a mother.  But it would take some big changes for our family to get there.

You Will Find {it happened on a sunday} day 19

I climbed the church stairs.  The building was only a few years old, and most of the effort to make it inviting and comfortable had been done on the first floor.  Each progressive level got less and less polished, until you reached the "Attic" with its unpainted walls and stacks of old Christmas decorations.  The first floor was for families, for weekend services and the preschool that met there during the week.

The second floor was for the teenagers.  We met in a large room, with brightly painted walls and no stage.  But my husband and I had discovered that, though it was missing the polish and show of the downstairs services, in this upstairs room was a great teacher.  This is how we first met Jason.

We sat cross-legged on the floor with about 30 middle school students, and we sang along with the high school worship team, we listened to Jason preach straight from the Bible, then we clustered with our sixth graders and talked about life and God.  It was in this space that my beliefs solidified, that the course of my life was set in a new direction.

NRG Leaders 2009

It was strange to be appointed a "leader"; it was a new title, and one I didn't feel I deserved, since I was only a few months into my new life as a Jesus follower.  I have never figured out if Jason saw something in me that I wasn't aware of, or if he was just desperate for adults to help out.

Though it was Jason who named me a leader, it was Laura who helped me become one.  Laura, still in college, capable of being serious or silly, was the one who gave me books and CDs to learn more, she was the one who met with me to talk over issues I was having or questions that needed answered, she gave me more and more responsibility.  When I think back to that time when being an adult was such a foreign concept, it was Laura who taught me how to do it.

The staff went through transitions, and I volunteered for Shawn and Benny and John and Sandy.  With each of them, I felt a little like an imposter, like maybe I should tell them that I wasn't really qualified to be in charge of teenagers.  They should know about my dark times and my doubts.  But each of them accepted me at face value, looking only at who I was, never asking who I had been.

Maybe that's how it should be.  Maybe we should take each other for the person we are (or becoming, at the very least).  But it also felt like I wasn't being fully myself, like I wasn't being genuine with these people.  Was I hiding my past?  Was I afraid of what they would think?

Seek {it happened on a sunday} day 18

In 1992, I began following presidential elections.  It was the year our incumbent, George Bush, was running against the former governor of Arkansas, a man named Bill Clinton.  Sitting by my parents on the couch in the evenings, I watched the debates, I watched news coverage of election stops, I learned about the democratic process of electing a leader for our country.  I was 10 years old.

I can still remember sitting in my 5th grade science class, watching the inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton.  It was a gray, cold-looking day in Washington DC and Bill and his wife and daughter stood in front of the Capitol building in their fancy coats, and he took the oath of office.  In that moment, I calculated how long it would be before I could be a full participant in the election process.  Only 8 more years until I was eligible to vote, and, coincidentally, it would be time to elect a new president as well.

In those ensuing years, I fell in love with politics.  One of my favorite classes in high school was AP American History, and I loved learning about the Founding Fathers, the impeachment of Andrew Johnson, the remarkably short term of President William Henry Harrison, the Civil War, the fight for women's suffrage, and the civil rights movement of the 60's and 70's.  This is an amazing country we live in; though our history is not perfect, we never stop moving forward.  We don't change our constitution, but we amend it when we realize that changes must be made.  Even that embarrassing hiccup that was the Temperance movement remains on the books.

Photo cred: Washington Times

The year 2000 came, and I made a list for my 18th birthday of all the things I would do in one day.  My first stop was to visit my APAH teacher, also an election official who helped students register to vote.  I excitedly filled out my card, and turned it in.  I would be voting in the fall!  The rest of the day included some fun things, like getting my belly button pierced, purchasing cigarettes (which I gave to a smoker friend...those things have never appealed to me), and buying a lotto ticket.  Before I left for college, I made sure to enroll for a mail-in ballot, which I filled out and sent back to my home county.  Then I stayed up with my roommates, excited to find out who would be our next president.  (Of course, it had to be the year of the "hanging chad" debacle.  We stayed up until about 2 or 3 in the morning, on a Tuesday no less, and passed out still not knowing who the winner was.)

I studied International Relations in college, a mix of politics, history, and economics.  I  had the intention of working my way up through the State Department and holding an elected position some day.  After everything that happened in school, however, I changed my plans and went to work at an airline instead of spending the summer working on my civil service entrance exam.  It is a choice I regret less and less as time goes on.  Especially when God captured my heart, when I began to live my life devoted to him, politics began to lose their appeal.

I was raised under a belief that Christians could fulfill Biblical prophecy by voting Republican every year.  Men like Ronald Reagan and Bob Dole and George W. Bush were touted as "God's candidate."  They were going to lead our country into an era of prosperity and righteousness, and the entire population would fall to their knees and recognize Jesus as Lord.

Imagine my surprise, one Sunday morning in 2008, when the pastor spoke on a Sunday morning about another upcoming election.  "It doesn't matter whether you vote Democrat or Republican!" he said.  I frowned.  Surely he misspoke!  It did matter, in fact, it was everything!  The Republicans were the Christian party!  I decided to investigate for myself, and was startled to learn that the Bible never once mentions the United States of America, presidential elections, or even politics in general.  The very people who opposed Jesus and his disciples tended, in fact, to be elected leaders, political leaders, people who had something to lose if there was another kingdom being ushered in.

Exercising my rights November 2015

Matthew 6:33 says, "Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and He will give you everything you need."  I am not here to promote a candidate, a policy, a political ideology, I am a child of God and a seeker of HIS kingdom.  And what is this kingdom?  It is where the first shall be last and serve all, where little children are welcome, it is righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.  It is something of a value so great, that one might sell everything they own to afford it.  The Kingdom is spiritual, it is eternal, it is for everyone.

It is a mistake to tie one's salvation and belief in God to a political party, or to think that one country has the favor of a God who sent his son to save the whole world.  It is a mistake to put faith in mere men, when the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  I learned not to put too much stock in politics and the changing tides of presidential elections.  I put my trust in God alone.

It Will Be Given {it happened on a sunday} day 17

Delight yourself in the Lord,

and He will give you the desires of your heart.

Psalm 37:4

I'd heard it before, of course.  What church kid doesn't know the magic verse that makes God sound like Santa Claus?  I thought it meant that if I did all the things that I was taught were important (no swearing, no smoking, NO SEX), then I could have what I wanted.  That meant independence, an awesome career, wealth and comfort for the rest of my life.

I didn't get any of those things, and I blamed God.  But when I heard this again, now a true believer, now a baptized new creation, I understood it all so differently.  I'd focused on the second half of the sentence, missing the premise.  I had never delighted in the Lord; I'd always seen Him as a gloomy judge and bearer of destruction; at best, an obligation to be filled.  Now I wondered, what would that actually look like?  What would it mean for me to be delighted with God?

The answer was easy once I started looking at God like I looked at my husband.  I loved to spend time with him, I loved to talk with him, I loved to learn more about him.  So I began to do those same things with God.  I have spent hours laying on the couch, or in bed, or in my grassy yard just feeling God's presence.  I talk, I listen, I am filled with joy.  Not once in the past 11 years have I ever doubted that He is there, that He is delighting in me as I am delighting in Him.

When I am upset, when I feel disappointed, when I pull back or turn away, it is also just like my husband.  All I have to do is turn around, put my hand out, and He is there, waiting for me.  There is no such thing as too far gone.  There is never anything I can say that will make Him leave me.  There is no shortcoming too great for Him to continue loving me.  That is delight.

And once I got the hang of delighting myself in the Lord, the desires of my heart came rushing in.  They had nothing to do with a job or a new home or even that independence I once craved so much.  My heart desires freedom for captives.  My heart desires rescue for the hurting.  My heart desires homes and families for every child.  My heart desires peace in our communities, and around the world.  It can be hard some days to see it, but He is there, working on our behalf, providing relief and restoration.  He promises that light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.  His light shone on me, and the darkness was chased out.  Now my heart desires light for everyone else.  And I know He will give it.