In Christ Alone

Over two hundred applications and twelve interviews later, I am definitely feeling it. It beats steady and consistent and is not just reserved for the search for employment. It’s there in being denied for volunteer opportunities, being turned away from missions agencies, and, subtly, in the fellowship activities that center on hiking and rock climbing and other things which I simply cannot do.

And I am feeling it.

Rejection. 

But more than that-I feel utterly useless, unwanted.

And I feel dumb. 

The lack of eloquence in such a statement does not escape me, but it is the only adequate way of expressing how I feel: dumb. Dumb because haven’t we been here before, God and I? Didn’t He push me past finding my worth in external things that don’t really matter through the grittiness of not being able to perform even the most basic of functions-bathing, dressing, feeding myself, going to the restroom on my own? Did He not whisper truth to my heart grappling to stay afloat when well-intentioned but entirely ignorant questions assailed me from outsiders: when will you work again? Don’t you want to be healed?

 

He persistently pursued me in that time, challenged everything I claimed to be true but still refused to give up in my heart: my identity lies not in these things the world holds in high esteem: career, education, ability. No, my identity lies in the unchanging and overcoming blood of Christ. It is not in anything I do or do not do, but only in what He already did.

And I know this. This is a hard won truth I’ve clung to in the last few years. So why is it so easy for my heart to revert back to such deception? How can I so quickly lose sight of what was battle won?

It happens so easily because I too readily forget it is a battle.

I know how this battle ends: a King reigning victorious and my prophetic name finally fulfilled in Him. While I know how it ends, I must remember-we must remember- that this battle doesn’t end until He returns or calls me home.

The truth of who I am in Christ is established once and for all at the cross, but it is up to me to daily fight to claim this. It is up to me to claw my way to the cross if I have to and to rest there in His grace. It is up to me to make the audacious choice each and every day-each and every moment at times-to trust in His promises, to be established in what He has done alone. 

I must survey that wondrous cross, must surrender any conception of who I am or what my worth should look like.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

Grace for Today

Lately, I have been struggling.

I find myself so angry. I’ve never thought of myself as an angry person, but in the last few weeks I have felt it rise up in me hot and combative, bubbling over with the bitterness and the frustration.

I know where it comes from. I am not angry because the situation warrants it. I am not angry because I am exhausted and over this situation and this person. I am angry because it is easier to be angry than to be hurt.

So I write a thousand emails and texts that never get sent. Words that assault and cut, a small taste of the emotional abuse I feel I’ve endured. For a moment, I get relief. I imagine the apology that maybe I’d get if I were to press send. Or maybe the argument that might proceed-a longer podium to vent my frustrations at this person. Or maybe just the pain I would cause them.

I imagine how I would feel better.

But the drafts always get deleted. The vindictive fantasies never acted out.

This anger, warranted or not, is selfish. This anger is pride. This anger cares only about winning-a consolation prize to the broken woman it foolishly tries to defend. This anger doesn’t count up the cost of its retaliation against the perpetrator- the perpetrator that happens also to be a sibling in Christ.

What this anger fails to realize, though, in its heated madness, is that Someone else has already counted up the cost. Not just the cost to my currently not very Christ-like sibling in Christ, but also to me. He knows how corrosive it is-this resentment and indignation, how much it would destroy me if I didn’t have a Savior. But I do and He extends out his pierced hands as proof that not only has He counted up the cost, but has paid it in full.

And I am humbled.

Certainly I can see how not like Christ this person has been toward me, but now I am forced to read those unsent messages for what they are: a revelation of the state of my own heart-so short of the One whom I am to imitate. My soul cries out for the forgiveness of the One who never withholds grace and He so readily supplies it. My ugly heart begins to transform, little by little, as His light penetrates, refines, makes new.

And while I would love to bask in the beauty of regeneration, I know that it cannot stop there. I must love as He has loved me. It’s a command and not a request, but His yoke is easy and His burden light. He calls me out, asks me to deny my flesh, to show grace.

So I don’t press send. I pray for my sibling in Christ. I am kind. I show mercy. I am not always perfect at it. I am more than aware that I cannot do it alone. I daily must offer it on the altar of sacrifice.

But I show grace.

This might never end in some beautiful story of reconciliation. It might not ever matter to the recipient. I might not ever fully understand why I must do it. I might not ever have the answers.

But I show grace.

If there is one thing I have learned from my Savior it is this: costly grace is the only kind of grace that matters.

And so I show grace.

This Firstborn is Not Dead

While it has been quite some time since I have last posted, I am in fact not dead. It’s been eight months since I’ve written and in that time a lot has changed and yet a lot has remained the same.

 A major change is that I have a diagnosis! My neurologist has diagnosed me with a movement disorder called dystonia. Depending on how you see things, I am lucky because my symptoms present much more as pain and less as contractures and abnormal postures. How the dystonia has presented, as well as the results of many of my tests, has still left my doctors relatively baffled and so my next step is a university research hospital to see if they have any new insights for me.

After a very rough month of pain at the beginning of the year, I have been feeling the best I’ve felt since I got sick. The Lord has begun healing in my leg and knee, considerably improving my gait and significantly reducing the pain I once had. Because of this, I am regaining a lot of what I lost a year and a half ago, in terms of mobility and normalcy.

Even so, each day is still a struggle. The pain is still very present, even if less so. Sometimes the returning function is more frustrating than being bed-bound because it leaves me impatient for more gains in this area that have yet to be made. The uncertainty of each new day is still very real, as well, as there still seems to be no explanation as to why one day is better or worse than the next.

The one thing that has not changed even a little bit, though, is the goodness of God. I have felt His presence and seen His hand in every detail, moment, tear, and praise that has made up this season and it has been so very good. He has done such a work in me that at times I feel like a completely different person than I was a year and a half ago, or even six months ago. There certainly is not anything quite as sweetly refining as the school of suffering and my heart erupts in praise as I look back on all that He has done for me and in me (and hopefully through me) in this time.

But why eight months of no writing? Mostly I think it has to do with the difficulty of sharing the intensity of this journey when I am in the thick of it. As incredible as this season has been, it has also been very hard and no area of my life has been untouched by it. As a writer, I like a tidy ending. Maybe not always a happy one, but at least a conclusion that makes sense of things. This has seemed nearly impossible at times this past year and a half. While God has molded me through that, it is probably a big reason why I have hesitated to write.

However, there have been many things I have wanted to share throughout this journey of how God has moved and what He has taught me. And so, I have decided to do my own version of “Throwback Thursday” and go through some of my journal entries or reminisce on past events every Thursday. Because I’ll be looking at them retrospectively, most of these entries will likely have tidy endings, but there will probably be many that don’t. And you know what? That’s okay.

Meanwhile, I’ll try to stay current on the things that God is doing in my life and teaching me presently. This journey to Hopeful Valley is not always an easy one and is seldom one I expect, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Hopeful Valley is where the fullness of my Savior is and nothing is ever going to keep me from pressing ever onward toward that destination.

Wedding Frenzy

           I see the wedding boards on Pinterest and the wedding magazines in the bedrooms of girls who have never been in a serious relationship. I remember girlhood dress rehearsals. I hear young women lament their singleness and others expound their frustrations of their boyfriend’s dragged feet and future brides exasperated by the endless details and work to be done. I see the joy and passion continue long after they’ve had their own day. I know my own heart. Its intensity seems to vary from simple longing to back of the mind planning to outright obsession, but I have yet to meet a woman who does not derive at least some pleasure from weddings. So we imagine and long and plan and stress and forget and rejoice.
            
             And the Savior waits, and smiles.

             While we become enthralled by dresses and colors, flowers and centerpieces, favors and food, the Savior’s heart is swelling with incomparable anticipation, a giddiness that cannot be rivaled or contained, because the Bridegroom is waiting for His Wedding Day, His Marriage Supper of the Lamb.

             I have been frustrated with women’s obsessions with weddings at times- the planning before engagement, the seemingly loss of focus on meaning, the triviality of it all. If I were being honest, though, this is merely a projection of my self-frustration. I had always been content in my singleness and even felt “called to singleness” at one point, and yet I still loved weddings. Were my current relationship to end, while it would bring me pain and disappointment, I know that I could once again be content in my singleness, and still I know that I would look at all things weddings every now and again. I would still love weddings.

             Our love of weddings is not a “girl thing” and while it can be an idolatrous thing, a trivial thing or a missed opportunity of depth and responsibility, weddings are, without a doubt, a God thing. Our hearts are eternally hardwired to delight in weddings, to find great joy in them. When our hearts grow faint at the beauty, when we tear at the love, and eagerly wait for our moment, and when it does come hold tightly to it for as long as we can, this is your Savior’s way of giving you the slightest glimpse of the excitement growing inside of His own heart as He awaits His own Wedding.
            
              So if your earthly wedding should never come or takes longer than you expected, or when it does come budget or circumstances keep it from being the day you imagined, remember, Beloved, that an earthly wedding, no matter how grand, is merely an illustration of, an opportunity to whet your appetite for, the greatest wedding that time will ever know- a wedding that you have not just been invited to attend, but to stand on the altar of unimaginable gloriousness and redemption displayed. Weddings can be a very Godly thing. Marriages are preciously important. At the end of it all, though, they are merely illustrations. Let us not allow the beauty of the illustrations to eclipse the glory of the eternal wonder they mercifully allow us a glimpse of. Beloved, let’s not allow the preparations for the trial run to inhibit or overshadow the preparations that we were made for, chosen for, the day we truly wait for.

            Your Bridegroom is waiting with unbridled expectation and sooner than you know He will come from the hills and draw you close, whisper in your ear that the time has come. The processional will start, the beauty will be blinding, the tears will be ever flowing, and it will all crescendo into a display of compelling marvelousness of an eternally unbreakable union. And that is a day to hope for indeed.

And Still the Bird Sang

Today has been a rough one. Emotionally, about a million things seem to have compounded at once. Physically, my pain has increased after a period of gradual recovery leading to emotional consequences that far outweigh the physical- feelings of fear, uncertainty, and frustration. The day had been one that had knocked me to my knees, crying out to God. But the day was not over and I then received news that will dramatically change my life, threatening even the vaguest sense of security I have now.

My day had turn into the darkest of nights.
As I’ve struggled through this night, pushing through the intense pain that evening ushers in on even my best day and wounded from the day’s assaults, sleep has come sporadically.

And then there was the bird.

This bird and I have a bit of a history. Being morning person, I love the sound of birds chirping to usher in the new day. I am also aware that this chirping begins usually around five in the morning. This bird, however, sings very loudly in the deep of the night, waking me on more than one occasion. On this night, when my soul feels heavy and my body reeling, sleep seems so inviting, offering a small but sweet taste of relief. This bird’s primary objective, it seemed to me, was to keep me from finding that temporary comfort.
In desperation, I pondered the thousands of ways I could…silence the bird. When I regained some sanity and reconciled that doing such a thing might be a bit over the top, or at the very least impractical, I then deliriously begged God to shut the bird up.

And still the bird sang.

Only now the bird was not the loudest voice in the night.
When morning comes, with newness and mercy that only it can bring, praise comes easy. My heart sings when midnight’s tears are dried and hope seems tangible once more. When praise is offered in the times I deem it deserved, the praise is no less well received.

When praise is offered in the times I am waiting for deliverance, I dare say, God is glorified more. Not only because this praise is trust-assurance in the sovereignty of the King of Kings. Not only because this praise is gladness simply in the grace of God-attesting that this is more than enough and more than I deserve. And not only because it shows where my hope is found-a testimony to the sufficiency of God. No, it is not only for these reasons, though they would be enough.

When I sing in the darkest of night, my heart becomes more like His. In praising Him when even the faintest light is far on the horizon, I am purging myself and ushering Him in. No longer do I rest in my own abilities, my own providence, any sense of self-pity or perceived goodness. Instead my God is God and I, the humble recipient of His grace. It’s in these moments when I am assured that He is the prize, not any earthly gain or security. Just to be in His presence, let alone be called His own, is worthy of songs of the loudest praise.

There is but one reason I can sing in the darkest of nights, and that is because my greatest triumph, and history’s greatest victory, was won on the very darkest night. Christ hung on the cross that night, beaten and unjustly convicted by the ones He would go to no ends to pursue, bleeding and bruised, mocked and seemingly abandoned. He drew His last breath and all hope was lost that night. The heavens wept, the earth moaned in anguish. And yet, victory was assuredly on His way. He knew, but they did not and I cannot imagine a night any darker than that one.

After a few more unbearable nights, the stone was rolled away and behold the suffering was not in vain! Christ was prophetically and triumphantly risen! A glorious day ushered in after an unimaginably mournful night.

I sing now the praises of my Victor in the depth of both my metaphorical and literal night, taking a cue from the bird that wasn’t aware night isn’t the time for songs. I will praise loudly and without restraint, because while deliverance from that which weighs my heart tonight may come tomorrow or years from now, I know that my greatest deliverance will come as I meet my Savior face to face. On that day, the praise and joy will be unstoppable and untiring and the hope I have for that day warrants equal response here in my darkest of nights.

When Sinners Become Fathers

I was fathered by a sinner. I have yet to meet someone who was not. I could list his many sins here, for the world to see, and some would think them too severe while others would consider themselves lucky to have only endured those. I could also write volumes on his merit. I could tell you of every time he made me feel loved, cherished, and protected and set my eyes on God. But at the end of it all only two things will matter: my father was a sinner; and there was grace.

Today fathers around the world are commemorated for doing all that they do and being all that they are. Some are honored in memoriam. Some are longed for. Some are quietly condemned or altogether forgotten for not being there at all.  Still others are celebrated for being fathers in ways that exceed blood.

I was separated by my father this Father’s Day by distance and I missed him. I wanted to be with him and it hurt me because I was sure he was hurt by missing me too. After a day spent holding back tears, I decided instead to have a Father’s Day celebration with my Heavenly Father, the only one worthy to be praised. Having been held by my Father, loved on, and consoled, I arose renewed with an overwhelming gratitude for my earthly father- my sinful father.

Fathers are important. Whether present or absent, living or not, a model parent or painfully blemished, fathers matter. Fathers who are sinners matter because they allow us to taste and experience our hunger for our Heavenly Father. Fathers at their best allow us to glimpse the face of the Living God, our Father in heaven who loves us so. Fathers at their worst gives us the irreplaceable gift of expectancy for the matchless Father- that great and mighty King who so loved you and I that He sent His only true Son to save us and had the audacity to take those that nailed Him to the cross and call them His own. And when fathers are somewhere in between, we realize grace abounds and is needed for all, even those on earth we look to with such awe and reverence.

So, to my earthly father I ask for forgiveness. I ask you to forgive me for avoiding you at times because I don’t want to deal with the messiness of your sins, as if my own were easier to deal with. Forgive me for wanting to tell you a thousand times a day that I love you and almost never going out of my way to do it. I praise you for all that you’ve done for me- for the sacrificing and the hard work. I thank you for always fighting for me, long before I was born, for the nights I never saw that you stayed awake worrying for my sake, and for the countless prayers made on my behalf. I hope to always strive to honor you as a daughter.

I also want you to know that I forgive you. I forgive you for when you were not perfect, when you caused me pain, or when I needed more of you than you could give. I want you to know that your love and support has always overshadowed any failings but I also want you to know that this forgiveness and corrected vision comes not from me, but from the grace I receive from Him. Only in this grace, could I ever hope to extend even the slightest hint of it to you. And perhaps what I celebrate more than anything on this Father’s Day is not the joy I have in being your daughter, but the hope I have in being your sister in Christ. For this we can truly be thankful and because of this we can move forward as sinners holding fast to grace as father and daughter.

And to my Heavenly Father, oh how my heart delights to have such a father! And that my earthly father can drink from this same joy! I thank You for loving me even as I fail you. I thank You for Your divine providence through the grace found in Christ. I thank You for making it so that no matter how much I grow I will always be Your little girl when confronted with the majesty of such a big God and faithful Father. I thank You for my earthly father who is a sinner and who, through Your grace You allowed to show me glimpses of You.

And I come to You with a humble and repentant heart to ask You to forgive me. Forgive me for the times when I expected of my earthly father that which You can only give. Forgive me for the times when I allowed his inadequacies to sometimes hide Your face. Forgive me for the times when I became too comfortable in his love that I forgot Your love will always be more satisfying. Forgive me for the times I fear losing him to death, as if that would be a day of sorrow.  

And please forgive me for not always appreciating the tremendous gift You’ve given me in a father who is a Sinner. You are glorified in all of Your creation and You’ve given me the unique opportunity to experience one of Your creations in a way that only two others out of roughly 7 billion get to.

When my father is one day reunited with his Heavenly Father, he will arrive a sinful man, but in a scandalously gracious act, he will be given grace. When I arrive at eternity’s shore the same and no less awe-inspiring act will play out. Where he has failed as a father, there will be grace. Where I  have failed as a daughter, there will be grace. In the grittiness of life here on earth, in the midst of ongoing sin, we daily have a choice. We can give grace or we can withhold it. Today I choose to give and I humbly ask to receive, for fathers are not incidental and mine is no exception.

When All Around My Soul Gives Way

      In a few weeks, I will have been sick for six months. Six months of constant pain. Six months of not being able to work. Six months of no diagnosis. And it’s that-six months of no diagnosis-that is perhaps the most daunting aspect of these past months and every new day I wake up in pain. Not being able to know what’s happening to me leaves me with many questions, no answers, and all the time in the world to think about my uncertain future. No diagnosis leaves me wondering whether or not I will get better, or if this is degenerative and how much worse I will get.

       I wonder if there will ever be a day when I don’t feel pain-not just a day of decreased pain, but one where I can joyfully say I am pain free. I wonder: will I ever be able to walk unassisted again? Will I be able to run again? Have some semblance of independence again?

       I wonder if my relationship will stand up to the strain of this, whatever it is. I wonder if the uncertainty, the caretaking, the complete abandon of normalcy will become too much. And while my relationship has yet to show signs of overwhelming strain, I wonder if it’s fair to ask someone to bear this with me. I wonder if I am cruelly selfish to rob someone’s youth in this way.

       And then I wonder, should my relationship beat the odds and survive this, will I be able to walk down the aisle on my wedding day? Will I have the stamina to make it through the reception? Will I have enough relief of pain to make my wedding night the God given gift it is, instead of the excruciatingly painful prospect it is certain to be in my present state?

       I wonder if the one thing I have ever really wanted will be possible. I wonder: will I ever be a mother? Even if I can physically conceive and carry a child, I wonder if I will be capable of parenting should this-whatever it is-continue or increase.

       There is a commercial for an osteoarthritis medication that I cannot bear to watch. I have to change the channel because it weighs my heart down too much. In this commercial the osteoarthritis sufferer proudly proclaims that she is active-always has been, always will be. It leaves me wondering, will I ever be active again? Did I take for granted all those years when I was active, living my life blind to the fact of how easily it can all be stripped away? Will all my days be frustratingly bound by the limitations of my own body?

       I wonder how I will maintain my dignity if the days should continue or increase when I cannot use the bathroom unassisted, when bathing seems an impossible task, and when I cannot get dressed by myself.

       Most of all, I wonder, grief-stricken, how I will further the Kingdom of God restricted to my bed and sporadic good days when I can leave the house. It wakes me up in the early morning, helplessly silent in prayer- unwelcoming of any future in which I cannot spread the Glory of God because of a life that is literally stationary.

       While not knowing what is happening to me or what tomorrow will bring leaves me with so many questions, my wondering is stopped short by the wonder of my Savior. In the midst of such uncertainty, I have an abounding certainty of the goodness of a God who is faithful. In my weakness I am reminded of His strength. In my sorrow I am reminded of His all-encompassing Joy. While physical healing has yet to come, He has held me close and mended my soul all the while. I have a God who has not forsaken me to illness, but a God who has been ever present in my time of need.

      And so, if I should wake up every day in pain, I will take it as a sweet reminder of the restoration that is to come when I am reunited with Christ. And if I should never walk again, I will cherish the bountiful moments when my soul leaps and dances when I am with Him. And if I should be left alone, I will rest in the truth that I have a true and eternal love who not only will never leave me, but constantly pursues me. And if I cannot walk down the aisle on my wedding day, I will remember that it is Him who carries not only me, but the both of us as we enter the Holy covenant of marriage. And if I should never have any children to call my own, I will birth a maternal blessing over the people in my life through prayer coverings, good counsel, and example. And if I took for granted all the years of physical promise, I will not take for granted the relentless love of my Creator who gives and takes away, but forever offers Himself-an eternal promise that surpasses all tribulation. And if I should lose all my earthly dignity, I will be strengthened by the knowledge that my dignity-through all things-is intertwined with His own. And even when I don’t understand, I will find peace in His perfect and redeeming will.

 When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay.